Snowed (2 page)

Leah sighed. “Arkansas.”

“Huh?”

“I’m from Arkansas, Mike. Not Kansas.”

“Whatever.” Mike’s fingers crawled under the back of her collar once more, like some fleshy burrowing animal. Impatiently she squirmed away, untangling long strands of reddish gold hair from his groping paw. He said, “Listen, babe, I don’t mind telling you, this cold-fish routine is getting old, you know?” He gave her a once-over, his glassy gaze lingering on her chest. “You gonna loosen up some tonight? Show a little appreciation? I mean, when you walked into my gallery yesterday, you seemed like a real fun girl
—
the kinda girl that’d go in for this kind of scene.”

Yesterday had been a coup. Leah had tracked down the Manhattan photo gallery featuring the work of the famous and reclusive James Bradburn and managed to finesse its lecherous owner, Mike Carleton, into bringing her here to Bradburn’s surprise birthday party. She took a deep breath and forced a smile to her lips. “Sorry, honey,” she gushed, thickening her accent. “It’s just that Ah’m so excited. Why, Ah jest can’t hardly
believe
Ah’m about to meet James Bradburn!”

“That’s more like it. Just don’t you forget to save some of that excitement for old Mikey, you know what I mean?” He patted her on the rear. “Love that accent. You’re the cutest little cow pie here, baby.”

The cutest little
what
?
Leah bit her tongue and bided her time while Mike ambushed a passing hors d’oeuvre tray. Fine, she thought. Let “old Mikey” think she was some awestruck country rube who’d be so awed by her glamorous surroundings that she’d fall flat on her back in gratitude. He’d find out his mistake soon enough.

About seventy friends and associates of James Bradburn were on hand to help him celebrate his birthday. Everywhere Leah looked were spectacular designer outfits and the glint of gold and precious stones. Compared to these rare orchids, she was a lowly dandelion in her khaki dress and serviceable pumps. No problem. If anything, she was proud that she didn’t fit in with this crowd. Bradburn’s crowd.

Maids, waiters, and bartenders hired for the evening circulated with calm efficiency, taking coats, procuring drinks, offering tidbits from silver trays.
So this is how the rich and arty party,
Leah thought, nibbling a toast round topped with black beluga caviar and a sprinkling of chopped egg. No trash cans filled with beer here. Not a bag of chips in sight. This, she could get used to.

Now that her meeting with James Bradburn was finally at hand, unwelcome questions assaulted her weary mind, questions for which she had no answers: What would the old man do about her? What would she do about him? She rubbed her eyes against the grit and haze of exhaustion, trying to clear her head. The noise and bustle of the party didn’t help. Neither did the wine. She handed her full glass to a passing waiter.

Just take it one step at a time,
she told herself. Next step: Meet James Bradburn. Look the old bastard in the eye.

Leah glanced at her watch. One minute, Kara had said. Where was he? She strained her neck to peer around Mike and the other partygoers to the heavy carved oak double doors leading to the front hall. The doors Bradburn would walk through. She shoved her icy hands in the pockets of her dress.

The double doors shared a long wall with two massive fireplaces, framed by carved oak mantels. A burning log suddenly settled, with a leap of flame and a spray of sparks. She knew that at any other time, she would have been fascinated by this ballroom, a relic from another age with its crystal chandeliers, gilt-framed mirrors, and ornate brass sconces. Lord knew this room, this mansion, the entire estate, had been described to her in such vivid detail her whole life, she could have found her way around blindfolded.

Opposite the fireplaces were tall, multipaned windows through which she could see that the snowfall hadn’t let up. If anything, it was coming down heavier now. French doors looked out on the terrace and the back gardens. In one corner of the room, Bradburn’s photographic equipment was set up: tripods and cameras, cables and lights, white umbrellas and backdrops. In the opposite corner, a jazz quartet played.

The walls were adorned with framed black-and-white photographs
—
the portraits and figure studies for which James Bradburn was famous. Grudgingly Leah had to admit the man’s skill was impressive. But it only made sense he’d be an accomplished technician, she told herself. He’s been doing this for five decades or more.

Not that she was the photo aficionada she had pretended to be when she’d found the Carleton Gallery and introduced herself to Mike. Leah knew precious little about Bradburn, not even what he looked like. But the little she did know had twisted her world around. And somehow she’d make sure it twisted his, too, before she was finished with him. Inside her pockets, her hands balled into fists.

