The Charmers by Elizabeth Adler Page B

anticipated seeing anyone this morning. I’d decided to visit him only moments ago.
    He put down the chamois cloth with which he’d been polishing the car and folded his own arms. “Feeling better, I presume?” he said, brows raised in inquiry.
    â€œI was kind of hoping that you were feeling better,” I said honestly. “I couldn’t have known—I mean I didn’t realize the cops—the Colonel—would think you were…”
    â€œThat I was the suspect? And why should he not? I was the man in your home and that’s why you’d called them.”
    He hitched up his shorts, pale blue this time, I noticed. The man went for pastels. We stared at each other. I thought he was definitely cute. I had no idea what he thought about me in my unlovely tee with my messy red hair and too-short shorts that were meant for nobody’s eyes but my own.
    To my surprise, he walked the few steps over to where I was standing. He stopped in front of me. I was five-nine in my flip-flops but he was way taller. He bent his head, and put his face close to my uplifted one.
    â€œI don’t know whether you realize it, but you are in a frightening situation. You have come close to death two times recently. Shouldn’t you be asking yourself why? Who wants you out of the way?” He shrugged. “Seems logical to me.”
    â€œTo the Colonel too. He said exactly the same thing, but you see I don’t know anyone here, or almost no one. I only ever came to visit my Aunt Jolly and she was hardly the social runabout, though she did give some good dinner parties. She was the old-fashioned sort, liked a proper sit-down dinner, white linen cloth, silver, crystal…”
    â€œFinger bowls.”
    I met his eyes. “Not quite that far.”
    â€œSo,” he said. “Who was the half-naked young blonde, the one screaming her head off last night?”
    â€œThe one that got you arrested?”
    He gave me a long look that said not to even mention that.
    â€œThe Colonel apologized later,” he said.
    â€œThat was Verity. I picked her up on the Paris-to-Nice train. She was running away from her husband. Not only did he cheat on her, he stole all her money.”
    â€œAll of it?”
    â€œWell, all she had was a couple of thou, but he took that, and the jewelry. She had nothing, literally the clothes on her back and a tiny duffle with a few photos, her hairbrush, and some underthings. I don’t know how far she imagined she could get on that, but fortunately I took her in. I’ve sent her into town now to pick up some more suitable clothes, at least jeans and a couple of good shirts, a frock or two in case of a party.”
    â€œYou are having a party?”
    â€œI’m not, but I heard the gossip that my neighbor on the other side from you is giving a monster bash tomorrow night to which half the monied world around here is invited. Of course, he’s Mr. Money himself, so few will turn down an invite to the Villa Mara. You’ll have heard of Bruce Bergen?”
    â€œI’ve heard him called the Boss.”
    I nodded. I was still clutching my arms across my unfettered bosom, fearing a jiggle. “That’s what everybody—including, I believe, himself—calls him. I see him sometimes, on the café terrace in town, always with a tall glass of lemonade. It’s the kind of thing you notice when most everyone else is sipping rosé wine.”
    â€œHe’s hard to miss, a man that tall, and built like a champion wrestler.”
    â€œHe’s Russian,” I said, as though that explained it.
    I eyed Chad Prescott up and down, considering. “You might care to accompany me,” I said in my most formal voice so he did not think I was coming on to him and asking for a date. “It’ll be the party of the year, no expense spared, no celebrity left out.” I spread out my arms, felt my boobs jiggle, wished I had not,