Page 90 of Recipe for Disaster

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Her soft words were like a sucker punch.

Griffin glanced out the window to avoid Leslie’s probing eyes. “You’re definitely high,” he mumbled as he stared down at the dark ocean dotted with fluffy white clouds.

Leslie sighed heavily. “She declared her love to you in front of a crowd of people,” she said to the back of his head. “It doesn’t get more real than that. And don’t think that she spoke up then just because she had a needle shoved into her throat.”

The image of Salenko’s deadly syringe jabbed into Marin’s perfect ivory skin caused his rage to ignite again. He clenched his fists tightly.

Leslie put her uninjured palm on top of Griffin’s right hand. “That woman is perfect for you, Griffin. Don’t let my or anyone else’s failed relationships dictate how you live your own life. You have a real shot with Marin. There’s something special there between you two and I’m pretty sure you know it. You can’t give up on her like this.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not the one who gave up,” he snapped. “She is.” He swallowed roughly remembering her parting words in the Queen’s bedroom. “Marintoldme to come to Greece to rescue Elena. She isn’t interested in anything more than what we had the past week.”

“Did she happen to mention why?”

Her question infuriated him more, because it conjured up the image of Marin naked, draped in the floral sheets of the big canopy bed. She’d looked so earnest, especially as she’d said the words that both set him free and cut him to the quick.

I’ll always want more than you can give me. Being a Secret Service agent is who you are. I couldn’t ask you to give that up and still live with myself.

“She said she didn’t want to be involved with a Secret Service agent.”

“Really?” Leslie wore a perplexed look. “Or is that just what you wanted to hear?”

Griffin was done listening to Leslie impersonate a cable network shrink. He ripped off his seat belt and went to crawl over her lap in order to reach the aisle. She placed her good hand on his arm to stop him.

“Just hear me out on one last thing and I’ll let the subject drop forever,” she pleaded.

He was tempted to pull out of her grasp, but his mother had raised him better than that. Leslie’s eyes grew misty again as he hovered over her.

“If Daniel had looked at me just once the way you look at Marin, we’d still be together,” she whispered.

* * *

Marin always loved how the big ballroom at the Chevalier, New Orleans looked when it was decorated for a wedding. She adored the ambiance the large alabaster chandeliers created when they washed the room in a warm glow. And the way the marble statues, set into arched vestibules in the wall, seemed to be bowing their heads in hushed prayer beneath their soft awning of individual spotlights.

On this particular Saturday afternoon, the staff had spared no expense in decorating for the owner’s granddaughter. The white on white tables accented with gold utensils and bronze bamboo chairs provided the perfect backdrop for the towering treelike centerpieces of peach Oceana roses. The crystal adorning each place setting sparkled in the late-day sun.

Behind the dais, sounds from Canal Street filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling doors that opened to the city. Marin wandered over to the table next to the dais and checked on her pride and joy, the wedding cake. Four of the five layers of vanilla cake were filled with a raspberry puree filling. The top layer Marin had baked herself, flavoring it with her cousin’s favorite toffee. She’d covered the whole cake in cream cheese icing before decorating it with edible gold lace and pearls. A cascade of Oceana roses spiraled down one side, pooling at the silver base on which the cake stood proudly.

She lifted her hand to adjust one of the roses, trying not to aggravate the still tender skin on her palm. Marin hadn’t done her injuries any favors by spending ten hours decorating her cousin’s wedding cake. But the end result was worth it. And having something exacting to focus on helped to ease the residual pain—both physical and emotional—that Marin had returned home with.

Her family had blessedly given her space. Even more surprising, Ava had backed off her demand that Marin bring a date to the wedding. Her cousin seemed in a mellow mood leading up to her marriage ceremony. Marin was actually looking forward to celebrating with Ava and her new husband this evening.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Ava said from across the room.

“Just making sure everything is perfect.” Marin turned to face her cousin. “For your perfect—why aren’t you dressed?”

Ava crossed the wide ballroom wearing a pair of faded, high couture jeans, a floral peasant blouse that flowed when she walked and stiletto-heeled Jimmy Choo’s. Her long black hair hung down her back in glorious waves. She looked as if she was going to lunch with friends, not walking down the aisle of St. Charles Church in an hour.

“The wedding pictures are in forty-five minutes!” Marin exclaimed. “It took them that long just to get my hair into this ridiculous updo. You’ll never be ready in time.”

Her cousin avoided looking directly at Marin, instead ambling up to the wedding cake and admiring it like one would appreciate a statue in a museum, slowly tilting her neck from side to side.

“It’s gorgeous,” Ava said quietly. “You really are unbelievably talented.”

Marin was starting to get a very bad feeling. “What’s going on?”

Ava ignored the question. She picked up the silver cake knife from the table and proceeded to cut into the top layer of the cake.

“What are you doing?” Marin cried, her chest constricting painfully with each inch the knife slid into the cake.


Tags: Tracy Solheim Romance