As she was introduced to people, she didn’t even try to remember names. One woman, however, was hard to ignore: Kara Greene, Bradburn’s agent and the hostess of the party. The heavily made-up, fortyish brunette darted here and there, gossiping, networking, making sure everyone was having a good time.

“He’s gonna kill me,” Kara was telling Mike, with an impish grin. “He’s gonna strangle me for throwing him this party. Well, you know what I say to that
—
too damn bad, that’s what I say. The old fuddy-duddy needs this. He works too damn hard.”

Mike tossed back the last of his martini and let his small, close-set eyes rove the room, taking no pains to hide his boredom with the garrulous agent.

“Oh Gawd!”

Leah followed Kara’s gaze and saw someone near the doors
—
the designated lookout, apparently
—
frantically waving his arms at her and mouthing,
He’s here!
Kara dashed to the light switches. Music and voices dissolved at her urgent shushing; the chandeliers and wall sconces blinked off one by one.

The room had an otherworldly feel as Leah stood there in the near dark, cheek to jowl with scores of strangers, listening to their whispers, inhaling their mingled perfumes. One side of the room was bathed in a warm orange glow from the twin hearths. She looked toward the French doors and the windows, where silvery moonlight streamed in, reflecting off the swirling snowflakes and the white veneer that now blanketed the lawn.

“Shhh!”
The agent’s authoritative hiss had its desired effect
—
total silence save for the crackle of the fires. In the front hall outside the ballroom could be heard an impatient baritone and an equally insistent Scottish burr
—
Bradburn’s elderly housekeeper, Mary. It was her job to get him into the room on some pretext. Someone in the ballroom giggled softly.

At the sound of Bradburn’s voice, the dark flower of hate blossomed and grew inside Leah like a living thing, a thing to be nurtured. In the end the persistent Mary had her way. The heavy oak doors swung open and light flooded the room.

“SURPRISE!”

Leah stopped breathing. She could only stare in astonishment at the tall, snow-dusted man who seemed to fill the doorway in which he stood. Collar-length black hair framed a striking face with the profile of a Roman emperor. And like Caesar, his very presence commanded respect, even under the circumstances, as he took in the entire preposterous situation with one sweep of his ice blue gaze. That gaze became dangerously intense as it scoured the room once more, with the deadly resolve of a hunter seeking his prey.

As Leah gaped at this man and reminded herself to breathe, one inescapable fact became clear.

This wasn’t James Bradburn.

She mentally shook herself. The man standing in the doorway pushing long fingers through snow-dampened hair was not gray and wizened. Far from it. She looked past him, but his only companion was little Mary, grinning hugely. Leah watched the other guests laugh and shake the man’s hand as Mary wrestled the heavy shearling jacket off his broad shoulders.

James. Mr. Bradburn. That was what they were calling him. Leah squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed her aching forehead, wondering where her plans had gone awry. When she opened them, she stopped breathing. James Bradburn was staring past the throng of guests, his penetrating gaze focused directly on her. She found herself backing up.

“Hey, where ya going, magnolia?” Mike grabbed her arm.

Suddenly the enormous room begin to close in on her. “Gotta get some air.” She wrenched out of his grasp and bolted through the crowd to the French doors. Outside, on the terrace, she took a few deep, fortifying breaths. She welcomed the biting cold
—
it helped clear her head as she struggled to assess the situation. Leah watched her own frosty breath mingle with the pirouetting snowflakes, which caught the light from the ballroom in myriad pinpoints of fire, like sparks floating down from heaven. The gardens and endless expanse of grounds beyond were already blanketed.

Had Annie ever stood out here, on this precise spot on a late February night, and watched snowflakes dance and stick to her eyelashes? Leah squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself not to think about it.
Not one tear, damn it. No more tears.

She turned and gazed at the imposing rear facade of the great house, as intimidating as the front. An hour earlier, as she and Mike had driven through the stone and wrought-iron gates of Whitewood, the Bradburn family estate, she’d felt as if she’d been there before. Gravel had crunched under the tires of Mike’s Mercedes as they’d made their way down the quarter-mile-long drive from the road to the stately home whose windows glowed in mute welcome. She remembered thinking it looked like a magazine ad for single-malt Scotch.

