Coaching fire, p.1
Coaching Fire, page 1
Books by Victoria Laurie
COACHED TO DEATH
TO COACH A KILLER
COACHED IN THE ACT
COACHED RED-HANDED
COACHING FIRE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
COACHING FIRE
VICTORIA LAURIE
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON COZIES are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2023 by Victoria Laurie
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2023941651
The K with Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4246-9
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: December 2023
ISBN: 978-1-4967-4248-3 (ebook)
For my own Gilley and Stuart,
Jim and Jacob.
It brings my heart so much joy,
knowing that you both found a love like each other.
Chapter 1
“Now will you call him?” Gilley pleaded.
“And tell him what?” I snapped, waving wildly to the giant wall of flames coming from the warehouse where we’d barely escaped being burned alive.
“I don’t know, Cat, maybe something like, ‘Gee, Shepherd, I sure do miss you, by golly! Also, I’ve been a fool to stay away this long. Of course I’ll marry you! Especially since I was nearly made into barbecue brisket tonight, which has me questioning all my life’s choices and I’ve been so stupid to run away from the man I love! Also, could you come down here and help us solve this hot case we’re looking into that just got a whole lot hotter?’”
I scowled at him and adopted a droll tone. “Wow. That sounds just like something I’d say.”
“Cat,” Gilley said, sighing dramatically. “I’m serious.”
“Of that I’m sure, my friend.”
Gilley glared at me.
I glared back.
“We need his help,” he said.
“Do we though?”
“Yes, Cat, we do! Plus, you could lose him over what happened at the airport. This could be your one chance to repair the damage.”
My stomach muscles clenched. He was right. I could lose Shepherd over the stunt I’d pulled. “It’s impossible,” I said softly, wiping a big fluff of ash from Gilley’s sideburn. “I can’t face him until I know what I’m going to say.”
“Why is saying ‘yes’ so hard, Cat?”
I sighed and glanced again at the flames roaring out of the open door to the warehouse, and I thought it was the perfect metaphor for my life right now and what a mess I’d made of things. My mind immediately flashed to that moment when Shepherd had met me at the airport, He’d emerged from the limo that’d come to pick me up after the European vacation Gilley and I had been on, and as he got out of the car my heart had leapt at the sight of him, and then he’d ruined the moment by getting down on bended knee and producing a little black box.
The same little black box that I’d discovered just before embarking on that very same vacation, and the reason why I’d avoided talking to him for much of our trip.
So, I hadn’t told him about Stuart Jacobs, the fabulously talented designer whom Gilley and I had met on our first day in Paris, and how, when Stuart had caught Gilley’s eye, they had gravitated toward each other like two fireflies on a dark night and had been nearly inseparable since.
I’d never witnessed love at first sight, but it was the only way to describe Gilley’s reaction to Stuart, and Stuart’s reaction to Gilley.
Stuart had been in Paris to select some fabric for a massive and world-famous event—the Texas Rose Festival—and he and Gilley had spent all the days we were in Paris together, and then, as we moved on with our itinerary, Gilley simply couldn’t stop talking about Stuart and he couldn’t stop talking to him, either. The two chatted on the phone incessantly. Finally, as we landed in Amsterdam with six days left on our trip, I looked at how unenthused Gilley seemed about the last week of our vacation and secretly purchased him a ticket to Texas, which I handed to him over dinner that night.
Gilley had practically sprinted back to our hotel to repack his things and head to the airport, and I’d stayed to finish the trip on my own, which hadn’t been nearly as fun as I’d expected.
At last, I’d boarded my own flight back to New York where—as I mentioned, Shepherd had met me—and I’d been so happy to see him until he did that whole proposal thing.
Truthfully, my reaction had been poor. Terrible, even. Before he could even say the words, “Will you . . .” I’d blurted out, “Nope!” And then I’d turned on my heel and run back inside the airport to dart into the nearest ladies’ room, where I knew he couldn’t follow.
I’d waited twenty minutes trembling at the sink, and then I’d cautiously made my way out of the lavatory and walked to the nearest ticket agent. “I need to get to Dallas, Texas, please. As soon as possible.”
There was one seat available on a flight that’d left two hours later to Dallas, and from that airport I’d called Gilley and confessed what I’d done.
“You what?” he’d screeched. “Cat! Please tell me you did not leave that poor man kneeling on that public sidewalk without even an explanation!”
I didn’t reply and the silence had stretched out between us for a long, awkward moment, until the sob I’d held in for the past six hours escaped from my throat and I dissolved into a puddle of tears.
“Stay put,” Gilley ordered. “I’m sending you a limo.”
