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  “Thanks,” I said breathlessly as I breezed past her, once again hauling my tub of vanilla ice cream.

  “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” she said. “But it looks like you’ve got everything under control.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m Kate McKay.”

  “My name is Marissa,” she replied. “I’m the housekeeper. Let me show you around.”

  “Great,” I said, adding, “I really appreciate how helpful you’re being.”

  She seemed to pick up on my meaning. Smiling sympathetically, she said, “Federico can be a little hard to deal with, can’t he?”

  The kitchen was the size of a high school gym. Well, not quite, but you could certainly have managed a pickup game of basketball in there. The décor was an interesting mixture of old-fashioned and modern. The cavernous room had rough-hewn exposed wooden beams running across the white ceiling, and the floor was made from wide planks of wood that could have used a sanding. Running through the middle was a long, rustic wooden table that looked as if it had spent its early years in the south of France.

  Yet in one corner stood two huge state-of-the-art Sub-Zero refrigerators. And the walls on both sides of the cavernous space were lined with sleek black-granite counters. They were dotted with a restaurant-size espresso and cappuccino maker, a juicer, and a giant KitchenAid mixer.

  Working in here was going to be a dream.

  Once Marissa had given me a quick tour, she said, “I’m going to leave you to it. I’ve got a million things to do before the guests arrive.”

  “Of course,” I told her. “And thanks again.”

  With my three crew members still outside unloading the truck, I’d just assumed I would be alone. And I looked forward to scoping out the space where I’d be working, opening cabinets and learning more about the layout.

  But a rustling sound made my ears prick up like Digger’s whenever there’s a squirrel anywhere within a two-mile radius of the house.

  I was about to call out a cautious, “Hello?” when I heard a female voice mutter, “Verdammt!” Then, with a trace of a German accent: “Where do they keep the ice around here?”

  I whirled around. In the back corner of the kitchen, moving around in the shadows, I spotted an extremely thin young woman dressed entirely in black. Black jeans, black T-shirt, black flats. She was randomly opening drawers and cabinets.

  “You might check the freezer,” I suggested, trying my best not to sound sarcastic. Or even surprised.

  “The freezer,” she repeated, snapping her long, slender fingers. “Great idea!”

  She glanced around as if trying to identify which item in the huge kitchen might fall into the category of “freezer.” After a few seconds, she located the two stainless steel behemoths, then made a beeline toward them.

  As she floated by, I finally caught sight of her face.

  She was remarkably beautiful, with delicate, perfectly symmetrical features: robin’s-egg-blue eyes, a tiny nose, perfectly formed, bowlike lips, and cheekbones as sharp as that ice she was in search of. As if she hadn’t gotten much more than her share in the beauty department, she also had a long mane of silky blond hair. In her case, the color looked genuine.

  It only took half a second for me to recognize her. She was Gretchen Gruen, the German supermodel that Federico had mentioned would be one of the guests here tonight. As difficult as it was to believe, she was even more breathtaking in person than she was in the advertisements and magazine spreads I’d seen her in—even the way she was dressed today, in a totally nondescript outfit.

  “Ice!” she cried, sounding both triumphant and surprised. She must have realized how ridiculous this little episode had been, because she turned to me and said, “I’m used to finding ice in a bucket.”

  One that was brought by room service, no doubt, I thought.

  Aloud, I said, “Would you like me to help you find a glass?”

  Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows knit together for a second or two before she said, “Danke, but I’m not thirsty.”

  “Then why did you need ice?” I asked.

  “For the disgusting bags under my eyes!” she cried. To prove just how monstrous she looked, she leaned forward so I could inspect her face. If I squinted, I could see that the skin under her left eye curved slightly more than the skin under her right eye. Maybe a millimeter or two.

  “I have to look my best for Omar’s party!” she exclaimed. “After all, he helped make me who I am.”

  I suddenly remembered something I’d read in a magazine, probably while sitting in a doctor’s waiting room. According to the story, Gretchen Gruen had been working at a pretzel factory in a small industrial town in Bavaria when, one Saturday evening, she went to a local beer garden. Omar DeVane had been there, too. He was chugging down a few brewskis when she strolled in, arm in arm with two of her best pals. Omar spotted her across the crowded room filled with lederhosen-bedecked Germans and burst out, “That’s the face of my future!”

  At least, that was the rags-to-riches story she told in interviews. Who knew what the truth was?

  Gretchen held the single ice cube against one eye and flashed me her ten-million-dollar smile. It was bright enough to illuminate an entire BMW factory.

  “Now I have to go upstairs and make myself beautiful,” she told me before turning and dashing off.

  That shouldn’t be too hard, I thought. And meanwhile, I have to pretend I’m someone who really knows how to put on an ice cream extravaganza for seventy-five sophisticated people from all over the world, each one wearing an outfit that probably cost more than my truck.

  But deep down, I had a feeling that Emma had been right about there being plenty of leftovers at the end of the evening. These people were not going to turn out to be big ice cream eaters. Not when the women here tonight would probably average a size 2.

  * * *

  I had been totally blown over by Omar’s mansion from the moment the four of us had pulled up in front of it. Yet my first reaction paled compared to how impressed I was when I had finally got a look at the main part of the house, where tonight’s event was being held.

  As Emma and I walked out of the kitchen and into the room that Federico had instructed us would serve as ice cream central for the evening, we both gasped. I nearly dropped my tray of dainty crystal ice cream dishes. Federico had pulled them out of a Louis-Something cabinet as soon as he’d spotted the glass tulip dishes I’d brought along to use. He’d practically shuddered at the sight of them.