Leah hadn’t been surprised at the sensation of déjà vu. While her companion had yammered self-importantly about his connection to the illustrious photographer, Leah had found herself wondering what Mike’s reaction would be were he to find out how much she already knew about Whitewood and its century-old English-style stone manor house. She could have told him the estate’s two hundred acres boasted an Olympic-size swimming pool, tennis courts, and an apple orchard. Not to mention the summerhouse and carriage barn.

Mike’s grating voice horned in on her thoughts. “Bet you don’t see much snow in Kansas, huh, Dorothy?”

She turned to see him peering in slack-jawed befuddlement at the snowflakes melting on his outthrust hand. “Lookee, Paw, lookee! Thar’s a heap a’ cold, white stuff a-comin’ outta the
—
”

“You’re repulsive, Mike.”

“Huh?”

“I said, you’re impulsive. Such a fun, impulsive guy.” When Leah looked into her date’s little eyes, she couldn’t help picturing Mavis Fletcher’s prize sow Gertie in a two-thousand-dollar silk suit and a gold Tag Heuer watch. She desperately wanted to leave the party, and was about to say so when she remembered how many martinis Mike had downed. Even if he’d been stone-cold sober, the way he was leering at her settled the matter. She wasn’t getting in a car with him again. There had to be plenty of other guests driving back to Manhattan. She’d have no problem getting a ride.

Shivering, Leah hugged herself and stamped her feet. She’d just turned to rejoin the party when Mike seized her shoulders in his beefy hands.

“Looks like you could use a little warmin’ up, Miz Scarlett.” He tightened his grip, a smarmy grin on his face. “I bet some things are the same everywhere. You ever take the boys out to the pasture? Huh?”

Sure enough—we just love to roll around in all those
cow pies,
you ignorant slob.

 Knowing she’d never be able to suffer his kiss without retching, she twisted away just as his wet mouth zeroed in. “Brrrr! It’s freezing out here.” She darted back into the ballroom and brushed the snow off her dress.

Mike’s voice behind her was a dangerous growl. “Listen, you little tease
—
”

“Mike! Where ya been, man?”

Leah turned to see a skinny man wearing an expensive leather jacket and a surly expression. His significant other stood nearby, looking bored.

“Hey! Tim, Wanda, what kept you?” Mike’s mood did an instantaneous about-face. “Want you to meet someone. This little Georgia peach here is Dorothy.”

She sighed. “Leah Harmony.” At least Georgia peach was an improvement over cow pie.

“Whatever.” Mike waylaid a waiter. “Grey Goose martini, extra dry, straight up, with a twist.” He turned back to his friends. “Leah here works for some catalog outfit, isn’t that right, babe?”

“I own Harmony Grits, a mail-order company specializing in southern foods. Pleased to meet you.”

“Yeah, hi.” Tim didn’t smile or shake the hand she offered. Wanda simply ignored her.

Tim mumbled, “Got something for you, man.”

“Uh...yeah.” Mike’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Uh, listen, Dorothy, me and my friends, we’re gonna go take care of some business, know what I mean?” He tapped his nose and sniffed meaningfully. “Wanna join us? You country girls go in for that kind of thing?”

“Listen, sugah, you go have yourself some fun. My taste runs more to home-brewed moonshine.”

“`Home-brewed moonshine’! Love it!” he hooted. “Jest gotta keep it away from them revenoors, right?” He patted her cheek. “I’ll be back in a snort and a half, babe. Don’t go anywhere.”

Leah was grateful for the respite, however brief. Her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. She’d been awake for forty hours, nervous anticipation having robbed her of sleep the night before. For hours she’d stared out the window of her twelfth-floor room in the Millennium Hotel near Times Square, oblivious to the glittering spectacle of Broadway stretched out below her.

She’d flown up to New York from Little Rock three days earlier. Three days of angling to get within spitting distance
—
literally
—
of James Bradburn. Now she had only one goal: to make a quick getaway while avoiding both her escort and the disturbing guest of honor.

She felt a hand on her arm and looked into Kara Greene’s warm brown eyes. The agent spoke sotto voce, woman to woman. “Look, hon, I don’t know you, you don’t know me, and maybe I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong—but hey, when has that ever stopped me? Let me guess. You’re fresh off the turnip wagon from somewhere south of Wall Street, yes?”