Читать книгу Playing Dirty - Susan Andersen - Страница 12

Lord. I didn’t realize how crazy the next six weeks were gonna be until I wrote down everything I need to get done.

Later that evening

IT WAS NEARLY NINE when Cade let himself into his rented Belltown condo in a renovated 1914 brick building on First Avenue. Dropping his keys into a burled wood bowl on a tobacco tin–sized table, he didn’t bother feeling for the light switch. Instead he made his way down the abbreviated hallway and into the body of the living space by the glow of the city lights pouring through a good-sized triple-pane window that blocked most of the downtown traffic noises. He went directly to the gas fireplace in the corner of the room and flipped on the switch.

With a soft whoosh, flames leapt to life and began licking at the artificial logs. Turning on the table lamp, he looked around his new digs.

It was a short tour, since the place had a single studio-style bedroom, a galley kitchen and a bathroom boasting an oversize shower, which all by itself made it worth twice the price he was paying. It would definitely do.

It had been a long day, however, and he was past ready for a little kick-back time. So he toed off his shoes and padded in his stocking feet to the kitchen, where he delved into the fridge Ava had stocked, grabbing the first thing he saw: the half gallon of milk. Opening it, he gulped down a quarter of it straight from the carton, then bent to study the rest of the refrigerator’s contents.

She’d bought him chicken tenders, a skewer of grilled Alaska salmon, cut veggies and fruit, a tub of kalamata olives, a wedge of aged Beemster Gouda, salad fixings and a container of some New Agey–looking salad made of couscous or quinoa, or some such shit. But it was the container of deviled eggs he pulled out.

He wondered if she’d remembered how much he liked them or had just gotten some for everybody.

Probably the latter.

Taking the lid off, he tossed it on the counter, grabbed the carton of milk and took his booty over to the chair by the fireplace. He set the milk on the little table at his elbow, swung his feet up onto a footstool, fished out an egg half and popped it in his mouth.

“Damn.” He didn’t know if Ava had made these herself, gotten someone else to make them or picked them up at one of the upscale grocery stores that seemed to liberally sprinkle Seattle these days, but he had to hand it to her—they rocked.

So far, at least, she seemed to be good at her job.

Yet here it was, not even the first official day, and he already needed a break from her. That didn’t bode well for the next month and a half.

When he first got the brainstorm to hire her, he’d considered himself fricking brilliant. It was a win-win: Ava was the choice most highly recommended and he could finally pay off the debt of his high school screwup, which until last November she’d refused to even let him apologize for. As an added benefit, she was providing the food services and seemed to have a strong knowledge of the town’s players. All of which would save him money in the long run.

In that aspect, and given the quality of her work, he was brilliant. But he hadn’t thought things through. He hadn’t considered how being constantly thrown into contact with her would make him feel.

He’d forgotten how much he’d liked her back in the day before he’d thrown her to the wolves in order to keep a bunch of friends, who hadn’t been worth what he’d sacrificed.

“Shit.” Losing his appetite, he set the container of deviled eggs aside, dropped his feet from the stool and sat up. Jamming his fingers through his hair, he stared at the flickering flames.

Let it go, Slick. What was done was done, and going over it for the hundredth time sure wouldn’t help him unwind after a day crammed with traveling and trying to get things organized. And hungry or not, he needed to fuel up. Tomorrow was the first full day on the set, and he needed to be on top of his game.

So he reached for another egg. He’d eat his food, drink his milk and just veg in front of the fire for a while. What he wouldn’t do was obsess over old mistakes.

Especially not the one he’d made with Ava Spencer.

SLOW TO PULL her attention from the lists she was compiling when the landline at her elbow rang the following morning, Ava reached to pick up the receiver without bothering to check caller ID. She brought it to her ear and murmured an absentminded hello as she ran her gaze down the list she’d been assembling on her Grocery iQ app. Grey Poupon! That was what she’d forgotten—she’d known there was something.

She added it to her list.

“Ava, I need you to plan your father’s birthday event.”

Well, hell. That got her attention. Abandoning her iPhone on the breakfast bar, she straightened on her stool. “Hello, Mother. I thought you and Dad were still in Chicago.”

“Yes, yes, we are.” Impatience laced Jacqueline Spencer’s tone. “Which is precisely the problem. We’ll be here until early February—which allows me no time to arrange your father’s birthday myself. So you need to do it.”

