Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evie (5 page)

As she went to the armoire to slip into her dress, she thought of what a tricky guy Thomas could be. If he’d devised this little treasure hunt, there was probably more to it than met the eye—probably a lot more.

Chapter 5

D
ear
D
iary:

sometimes i wonder what if would be like to be somebody else, somebody who has both
a
mommy and
a
daddy. If i h
ad
a
dad, he
’
d probbaly be tall
an
d handsome and
v
ery,
v
ery bra
v
e. And he would make mommy stay at home.
B
u
t
even if she did
g
o ou
t
, he would be here with me. i know there are lots of people who don’t have both a mom and a dad, and i love mommy and everything, it’s just i think having two parents instead of one would be nice. You can never
g
et too much love, you know!

Evangeline—ag
e
9

A
t a few minutes before six Evie took one last glance in the mirror
. She had wiggled into her knit
ted rose silk dress, then slipped on a pair of dangly
earrings and her mother’s necklace. A little blu
sher and touch of lipstick…
yep, good to go and not half bad.

She’d almost convinced herself she simply wanted to look nice for dinner, that her primping had nothing to do with impressing a man she didn’t like and with whom she would become involved when they sold raspberry iced tea in hell. Sure, the look in Max’s eyes had the power to send her blood pressure skyrocketing, but she’d always held sway over her hormones before, and didn’t see any reason to worry about them tonight. Too much.

As she walked toward her door she reminded herself that her respon
se to him was just one more rea
son to stay away from the man. He disturbed her equilibrium, the status quo, her carefully planned life. Being near him made her
feel
things, intense things, desirable things. She became like a little kid fascinated by a candle’s flame. Her fingertips had been burned, yet the potent allure of the fire was so powerful, she wanted to touch it anyway.

When she entered the dining room a few minutes later, Max was seated at the table looking like a million bucks and change. But, thank God, he was not alone, for seated to his right was an older woman, and to his left, a handsome, bespectacled blond man.

The treasure hunters had arrived.

She approached the table, and Max rose from his seat. He was a gentleman, she’d give him that. He was freshly shaved, and wore a dark blue suit and dark tie. He looked like he’d just stepped off the
pages of the
Totally Hot Guys Way Out Of Your League Gazette
, and he knew it, the bastard.

He winked at her, and his mouth kicked up at one end in a flirty smile. Wowee-zowee, what a hunk.

Her heart fluttered. She ignored it. All this fluttering heart nonsense was probably taking years off her life.

“Evie Randall,” he said, “this is Madame Grovda, the world-renowned Russian psychic, and Dabney James, the poet.”

James stood and extended his hand, but before she could take it, Madame Grovda bolted from her seat. Practically trotting around the end of the table, she flung her arms ab
out Evie and gave her a breath-
stealing hug.

“
Privet
, dahlink! I, Madame Ernestina Grovda, have arrived. I am saving the day!” Her voice was husky, her accent pronounced. Holding Evie at an arm’s length, she gave her the once-over and said, “You are pretty one, yes?”

“
Spasiba
, madame,” Evie managed without too much trouble. She’d noticed that, over the course of the afternoon, the swelling on her tongue had reduced considerably, allowing her to speak normally again. The bruises on her backside, however, were still weeks away from healing.

“What is this?
Govorite li vy po Russki
?
”

Evie blushed and shook her head. “
Nyet
. Not really. I learned a few words, in your honor. I am a schoolteacher, and I thought it would be nice—”

“Da!
The teacher of children. This is good!” Madame Grovda seemed thrilled enough by that to
pull Evie to her bosom again and practically hug the life out of her. Pain shot through her body.

Evie realized she must have reacted, because she suddenly felt Max’s presence beside her, felt his hands gently prying her out of the psychic’s abundant arms.

“Madame,” he said, wedging himself between Evie and the woman. “Ms. Randall is suffering injuries from a fall two days ago. She’s still healing.”

Evie felt her eyes mist. Doing her best to smile at the psychic, she said, “It’s okay, madame. I’m fine, really.”

