Tempting Fate by Carla Neggers Page B

What all hadn’t Mattie told her?
    He let Quint go. For now.
    It was teatime at the Pembroke. Wild-blueberry muffins, fresh fruit and Earl Grey tea were being served on the veranda. Zeke headed on up. Afterward maybe he’d try to scare up a fifth of George Dickel in this Yankee town.
    If he was lucky, in due time he’d bump into Quint Skinner on neutral turf. If not, he’d just have to hunt him down and have a little chat.

    Ira Bernstein was not pleased to learn a burglar had been prowling the Pembroke grounds. He was even less pleased to find out over an hour after the fact. “Why didn’t you call me?” he screamed at Dani.
    She leaned back against the couch in her office. Now that the crisis was over, she was aching and tired; even thinking was an effort. And talking to Mattie hadn’t helped. Instead of offering her usual love, wisdom and concern, she had been shocked and withdrawn, which led Dani to worry something was wrong with her grandmother. But Mattie had denied that Dani had caught her at a bad time, assured her she was well—and then urged her not to call the police, because she didn’t need the added publicity.
    Since when had Mattie worried about publicity?
    When Dani didn’t answer, Ira paced, hands thrust in his pants pockets, hair wild. “You don’t have any description?”
    â€œNo.” She paused. “Not of the burglar. But there was another man…I was wondering if you’ve seen him around. Dark hair, dark eyes, maybe six feet tall. Looks really fit. Very controlled.” And sexy, she thought, but judiciously left out that assessment. “He says his name’s Zeke Cutler. Ring any bells?”
    It hadn’t with Mattie, but Ira stopped pacing and hesitated.
    â€œWhat?” Dani prodded.
    He looked at her. “You won’t fly off the handle?”
    â€œIra.”
    â€œHe’s a guest.”
    Hell’s bells, she thought. Just her luck. She decided not to tell Ira she’d thrown a bottle at him. “Go on.”
    â€œHe arrived this afternoon—”
    â€œHe had a reservation?”
    â€œNot exactly. Apparently he called in a favor and got the room of a former client or the daughter of a former client—something like that.”
    â€œA client? Who is he, what’s he do?”
    â€œHe’s a security consultant. From what I understand, he’s very good at what he does.”
    Dani could feel her face redden. What in blue blazes had she gotten herself into?
    â€œAnyway,” Ira went on, “I believe he’s having tea on the veranda—”
    She was on her feet and out the door, leaving Ira Bernstein to do what he would about her burglar. A professional white knight. What next?
    Her head throbbed, and her antibacterial goo hadn’t done a thing to stop her scraped shin from hurting. But she pounded down the wood-paneled hall, past the library, through the ballroom and out to the veranda, which looked out onto a formal garden and a small fishpond.
    Zeke Cutler was there, alone.
    â€œTell me, Dani Pembroke,” he said, rocking back in his rattan chair. “What’s the difference between a wild blueberry and the regular kind?”
    She inhaled, remembering he was a guest. “Wild blueberries are wild, for one thing. They’re smaller, and many people think they’re more flavorful than cultivated blueberries.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œMr. Cutler—”
    â€œZeke.”
    The rhythms of his southern accent and his subtle but unmistakable humor softened the hard edges of his voice. But his eyes, she noticed, remained alert and intense, taking in everything. She became aware of the spots of blood on her T-shirt, the ratty socks she’d quickly pulled on before heading up to the main house, her crummy sneakers, her short, messy hair. She usually dressed up when she was in a spot where she could run into guests.
    â€œI understand you’re