“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I didn’t buy the flowers for you. I bought them for Dot Voline, who was quoted in an interview as loving flowers with scent. Like these.” She spoke slowly as she lifted the flowers to his face. “Not like your carnations, and not like the funeral flowers you brought last week.”
It stung that he’d missed that interview. “There were roses in that arrangement. You’re not a better journalist because you bought the right flowers.”
“No,” she agreed. “I’m the better journalist because I thought about my subject and did the research.”
Wes clamped his jaws shut to stop himself from muttering like a child that shewasn’tthe better journalist. Nadine was in a mood. It didn’t matter. They were here to talk to Dot Voline, not make nice with each other. They weren’t friends, and there was no need to act friendly.
This time when they pressed the intercom, the gates opened inward. “Come up,” barked Voline’s voice. “Don’t need all the neighbors knowing my business.”
They got back in their cars, and he followed Nadine around the fountain and under the portico that protected the entrance, driving as slowly as if they were in a cortege.
Nadine got out of her car. “Damn, I forgot my battering ram at home,” she said, looking up at the front door. It was at least twelve feet high and appeared to be made of solid wood. Golden bolts lined the edge and outlined a carved rose in the center panel.
“Figures,” Wes said. “At least my catapult’s in the trunk. Who’s the better journalist now?”
“Still me, because first, catapults were for throwing things over wallsand not breaking down doors, and second, you don’t actually have one.”
“Then it looks like we’ll have to go with our plan B.” Two gigantic brass pulleys took the place of doorknobs, and Nadine grabbed him when he reached out.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Knocking? How do you usually announce your august presence at someone’s home?”
“I ring the doorbell.”
Wes examined the ornate carvings surrounding the door, none of which resembled anything like a doorbell. “Be my guest.”
Before Nadine could reply, the door swung open, much faster and without any of the creaking Wes expected.
“Took you long enough.”
Wes recognized the voice.
Dot Voline at last.
***
Nadine’s first thought at meeting the country’s most lauded literary star was that pictures had not done her justice. Her hair remained the same orange as her decades-old publicity photo and was piled high in fluffy curls that may or may not have been real. Huge amethyst glasses perched on a long nose and wide ears that could easily take the weight of the thick frames. A gigantic jeweled cross hung around her neck and dangled off a purple, orange, and yellow caftan that looked like the tail end of a bad acid trip and swirled when she stood still. On the fingers gripping the handle of the portable oxygen tank glittered a Cartier display case’s worth of gold and diamonds.
After she took in the marvel that was Dot Voline, Nadine’s second thought was,This woman is about to keel over.
Wes must have thought the same thing, because he sprang forward with a chivalrous hand and more charm than Nadine would have expected. To her utter shock, Voline giggled. Like a schoolgirl. Nadinehalf expected her to thump him with a folded fan and say,Oh, you.
Instead, she said, “I’m not dead yet, handsome. Get out of my way.”
Wes winked. Hewinked. Nadine nearly passed out. Wes Chen wore sweaters over button-ups. He was prim. Neat. Not a man who winked.
Voline looked amused. “You. Death girl.”
“Nadine Barbault,” she corrected.
“Death girl,” said Voline with enough emphasis that Nadine knew it was her name from now on. Well, she’d been called worse. “Those for me?”
She hadn’t realized she’d been clutching the bouquet to her chest. “Sorry, yes.”
“You can put them in a vase when you come in,” said Voline. “Presents that cause more work for the recipient aren’t gifts. They’re chores.”
