A Gift for Murder

Chapter One

Chapter One

If I'd known how bad Wednesday would get, I would've-what? Stayed in bed? Not likely. The show must go on and all that. But I would've at least asked for another shot of espresso during my morning stop at Starbucks. Maybe two.

My work day went from peaceful beginning to chaos within half an hour. This wasn't just another day at the office. The start of the annual Washington, D.C. Gifts and Decorations Show, our biggest show of the year at the Commerce & Market Show Center, was always the worst day of the year for the staff who organized it.

By nine-thirty, blizzards of paper covered my desk, my cell phone hadn't quit buzzing, and the land-line phone rang continuously. The computer constantly chimed the arrival of new email messages. A strange man stopped at the office door and stood there watching me.

The triple-shot latte was already struggling to keep my sanity in place.

I recognized the number on the cell phone display and reached for it first.

"Heather?" Janelle, the Show Center's director and my boss, sounded disturbed. Unflappable Janelle sounding disturbed was worse than most people shouting or having hysterics.

"Problem?" I asked, trying not to stare at the stranger, who lingered near the doorway. A quick glance said he was worth a look.

Until Janelle said, "Find Mark and tell him aisles three to five don't have power. He's not answering his pager. Then call Truffant Shipping and ask them to fax copies of the manifests for their deliveries to Brent-Cooper. A couple of their boxes are missing. Once you've done that, can you get down here? Lots of ruffled feathers over the power. Oh, and Grantwood & Bethel is missing one of their key people. They think he may be lost somewhere in the city. And Sue Savotsky of Trimstates doesn't like her location-the carpet's not clean, and the people across the way are playing loud music."

"Her again?"

" 'Fraid so. But she likes you, so if you wouldn't mind-What's that?" The last two words were directed at someone else. "Gotta go. Need you ASAP." Janelle ended the call.

I reached for the latte getting cold on a corner of my desk.

Someone else yelled, "Heather!"

Jo startled me so badly I almost splashed coffee on my white silk blouse. That would make a really good impression on the clients down on the showroom floor. Or the hunk in the doorway.

I turned toward her office. "What?"

"I can't find the latest press accreditations list."

"I put a copy in your inbox this morning. Did you look there?"

"Yes. It's not... oh, wait, here it is."

How did our marketing director manage to get her shoes on the right feet in the morning? I rolled my eyes, momentarily forgetting I wasn't alone.

A warm, masculine chuckle reminded me. "You must be the person who runs the place." The voice was deep and rich, sexy as a Milky Way bar-the kind with dark chocolate.

I turned to face the stranger, who'd taken a couple of steps toward my desk. Tall, lean, around thirty, blond hair cut short, light eyes of indeterminate color.

"I'm Heather McNeil, the director's assistant," I answered. "I do my part. Can I help you?"

The right side of his mouth curled into the beginnings of a smile. For a moment there was a delightfully predatory gleam in his eye, but then the light went out, as if he'd shut it off. Damn!

"Scott Brandon. I had an appointment to apply for the security officer's position you're advertising," he said.

"You need to see Craig Vincelli, down the hall. He's the security chief."