The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [35]
“More?” he inquired dutifully.
She wouldn’t cavil at his tone. It wasn’t quite accusatory. “Especially the caviar puffs,” she called after him.
As she awaited replenishment, she realized that she was surveying the crowd warily. When she spotted Emma Clyde, she remembered why, although Emma appeared quite genial. In honor of the occasion, Emma had abandoned her customary caftan for a truly awesome flowered print (cabbage roses among a plethora of ferns), a pink picture hat, and white gloves. Emma watched with an amused smile as Fleur Calloway, lovely in a pale lilac silk and a matching straw hat, bought a raffle ticket for a set of Lady Gwendolyn’s novels.
Emma.
Oh, God, what if Emma was telling the truth? What if she hadn’t shot at Neil Bledsoe last night?
Of course, she would deny it. Emma’s protestations of innocence surely could not be accepted without question.
But if she hadn’t—
Anxiously, Annie looked around for the other participants in last night’s drama.
Derek Davis’s good-humored face was flushed from heat and exertion. The young publicist wasn’t having any luck at the coconut shy. He bought three more balls and tried again, finally toppling one coconut at the end, which made his fair face crimson with pleasure. His prize was what looked at a distance like a crocheted doily for an armchair. He offered it laughingly to his companion, Natalie Marlow, the frumpy young author who’d introduced herself to Annie last night at the bookstore. Although Natalie obviously had gone all out for the fête, her choice of attire—a droopy purplish silk with tangerine stripes—made it clear it was a good thing she concentrated on emotions, not fashion, in her fiction.
But, Annie realized with surprise, Derek was oblivious to the author’s dowdiness. Annie wondered if the young publicist had any inkling of how revealing his expression was. He was offering not only a silly prize, but much, much more—his eyes looked at Natalie with an emotion akin to adoration.
Natalie didn’t see that look because she was overcome with awkwardness. She flushed, twisted her hands, and looked away.
But none of it was lost on Neil Bledsoe.
He sauntered up to the coconut shy, his dark face amused. But not nicely amused.
Annie stiffened.
Kathryn Honeycutt paused beside the fortune-telling tent and looked a fit advertisement, her porcelain-pink face troubled.
Bledsoe ignored Derek. He gave a half bow to Natalie. It was almost a burlesque, but not quite. “Miss Marlow, I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I read Down These Steps. You have a great future ahead of you.”
If the crocheted doily had unnerved Natalie, this fulsome praise from an undeniably imposing man undid her. She swallowed jerkily and stared up at him wordlessly.
Bledsoe smiled with the easy, satisfied grace of a panther with its quarry in sight. “I haven’t had the pleasure of a lovely woman’s company at a country fair in many years. Perhaps you’ll allow me the pleasure of competing for your favor, just as a knight of long ago.”
Max arrived then and handed Annie a full plate topped by three caviar puffs.
Annie took it and groaned, “Oh, puke.”
At Max’s startled look, she glanced at the plate. “Oh, no, love, not this. The jerk—at the coconut shy.”
Natalie watched wide-eyed as Bledsoe, with the ease and confidence of a superior athlete, unleashed the soft rubber ball and the entire row of coconuts bobbled and wobbled and thudded to the springy ground. He gestured at the attendant. “That bear—the big one with the pink ears—for the lady here.”
When Natalie held the huge prize, Bledsoe took her elbow with a proprietary air. “You must come with me and be my luck. Let’s try the hoopla.”
Natalie did look uncertainly over her shoulder at Derek, but he just stood there, the doily crushed in his hand, his snub-nosed face empty of expression, and then she walked on, with Bledsoe.
“Shit.” Annie grabbed a caviar puff and stuffed it in her mouth.
Max squinted in the sunlight. “As you’ve often told our elegant bookstore feline, don’t eat