“I most certainly did not send Parsons after you, and I don’t believe for one minute that he shot at you.” He added with a nervous glance at Finn, “He doesn’t even own a gun.”
Finn folded his arms and leaned back. “Is that right? So when you boys go hunting, what exactly do you carry?”
“We don’t go hunting. We go ice fishing.” Turning his attention to Peyton, Drew said, “I would never do anything to hurt you. Never,” he fervently vowed.
She wasn’t buying that bridge.
Finn continued to question Drew, backtracking on the issue of guns again and again, trying to trip him up on some of his lies, but Drew held firm. The two waiters poked their heads around the corner again. Peyton checked her watch and motioned for them to come in and finish preparing the tables for dinner.
As soon as Finn stopped questioning Drew, it was her turn. “Why did you come here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.” He nervously glanced at Finn before adding, “Alone.”
“That’s not gonna happen.”
Drew rushed on. “You left Dalton so quickly, we didn’t get a chance to talk. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible misunderstanding. I thought we had a connection, that you cared as much as I did. All the signals you were sending said as much.” His eyes drooped and he sounded so pathetic when he added, “I would have left my wife for you.”
Incredulous, Peyton listened to his pitiful speech. His lies were piling up, one on top of the other, and she couldn’t believe he could say them with a straight face.
Drew continued, “After all we’ve shared, it’s come to this.”
What was he talking about? “After we shared what?” she asked.
“You know . . . all our nights together.”
That was the final straw. She could barely control her anger when she said, “Our nights? We didn’t have any nights together. Sexual harassment and threats—that’s what you call a connection?”
Drew finally must have realized it was pointless for him to argue. He didn’t stand a chance of getting his way. Looking resigned, he leaned forward and shifted in his seat to give Finn his back.
He lowered his voice as though he intended only Peyton to hear him. “I don’t want you to sue the magazine. It was a simple misunderstanding.” He quickly added, “But the magazine shouldn’t be dragged through the mud. That’s a little vindictive, isn’t it?”
“Why do you think I’m going to sue?”
“I—” He stopped suddenly.
“Yes?”
She could almost see his brain spinning as he tried to come up with a plausible lie. He couldn’t very well admit he’d read Mimi’s text, and Peyton was certain that was what he’d done.
“I just thought you might be considering it. You left in such a hurry you didn’t give me a chance to convince you to stay.”
“I’m not going to sue.” She didn’t add, unless it’s the last resort.
His reaction was comical. As quick as lightning he flipped the folder open and pushed a paper toward her. “Sign this.”
“I’m not going to sign anything.”
“How do I know you won’t change your mind?”
She shrugged. “You don’t know. Just assume I’m as truthful as you are.”
His eyes narrowed, staring at her as though he was trying to decide whether she was being sincere or mocking him.
“I was going to sue,” she said then, “but Mimi talked me out of it, so you can thank her.”
“Then sign this paper,” he said as he pushed the document even closer.
She pushed it back. “No.”
“What if you change your mind?”
“If I have to keep dodging bullets, I just might.”
“I had nothing to do with that. I can’t promise it will stop because I don’t know who’s behind it.”
She moved to stand.
“Wait, please,” he begged.
“Yes?”
“I just want to be assured . . . if you should change your mind, will you promise me you’ll think about your decision for at least two weeks before you file suit? Give yourself time so that you don’t do anything rash.”
She translated the request to mean that in two weeks he expected to be the new CEO. “Yes, I’ll weigh the decision for two weeks because it makes sense. I don’t want to have regrets.”
He nodded. “I trust you to keep your word. I don’t know what I would do if you broke your promise to me. I just don’t know.”
“Are you threatening her, Albertson?” Finn was more disgusted than angry.
“No, of course not. I was just telling her I don’t know what I would do . . . that’s all.”
“Are we finished?” Peyton asked, anxious to get away from him.
“Oh, one more thing. I’ve made some changes at the magazine, and my food critics will now be giving good and bad reviews. I’ve decided to personally review this restaurant. I believe it belongs to you now, doesn’t it?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Think of the damage a negative review would do. It would be devastating.”
