Hell on Heels. Carla Cassidy
and I’m so pleased that you’re going. It seems lately the only time I see you is at a social event.”
“Do you have an escort?” Sometimes Katherine talked Jeffrey Barnes into attending functions with her.
“No, I’d planned to go alone.”
“Why don’t we go together? I can pick you up,” Chantal offered.
“That would be lovely,” Katherine exclaimed, her pleasure obvious. “It will be a girls’ night out.”
“Why don’t I plan on picking you up at seven?”
With arrangements made for the next evening, Chantal logged on to the Internet and checked for any updates on the Willowby case.
“If I were a convicted rapist and had money and connections, where would I run? Where would I hide?” she muttered aloud.
Somehow, someway, she needed to get into Willowby’s head. She needed to find out what made him tick, his thoughts, his fears, his friends and his fantasies.
She had a feeling that if she succeeded and did manage to get into his head, it would be an ugly, perverted place to be.
Chantal stood in front of her dresser mirror, giving herself one last look before leaving to pick up her mother. Chantal had never had any illusions about her physical appearance.
She was average height and average weight. Her shoulder-length hair was a medium blond, not ash or wheat, and her eyes were a simple blue, not azure or sapphire.
Her features were regular and she’d long ago accepted the fact that she would always be average. Average wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, she supposed. She never had to worry about being particularly memorable.
The fire-engine-red Jean Paul Gaultier gown, with its plunging neckline and cut-out shoulders definitely made her figure look better than average. Harrah had provided her jewelry, a dazzling pair of gold earrings and a necklace to match.
She turned from the mirror to look at Belinda, who was sprawled on her bed with a drink in her hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
Belinda tugged at the belt of her dressing gown and shook her head. “No, I’m not in the mood to socialize. You go on and have fun. I’ll just read some magazines and watch TV until you get home.”
“Tonight isn’t about fun,” Chantal said. “I’m hoping I’ll get some information.” She sat on the edge of the bed next to her friend. “You want me to call Harrah and Lena and see if they can come over for a while?”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Belinda replied irritably. “I’ll be fine, I promise. Besides, I’ll be waiting for you when you get home so I can hear all the gossip.” She got up off the bed as Chantal checked her watch.
“I don’t expect to be late,” Chantal said as Belinda walked with her to the front door. “The open house runs from seven to ten and I doubt if Mom will want to stay the whole time.”
“I’ll be here whatever time you get home. If I happen to fall asleep wake me up.”
“Sure,” Chantal agreed even though they both knew that wasn’t happening. Waking Belinda once she fell asleep was as easy as transforming a discount store dress into high fashion.
Twenty minutes later Chantal pulled up in front of the house where she’d been raised. The two-story home boasted over seven thousand square feet and was surrounded by five acres of lush lawn and gardens.
Chantal had been raised with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth. She’d had the best of everything that money could buy, but she’d also been lucky enough to be raised by people who never took their wealth for granted, people who, while enjoying the fruits of their labor, never forgot their early struggles and sacrifices.
Edna answered the door and Chantal kissed the housekeeper on the cheek as she greeted her. Edna had worked for the Worthingtons since Chantal had been a baby.
“Is she ready?” Chantal asked.
“I’ll go up and see.”
As Edna disappeared up the wide, winding staircase, Chantal turned her attention to the photos that lined the entry. She smiled as she gazed at her parents’ wedding photo. They had made a handsome couple, despite the fact that they’d both been poor as church mice.
Even though he’d only been twenty-three years old when he’d married his bride, a burning light of ambition had lit her father’s eyes. He’d been a man with a dream and had lived long enough to see his dreams realized.
“Darling, you look beautiful,” Katherine said as she descended the stairs.
“Thanks, Mom. You don’t look too shabby yourself.” Her mother wore a silver gown that complemented her blond hair and bright, not average, blue eyes. She swept down the stairs like a queen and gave her daughter a warm hug, then turned to look at the photos.
She tapped a perfectly manicured nail on the glass of a photo of Chantal’s father standing next to a shiny red boat. “Who would have thought those little boats your father dreamed of building would sell so well?”
“Those little boats” had been the beginning of an empire. Worthington Bass Boats had become the industry standard for fast, affordable and functional fishing crafts and they had made Sam Worthington and his family millionaires several times over.
After Sam’s death, Katherine, as a major stockholder, held the position of CEO of the company, but she had little to do with the daily running of the business. Instead she relied on a loyal business manager and a staff who loved the business and had loved Sam.
It was a thirty-minute drive to the Folly Theater where the fundraiser was taking place. The two women passed the drive by chatting about upcoming events and mutual acquaintances.
By the time they arrived the fundraiser was already in full swing. The Folly Theater was located in downtown Kansas City, in an area not far from Big Joey’s Bail Bonds. The Folly had begun life in the early years of the city as a house of burlesque. The building itself, both inside and out, was a masterpiece of design from years gone by.
Most recently the town leaders had been trying to decide what to do with the old lady. Tonight was only one of many fundraisers that would be necessary to raise enough money to provide the old building with some sort of future.
It was the usual champagne-and-hors d’oeuvres gathering, with the same faces that usually attended these kinds of functions.
Chantal snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and began to work the crowd. She talked about fashion and facials, about who was divorcing and who was getting married and managed in each conversation to bring up the topic of Willowby.
Her subtle inquiries were met with a variety of responses…blank stares, whispered expressions of shock and pointed changes of topic. What she didn’t get was any information that might help her in her hunt for the convicted rapist.
By eight-thirty Chantal was bored stiff. That’s when she saw him. He stood near the buffet table, looking as out of place as a palm frond on a ski slope. Although he was dressed in a respectable three-piece suit and had his hair neatly tied back at the nape of his neck, he looked only half-civilized as he perused the guests through narrow eyes.
How had Luke Coleman managed to get a ticket to this affair? She had a feeling he wasn’t on anyone’s list as a patron of the theater. It irked her to no end to see him here, in her world.
His gaze caught hers and he gave her that sexy half smile that twisted her stomach into a knot. She approached where he stood. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“And a good evening to you, Ms. Worthington.” His gaze slowly slid down the length of her. “You’re looking exceptionally fine this evening. Red is definitely your color.”
“What are you doing here?” she repeated, refusing to be