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CHAPTER 18
The drive to Blake’s brownstone was nothing like Devon had imagined.
It wasn’t because of her nerves, although she had major butterflies in her stomach. And it wasn’t because of Blake’s mood, although he was obviously on edge, thanks to the media circus following the second violent death striking Pierson & Company this week.
No, it was because of Chomper.
Blake had picked up his pup right before swinging by Devon’s place. And between Chomper’s high energy level and his sheer delight at seeing Devon, he was a virtual jumping machine all the way from White Plains to Manhattan. So rather than tension, the silver Jag was instead filled with playful scuffling and fits of laughter.
“We’re lucky we didn’t have an accident,” Blake declared when they were finally inside his building. “Chomper’s a menace.”
“He just needs some car rules,” Devon returned, shrugging out of her coat and bending down to scratch Chomper’s ears. “And a designated area in the car that’s his—one that has a fixed perimeter. You might think of trading in your Jag for a nice SUV. Chomper will thank you for it.”
Blake hung their coats away, his lips twisting into a grin. “I have a truck up at the farm. Chomper’s partial to it. Before I enrolled him in obedience classes, he didn’t spend much time in the Jag. We usually walk here in the city. But I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”
“Do that.” Devon stepped farther into the foyer, crossing her arms and vigorously rubbing the sleeves of her angora sweater to warm herself up. “It’s freezing out tonight.”
“Easily remedied.” Blake led her into the living room, where he turned on the gas fireplace. “Sit,” he invited, gesturing toward the sofa. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine, then get dinner started.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Entertain your biggest fan.” Blake indicated Chomper, who’d followed Devon into the living room and plopped down near the sofa, gazing expectantly in her direction. “The fish is all seasoned and ready to go into the oven. And I made the dill sauce before I drove up to White Plains, secret ingredient and all. It’s in the fridge, along with the rest of dinner. I only need a few minutes to get things together. We’ll be eating in a half hour.”
Devon inclined her head, running her fingers through her hair and watching Blake with a bemused expression. “Now this is a side of you I didn’t expect,” she confessed. “The homebody and gourmet chef.”
“Don’t get carried away,” Blake retorted, going to the sideboard and opening a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. “Until I got Chomper, I was rarely home. Now that I am, takeout’s the name of the game. I cook about once a month, if that. As for the gourmet part, reserve judgment until you’ve tasted the fish.”
“Fair enough. Actually, I’m the same way. I’m home at night for my pets, and because after a day of work I’m too tired to move. Even so, I rarely cook. But when I do, I’m pretty good.”
“Great.” Blake handed her a glass of wine as she sank down on the sofa. “Next meal’s on you. We’ll see who does better.”
Devon rolled her eyes. “I knew it. Another competition. And here you’d almost convinced me that this was nothing more than a nice, quiet dinner meant to help me relax.”
“It’s both.” Blake set his glass down on the coffee table. “Be right back.” He headed off to the kitchen.
Devon leaned back, sipping her wine and scratching Chomper’s ears.
Five minutes passed, then ten.
The fire felt good, warming Devon’s skin as the wine warmed her senses. A soothing, lethargic feeling settled over her, and she yawned, wriggling more comfortably on the sofa and sinking back into the cushions. She could scarcely keep her eyes open. Obviously, she was more worn-out than she’d realized.
A faint perception drifted through her mind. A noise of some sort—an insect maybe? She frowned, swatting at her ear.
There it was again. That annoying buzz.
Chomper exploded into action—barking, leaping up from her feet, and taking off.
The buzz wasn’t an insect. It was someone at the door.
Devon jerked upright, groggy and vaguely aware that she’d fallen asleep. Chomper was nothing more than a golden streak disappearing around the corner. Blake was at his heels, striding through the hall and toward the front door.
An instant later, Devon heard it swing open.
“Hello, Blake.” A woman’s voice. “I thought you could use some company. When you left the office, you looked like death. Not that I blame you. Finding Philip the way you did…” Revulsion laced her tone. “Anyway, I thought I’d drop over and—”
“Now’s not a good time,” Blake interrupted.
Devon was suddenly and completely awake. She recognized that voice. It belonged to Louise Chambers.