Two hours or so later I emerged from the town car an absolute, emotional mess. Gilley had been waiting in the circular drive of whatever stately home we’d pulled into and he rushed forward to hug me tightly.
I wept none too quietly on his shoulder for a long, long time. The tears and sadness were much heavier than I’d expected them to be, and I knew as soon as I’d come to my senses on the plane to Dallas that I’d done a horrible, horrible thing. A thing that I deeply regretted and absolutely should’ve handled better.
Shepherd would probably never forgive me.
Or speak to me again.
I’d absolutely humiliated him and he was the last person on the planet I ever wanted to do that to. “I’ve made such a mess!” I wailed.
Gilley patted my back and cooed, “It’ll be okay, Cat.
“He’ll never forgive me, Gilley!”
“He will.”
“I panicked!”
“I know, sugar.”
“I . . . I . . . I knew he was going to propose—but not at the airport!”
“The excitement of your return probably overrode all good reason,” Gilley assured.
I nodded into his shoulder and tried to wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. I was an unkempt puddle of misery.
“How’s she doing?” I heard a voice behind me say. It sounded like Stuart.
“She’ll rally,” Gilley said.
His confidence in that statement helped tremendously. I swallowed hard, sniffled, and stepped back out of our hug. Wiping my eyes again, I turned to look back at Stuart and felt so embarrassed by my emotional display. “Hi,” I said shyly. “I’m so sorry to crash your party, Stuart.”
“Oh, pish!” he said, waving his hand. “Honey, we’ve all been there. I can’t tell you the number of hearts I’ve had to break over the years. Men always fall too hard and too fast for this bag of goodies.” He added a shimmy for effect and a wicked smile.
I forced a smile to my own lips, but my gaze drifted to Gilley. He looked alarmed, and I again regretted inserting myself into this budding romance between the two of them that was now likely layers more complicated than Gilley had expected.
“Do tell,” Gil said, and Stuart seemed to realize what he’d just admitted.
Stuart’s smile held a hint of regret. “Gilley,” he said. “You had me at ‘hello.’ Your heart is safe with me.”
Gilley all but swooned and the two had a little magical moment between them before Stuart broke eye contact and waved at me again. “Come inside, woman, and we’ll fix you something to eat and pour you a glass of wine, which, I suspect, you badly need.”
“I do, I do,” I said.
“Too bad Shepherd didn’t pop the que
I glared at him.
“Too soon?”
“You’re a scoundrel, Gilley Gillespie,” I muttered, walking around him to follow after Stuart.
As we approached the front door, I had to marvel at the home I’d been standing in front of for several minutes, but hadn’t quite taken in. The place was as large as my own home back in East Hampton, but of a much different architectural style.
Sand-colored limestone brick lined the two-story structure, with windows and the front door framed in a dark espresso wood. Succulents lined the redbrick driveway and beautiful hot fuchsia crape myrtles gave a glorious pop of color to the side of the main entrance.
Once we were through the door, the heavy scent of gardenia and sandalwood wafted down the hallway to greet my nose in the front foyer.
Someone was obviously burning the most delicious scented candle nearby. The front hall was large and mostly bare, save for a brass iron railing that ran along an off-white carpeted staircase and, in the middle of the staircase on the wall, hung a seven-to-eight-foot tall abstract painting composed of layered, long brushstrokes of brilliant Klein Blue, black, and gold leaf, which was so striking that I had to pause, simply to marvel at it.
Waving my hand toward it I said, “That’s breathtaking.”
“You like?” Stuart asked, sidling up next to me.
“I love,” I said. “Who’s the artist?” Like many of my peers who’ve been fortunate in life, I had a growing art collection that I was immensely proud of.
Stuart chuckled. “It’s one of mine.”
I gaped at him. “You really painted that?”
Stuart shrugged as if it were no big deal. “When I’m not sketching costume designs, I like to unwind by creating abstracts. The bigger the canvas the better.”
“He has another one upstairs,” Gilley said, and I detected a note of pride in his voice. “It’s every bit as beautiful as that one.”
“Is this your house, Stuart?” I asked.
“No, love. This house is owned by Nigel Bloomfield. He’s one of the five.”
“One of the five?”
Gilley said, “Stuart means that Nigel is one of the five families that’ve been growing roses in this town since the eleventies, and they’re all rich, rich, rich!”
I giggled. “The eleventies, eh?”
“A long, long time ago,” Gilley said.
I laughed again and rolled my eyes. “Well, that clarifies things.”
“The point is,” Gilley continued, “that Nigel and the other family heads are some of the top rose growers in the world. They grow millions of roses, Cat. Mill-eh-yons.”