Madame Grovda was a woman well past her middle years, stout o
f build, strong of limb, who ap
peared not so much clothed as upholstered. Everything about her was large—from her shock of white hair, to the dinner-plate earrings swinging heavily from her lobes, to
her necklace of ping-pong-ball-
sized red beads.

Her round, friendly face was flushed, her broad forehead dotted with perspiration. Whiskey-brown eyes glittering with enthusiasm were small and deeply set, and her generous mouth had been painted a shade of orange Evie was sure didn’t exist in nature.

“I regret, my dear,” she crooned, cupping Evie’s cheek in her palm.

Abruptly, she spread her arms wide, like a 747 preparing for takeoff. Her eyes drifted closed and she set her fingertips to her temples. Humming and rocking back and forth on her heels, she moaned, “Your hand, child. Give to me your hand.”

Evie glanced at Max, then hesitantly extended her
right hand. Madame grasped it as though it were the lifeline that would save her from going down for the third time. Her eyes pinched tightly closed, her head nodding, she resembled a malfunctioning bobble-head toy.

“Yes, yes. Clearly, I see,” she announced dramatically, her voice pitched high and breathy, like the shriek of a terrified chipmunk. “Soon, you will undertake trip of heart. Ah, and with such beautiful man.”

She paused a moment to smile knowingly. Then her lips curved down and her voice deepened. “But trip holds many dangers. This man will protect you, but you should give him a key to secret which you hold buried deeply in your heart,
milaya moya.”

Evie’s aforementioned heart skidded and hopped for several beats and
nearly went into arrest. Every
body had secrets. That was a pretty safe
prediction.
The woman could not possibly know anything.

Madame Grovda’s eyes were still closed, her forehead furrowed in distress. “This man,” she rasped. “He does not wish for me to see him clearly, but he is handsome devil. You will marry him when the trees turn to red and gold, and the cool wind, it kisses your brow. You will have three children. Two sons. One daughter.
Dover’sya mne.
It is so.”

Right.
“This
fall, madame?” Evie laughed, not quite sure what to make of her own personal psychic reading. “Well, that doesn’t give me much time. So much to do. The dress, the church, the guest list, the china pattern. Did you happen to notice if my future husband prefers floral designs or tone-on-tone?”

Madame Grovda opened her eyes and smiled at Evie as though she knew all her most intimate dreams.

“You doubt me, child?” she said softly, arching a thinly painted brow. “But is truth.”

M
ax took a sip of wine and slid a glance around the table. They had become five for dinner when Lorna joined them a few minutes ago and was seated next to her treasure hunt partner, Dabney James. Edmunds, who would be Madame Grovda’s companion for the hunt, hovered in the background, ready to provide whatever the guests needed.

“So tell me, Mr. James,” Lorna said. “What are you working on now?”

James appeared to be in his early thirties and had the kind of blond good looks that seemed to appeal to most women. Max wasn’t sure what famed, yet reclusive, poets were supposed to look like, but if they resembled a quarterback for the Seahawks, then Dabney James was your man.

The poet smiled shyly at Lorna and said, “Have you read any of my work, Ms. Whitney?”

“Since we’re going to be partners,” she said, “perhaps you should call me Lorna.” She lowered her lashes as her cheeks flushed a girlish pink.

Smitten. The poor woman hadn’t been in James’s presence for more than ten minutes and she was smitten with the bastard. Well, he’d better not try that frigging charm on
his
partner.

Max took a sip of wine, then set his glass well into Evie’s personal space on the table. She didn’t seem to notice, but James shot a quick glance at the
overt territorial male gesture, and came that close to smirking.

“Hey, James,” Max said, feeling peeved enough to act on it. All eyes turned to him. “Why don’t you recite one of your poems for us? One of the short ones. You
do
have a
short
one?”

From across the table James’s light brown eyes assessed Max. With a single finger, the middle one, he pushed his glasses back up on his nose, then smiled. Long dimples formed in his cheeks and Max could have sworn he heard Evie’s breath catch.

Son of a bitch.

