Private Scandals by Nora Roberts

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 à 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.
    One day, she mused, and shifted a vase an inch on a tabletop.
    Satisfied, she took a final tour of the main level. She had just started across the foyer to the staircase when the door chimes pealed. Too early for guests, she thought as sheturned to answer. She sincerely hoped it wasn’t a last-minute delivery she’d have to deal with.
    Finn stood on the porch with dusk gathering behind him. A breeze wafted up, played with his hair and brought Deanna the scent of man and nightfall. He grinned at her, letting his gaze roam up from the toes of her sneakers to her tousled hair.
    “Well, hi. Are you covering tonight’s event?”
    “So to speak.” He’d shaved, she noted. And though he hadn’t bothered with a tie, the slate-gray jacket and trousers made the casual look elegant. “You’re early.”
    “By request.” He stepped inside and shut the door at his back. “I like your party dress.”
    “I was just going up to change.” And he was blowing a hole in her schedule. She caught herself playing with her earring and dropped her hand hastily. “Why don’t you come in and sit down. I’ll tell Angela you’re here.”
    “What’s your hurry?” he asked as he followed her into the living room.
    “No hurry. Do you want a drink? The bartender’s in the kitchen, but I can handle something simple.”
    “Don’t bother.”
    He sat on the arm of the sofa as he glanced around speculatively. Deanna was no more suited to the ornate femininity of the room than he was, Finn decided. She made