Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) Read Free Page B

shit, and he and his people went clubbing. Can you either help or leave? Please? I’m not digging this. You’re stressing me.”
    I took a sip of my drink and watched Miss Poppy. She did seem flustered. The waiters were staring between the two of us. Even Rachel went silent. “He’s here. He’s in the other room wandering around with Andre the hand model, and he’s practically swimming in gin.”
    Poppy shrieked at the help, “Pick up a goddamn tray and get your tight asses back to work. I don’t pay you to look pretty.” They dove for the food and flew through the door. “Are there any more trays?”
    “Poppy.”
    “What?”
    “See if he’s here. Text him and tell him to leave.”
    “Fine. I’ll check. Rachel, load these. And you. Brandon. What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck out there to the bar.”
    “Just here for some limes, chief.” Brandon industriously located a plastic bin from the refrigerator then skipped back out the door.
    “He’s a good egg, but I think he’s getting too old for this thing anymore. He’s forty-five.”
    “Poppy. Goddamn it,” I snapped. “I can’t concentrate with Shep wandering around. He’s a distraction and he’s macking on the help.”
    “Fine. He’s not here, though. I’m telling you.” She brushed her hands off on her apron, reached in to the pocket and found her tiny pink cell phone. “Just hold on and calm thyself down.”
    I stuffed a chunk of lime into my Perrier bottle and took a sip. It burned. Oh God. Maybe I had abraded my throat.
    The door swung on its hinge again as another waiter flew in. From the door I could see Sheppard answering his text. He’d taken his sweater off. Apparently, he hadn’t seen the need for an undershirt. “Oh my God. He’s half naked.”
    My horror must have radiated from the kitchen. He glanced up and our eyes met. One corner of his mouth hitched, and he winked—like we were having some kind of private moment or an intimate joke. But there was nothing funny about this. Shep smiled as a slinky young woman slid her arm around his trim hips and the door closed.
    “Oops,” Poppy muttered. “Yeah. That’s Shep, all right. What the hell ?”
    I flew out of the kitchen, the door banging against the freshly painted wall, my fists clenched, my ass clenched, and my jaw—you guessed it— clenched . I heard Poppy say, “Well that popped his fucking cork. Did you see that, Rach?”
    Shep stood there waiting for me, smiling like a goon and nonchalantly sipping his gin. His chest was orange, but beautiful. Sculpted by a true artist—or paid for by Shep. He must have a personal trainer these days. That pissed me off more. I was living in my nana’s guestroom eating Pop Tarts and my dad’s pizza pie four days a week, and Shep McNamara had hit the big time. He’d landed the breakthrough role at twenty-eight. What was he doing here? No doubt rubbing my nose in his latest success.
    My manly vigor went unnoticed by everyone except Rach and Poppy. The hall on my end was remarkably empty. Not a good sign. Peter and Jean must be in the South Salon where, had the fire marshal been invited, we’d be running into a problem with room capacity. There were easily over a hundred people squished in that room, and more spilled into the hall behind Shep and into the North Salon. What the hell was going on? Maybe Jean Luc was offering an impromptu discourse on sculpture? Not likely.
    I arrived ready to blast my ex, but behind him, Jean Pappineau wasn’t lecturing unintelligibly about the integrity of his art.
    Oh no.
    Everyone in the room was topless. The men were at any rate. For many, this was a poorly conceived plan.
    Shep waited for me to react to what I now saw was his vie for my attention—honest to God, why?—while, utterly distracted, I prayed no one had lost more clothing. Jesus. This could be a full-fledged disaster. The room was flashing with the white light of flash bulbs and the music was now much too loud and not at all