Ava counted to ten. “Do you remember the documentary job I told you about?” She didn’t hold out much hope, since usually the things that were important to her went out of her mother’s ears as quickly as they’d gone in.

But Jacqueline surprised her. “The one with Allan Gallari’s son?”

“Yes. I just started it yesterday and between that and some jobs for a few of my longtime clients, I’m afraid it’s going to take up all my time for the next several weeks. But I can refer you to a fantastic local party planner I met at the conference in New York last summer.”

“I don’t want some second-rate caterer! This is your father’s sixtieth birthday we’re talking about, Ava.”

Crap. The guilt card. No wonder parents played it so often—it was so freaking effective. Sighing, she picked up her iPhone again and opened a new app. “How many people?”

“I’m keeping it small. I thought seventy-five. At the house.”

Small. Uh-huh. “On Dad’s actual birthday?”

“Don’t be silly, darling—how many people will turn out on a Wednesday night? Make it the following Saturday.”

“Winter theme okay?”

“Yes, that would be lovely. And engraved invitations, of course, with the RSVP to you, no gifts. I’ll get you the guest list.”

Ava made a note to contact the calligrapher she used as soon as she had that in hand. “What do you have in mind for food? The guest list strikes me as too large for a sit-down unless you want me to rent a tent for the back lawn.”

“Not in late February—the weather’s too iffy for that.”

“My thoughts exactly. Were you thinking circulating waiters with hors d’oeuvres? Or a buffet?”

“I thought an open bar and hearty hors d’oeuvres, served by, yes, the wait staff. Then a dessert buffet with, of course, a spectacular cake as its centerpiece. Tiered, not sheet. Champagne fountains at either end.”

“I will need to hire one of my caterers, because I don’t have time for that part and I know you want the best for Father’s party.”

A sigh came down the line, but her mother restrained herself to a stern, “I expect you to supervise them carefully.”

“Uh-huh.” Didn’t she always? “An eight to midnight timeframe, then?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” She made note of that as well, added additional reminders for a few things she’d have to follow through on, then shut down her app. “That will get me started. I’ll send you an email to confirm what we just talked about, but I need to hang up now, Mom, or I’m going to be late for my real job.”

“Mother,” Jacqueline Spencer corrected her automatically. “And really, dear, you’re a businesswoman in high demand—must you sound as though you’re off to flip hamburgers on the weekend shift?”

Ava laughed. “Sometimes I think that would be more relaxing.”

“What am I to do with you?” Jacqueline said, and Ava could envision her mother shaking her head. “Well, I shall let you go, I suppose. But do keep an eye on the mail—I’m going to send you an appropriate dress to wear to your father’s party.”

Ava’s smile dropped from her lips as ice rimed her veins. “I’m not twelve anymore. I can find my own dress, thank you.”

“You’ll like what I select,” Jacqueline said serenely, ignoring, as she always did, Ava’s wishes on the matter.

“No, Mom, I won’t. You constantly buy me things that I don’t have a prayer of fitting into and I never wear them. Save your money.”

“You simply need to lose a few pounds and my money won’t be wasted.”

She tried counting to ten again but only got as far as six. “How I handle my weight is not your decision to make. I have curves. I’m always going to have curves and will never be rail-thin like you. Deal with it.”

“I don’t believe I like your tone, Ava.”

“And I don’t like being treated like an incompetent child.”

“I don’t do that!” Jacqueline sounded both shocked and affronted. A heartbeat of silence passed before she added stiffly, “I was merely trying to help.”

God save me from your help, Ava thought in despair, but only said, “I appreciate that. But I’m thirty-one years old. Allow me to dress myself.”

The pleasantries they exchanged after that were few, awkward and doubtless left her mother feeling, as they did her, not so pleasant. It was a relief to finally ring off, and Ava carefully reseated the receiver in its stand on the kitchen counter.

All the while painfully aware that her first inclination was to hurl it across the kitchen.

God, she was tired of this. She knew her mother loved her, in her own self-absorbed way. But wouldn’t it be nice, just once, to get through a conversation that didn’t leave her achingly aware of the conditions Jacqueline placed upon that love? That didn’t raise the issue of her damn weight?

