And didn’t that make me sound like Sister Mary Responsibility? Sometimes I really hated my inner disciplinarian.
Looking around for a way to move past the tight-knit group in front of me, I spotted my three librarian students near the front door. They appeared stranded and confused, until Marianne spotted me waving. She waved back and I knew they would make it through the crowd eventually.
Skirting yet another group of partygoers, I listened as Layla’s speech drew to a close. She thanked a few of the biggest benefactors, then introduced Alice Fairchild.
“Alice, are you out there?” Layla glanced out at the audience, looking for her protégée. “Alice is BABA’s newly appointed assistant director, and I’m thrilled to have her with us. Alice?”
I scanned the space but couldn’t see her. Maybe she was in the ladies’ room.
“Yes, I’m here,” Alice called finally, sounding resigned.
I craned my neck and spied her standing next to a ficus tree in the corner. I wondered if she’d thought about hiding behind it. She sounded so stressed, I had to smile in sympathy. Was there some medication she could take to calm her nerves?
“Alice is just a bit shy,” Layla said, her tone surprisingly maternal. “But I’m confident she’ll do a fantastic job.”
As the crowd applauded politely, I eased my way around the last group standing between me and the south hall. From here, I turned to watch Layla wrap up her speech. And that’s when I saw Cynthia Hardesty dragging her husband, Tom, into one of the empty classrooms. She looked angry enough to spit nails and he looked clueless as she shoved the door closed. Had she caught him drooling over Layla again?
As I watched Layla from this vantage point in the hall, I could finally see the other man standing at Layla’s left side, as he turned to survey the crowd.
I gasped.
The crowd burst into applause just then, so no one heard me wheezing as I rushed into my classroom, slammed the door, and sagged into a chair.
I couldn’t catch my breath. My ears buzzed and my stomach wrenched dangerously. I was going to be sick. I needed to move, get away, but I was frozen in place. I began to panic and had to fight not to pass out.
I knew the man standing next to Layla Fontaine. Or I thought I did. Now I wasn’t so sure. They were standing so close to each other that Layla’s hawklike talons had embedded themselves in his thousand-dollar coat sleeve. They were so close that she had slipped her leg between his. So close that, as I watched, she’d reached out and groped his excellent butt.
The man with the excellent butt was Derek Stone.
Chapter 5
Yes, that Derek Stone. Was there any other?
God, he looked good. He appeared even taller than I remembered and his dark hair had grown a bit in the last four weeks. Four weeks and three days, to be exact. That’s how long it had been since I’d seen him at the Edinburgh Book Fair.
Despite our best intentions, nothing of a physically romantic nature had happened between us that last night in Edinburgh. There was simply too much else going on. My parents were there, along with my best friend, Robin. I’d just won a prestigious award. And I’d been held hostage by a vicious killer earlier that afternoon. The police had wrapped up a double-murder investigation. Talk about distractions.
The next morning, Derek and I met for coffee; then he was called to Holyroodhouse Palace and I took off for the airport.
That was the last I saw of him. I’d thought at the time it was all for the best. Yes, he was far and away the most appealing man I’d ever met, but why would I get involved with someone I might never see again? It was a good question, one I spent many long nights arguing over once I was home. The plain fact was, I’d missed him every day. I missed his dry sense of humor and his intelligence, and I missed the way I felt with his arms wrapped around me. Would it have been so wrong to spend one night together, even if we never saw each other again?
And now, here he was in San Francisco, without any advanced warning. He couldn’t call? He couldn’t write? His e-mail wasn’t working? Not that he owed me anything, but I thought we’d become . . . close. Close what? I couldn’t say. Friends? Buddies? Lovers? No, unfortunately, not lovers. Not yet anyway. And seeing him snuggled up next to Layla just now, I was pretty darned sure we never would be.
I buried my head in my hands. I refused to cry, but I was sad, really sad. And I could feel another headache blooming.
What was he doing here? Besides being fondled and rubbed and drooled over by Layla Fontaine, of course?
Derek Stone and Layla Fontaine?
“Oh, God, no.” My insides did a loop de loop and I groaned out loud. Just saying their names together made me want to hurl my lunch. They obviously knew each other. So what was my favorite British security agent doing with someone like Layla? She was poison; couldn’t he see it?