Month of Sundays (12 page)

That explained her lean and hungry look. Apparently, it wasn’t just figurative.

“How long has she been throwing these parties?”

“Since culinary school. I’ve only been her P.A. since last March, but from what I hear, the parties get bigger every year.” More guests walked in and Tucker excused himself to greet the new arrivals.

“Low-key, my ass,” Rachel said under her breath.

A DJ spinning a mix of classic songs and the latest club hits was set up by the bar. The music drew Rachel further inside. She followed it like an enchanted child chasing after the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

The crowd was mostly female, though there were a few straight and gay couples in the mix. She didn’t recognize anyone. No, that wasn’t entirely true. She saw a few familiar faces—people she recognized from screens both large and small—but they weren’t exactly her close personal friends so she gave them a wide berth.

She circled the room, then stopped and helped herself to a bottle of Stella Artois out of the ice chest next to the buffet table.

She checked out the spread. There was no deep-dish pepperoni in sight. Instead, all the pizzas were gourmet, each one presented with its own tent card. There was white pizza topped with thick slices of aged mozzarella, spinach pizza drizzled in olive oil and dotted with feta cheese crumbles, barbecue Thai chicken pizza with peanut sauce, and the one she was most curious about—duck à l’orange with slices of grilled sugared Valencia oranges on the side. There was even a breakfast pizza topped with bacon and a fried egg. It was appropriately titled Sunny Side Up. Some of the crusts were paper-thin, others thick and substantial. All looked handmade.

Rachel was tempted to grab a plate and create her own sampler platter, helping herself to a small slice of each variety, but she wanted to find Griffin first—and get rid of one of the bottles in her hand.

There were four penthouses in the building, one facing in each direction. Griffin’s faced west, affording her what must have been a spectacular view at sunset. Her apartment was huge. Tasteful decorations made it seem less like a showroom and more like a living space. Black-framed photographs of California landmarks adorned the walls. The Golden Gate Bridge greeted visitors in the foyer. The iconic Hollywood sign rose above the stone fireplace in the living room. Pumped-up bodybuilders on Venice Beach pointed the way to the guest bathroom. A stunning shot of an overhead view of the curvy Pacific Coast Highway dominated the master bedroom.

Rachel examined a photo of Fisherman’s Wharf on the wall outside the den/home office. Like the others, it was signed by Madeleine Sutton.

Is she a relative?

Rachel pulled out her phone and quickly Googled Madeleine Sutton. She clicked on the link to the artist’s official website and navigated to the biographical information section. Madeleine was not simply a relative; she was Griffin’s mother. Her smile lit up the home page, her gently-lined face a stunning example of a life well-lived. Madeleine was an incredible beauty, and a dead ringer for her only daughter.

When she put her phone away, Rachel spotted Griffin coming out of the kitchen. A pizza in each hand, Griffin slowly made her way through the crowd.

“Hot stuff. Behind you,” she called out, evidently forgetting she wasn’t at work.

She was wearing a Kiss the Cook apron, which would have seemed tongue-in-cheek even if she didn’t have a sprig of mistletoe dangling from a silver halo above her head. The accessory made the message on her apron seem like more of a command than a suggestion. Just about everyone she passed followed her unspoken order. Most aimed for her mouth; she offered her cheek instead. The busses made her trip from the kitchen to the dining room last a lot longer than it should.

She placed the new additions—
quattro formaggi
and rustic vegetable—on the buffet table and turned around. She spotted Rachel as she pulled off her oversized potholders. The one on her left hand looked like Kermit the Frog, the one on her right Oscar the Grouch. Had she taken Colleen’s suggestion to heart? Was she saving her Christmas gifts for role play? Rachel’s breath quickened at the thought.

Griffin glanced in her direction and indicated she’d be with her as soon as she could. An attractive woman laid a hand on Griffin’s arm, demanding her attention. The woman’s hair was as black as a raven’s wing. Her piercing eyes were almost the same shade. Her olive skin hinted at Mediterranean roots. Rachel recognized her immediately. Aggie Anderson.

