drugs being passed around Quentin’s mansion.
She couldn’t imagine what her sister had been thinking to bring a baby into an environment like this. On second thought, she supposed she knew exactly what Francie had been thinking: nothing, at least nothing beyond enjoying the next ten minutes of her life. She’d inherited that trait from Chloe.
As recently as this morning, Kate had convinced herself Annabelle would be fine. Chloe had sworn that Annabelle was the luckiest little girl in the world. Chloe had read all about Quentin Roo and was more than impressed with his money and his success.
He was in mourning now, she had said, and not ready to introduce Annabelle to anyone from the family. Impatient to get away from her childhood memories and back home again, Kate had been willing to buy into Chloe’s optimism.
She’d made it as far as the airport, her bags checked, and arrangements made with Nadia to pick her up in Seattle. But while she waited for her flight to board she’d done an internet search and found some news items featuring Quentin. One showed him outside a downtown nightclub a few weeks back. He was clearly intoxicated, a sexy woman on his arm, confronting a police officer over the right to drive his fancy sports car.
Disturbed by the images, Kate had searched further. His social media presence painted a picture of a party animal. She also found clips of his belligerent behavior and descriptions of wild times held at his mansion. He might be rich, but he definitely wasn’t responsible.
Protective instincts had welled up inside her. She’d cancelled her flight and left the airport, determined to confront him, determined to demand access to Annabelle and the right to ensure the baby was safe. But halfway to his mansion, she’d stopped herself, realizing the confrontational approach was almost guaranteed to fail.
She knew she needed a better plan, something more subtle in order to get close to Annabelle without spooking Quentin. The best way she could think of to do that was appear amicable and nonthreatening, to fit seamlessly into his world. She’d decided the best option was to get to Quentin and pretend she was just like Francie.
One crazy makeover later, she did look like Francie. And now she was inside the party. And she’d met Quentin. Even if it was only momentarily, it was still a start.
The man named Brody kept pace with her along the pool deck. Whoops of delight echoed around them. Groups of people talked and laughed, drinks in hands, eyes alight with enthusiasm and exhilaration. The staccato of the bassline pummeled through to her bones.
She kept an eye on Quentin, waiting for the right moment to approach him again. He was engrossed in conversation with a tall blonde woman. She was model-thin, taller than Quentin, with impossibly long limbs and a gorgeous face that would do justice to any magazine cover.
“I’ve never been up north myself,” Brody stated conversationally.
His deep, rolling accent purred over her. Ordinarily, she would have enjoyed that. But chatting up anyone but Quentin wasn’t in her plans tonight, even if the man was distractingly attractive.
And Brody was definitely that. He had a strong chin with just enough beard stubble to be rakish. His eyes were slate gray, his brow quizzical, and he had a sexy dark shock of hair swooping across his forehead. His mouth was firm, slightly stern, some might even say judgmental. Although exactly what someone living in the thick of the rock-and-roll lifestyle would have to be judgmental about was a mystery to her.
“No rock concerts to promote in Washington State?” she asked, telling herself to keep it light and stay in character. Everybody with anything to do with Quentin needed to believe she was just like Francie, a girl looking to enjoy life without worrying too much about the details.
“North America is a secondary market. Here we mostly stick to New York City. I have been to Boston and Chicago, and once to Florida, but that was a vacation.”
“Miami’s a fun town.” She was guessing. She’d only ever seen it on television, but it seemed like a good bet.
She kept watch on Quentin, poised to interrupt as soon as she had a chance. She’d decided to downplay her interest in Annabelle tonight. A party girl wouldn’t be fixated on a baby’s welfare. But she was growing impatient. Quentin was getting rapidly drunk, so who was with the baby?
“The Keys,” Brody said beside her.
“What keys?” she asked.
“The Florida Keys.”
“Oh.” Kate told herself to focus and try to use the conversation productively. She’d track Annabelle down as soon as she could. “How long have you known Quentin?”
“I’ve been in LA for a few weeks,” Brody replied. “But I’ve known of him for quite a bit longer.”
She leaned casually against a rail that overlooked the sweeping lights of the city, keeping Quentin in her peripheral vision while the breeze blew her newly short hair back from her face. “And what do you think of him?”
Brody turned to face her. “In what sense?”
“I’ve seen the news reports, and I wonder how much of it is true.”
He took in her outfit, and she was reminded of her heavy makeup, tight dress and the funky hair. She wasn’t exactly comfortable with the impression she must be making, but she had to see this through.
“He knows how to have a good time,” said Brody.
Kate gave her head a little toss and tried to look like a woman who was very much interested in having a good time. She glanced pointedly around the party, the pretty people, the exotic clothes, the expensive food and liquor. “This is definitely a good time.”
There was an unfathomable expression in his eyes that could have been sarcasm or resignation. “Isn’t it just.”
The odd reaction made her curious. “You must be used to parties in your line of work.”
“I’ve been to parties of all kinds.”
“Wild ones?” she asked, striving to look intrigued and excited at the possibility.
“Some.” He gave her a warm smile.
“Sounds terrific.” She half expected him to toss out an invitation, at least a generic one: maybe I’ll take you sometime, baby...
She’d refuse of course, politely. She wasn’t here looking for dates. She was here for Annabelle and nothing else. But he didn’t ask, and she found herself wondering if the purple highlights weren’t working for her.
Just then Quentin left his conversation partner, and she spotted her opening. She made a quick move toward him, but her heel caught on a concrete seam, and she stumbled, sloshing her champagne.
Brody grasped her elbow, stabilizing her.
“Sorry.” She quickly apologized for her clumsiness, hoping she hadn’t splashed anything on his clothes.
“You all right?” he asked, still holding on to her.
“I tripped.”
“You were in a pretty big hurry.”
“I