Instead, their conversations generally left her feeling anywhere from vaguely to DEFCON Alert–level dissatisfied. Not to mention not all that great about herself.

She knew it was ridiculous—that only her opinion ought to count. It didn’t change the fact that when she swiveled on her stool and caught a glimpse of herself in the sound-facing bank of windows that the interior lights and stormy weather darkness outside had turned into a mirror, she saw herself through her mother’s eyes and thought, Cow. Didn’t change that—

“No, dammit.” She wasn’t going down that road again. She had things to do—even more things, given the addition of her father’s party, than she’d had fifteen minutes ago. She didn’t have time for this inadequacy crap.

Turning back to the counter, she tossed her cell phone into her purse and plucked her black draped cardigan from the back of the stool to pull it on over her wrapfront beach-blue dress. She stepped into her heels and crossed to the closet for her coat.

Then, picking up her Kate Spade purse as she sailed past the tiny entry table, she let herself out of the condo and, bypassing the elevator, headed down the stairs to the parking garage.

SINCE AVA was the last person Cade wanted to see, naturally she was the first one he clapped eyes on when he let himself into the Wolcott kitchen. She was bent over a table she’d set up against the wall, putting what looked to be finishing touches on the spread she’d set out.

It looked like something out of a magazine—a considerable step up from the usual food services arrangement—and he wondered if he’d congratulated himself too soon regarding the anticipated money he’d save by having her take over the job.

It was a hard thought to hang on to, however, when her butt was bumping in tune with some bluesy, jazzy song about not treating a dog the way the singer thought a woman had treated him, which purled out of an MP3 player on the counter. She’d always been a kick-ass dancer—even back in their prepubescent days when they’d had to learn all that formal stuff in cotillion class. Nor had she ever been the least bit self-conscious about dancing down the hallway at Country Day.

Except for those last few weeks of their senior year.

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize you were here. I didn’t see your Beemer in the drive.”

Her hips ceased swiveling as she looked at him over her shoulder. “I drove a client’s car today.”

“The Audi A6?”

“Yes. I’m taking it to be detailed on my lunch hour.”

“You’re working other jobs?”

“On my own time, yes.” Turning slowly to face him, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts, plumping up the creamy cleavage in her blue V-neck dress from what had been a mere hint to an impressive flash of the real deal. “You didn’t seriously expect me to blow off my clients who’ve been with me through the good times and lean for six weeks of working for you, did you?”

Yeah, he supposed he had. But when she put it that way…

Kyle walked into the kitchen before he could respond, which was probably just as well. The soundman gave Ava’s cleavage an appreciative glance. But even before her arms dropped to her sides, restoring the generous swell back to its original hint, his focus had switched to the food she’d laid out. His brows furrowing as he crossed the room to pour himself a cup of coffee from the industrial coffeemaker at the end of the table, he scrutinized the offerings.

And turned accusing eyes on her. “No bear claws?” he demanded.

“Sorry, no.” Ava picked up a plate and grabbed a pair of tongs that she left suspended above a plate of long rectangles of lightly sugared pastries as she glanced over at Kyle. “Try a galette. Are you an apple or a blackberry man?”

“Blackberry, I guess.” He watched suspiciously as she scooped the pastry onto a plate. “That looks like one of those girly tea-party desserts.”

She grinned at him, her dimples punching deep. “Just try it. If you don’t like it, I’ll get you some bear claws when I go out this afternoon.”

“Yeah, okay,” he grumbled and took a bite. He swore as several blackberries tumbled from the pastry back onto his plate, but chewed and swallowed the portion that had made it into his mouth, licked a crystal of sugar from his lip, then met her gaze. And smiled sheepishly.

“Damn.” He took another bite and said around it, “That’s better than an orgasm.”

Ava laughed. “Or almost, anyway.”

It was all Cade could do to bite back a growl. But enough with the sex talk, already!

“Hey, I smell coffee!” Beks burst into the room, then went on point like a German shorthair spotting a pheasant. “Food! Wow, look at that!” She flashed a smile at Ava. “You’ve got some seriously mad skills, girl.”

“Try the galette,” Kyle said around another mouthful. “It’s even better than bear claws.”

“Shut the front door!” Beks gawked at him. “I thought you didn’t think anything was better than bear claws. This I gotta taste for myself. And ooh, God, lookit this fruit! Seriously mad skills, I’m telling ya.”

