Every Last Secret(3)

I moved through the crowd, keeping her in my sights, and mentally clicked through the guests I had invited. Everyone on the exclusive list was a well-known Winthorpe Foundation donor or board member. I stopped next to one of the butlers and gave a subtle nod toward the couple, who had stopped beside our Picasso and were admiring the painting. “Franklin, who is that couple by the staircase? The woman in the blue dress?”

He nodded with a pleasant smile, his eyes never roving over to the area, his professionalism impeccable. “That’s Matthew and Neena Ryder, Mrs. Winthorpe.”

My gaze sharpened. “They weren’t on the list.”

“I believe they are guests of your husband.”

Well, that was interesting. I nodded with a grateful smile. “Wonderful. Thank you for the information.”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Winthorpe. It’s my pleasure. May I get you a glass of champagne? Or perhaps something from the cellar?”

“No.” I stepped away, anxious to find William.

“Mr. Winthorpe is on the veranda.”

I paused and met his gaze. “Thank you, Franklin.” I made a mental note to pad his tip appropriately.

I was a few steps onto the veranda when a hand curled around my waist, pulling me back. I turned and melted into William’s side.

“Hey,” he said softly, a grin tugging at his lips as he looked down at me.

Devastatingly handsome. That was how my mother first described him, and it was apt. I held him at bay for a moment, examining his strong arrangement of features, then pressed my lips against his, enjoying the protective way his hand tightened on the small of my bare back.

“The silent auction is going well.” He nodded to the balcony, where long glass tables displayed two dozen different items. As I watched, a woman in a beaded gown and a massive emerald ring bent forward and picked up a pen. I had spent the past month soliciting items for the auction, which ranged from an Alaskan spa getaway to a Menlo country club initiation fee.

“Franklin said you added a couple to the guest list.” I ran my hand through his short dark hair, then tugged gently on a thick tuft of it.

He nodded. “Our new hire at the company. Dr. Ryder and her husband.”

How incredibly sexist of me to assume that Dr. Ryder had been a man. I remembered William’s mention of a new employee, some sort of motivational coach for his staff. We’d been at dinner, and I’d been distracted by an odd taste to the paté and had barely paid attention to his enthusiastic mention of the doctor who he believed would solve the morale issue at Winthorpe Technologies.

Money would solve the morale issue. The team had spent four years on a new medical device that could replace pacemakers; pass through metal detectors; and reduce allergic reactions, infections, and surgery complications by more than half. The team’s profit sharing and bonus structures were tied into the successful launch of the product, which had already dragged eighteen months past expectations. Everyone was tired and frustrated. We’d lost our top technician last month, and there was a general feeling of dissension among the ranks.

William was über-intelligent, decisive, and charming. He was also a cutthroat workaholic who valued money over personnel and demanded perfectionism without excuses. Leading a team had never been his forte, and I feared that Winthorpe Tech’s staff was close to mutiny.

“Here she is now. Neena,” he said warmly, and in that smile, you’d never think that he had kept the team working on Christmas or cut bonuses as punishment for a failed FDA trial. “This is my wife, Catherine.”

“Cat,” I said, extending my hand. Her grip could have cracked an egg, and I fought back a wince.

“Matt Ryder.” The husband beamed as he shook my hand. “Beautiful home you have here. This thing would survive an earthquake, if need be.”

“I hope it doesn’t have to.” I laughed and didn’t miss the way her arm curled protectively through his. An amusing act, given how much my husband overshadowed hers. “Thank you both for coming. The party is in support of a great cause.”

“It’s for the Center for the Performing Arts, right?” the man asked, his fair eyebrows linking together intently. On the right breast of his tuxedo shirt, there was a pale-golden stain. Chardonnay? Tequila?

I checked William’s shirt, unsurprised to see that it was spotless, my husband as ready for a photo shoot as he was a party. “That’s right. Are you familiar with Atherton? The center is on Middlefield Road.”

“We’re growing more familiar with it. In fact, we’ve put a home under contract just next door,” the woman supplied with an unnaturally white smile.

I stalled, surprised by the response. “You mean right next door? The Bakers’ old home?” Home was a nice term for it. It was the neighborhood’s resident teardown, a foreclosure that had spent the last five years dragging through the courts. If it ever came up for sale, I had plans to knock down the entire structure and replace it with an expansion to our pool area and gardens.

“Yep.” Dr. Neena Ryder’s beam grew even wider. “Matt had an inside track with the bank. He’s in real estate development.”

“Demolition,” her husband corrected with a self-deprecating smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes. I immediately warmed to him.

“So, you’ll be tearing down the house?”