“Yes, it would,” she agreed. “But I’m certain it will be a wonderful review. The food here is excellent.”
“The review depends on you, and I’m hopeful it won’t be negative.”
She nodded. “Just as I am hopeful the recording I made in your office won’t go viral if I were to put it on the Internet.”
Drew stood and with a faint, insincere smile said, “No one will take that recording seriously. It was a joke between you and me. Remember? We were just having a little fun.”
Like Peyton, Finn had had enough. “Two FBI agents will be at your door in twenty-four hours. You damn well better have Rick Parsons there with you to answer some questions.”
“I don’t fly home until tomorrow afternoon. That doesn’t give me much time. What if I can’t find him?”
“Then the agents will cuff you and take you in.”
“On what charge?” he huffed indignantly.
“Charges . . . plural,” Finn corrected. “I’ve got several in mind.”
He motioned for Peyton to stay put and followed Drew out into the parking lot. He made sure he got the license plate number and the make and model of the rental car he was driving, and only after Drew had pulled onto the highway did he go back to get Peyton.
She was helping the waiters with preparations. She carried bud vases with roses and votives and placed them on each table. When she was finished with the task, she lit the candles and straightened the white tablecloths. The most wonderful smells of baking bread and roasting meat floated out of the kitchen, but Finn suspected that Drew had spoiled Peyton’s appetite. Her face had lost its color and she looked sick to her stomach.
He waited until she was done, then said, “Are you ready?”
Nodding, she turned to leave. He surprised her by pulling her into his arms and holding her against him. It was a quick but fierce hug.
“Now that you’ve met him, do you still want to help me get him?”
He smiled. “You always were a pain in the ass . . . and yeah, I’m gonna help you. I want to nail the bastard.”
She returned his smile. “You say the sweetest things.”
SEVENTEEN
Dinner was a quiet affair. Peyton wasn’t in the mood to cook anything fancy, and so she made a simple spinach salad with dried cranberries and toasted slivered almonds tossed in the sweet and tangy vinaigrette she always kept on hand, followed by roasted rosemary chicken, new potatoes with dill, and fresh steamed asparagus with a hint of lemon. Dessert was just as simple—orange and mango slices dipped in chocolate.
She wasn’t very hungry, but Finn ate enough for three men.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked. “You aren’t eating much.”
She shrugged. “I keep replaying the conversation with Drew, and that’s taken my appetite away. I guess you weren’t as disgusted as I was,” she added with a smile when he reached for the last slices of fruit. She pushed the small fondue pot toward him.
“I’m used to dealing with the depraved,” he said as he dipped the orange into the rich dark chocolate and popped it in his mouth.
“So, no surprises with Drew?”
“No,” he answered. “He’s a good-looking guy who could probably get most of the women he went after, but that doesn’t do it for him. He wants them young and beautiful, and you’re both.”
Her head came up. “You think I’m beautiful?”
He seemed surprised by the question. “Yeah, I do . . . when you’re not being a royal pain.”
She didn’t understand why, but she was inordinately pleased with the backhanded compliment. Smiling, she was content to watch him finish dinner. She didn’t have to ask if he enjoyed the meal because he ate every bit. He needed the fuel. God only knew how many calories he burned in a day. He was a big man and very muscular. She remembered running her fingertips over his broad shoulders, down his rock-hard chest, and over his thighs. She remembered everything about their night together . . . every little detail.
“You still have a swimmer’s body,” she blurted.
“I still swim,” he said as he stood and reached for her plate, stacking it on his and carrying both to the kitchen. He helped her clear the table and load the dishwasher, then picked up his phone. “I’ve got to make some calls.”
“Finn? Do people ever recognize you?” she asked. “You won three gold medals. You could have been a celebrity.”
“That happened a long time ago. People see an FBI agent, and that’s what I want.”
“You could have done commercials,” she pressed. She laughed then because he looked so appalled. “Picture it. You in your Speedo holding up a tube of toothpaste, smiling into the camera.”