Griffin’s face lit up. She gave Aggie a brief kiss and a warm hug.

Rachel remembered the story her mother had told her on Christmas Eve about Griffin’s recent visit to the
Today
show and Aggie’s romantic overtures during her presentation. She wondered if Griffin and Aggie were seeing each other. If they were, she had to admit they certainly made a striking couple.

Griffin and Aggie chatted for a few minutes, Aggie flirting shamelessly all the while. She tossed her shining tresses back and forth, licked her bee-stung lips, and touched Griffin’s hand, arm, or shoulder every five seconds.

Rachel heard Griffin say, “I’ll call you,” as she gave Aggie another hug. Aggie leaned in for another kiss. Rachel turned away before their lips met. When she looked up again, Griffin was standing in front of her.

“Puddles, you made it,” she said, her smile a mile wide.

Rachel held up her half-empty bottle of Stella. “I heard there was free beer.”

“I love this jacket on you.” Griffin rubbed her hand over Rachel’s sleeve, copping a feel of the lush velvet fabric.

“Just something I threw on.” She pointed to the mistletoe hanging over Griffin’s head like the Sword of Damocles. “Hedging your bets?”

Griffin adjusted her halo. “I’ve never been kissed at midnight on New Year’s Eve. Not by someone who counts, anyway. Tonight, I hope that’s going to change.”

“Is the line forming now or later?”

“There isn’t going to be a line. I’m saving my kisses for someone special. I just have to make sure she doesn’t run out on me before the clock strikes twelve.”

Rachel wondered if the “someone special” to which Griffin was referring was Aggie Anderson.

“Don’t worry,” she said with faux cheer. “I’ll trip her before she gets to the door.” She presented Griffin with the champagne. “For you.”

“You didn’t have to do this.” Griffin looked at the label and whistled. “You
really
didn’t have to do this.”

Her face was a portrait of unbridled joy. That was the expression Rachel hadn’t wanted to miss. After witnessing Griffin’s encounter with Aggie, she knew exactly how the champagne would be put to use: morning-after mimosas.

“This will definitely not be going on the bar tonight. I think I’ll save it for a special occasion.”

“It’s New Year’s Eve. The biggest party of the year. What could be more special than tonight?”

“The morning I wake up lying next to you.”

Rachel felt herself start to blush, ruining her attempt to appear nonchalant. “What about Aggie? Won’t she have something to say about you waking up lying next to me?”

Griffin frowned. “That’s not the kind of relationship Aggie and I have.”

“But you do have a relationship.”

“She invited me to her place for drinks once. Tonight I’m returning the favor.”

“Are you dating her?” Rachel felt like an investigative reporter chasing an uncooperative interviewee. She was the late, great Mike Wallace, and Griffin was a double-dealing corporate executive trying to avoid what was coming to her.

“Aggie and I had one night together, but I haven’t seen her or anyone else since the night you and I went to B&B.”

Her comment took Rachel’s breath away.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Is it so hard for you to believe I want to spend time with you?”

Rachel didn’t know whether to believe her eyes or her ears. Her eyes said Griffin was involved with Aggie, while her ears said Griffin was only interested in her.

Griffin grinned and Rachel forgot everything she’d told herself about wanting to be just friends. She tried to find a way to regain her footing. Then she remembered her directive from Tucker.

“Have you eaten? Today, I mean.” Griffin’s sheepish smile was a dead giveaway. “Poker must not be your game. Let’s go.” Taking Griffin by the shoulders, she turned her around and led her to the buffet table. “I know you’re biased, but what are your favorites?”

“All of them,” she said, displaying a bit of well-earned hubris. She was good and she knew it.

The pan of Tropic Thunder—a dessert pizza topped with cream cheese and fresh fruit—was almost empty. Rachel filled the pan with slices from the other pizzas.
There goes my diet. Just my luck. I finally gain some semblance of control over my eating habits and I meet a professional chef.
Griffin bent to grab a couple of beers out of the cooler. Rachel admired the view of her blue-jeaned ass.
A very sexy professional chef.

