Free Gilt Trip (The Boston Uncommons Mystery Series Book 3) by Arlene Kay Page B

I’m not the most graceful gal on two feet. I laughed and muttered something in response.
    “You know, we were very close to your place last night,” Fleur said. “You’ve probably been to Rise plenty of times. It’s right on Stuart Street. Such a cool club. I should have known that Deming Swann would be a member.”
    Now I knew why Deming hadn’t called last night. That rat was up to his ears in something, and it wasn’t paperwork.
    “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” I said. “Let’s do lunch sometime soon.”
    “When?” Fleur had certainly cultivated her killer instinct. Maybe enforcement work demanded that.
    “How about next week? I’ll text my mother-in-law and call you back.”
    “Mother-in-law? Jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you, Eja?”
    Now was my turn to twist the verbal knife. “You know how it is. We are so close that Anika already seems like family. Bolin too.”
    “Wow! Bolin Swann is on the Forbes list. One of the richest billionaires in the world, or something like that.” Clearly, Fleur was staggered by my proximity to greatness.
    “I know. He was really embarrassed when they issued that thing. Swanns like to keep personal matters low key. You understand.”
    Fleur soon made her excuses and ended our chat, leaving me very curious about Deming’s tete-a-tete and the impact on Horton’s money problems.
    THAT EVENING I agonized over wardrobe options before settling on my old standby—a black scoop-neck Armani with matching lace jacket. It made me feel elegant and slightly decadent, especially when a strand of Grandma’s pearls dangled near my cleavage. Fortunately, my minimalist approach to hair and makeup could be done on autopilot. I had no time and little patience for fussing.
    Deming, or Twinkle Toes as I now called him, had texted our departure time. At six thirty p.m. I was ready and waiting to embrace the Exley throng, if not my fiancé. With him, I was a bit miffed.
    “You’re lovely, Eja,” Deming said, putting his arms around me. He looked pretty nifty himself in a charcoal grey Brioni suit. In truth, he looked spectacular. Deming had the dark, sizzling Byronic thing down pat. Constant praise from women was something he’d grown to expect, so I meted it out sparingly. Besides, I was confident that Fleur had shored up his ego last night during their dance session.
    “Is something wrong?” he asked. “Sorry I didn’t call you last night. Things got really hectic.” He was fidgeting, and if he followed the script, he’d soon be cracking his knuckles. Despite an elegant facade, even Deming occasionally felt guilt. Mangling knuckles was his concession to nerves.
    “No problem,” I lied. “I was pretty busy myself.” True enough, if you considered fending off a sex-crazed sifu and potential murderer all in a night’s work.
    We evaded Cato, caught the elevator, and were soon motoring to the Exley spread.
    “By the way,” I said. “Guess who phoned me this morning? Fleur Pixley. She wants to get together for lunch next week.”
    Deming’s frown was a thing of beauty. “Bad idea, Eja,” he growled. “This foundation matter is a delicate thing. Fleur agreed to look into it, but I think we should limit any other contact.”
    I shrugged. “Fine. I’ll think up some excuse. After all, your dinner was strictly business, but our lunch would be personal.”
    Deming stomped on the gas pedal and sailed into traffic heading west on Storrow Drive toward Brookline. A pack of homicidal drivers jockeyed for position as they made their homeward pilgrimage. That focused Deming on road congestion, leaving me the opportunity to share a bowdlerized account of my session with Justin Ming.
    “He came to your apartment?” Deming bit his lip as his complexion paled. “What were you thinking, Eja? The man might be a murderer.”
    “Your trainer comes to your place all the time,” I said. “So does your masseur, as I recall. What’s the harm?”
    “Harm? For one thing, I am