“U
m
, Detective Lollygag, was it?” the famed, yet reclusive, poet answered, arching his brows. Both of them.

“Galloway.”

“Sorry. Well, in your honor, I could recite my shortest poem. It’s called ‘Poor Little Inchworm.’ I don’t bring it out much, sort of keep it tucked away since it’s such an embarrassment. Limp, no rhythm, no staying power. Always leaves the reader frustrated,
wanting more. You understand, I’
m sure.”

Lorna smiled, transforming her somewhat plain features into a delicate prettiness. “Oh, please do recite something, M
r. James. I’
m a huge fan.”

He turned to her and said, “Please call me Dabney.”

Dabney, Ma
x thought. What kind of a puke-
assed name was that?

Next to him, Evie spoke up. “My favorite poem of yours is ‘Lamentation of the Lilac.’ I have parts of it memorized, but I’d love to hear you recite it the way you, the poet, intended.” She beamed at the
guy, and Max felt like he’d been sucker-punched right in the gut. What would it take to get her to smile at him like that? He was no good at poetry, but if she appreciated an ardent and somewhat lyrical homicide report, he had it covered.

James picked up his wineglass and held it to his lips. “Actually,” he said over the rim, “I think it would be wonderful if
you
recited it. I never tire of hearing my own work.” He laughed as though he were poking fun at himself. Yeah, right.

All eyes turned to Evie. She put her hands in her lap and closed her eyes. Her lashes were dark and thick, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the room. With her lips slightly parted, she looked like a woman about to be kissed, and it was all he could do to refrain from swooping in. Damn, she was pretty.

“ ’O to be a lilac fair, amethyst petals, dew like fairy sequins sewn one by one with gentle hands, gliding, stroking the silken flesh of the flower, ever opening, yawning, gaping, beckoning the sword that knights my love in passion and in pain.’ ” Her lashes fl
uttered open, and she smiled…
at James. “Did I do it justice?”

Max stared at her, then at the lovestruck Lorna, and at the Russian psychic, grown silent and wistful. Dabney James wrote pornographic crap, and they loved it?

In response to her recitation, James lifted his glass in a toast to Evie. “Very nicely done.”

Edmunds approached and placed another bottle of wine on the table. The man’s blue eyes rested for
a moment on Evie, and when she looked up at him, he gave her a quick smile and continued on about his duties.

Refilling his own glass with the excellent cabernet, Max said, “That was great, but it was written a while ago. Why don’t you give us a couple of lines of what you’re working on now? I’m sure the ladies would love something hot off the presses.”

The poet glared at him over the rim of his wineglass as the women begged and pleaded for more.

Finally, James said, “Well, let’s see. Uh, okay. There is a little something I’ve been working on, but it’s still in the rough draft stages so you’ll have to forgive me if it seems unpolished.”

“Oh, you’re just being modest,” Max scolded. “I’m sure it’s of the same quality as your published work.”

Tossing back a huge gulp of wine, the poet resettled himself in his chair. “Right. Uh, okay. It’s called, uh, yeah, it’s called ‘Ode to Wine.’ ”

The women smiled and nodded their approval, leaning forward in their chairs in eager anticipation, while Max stared innocently into James’s face.

The poet cleared his throat. “ ‘Wine is good and red and tasty, and when drunk slowly, it wo
n’t make you hasty, to depart…
in passion and in pain.’ ”

There was silence for a moment at the table, then the women burst into enthusiastic applause. James blushed and polished off the rest of his
good and red and tasty
wine.

“As I s-said,” he stammered. “Very rough.” He
sent another meaningful glare Max’s way, and the two men locked gazes for a moment.

While James had babbled on, Edmunds placed chilled plates in front of each guest, and Max realized he was starving. As he took a healthy bite of his cracked crab appetizer, Madame Grovda broke off a section of French bread the size of a Volkswagen and applied butter to it with the enthusiasm of Van Gogh smearing yellow ochre on a fresh canvas.

He refocused his attention on the woman seated next to him—the
prickly woman apparently deter
mined to avoid him. She seemed to be picking away at her food, absently pushing it around but not really eating anything.