The next thing Cade knew, all of his team who’d shown up this morning were swarming the food table, making a huge dent in Ava’s arrangement. And she just laughed while they did, refilling coffee cups and urging them to try this, that or the other treat. Apparently she got off big-time on seeing to it that everyone was fed.

He waded in to grab a few things for himself before the locusts formerly known as his crew reduced it to crumbs, a few apple cores and orange peels.

But when he told them a few minutes later that it was time to get to work, the swarm reverted to the professionals he knew and cleared out to get back to their various tasks.

AFTER EVERYONE LEFT, Ava happily puttered around the kitchen, clearing up the dishes and coffee cups, replenishing the fruit tray and bringing out a vegetable platter to place beside it, along with a bowl of dip she would refrain from telling Kyle had a yogurt base.

She made a trip out to Mrs. Hoffert’s Audi and retrieved the plastic crate that cradled her big Crock-Pot, which she had transferred from her own car earlier. She had slow cooked a tortellini soup overnight, and she brought it into the kitchen, plugged it in and turned it on to warm. She put out spoons and a stack of bowls next to the pot. Then, pouring herself a cup of coffee, she sat down and went over this morning’s offerings, checking each item and making adjustments to the amounts she’d need to buy for tomorrow.

She also made some notes on ideas she had for switching things up so the crew didn’t get bored the next few weeks.

This was her element. She loved seeing a need and filling it. She liked feeding people, liked doing what it took to make their day-to-day lives easier. It was what she was good at.

It was purely a bonus that performing those functions made it easier for her to ignore Cade.

The back door banged open, making her jump. Cold, damp air gusted into the room, and a lean man in a black watch cap and parka blew in along with it. He probably only topped off around five-eight or so, and taken feature by feature should have been average-looking. But his spectacular aqua-blue eyes and the overall way all those features were put together added up to an attractive package.

At a glance, Ava would say he knew it, too, for he grinned, said, “Hey ya, beautiful,” and nodded at the alarm box keypad. “What’s the code?”

“Considering I don’t have a clue who you are, I’m not inclined to tell you that,” Ava responded calmly, keeping to herself that the alarm wasn’t armed at the moment, since one of the discussions Cade’s crew had had while eating her food was that between all the comings, goings and equipment deliveries throughout the day, it would be a major pain to have to constantly set and reset the alarm.

Obviously figuring for himself that it was turned off, the man crossed the room to her. “Anthony Phillips,” he said by way of introduction. “But everyone calls me Tony. I was hired as security for Scorched Earth Productions.”

Ava raised a brow at him. “I was under the impression that was John.”

“Whoa. Suspicious much? He’s night security. I’m the day watchman.”

She rose and went to the archway to stick her head out into the hall. Power cords and cables snaked the normally pristine hardwood floor, and for a second she merely blinked at them. Then she collected herself. “Beks!”

“Yeah?”

“Your day security guy is here.”

“Thanks, Ava. I’ll be down in a sec to get him.”

She turned back to catch Call-me-Tony eyeing her butt. “Have a seat. Or coffee’s over there if you’d like a cup.”

“Thanks, doll, a cup of Joe would be nice.”

“You and I will get along a great deal better if you don’t call me doll.”

“Right. Got it, doll—uh, Miss.”

“I’m Ava.”

His big flashy smile returning, he stepped forward and stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ava.”

Beks came in and crossed to Tony. “You Anthony Phillips?”

“That I am,” he agreed. “But you can call me Tony.”

Ava conceded his flirtatious charm might not be premeditated. It was possible he was just one of those guys who couldn’t help themselves.

In any event, Beks wasn’t charmed. “I’m the PA and the coordinator,” she said, all business, and introduced herself. “Follow me.” She turned on her chunky heel, clearly expecting him to do as she directed and asking as they exited the room, “You got your papers and ID?”

Ava watched them disappear, thinking how interesting it was to see Beks at work. The crew was going to be testing audio and lighting today, so she likely had a lot on her plate. It would be fun to be a fly on the younger woman’s wall and observe more of her interaction with Mr. Charm in the midst of all that.

“Right,” she murmured with a little laugh. “Like you’ve got so much time to be watching someone else work.”

And shrugging, she went back to her own.