The Girl Who Knew Too Much(32)

The dress was fashioned of midnight blue silk cut on the bias so that it glided over her curves and flared out around her ankles whenever she took a step. Combined with the stacked-heel evening sandals and the light wrap, the overall effect hit all the right notes—California casual infused with a subtle touch of Hollywood glamour.

Dresses this lovely and this expensive were called gowns, Irene thought. It was a fantasy gown designed for a fantasy evening in the fantasy world that was Burning Cove. When she got the dress home to her little apartment in L.A., it would go to the back of her closet because she would probably never have another occasion to wear it.

She reached the foot of the stairs and paused because she could have sworn she saw some heat in Oliver’s eyes. He smiled and took her arm.

“I see the dress fits,” he said.

Mrs. Fordyce folded her arms on the front desk and regarded Irene with an appraising expression.

“It’s lovely on you, dear,” she said. “But your handbag rather spoils the effect. Where is the little beaded bag that came with the dress and the shoes?”

Irene tightened her grip on her handbag. “I couldn’t fit my notebook into it.”

Or Atherton’s notes or my gun, she added silently.

“Oh, but surely you’re not going to be conducting interviews this evening,” Mrs. Fordyce said.

“You never know,” Irene said. “Readers of Whispers will be thrilled with an inside peek at the Paradise Club. I may spot a star or two.”

Oliver tightened his grip on her arm and steered her toward the door. “Time to go. Cocktails at seven. Dinner at eight.”

Irene allowed herself to be escorted out into the balmy night.

A sleek, dark blue speedster waited in front of the inn. Irene had seen a lot of expensive vehicles in the year that she had worked for Helen Spencer, but never one like Oliver Ward’s. The bold, sweeping curves reminded her of a yacht or an airplane.

“My dress matches your car,” she said.

Oliver smiled. “I like blue.”

He opened the passenger side door for her. She slipped into a cockpit of a front seat. It was upholstered in rich, hand-tooled leather the color of butter and just as soft. The instrument panel looked like it had been designed by an artist working in the art deco style.

“I can put up the top,” Oliver said.

“No, thanks.” She took a scarf out of her handbag. “It’s a beautiful evening. I’d like to enjoy it.”

“So would I,” Oliver said.

But he was looking at her, not at the evening sky.

He closed her door gently, as if he were tucking her into bed. She flushed at the image and busied herself with knotting her scarf under her chin.

Oliver rounded the front of the car and got behind the wheel. The narrow front seat suddenly seemed a thousand times smaller and much more intimate.

He put the car in gear and eased it away from the curb. The big engine purred like a tame leopard.

At the end of the street, he turned onto Cliff Road, a narrow, winding strip of pavement that followed the ragged coastline. She was not surprised to discover that he was an expert driver. He eased gently into each turn and accelerated smoothly on the other side.

The last light of a fiery sunset was fading fast. The red tile roofs and stucco walls that characterized so much of the town’s architecture were bathed in the colors of twilight. Out on the horizon the ocean blended into the evening sky.

Irene suddenly wished that she and Oliver were setting out on a long night drive with no destination in mind.

“This car is gorgeous,” she said. She touched the gleaming instrument panel with an appreciative finger. “But I don’t recognize the make and model.”

“It’s built on a Cord chassis but the rest—the engine, steering wheel, brakes, instrument panel, and exterior body—are all custom. My uncle designed it.”

“It looks so sleek. Where do you get this kind of custom work done?”

Oliver smiled. “My uncle knows some people. But letting him make so many modifications may have been a mistake.”

“Why?”

“I don’t dare let a regular mechanic touch it. Chester is the only one who can work on the car because he’s the only one who knows how it operates.”

“What kind of changes did your uncle make to the engine?”

“Don’t ask me, ask Chester. All I know is that this car can go very fast.”

She understood. “You like to drive fast.”

“Sometimes.” Oliver shifted into another gear with the finesse of a considerate lover. “It makes for a pleasant change once in a while.”

“A change from having to rely on a cane,” she said before she stopped to think.