Page 65 of Fire Dancer
“Just an ordinary Barolo, please.”
Ha. One of the random things I’d learned from catering was that there was no such thing as an ordinary Barolo.
An older man appeared with the wine, looking every inch the butler. He disappeared just as quickly, leaving no impression whatsoever.
I heaved an inner sigh. Rich men’s ideas of perfect butlers were old, gray, nondescript men. Their idea of perfect housemaids were curvy, young, and buxom. The world was so fucked up.
Victor opened the wine, and I handed him a glass. He held it up to the light, studying the design.
“I went for a reticello pattern,” I said, watching anxiously for his reaction. “So the glass has its own beauty but still allows you to appreciate the wine.”
“Lovely,” he murmured, turning it this way and that.
I held out the decanter and watched nervously as he filled it, then poured from the decanter to the glass.
“Lovely, indeed,” he said, more to himself than to me.
I showed him the matching stopper for the decanter — and whew. It fit perfectly.
I gave myself an inner high five.
“Just lovely,” he repeated, sniffing, then taking a sip.
He nodded in approval, and I couldn’t help swelling with pride.
He offered me a glass too, and I nearly accepted. Then I pulled myself together. Much as I wanted — and needed — the prize money, this wasn’t only about winning a contest. I was here to help Stacy and learn whether Jananovich was a genuine threat.
And if he was a threat? I had a wooden stake and a pocket full of garlic.
Well, okay. The wooden stake was just a sharpened pencil, the best I could manage on short notice.
“Are glasses your specialty?” he asked.
“Oh no.” I whipped out my phone to show him the shop’s website, then stopped. “Poor reception here. Do you have Wi-Fi so I can show you?”
The network was LaPuebla2, and the password wasguest. Apparently, cybersecurity was not an issue up here. Not for his guests, at least.
“Here are a few others…” I said, scrolling through the images for him to see.
“Quite a varied selection,” he observed.
When his breath warmed my shoulder, I ended the show and stepped back into my own space.
“I’m so glad you like it.” I cleared my throat, working up my nerve to pop the million-dollar question. “I’d love to show Stacy the decanter. Do you know where I could find her?”
“Unfortunately, she’s unavailable.”
Aha. Well, that proved shehadbeen here. Jananovich was her boss, and he was the one who’d ordered the vials. So, Ingo hadn’t been overly paranoid.
But, yikes. Now, I was.
“Oh. I hope everything is all right?” I asked.
Again, the neutral voice contest. Jananovich was winning, though.
“I hope so too,” he admitted. “She had to leave suddenly. Something about her mother…”
Alarms went off in my mind. Big, whooping ones, like a nuclear weapons silo signaling DEFCON 1. Stacy had lost her mother to cancer years ago. I clearly remembered her mentioning it.