"I kind of do." Kate grinned and watched that siren's mouth move smugly. "Damn, I hope Byron gets here. Wait till he gets a load of me."
He was doing his best to get there. The trip to L.A. had been inconvenient but necessary. Under normal circumstances, he would have arranged to make a full swing of it, spot-checking the hotels and resorts in Santa Barbara, San Diego, San Francisco. It was important, he knew, for the staff at every Templeton hotel to feel that personal connection with the home base.
Josh handled the factories, the vineyards and orchards, the plants, and continued to spot-check the international branches. But California was Byron's responsibility. He never took responsibility lightly.
And there were still ruffled feathers to be smoothed from Peter Ridgeway's reign, which by all accounts had been as cold as it had been efficient.
He knew what was expected of him—the personal touch that Templeton was founded and thrived on. The memory for names and faces and details.
Even as he jetted back, Byron dictated a raft of memos to his assistant, fired off countless faxes, and completed one final meeting via air phone.
Now he was home, and late, but he'd anticipated that. With the finesse of long habit, he quickly fastened the studs on his tuxedo shirt. Maybe he should call Kate at the shop and tell her he was on his way. A glance at his watch told him the reception was into its second hour. She'd be busy.
Would she miss him?
He wanted her to. He wanted to imagine her looking toward the door whenever it opened. And hoping. He wanted her to be thinking of him, wishing he were there so they could share some comment or observation about the other guests. The way couples always did.
He looked forward to seeing that speculation in her eyes when she studied him. That look of hers that so clearly said, What are you doing here, De Witt? What's going on between us? And why?
She would continually march along looking for the practical answer, the rational one. And he would cruise on the emotional.
It made, he decided as he adjusted his black tie, for a good mix.
He was willing to wait for her to come to the same conclusion. At least for a little while. She needed to resolve this crisis, put the whole ugly business behind her. He intended to help her. And he could wait for that before looking toward the future.
When the phone beside the bed rang, he considered letting the machine take it. Family or work, he supposed, and either of those could do without him for a couple of hours. Then again, Suellen was expecting her first grandchild, and…
"Hell." He snapped up the phone. "De Witt."
He listened, questioned, verified. And with a grim smile on his face, hung up. It appeared he had a stop to make before the party.
Kusack was still at his desk. It was his wife's bridge night and her turn to host the evening. He preferred the sloppy meatball sandwich and lukewarm cream soda at his desk to the tiny lady treats being served at Chez Kusack. He definitely preferred the smell of stale coffee, the headachy ringing of phones, and the incessant bickering and complaining of his colleagues to the cloying perfumes, the giggles and gossip of the ladies' bridge club.
There was always paperwork to see to. Though it would have earned him sneers to admit it, he enjoyed paperwork and plowed through it like a St. Bernard through a blizzard. Slow and steady.
He liked the tangibility of it, even the foolish convoluted policespeak so necessary to any official report. He'd made the adjustment to computers more smoothly than many cops his age. To Kusack a keyboard was a keyboard, and he had used what he called the Bible method of typing—seek and ye shall find—all of his professional life.
It never failed him.
He was tapping on keys, grinning to himself as the letters popped onto his screen when a man in a tuxedo interrupted him.
"Detective Kusack?"
"Yeah." Kusack sat back, skimmed his cop's eyes over the suit. No rental job, he deduced. Tailor-made and very pricey. "It ain't prom night, and you're too old anyhow. What can I do for you?"
"I'm Byron De Witt. I'm here regarding Katherine Powell."
Kusack grunted, picked up his can of soda. "I thought her lawyer's name was Templeton."
"I'm not her lawyer, I'm her… friend."
"Uh-huh. Well, friend, I can't discuss Ms. Powell's business with anybody who walks in here. No matter how nice they dress."
"Kate didn't mention how gracious you were. May I?"
"Make yourself at home," Kusack said sourly. He wanted the monotony of his paperwork, not chitchat with Prince Charming. "Underpaid public servants are always at your disposal."
"It won't take long. I have new evidence that I believe weighs in Ms. Powell's favor. Are you interested, Kusack, or shall I wait until you finish your dinner?"