Tristan stared at the striking auburn-haired woman who’d just walked into the party. He knew her. Not that they’d ever met, but he’d seen her regularly over the past few months in his dreams, and he’d known he would meet her sooner or later. That was a given whenever someone, man or woman, visited his dreams again and again. Even so, it always came as a surprise when he actually encountered the person.
In times past, surprise would have morphed into excitement over finally meeting his phantom visitor and learning what role he or she was to play in his life. However, that had all changed two years ago. Now, he greeted the sight of this woman with a sense of dread, explaining his suddenly tense muscles and dry mouth.
He watched her smile brightly and exchange air kisses with Mary Cantrell, their hostess and his distant cousin, who had opened up her lavish Park Avenue suite for this Christmas party. So gracious of her, everyone agreed. Of course they all knew the lady had an ulterior motive for her generosity. She had dropped several coy hints recently that she planned to enter the upcoming mayoral race. Tonight’s party was obviously aimed at garnering backers for her campaign.
The redhead had arrived unescorted, Tristan noted. Was she a friend of Mary’s, or merely an acquaintance, some highly placed executive perhaps, who might be convinced to throw her support behind the hopeful candidate? Curious to find out which, he edged his way through the crowd and followed the tall, willowy woman down a hall toward the kitchen. Members of the catering staff buzzed past like worker bees, bringing empty food trays to be refilled and carrying filled ones out to the buffet table set up along one wall of the spacious living room, or salon as Cousin Mary called it.
Pausing just outside the kitchen’s open doorway, Tristan leaned against the door jam and observed the redhead as she held out a large Christmas tin to a portly, bearded man in a white chef’s uniform.
“Please arrange these cookies on a tray and set them out with the other desserts,” she said in a low, smoky tone reminiscent of Kathleen Turner’s voice in the 1980s movie, Romancing the Stone.
The caterer scowled. “Madame, I personally prepare all food for every event I cater, including the desserts.”
“Oh, but I baked these especially for tonight as a gift for Mar . . . I mean Mrs. Cantrell. She told me to bring them back here for you to serve.”
“I doubt that, young woman,” the pompous ass sneered. “That good woman knows I never allow anything prepared by another hand to be served at one of my events.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” The redhead’s voice shook slightly, with distress or anger?
Tristan had heard enough. Abandoning his spot outside the kitchen, he strode over to the woman’s side. “There you are. What’s taking so long? I want one of your famous cookies.”
She stared up at him with eyes as green as the emerald broach pinned to her cranberry red dress – not far up since she was only a couple inches shorter than his six-foot-one height. A light blush bloomed on her cheeks, lending her lovely features a delightful glow. “D-do I know you, sir?”
“Not yet, but I’ve heard of you . . . and your cookies.” Lifting the rather heavy tin from her hands, he extended it to the uncooperative chef. “My good man, set out the lady’s cookies on your best tray. Mrs. Cantrell is waiting to try them. So am I.”
The man’s bulbous lips worked like a fish gulping for air, but no sound came out. His face turned almost as red as the woman’s dress, which went surprisingly well with her mahogany colored hair, Tristan thought.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he goaded. “Should I tell your employer you refuse to honor her wishes?”
“N-no sir. I’ll see to it immediately,” the caterer replied, grudgingly accepting the tin.