“Wow,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“Nigel’s company is the biggest producer,” Stuart said. “And he grows some of the rarest varieties.”
“He’s loaded!” Gilley exclaimed.
“What’s gotten into you, Gilley?” I asked. “You’re literally surrounded by vast fortunes back home—why is Nigel’s money making you so giddy?”
“Cat,” he said, as if I were simple. “There’s money, and then there’s money, and these people have the latter.”
“Well, good for them,” I said. Wanting to get off such a superficial topic I switched my focus back to Stuart.
“You were saying, Stuart?”
He waved his hand airily. “This is Nigel’s guesthouse, and this is the house the costume and scenic designer each year gets to use as their personal quarters for the two weeks leading up to the festival.”
“This is his guesthouse?” I gasped. The place had to be five thousand square feet if it was an inch, and I couldn’t help but compare it to my own guesthouse, where Gilley lived, which was just over fourteen hundred square feet.
Gilley wagged his brows at me. He knew what I was thinking, and he was enjoying my reaction. “Wait till you get a load of the main residence,” he said. “It’s as big as the Entwistle estate.”
“Wow,” I said. Wealth doesn’t usually impress me unless it’s someone like Julia Entwistle, who was just our local neighborhood billionaire. She floated in circles no one without an extra set of zeros was invited to, which probably meant that, like Julia, Nigel Bloomfield was not only wealthy—but powerful.
Gilley took up my hand and tugged me down the hallway then around the corner to the kitchen. As I took in the pink granite countertop with honey-colored cabinets and appliances, which I knew quite well cost a fortune, I realized that, in my haste to escape answering Shepherd’s proposal, I might’ve overstepped on the side of imposing. “I should get a hotel room,” I said as Gil let go of my hand and pointed to one of the light brown leather-back chairs at the counter.
Gilley rolled his eyes. “Don’t even, Cat,” he said, as if the very thought were absurd.
“This house has five bedrooms,” Stuart said. “All have an en suite and only one of those is currently being occupied.” Stuart glanced at Gilley and the pair traded nearly identical wicked smiles.
I felt my own cheeks flush. “I really should’ve booked a room,” I insisted. “Clearly you two were about to have a marvelous, romantic time together and here I am, the third wheel, crashing your party.”
This time Stuart rolled his eyes. “You’re not going anywhere, miss. And I don’t want to hear another word about it. Gilley and I are upstairs. There’s a lovely little suite down here that faces the garden and has its own private sitting room.” Stuart then came to sit down next to me while Gilley poured us each a glass of wine.
“How’s the festival preparation coming along, Stuart?” I asked.
He shook his head. “As you know, Catherine, this is my first Rose Festival rodeo, which means there’s a lot at stake for me. My crew and I have been working on these designs since January, but pulling this whole thing together is like trying to corral a tornado.”
“Yikes,” I said. “That bad?”
“It’s not that it’s bad, necessarily, so much as there are so many moving parts that all have to coordinate together to maximize the time we have left to create and finish all forty-six gowns for the court and the costumes for the twelve attendants, plus there’re the hats, the shoes, the scepters and crowns, and parts of the added scenery that will need to be secured to the float for any individual member of the queen’s court.”
Gilley set a plate of sliced apples and caramel dip in front of me. I smiled at him, took up a slice of apple, and then went back to my conversation with Stuart. “Tell me about the festival itself, Stuart. What’s the makeup of the court and what themes are you creating this year?”
“Our theme this year is Enchanted Twilight.”
“Oooo,” I said. “That sounds so dreamy.”
“It is,” Gilley gushed. “Cat, Stuart’s designs are a vision!”
“Can I see some of your designs, Stuart?”
He smiled and got up from his chair, disappearing out into the hallway. I sipped my wine and nibbled on a slice of apple while Gilley began to pull items out of the refrigerator that I suspected were the ingredients for a marvelous dinner.
In short order Stuart returned with a large sketchpad. Placing it on the counter next to me, he got settled and opened the cover to reveal a breathtaking gown with a bodice of the same Klein blue as in the painting. It was a shockingly vivid blue that popped out against any background. Mingled at the top of the bodice were large stars made out of crystals, and the skirt was a mixture of warm yellows, oranges, and reds. The dress gave the effect of the setting sun and it was absolutely spectacular.
In the rendition of the woman wearing the gown was a large scepter of gold, white, and sapphire-blue crystals and topped with a three-dimensional star.
Her crown was a wishbone tiara with three rows peaking in a point that formed the shape of a star. Overall, Stuart’s design was elegant and regal.
