well-placed table. He knows how cheap I am and tries to give the paying customers the best seats. I was all ready to explain that I was being treated by one of the Purcells but a member of the wait staff I didn’t know let me choose my table. Maybe it was because I’d taken a little extra care with my appearance. I’d unsnapped my ponytail, brushed and briefly hot-curled my hair, tossed on a tan, loosely flowing skirt and black tank top. I’d even done the mascara/eyeliner bit, topping the whole look off with some frosted lip gloss.
The Binkster, my pug, had cocked her head at me and slowly wagged her tail. I took this to mean I looked hot.
I’d forgotten to ask Marta what Jasper looked like. He was a Purcell and the Purcells were wealthy and notorious, so apparently that was supposed to be enough. From my research I knew he was in his mid-thirties. I settled back and ordered a Sparkling Cyanide, my new favorite drink, a bright blue martini that draws envious eyes from the people who’ve ordered your basic rum and Cokes.
I was sipping away when a man in the right age bracket strode onto the patio. He stopped short to look around. I nearly dropped my cocktail. I say nearly, because I’d paid a whopping eight bucks for it and I wasn’t going to lose one drop unless Mt. St. Helen’s erupted again and spewed ash and lava to rain down on Foster’s patio, sending us all diving for cover. Even then I might be able to balance it.
I felt my lips part. Marta must have guessed what my reaction would be when I clapped eyes on him. She probably was fighting back a huge hardy-har-har all the while we were on the phone. This guy was flat-out gorgeous. Women seated around me took notice: smoothing their hair, sitting up straighter, looking interested and attentive. His gaze settled on me. I gulped against a dry throat. He had it all. Movie star good looks. Electric blue eyes and thick lashes. Chiseled jaw. Smooth, naturally dark skin and blinding white teeth. And a strong physique—taut and muscular with that kind of sinewy grace that belongs to jungle cats. I should have known this was going to turn out badly. I should have heard the “too handsome” alarm clang in my brain. But, honestly, I just stared.
He flashed me a smile, then scraped back the chair opposite me. The sun’s rays sent a shaft of gold light over his left arm. His gray shirt was one of those suede-ish fabrics that moves like a second skin.
“Jane Kelly?” he asked.
Great voice. Warm and mellow. He smelled good, too. Musky and citrusy at the same time. And his dark hair had the faintest, and I mean faintest, of an auburn tint, a shade women pay big, big, HUGE, bucks for.
I nodded, wondering if I should check for drool on my chin. You can never be too careful.
“I’m Jasper Purcell.”
“Hello.”
“Thanks for meeting me. I know I didn’t give you a lot of time.”
I cleared my throat. “No problem. Marta Cornell said you wanted to see me about your family. She wasn’t specific.”
“I wasn’t specific with her.” He hesitated, his eyes squinting a bit as if he were wrestling with confiding in me. After a moment, he said, “It’s about my grandmother, Orchid Purcell.”
I looked interested, waiting for him to continue.
“She named all her girls after flowers. But it’s the only crazy thing she’s done until now.”
Mental illness runs in the Purcell family…. “What’s happened?” I asked cautiously, but Jasper Purcell didn’t answer me. He appeared to be lost to some inner world.
Eventually he surfaced, glancing around, seeming to notice his surroundings for the first time. “Nice place. I’ve never been here.”
Since Foster’s was a Lake Chinook institution I was kind of surprised. The Dunthorpe area—where the Purcell mansion had been for the last century—was just north of the lake. If Jasper Purcell grew up there, the restaurant seemed like a natural.
“How can I help you, Mr. Purcell?”
“Sorry.” He leaned across the table and shook my hand. The heat of his fingers ran right up my arm. I was dazzled by that incredible face so close to mine. “Call me Jazz.”
“Jazz?”
“Short for Jasper. My cousin Cammie could never pronounce it.”
Nowhere in my research had anything been said about this man’s extraordinary good looks. Was Cammie as beautiful as Jasper—Jazz—was handsome? I made a mental note to ask Dwayne.
Instinctively, I knew I should stay out of whatever he had in store for me. But I really wanted to help him. Really, really wanted to help him. Call it temporary insanity. But every cell in my body seemed to be magnetically attracted to him.
Jazz looked down at the table, then across the patio toward the lake. Light refracted off the water’s green depths, glittering in soft squares of illumination across his cheek and jaw. I lifted my glass and nearly missed my mouth. My gaze was riveted on his face.
“Do you know anything about my grandmother?”
“I know she’s a philanthropist, active on all kinds of boards.”
“Was. Her health’s been failing her. It could be anything from simple forgetfulness to Alzheimer’s to another form of dementia, to—according to my aunt—a nasty trick she’s playing on all of us.” He gave me a look. “Between you and me, that’s just not possible. My grandmother isn’t made that way.”
“So, what do you think?”
“She’s definitely not as sharp as she once was. She doesn’t drive anymore. We have someone taking care of her during the day who Nana likes, but it’s tricky.”
I thought carefully and said, “I’m not sure what you’d like me to do. I’m certainly no expert on that kind of thing.”
Missy, Foster’s most generously endowed waitress, hovered nearby. Jazz smiled, but shook his head at her. She cast a lingering look over her shoulder as she swayed off. “I’d just like someone else’s opinion.”
“How about a doctor’s?”
He smiled, briefly and bitterly. “If you can figure out how to get Nana to see a doctor, that would be fantastic. She’s afraid we’re trying to railroad her. Wrest the family fortune out of her hands.”
I could hear the beginnings of a very loud inheritance squabble revving up. “Is it what you’re trying to do?”
“Not unless it comes to that,” Jazz said grimly. He lightly drummed his fingers on the table, frowning. “I just want you to meet her. Someone outside the family who has no ax to grind. A woman. My mother doesn’t really trust strange men.”
“You mean your grandmother.”
His head snapped up. “Yes, grandmother. What did I say?”
“Mother.”
I swear his skin paled a bit. “How Freudian,” he murmured. “My mother’s dead. Died not long after I was born. Nana gave me Purcell as a last name, and she raised me.” He sighed. “Guess I’m throwing all the skeletons out of the closet. Feels easier than holding back, although other members
