Free Criminal Confections by Colette London Page B

analyzing a tragic death. I’d go crazy if I spent all night ruminating over it.
    Besides, I was the kind of girl who moved on quickly. The stipulations of my uncle Ross’s will ensured that fact for me.
    To feel better, I needed to do something besides talk.
    â€œHey.” I gave Danny a poke as he passed by on his next patrol-my-hotel-room round. “Thanks for coming here for me.”
    He only shrugged. Evidently, I felt mushier than he did.
    Probably that was because I’d survived a potential attempt on my life tonight. That kind of thing probably wreaked havoc on a girl’s sense of equanimity. If it was real.
    I remained convinced it wasn’t. But just in case . . . I figured I needed to take care of a few things. Downstairs. Without my makeshift bodyguard dogging my every move and asking questions.
    The way I saw it, if I could get ahold of some of the things Adrienne and I had both come into contact with tonight (like a few nutraceutical truffles and/or some green juice) and send them to Travis for analysis, I could put my mind at ease. Maybe.
    â€œSeriously, though,” I pressed, knowing there was only one guaranteed way to get Danny to quit hovering like a bossy big brother. “Why were you so late getting here? I expected you hours earlier. Then you strolled in, all light-fingered and—”
    â€œEverything looks safe for now,” he butted in. “You okay?”
    Bingo. He’d reacted just the way I’d expected he would. Danny liked being interrogated about being late (and being skilled at petty thievery) the way I liked wearing stilettos. Meaning, not at all. Not if it was avoidable. It always was.
    â€œI’m fine.” It was an effort not to singsong those two little words. Because I had a plan. I needed him to beat it.
    â€œThen I’ve got a few things to do.” He hooked his thumb toward the door, then followed its lead all the way there. Over his shoulder, he tossed me a strangely intense glance. “Okay?”
    I hesitated. Just for a second, I understood why women flocked to Danny. All that intensity was probably intoxicating—to the right woman, at the right time. But that woman wasn’t me. Not then and probably not ever. We both knew better than that.
    â€œYou don’t have to babysit me, Danny,” I told him, meaning it. “I can take care of myself. I dialed up your suit-wearing friend services, not your übermacho security-man services.”
    I was trying to flatter him with that übermacho stuff. He didn’t bite. He only studied the suit jacket he’d hurled at me for warmth in the stairwell, now snuggled securely around me.
    â€œKeep the jacket,” Danny said, then he was out of there.
    The moment the door closed behind him, I shrugged out of his jacket, dropped it like it was hot, and got on my feet.
    A quick trip to the window told me the retreat attendees had scattered, just as Danny and I had. They milled around the grounds of Maison Lemaître, talking in clumps of three or four. Some headed toward the discreet lobby bar. A few waited to retrieve their rides from the valets. It was evident that the welcome reception—which had run late, anyway—had broken up.
    As soon as the coast was clear, I headed out myself.
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    Adrienne’s death probably had been a heartrending accident, I told myself as I crept downstairs again. It had probably been a case of bad timing writ large. Whatever undiagnosed ailment Adrienne had suffered from—a heart murmur, a blocked artery, or something just as dire but unknowable—it had come up against the stressful, super-long Lemaître welcome reception and just . . . popped.
    I really, really needed to avoid stress in my life.
    I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that the whole thing might have been avoidable, though. It was that feeling that prodded me along the empty Maison Lemaître service hallways after getting Danny to