Free Scent of Roses by Kat Martin

A member of the catering staff, a young man in black slacks and a starched white shirt, poured her a glass of chilled champagne, Schramsberg, a brand she recognized as coming from the Napa Valley, a fairly expensive California label.
    They talked as Carson gave her a tour of the downstairs portion of the house, including his modernized kitchen where the catering staff was hard at work, then on to his wood-paneled study. By the time they returned to the parlor, a long black stretch limousine was pulling up in front of the house.
    â€œLooks like they’re here. Three of the couples flew in on a twin-engine Queen Aire. I hired a limo from Newhall to collect them. Another is bringing the Castenados up from L.A.”
    â€œI gather you have an airstrip here on the ranch.”
    He nodded. “It isn’t big enough to handle a private jet, but it serves most other small planes very well.”
    â€œDo you fly yourself?”
    â€œI thought about taking lessons, but I really don’t have time.”
    They walked toward the foyer and Carson pulled open the leaded glass door, inviting his guests inside. The fourth couple arrived within minutes of the other three, the group varying in ages from thirty-five to sixty. Introductions were made all around, then Carson led his guests into the bar and drinks were served.
    Elizabeth was glad she had worn the black dress. The other four women had on equally expensive outfits, two wore sequin-trimmed pants suits, one a knee-length, ivory dinner suit, another a simple black sheath similar to the one she had on.
    They talked for a while, then Carson rested a proprietary hand on her shoulder. “If you ladies don’t mind, there are a couple of items of business that need to be discussed before we go in to supper. It shouldn’t take all that long.”
    He didn’t wait for their approval, just turned and started walking, all four males in the group following him down the hall toward the study.
    Elizabeth turned to the ladies, taking over the role of hostess. “Is this the first time you’ve been to San Pico?”
    â€œNone of us have ever been here,” said one woman in a dinner suit, Maryann Hobson, who was married to a real estate developer in Orange County. “Though, of course, we’ve known Carson for quite some time.”
    â€œHis home is lovely,” one of the other women said, Mildred Castenado, a tall, statuesque Hispanic woman whose dark eyes seemed to take in every detail.
    â€œYes, it certainly is,” Rebecca Meyers agreed. Her husband was the CEO of a big pharmaceuticals company and Becky, as she had asked to be called, seemed a bright intelligent woman. “I particularly like what they’ve done with the molded ceilings.” Painting the walls a creamy beige and the moldings very white.
    â€œHave you known Carson long?” the fourth woman asked, silver-gray hair, thin lips and tight lines around her mouth. She was the eldest of the women, Betty Simino, wife of the senior member of the group.
    â€œWe’ve been acquainted for several years,” Elizabeth said, not liking the assessing look in the woman’s pale blue eyes. “This is the first time I’ve been to his home. I agree with Mildred. The house is quite lovely.”
    â€œCarson used the designer I recommended,” Mildred said proudly. “Anthony Bass. I think he did a marvelous job.”
    â€œYes, he did.”
    The conversation went on in that vein, light, mostly pleasant, with only an occasional foray by Mrs. Simino into the nature of Elizabeth’s relationship with Carson, which, of course, didn’t actually exist.
    Elizabeth found herself glancing toward the study door, wondering when Carson would return. Praying it wouldn’t be much longer.
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    Carson surveyed the men seated on the comfortable leather furniture in his study.
    The leader, Walter Simino, Assistant Chairman of the California State Republican