Griffin led her to her favorite refuge: the kitchen.

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” she said, asking Rachel in her own inimitable way to ignore the cavalcade of dirty pots and pans scattered all over the butcher block-topped island in the center of the room.

Rachel had expected to find a squad of sous chefs scurrying around, but the empty kitchen proved her wrong. Griffin had managed to pull off the evening on her own. No wonder eating was so low on her list of priorities. It came a distant second to keeping about a dozen other balls in the air. For Griffin’s sake, Rachel hoped a cleaning crew would swoop in the next day to take care of the mess. Otherwise, she’d be up to her elbows in dirty dishes for hours.

Rachel took a bite of the duck à l’orange. The pizza tasted so good it made her want to cry. No wonder Griffin’s bosses had flown three thousand miles to make her an offer. Rachel would fly twice that distance to proposition her, even if she knew beforehand the answer to her question would be no.

While Griffin opened the beers, Rachel looked around the kitchen. The appliances were stainless steel and professional grade. The high-tech stove looked like it could whip out a four-course meal by itself. The see-through refrigerator was stocked with all sorts of exotic ingredients. Some Rachel couldn’t pronounce; others she didn’t even recognize. She pointed to a chicken with purple skin. “Is it supposed to be that color?”

“Yes.
Wu gu ji
is a delicacy I’ll introduce you to when we get to the Chinese leg of our journey. The skin and bones are black, the meat is grayish-black and incredibly gamy, but it makes wonderful chicken soup.”

“If you say so.” Rachel took a longer look at the bird. “I’m trying to be open-minded, but the only thing I’ve ever eaten that color was a bowl of blue corn nachos—and it came with a side of salsa, not a warning label.”

“You’re funny,” Griffin said from her perch on the counter. A half-eaten slice of veggie pizza dangled from the ends of her long fingers.

“You think so? I hadn’t noticed.”

“I have. And your sense of humor isn’t the only thing I’ve noticed.”

“Oh, yeah? What else has caught your eye? I’m not fishing for compliments, mind you, but they’re certainly welcomed.”

Griffin laughed again. “You look gorgeous tonight. How’s that for a compliment?”

“I need to keep you around. You’re good for my ego.”

“Egos aren’t the only things I’m good at stroking.”

Rachel felt her ears redden—and her nipples harden. She turned away so Griffin couldn’t see how much her words had affected her. She doubted Griffin found drooling attractive. “Where’s your spice rack?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Yeah, right. You couldn’t have created the smorgasbord on the buffet table without one.”

“I don’t have a spice
rack
. It’s more like a spice
room
.”

She began to climb off the counter, but Rachel held up one hand to keep her in place. “Keep eating. Just tell me where it is and I’ll find it myself.”

She pointed to a door Rachel had assumed led to the pantry. Instead, it was a walk-in closet filled with bottles, boxes, and jars in all shapes and sizes. Arranged by country of origin, the containers spanned the globe.

“Have you been to all these places?”

“I wish.” Griffin reached for a slice of Thai chicken pizza. “I have good relationships with most of the spice merchants in town and, in a pinch, the Internet is a wonderful thing.”

Rachel opened one of the jars and inhaled the musky aroma of the dark brown powder that rested inside. The label said the contents were smoked Spanish paprika. It looked like ground cinnamon but smelled like freshly-tilled earth after a summer rain. She replaced the jar on the shelf and reached for a bag of something called li hing mui powder. Crafted in Hawaii, it smelled like a vague combination of citrus and sodium. She took a bigger whiff of the burnt orange-colored crystals. “What’s this made of?”

“Salted dried plums. Try some on one of the oranges.” Rachel’s expression must have let Griffin know how much she doubted her sanity. “Just trust me.”

Rachel sprinkled a little bit of the powder onto one of the grilled orange slices and tentatively slid the fruit into her mouth. The combination of flavors was out of this world. Her taste buds stood up and saluted.