"Roberts, Nora - Private Scandals" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

dimples. He wanted to look innocent, she decided. Therefore he did. Neat trick.
"I suppose, as a professional courtesy, I could give you a ride home."
Her hair was still wet, he noted, and she hadn't bothered to repair her makeup. "Are you still ticked at me?"
"No, actually, I'm down to mildly miffed."
"I could buy you a burger." He reached out to toy with one of the buttons on her jacket. "Maybe I could talk you down
to slightly steamed."
"These things generally run their course. In any case, I think your homecoming's been exciting enough. I've got a call
to make."
She was involved with someone, Finn realized. It was too bad. Really too bad. "Just the lift, then. I appreciate it."

Chapter Five

For some, organizing a party was a casual affair. Food, drink, music and good company were tossed together and
left to mix in their own way.



For Deanna, it was a campaign.
From the moment Cassie had passed the torch to her barely twenty-four hours earlier, no detail was left unattended
to, no list unfulfilled. Like a general rousing troops, she inspected the caterer, the florist, the bartender, the
housekeeping staff. She arranged, rearranged and approved. She counted stemware, discussed the playlist with the
band and personally tasted Van Damme's chicken kabobs in peanut butter sauce.
"Incredible," she murmured, her eyes closed, her lips just parted as she savored the flavor. "Really, really incredible."
When she opened her eyes, she and the slim young caterer beamed at each other.
"Thank God." Van Damme offered her a glass of wine as they stood in the center of Angela's enormous kitchen.
"Miss Perkins wanted cuisine from around the world as her theme. It took a great deal of thought and preparation, in a
short amount of time, to come up with flavors that would complement one another. The ratatouille, the deep-fried
mushrooms @a la Berlin, the tiny spanakopita ..." The list went on.
Deanna didn't know ratatouille from tuna fish, but made appropriate noises. "You've done a wonderful job, Mr. Van
Damme." Deanna toasted him and drank. "Miss
Perkins and all of her guests will be delighted. Now I know I can leave all of this in your hands."
She hoped. There were half a dozen people in the kitchen, rattling pans, arranging trays, bickering. "We have thirty
minutes." She took one last glance around. Every inch of Angela's rose-colored counters was filled with trays and
pots. The air was thick with delicious smells. Van Damme's assistants rushed about. Marveling that anyone could
function amid the confusion, Deanna escaped.
She hurried toward the front of the house. Angela's lofty living room was all pastels and flowers. Delicate calla lilies
streamed out of crystal vases. Fairy roses swam in fragile bowls. The floral theme was continued with the tiny violets
dotting the silk wallpaper and the pale pattern of the Oriental carpets spread over the floor.
The room, like all of Angela's trim two-story home, was a celebration of feminine decorating, with soft colors and
deep cushions.



Deanna's practiced eye scanned over the sherbet-colored pillows on the curved-back sofa, the arrangement of
slender tapers, the presentation of pale pink and green mints in crystal candy dishes. She could hear the faint sounds
of the band tuning up through the closed terrace doors.
For a moment, she imagined the house as hers. More color, she thought. Fewer frills. But she would definitely enjoy
the lofty ceilings and curved windows, the cozy fireplace set with apple wood.
She'd want some art on the walls. Bold prints, sinuous sculptures. And a few well-chosen antiques to mix with edgy
modern pieces.