Blood Rubies Read Online Free PDF Page A

he’s a gnat or a stalker,” I whispered.
    â€œThat distinction rests in his intention, whether he intends merely to irritate or to interfere.”
    â€œWhat should we do?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œWhat should Heather do?”
    â€œShort term, leave. Long term, get an order of protection.”
    â€œWill that work?”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œHow could Peter possibly think Heather would find this behavior attractive?”
    â€œI don’t think he’s doing it to attract her. I think he’s doing it to piss off Jason.” Ty nodded in Jason’s direction. “Look.”
    Having realized Peter was in the lounge, Jason had turned his chair so he faced him. Peter swung his barstool around so he was facing the room, his elbows resting on the bar. The two men were locked in a silent battle. Heather leaned in toward Jason, talking animatedly, her expression earnest. Jason wholly ignored her.
    â€œPeter’s out for revenge,” I said, thinking it through.
    â€œPossibly.”
    â€œOr he’s crazy.”
    â€œOr he’s simply following a well-thought-out plan to get under Jason’s skin.” Ty nodded toward Jason again. “If so, it seems to be working nicely.”
    Heather touched Jason’s forearm, and he shook her off like a flea.
    â€œIck,” I said.
    Ty turned to me. “Ick?”
    â€œAn official term for I don’t want to see any part of this. Take me in to dinner, please.”
    Ty smiled, then leaned over and kissed me, a teasing brush of lip on lip. “With pleasure, ma’am.”
    I nodded at Peter as we passed his stool and did the same to Heather and Jason as we passed their table. I was glad to get away.
    *   *   *
    Frieda asked Suzanne, the general manager, to seat us, and we followed her into the dining room. Suzanne was tall and slender, like a model. She wore her auburn hair twisted into a high chignon. Her blue sheath fit her perfectly. Most women walked; Suzanne glided. I’d seen her frequently since she and my appraiser Fred had begun dating, * and the more I saw her, the more I liked her.
    She led us to a nice table by the fireplace. Five-foot logs lay across giant brass andirons. A mishmash pile of kindling lay underneath, ready to be lit.
    â€œWe’re having a big debate,” she said. “Should we light the fire?”
    â€œNo,” Ty said at the exact same moment as I said, “Yes.”
    We all laughed.
    â€œIt’s not cold enough,” he said.
    â€œBut it’s so pretty,” I said.
    â€œWe’ll roast.”
    â€œTrue.” I turned to Suzanne and smiled. “No.”
    A swarthy man in black-and-white-checked chef’s pants and a tall chef’s hat slammed open the swinging kitchen door as if he hoped to catapult it to Missouri, then stood by our table, his arms crossed and his chin jutting like a bull about to charge.
    â€œMaurice,” Suzanne said, surprised.
    â€œWe must talk,” he said to her in strongly accented English. “You must listen.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œAre you the pastry chef?” I asked, smiling.
    â€œOui. Yes.” He didn’t smile.
    â€œI love your vanilla crème brûlée. Best ever.”
    He lowered his arms, and his expression softened. “Merci.”
    â€œAnd your chocolate tower.”
    He bowed.
    â€œI’ll come to the kitchen in a moment,” Suzanne said.
    Maurice spun around and pushed through to the kitchen, sending the door furiously swinging.
    Suzanne shook her head. “Maurice is a passionate man.”
    â€œHe doesn’t seem happy,” Ty said.
    â€œHe’s not.” Her eyes sparked fiery daggers. You don’t get to be a turnaround general manager star by taking guff, and I could see the steel in Suzanne’s demeanor. “He objects to our including Ana’s Fabergé egg cakes in our dessert offerings. We’ve had them