Free A Grand Seduction by Lisa Logan Page A

knife froze in midair. “The one in the Great Room isn’t fully stocked. Try the dining room.”
    “ Here.” Twyla turned and grabbed an oval platter off the counter near the double sink. “You can set out crudites. They’ll keep the longest.”
    Ridelle accepted the platter and plucked a cherry tomato off the top. “Thanks. Hey, Fran—any special advice on his Tom Collins?”
    She shrugged as she scraped a pile of shallots into one of the smaller nested bowls. “How would I know? I’m not a bartender.” A flutter of almost-irritation crossed her face. “Didn’t know you were.”
    Ridelle brushed off a quick stab of anger at the little dig. Her friend had a bucketful to deal with right now, after all. She was bound to be bitchy. “Hardly. Dad taught me a few drinks so I could help at parties.”
    Twyla snapped mushroom caps from their stems with laser precision. “The Brie is baking now. We’ll start putting out hot appetizers right at six. Meanwhile, since you’re our booze expert, you can uncork wine for the stuffed mushrooms and Coq au Vin when you get back. I’d have you wash grapes, but I doubt any would survive the effort.”
    Balancing the platter with one hand, she gave a snappy salute. “Yes, ma’am.”
    “ Oh, if you could light the dining room candles, that’d be helpful,” Fran added. “Matches are tucked behind the small grouping of easel art on the far end of the sideboard.”
    Nodding, Ridelle twirled on one heel and took the assortment of celery, tomatoes, carrot sticks, and cauliflower into the dining room. Setting the platter on a long whitewashed sideboard, she turned her attention to a freestanding bar at the far end of the rectangular room. A brass ice bucket on top was empty, but a mini-fridge tucked underneath turned up a couple small ice trays. Further investigation turned up cut crystal eight-ball glasses, a bottle of gin, lemon juice, and club soda.
    She mixed the drink and was halfway out of the room before remembering the candles. Glancing around, she spotted the book of matches right where Fran said—behind a tiny oval desktop mirror. Next to that sat a miniature oil of Paris in spring done in light pinks and greens, and a framed textile abstract. Candles were used everywhere—tall tapers mixed with short pillars and votives in pale green, cream, and cinnamon. Ridelle groaned. No wonder she’d been delegated to this task. Lighting them all would take a while.
    She’d made it as far as the occasional table near the door when a wisp of air sent the flames before her into flickering motion. A lighter came into view just over her left shoulder, followed by a waft of a familiar scent. Her stomach tightened with the first whiff. Oh, Lord. Obsession by Calvin Klein. Why did it have to be Obsession?
    “ Here. Let me help.”
    She startled as Bruce lit the last taper in that grouping. “Sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to take so long getting your drink.”
    “ No worries. Just wanted to make sure you found the bar okay.”
    Ridelle put distance between herself and that maddeningly confusing scent, walking around the far side of the dining table and starting on the trio of candle centerpieces set at intervals along its length.
    “ Fran likes the whole Catholic altar look,” he went on. “A thousand candles that take all night to light, get wax on the table, and keep me panicked thinking the whole place is going to go up.”
    The tone was half teasing, lacking its earlier bitter edge. She met his eyes as he stood on the opposite side of the dining table, lighting the centermost candles. Bruce flashed his best imitation of a boyish grin. “In fact, that Tom Collins might be in dire jeopardy. Alcohol near all this open flame?”
    His humor prompted a tinkling laugh that surprised her as she finished one three-candle centerpiece and started for the final group at the far end. “What, you’ve never had a Collins flambe?”
    The responding laugh was genuine as he