If she wanted to tease, he could, too. “And you could have been a model. Picture it. You wearing high heels walking down the runway in your undies, smiling into the camera.”
“Models never smile. It’s a rule. No smiling on the runway. And I could never be a lingerie model. I’m not overly . . .” She suddenly realized what she was about to say and stopped.
He saw her blush and wouldn’t let it go. “Overly what?”
“Endowed,” she finished. “Most of them are overly endowed. And I couldn’t be a fashion model, either. Most of them are flat-chested, and I’m not.”
His eyes slowly scanned her body, and several heartbeats later he said, “No, you’re not.”
Every part of her reacted to his sexy voice. How did he do it? He looked at her, and she was ready to tear off her clothes. And his. It really was the craziest thing. One glorious night with Finn had turned her into a shameless nymphomaniac.
The heat that was warming her face was rapidly making its way down her body and settling between her thighs. She hastily folded her dish towel and laid it next to the sink. Stepping around him, she headed toward her bedroom. “Make your calls. I’m going to get into the shower.”
As she was closing her door, he called out to her. “Peyton?”
“Yes?” she answered expectantly, hoping he hadn’t noticed how flushed she had become.
“Dinner was great. I’ve never eaten chicken that tasted so good.”
She beamed with pleasure. Now, that was a lovely compliment. She was flattered when Finn told her she was beautiful. It was a very nice thing to hear, but she couldn’t help the way she looked. She sure as certain could roast a perfectly delicious chicken, though.
She showered, washed her hair, and used a gallon of scented body lotion on her arms and legs. While she dried her hair, she thought about her nightgown choices. Should she wear the short, black silk nightie? Or would that be too obvious? If she walked out into the living room wearing it, he would immediately know she wanted to sleep with him. Not actually sleep, of course. Call it what it was, she told herself. Sex. She wanted him to make love to her again.
As she sorted through the drawer trying to decide, she could feel her heartbeat quicken. She’d never felt or acted this way toward a man in her entire life. It was a totally new sensation, and she took a deep breath to calm herself.
Yes, this was unfamiliar territory for her, but what about Finn? He was behaving normally, in his relaxed and self-assured way. What was he thinking? He certainly hadn’t given her any indications that he wanted to go to bed with her again. In fact, he’d been acting rather aloof and businesslike since he’d arrived, treating her as though she were just an old friend who needed help. He hadn’t even kissed her.
She surveyed her sleepwear choices again. Maybe she shouldn’t appear to be so eager. Maybe she should wear her old faded cotton pajamas. But if she chose those, what message would that send? And why hadn’t he kissed her? She frowned thinking about that. Maybe sex with her hadn’t been all that great, and if so, why not?
By the time she put on her short, pink silk nightgown she was primed for a fight. She was going to storm into the living room and demand to know why he no longer wanted her.
Mimi saved her from making a fool of herself. Peyton had just pulled the down comforter back on her bed and was reaching for her robe when her friend called.
“Want a laugh?” Mimi began.
“Sure. I could use one.”
“Bridget told me that now that I’m back in the Bountiful Table family—honest, those were her exact words—I’m no longer banned from the celebration of Miriam Swift’s life. She personally delivered the invitation.”
“She couldn’t have. She’s dead.”
Mimi laughed. “Bridget handed me the invitation. It’s such a crock. The celebration is on a Sunday afternoon, and everyone in the company is invited, which would imply they had a choice, right? Not so. It’s mandatory.”
“When are you going to give your notice?”
“Lars went to HR and handed his in today. They asked him to stay the full two weeks and he agreed. I’ll give my notice on his last day and leave then and there,” she promised. “We want to drive down to Florida together . . . you know, following each other in our cars. Can you wait that long for us?”
“Yes, but no longer than two weeks and you’re out of there. I worry about you. Did Lars tell them where he was going?”
“No,” she said. “You know Lars. He can’t lie, but he hinted that he was homesick. If they want to believe he’s going back to Sweden, that’s fine. I’m finished with my news,” she added. “What’s going on there?”