  “Wow,” Emma said under her breath.

  “My thoughts exactly,” I agreed.

  The party space was basically a glass-enclosed sunroom. But it was on a scale unlike anything I’d ever seen before. In fact, it reminded me of something you’d find in a French château. Three of the walls were made entirely of glass, and its high, peaked ceiling was punctuated with skylights. Aside from two pairs of French doors that led outside, the glass walls were lined with lush greenery housed in gigantic ceramic pots.

  Directly outside was a modest-sized sculpture garden enclosed by a dense hedge that probably stood ten feet tall. I’m not exactly a sculpture aficionado, but I’d spent enough time in New York’s art museums to recognize a Calder, a Henry Moore, and—one of my favorites because of her playful use of color—a Niki de Saint Phalle. When it came to private art collections, Omar DeVane was apparently someone who could give John D. Rockefeller a run for his money.

  As if the space itself wasn’t like something out of the pages of an architecture magazine, for tonight’s event it had been decorated to look like a fairyland. Countless strings of tiny twinkling white lights were draped along the windows. They were also strewn along the edges of the buffet tables, which were covered in pale blue linen tablecloths. Tremendous bouquets of fragrant flowers, some three or even four feet high, were positioned in corners and on tables.

  In the back corner, the members of a string quartet were taking their places. The two men, the ce
llist and one of the violinists, wore tuxedos. The two women, a violist and the other violinist, were dressed in cream-colored evening gowns made of a shimmery fabric.

  Meanwhile, a team of bartenders was setting up in one of the smaller rooms off the main space. Not only was there was huge selection of wines that I was certain were considerably better than the stuff I generally indulged in, but every top-shelf brand of liquor was also lined up.

  Then there was the champagne. I had a feeling that tonight’s supply had raised the gross national product of France by a huge percentage.

  I wasn’t the only one who was impressed.

  “Whoa, Kate, this place is totally chill,” Ethan said breathlessly, stopping in his tracks as soon as he walked into the sunroom. “It reminds me of the parties they used to have at that French castle—Versailles?”

  “I know it,” I replied, nodding. “I’ve even been there. Have you?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “But I’ve read a lot about it. A couple of weeks ago I read The Count of Monte Cristo, which was totally awesome. You know, the novel by that French dude, Alexandre Dumas?”

  “I know that dude, too.” I handed him a tray of chocolate and vanilla mini ice cream sandwiches. “Here. Pretend you’re a footman in the royal court and pass these around.”

  Even though I was acting calm, the butterflies in my stomach had made a sudden reappearance. I was glad that just then Willow sailed into the sunroom carrying a tray piled high with ice cream cupcakes.

  “Do you think my measly little Ice Cream Incidentals are good enough for this place?” I asked her anxiously.

  “Of course they are!” Willow insisted. “They’re perfect! In fact, look how nicely the pastel colors of the ice cream complement the tablecloths. Strawberry, peach, blueberry, mint . . . they couldn’t look any better even if we’d planned it.” She set down her tray and glanced around. “You did good, Kate. As usual.”

  I felt like hugging her. Instead, I got busy setting up the white ceramic fondue pot that I would be using to serve the fudge sauce. The thick molten chocolate was hot, since I’d just warmed it up on the fancy stove in Omar’s kitchen, but not too hot. I placed the pot over a can of Sterno, which is one of caterers’ favorite inventions of all times. Sterno is literally canned heat, a can of alcohol that’s been specially treated so that it burns right in the can. It’s ideal for keeping food warm while you’re serving it.

  Once I’d gotten the flame just right, carefully adjusting it so it would keep the luscious fudge sauce hot without burning it, I headed back to the kitchen to pick up another tray of ice cream goodies.

  As I was on my way, I passed by a room that I’d glanced at earlier, concluding that it must be Omar’s home office. The door was only partially closed, and from inside I heard two men talking loudly. Arguing, in fact.

  “You have no idea of the genius behind Omar’s vision,” I heard someone who definitely sounded like Federico say. Even if I’d been unable to recognize the voice, the accent was unmistakable.

  “Okay, I get that Omar’s a genius,” someone else shot back. I didn’t recognize his voice, but I certainly knew a New York accent when I heard one. And this man, whoever he was, definitely sounded like a native of Brooklyn or Queens. “But just because he’s a genius doesn’t mean he’s got unlimited money to do whatever the hell he wants. I mean, really: constructing entire rooms on trucks and parading them through the streets of New York as a way of showing off the furniture he designed?”

  “I’m telling you, the launch of his new home design line is going to move him to an entirely new level,” Federico insisted. “The world has been waiting for the Omar at Home collection for years, whether they know it or not. For heaven’s sake, his Omar chair is going to revolutionize the way people sit!”

  “How can I possibly have a constructive conversation with someone who actually believes that?” the New Yorker replied.

  “What I believe in is Omar!” Federico insisted, his voice filled with indignation. “And if you don’t, then maybe you shouldn’t even be on his payroll!”

  “You must be forgetting the fact that Omar and I go back to before you were out of diapers,” New York Guy said.

  “You’re so old that you’re probably back in them!” was Federico’s retort.

  I gasped, certainly not meaning to make my presence known but so caught off guard by what Federico had just said that somehow all the air in my chest had come rushing out before I could stop it.

  It wasn’t a loud gasp, but it turned out to be loud enough that both men heard me. Two seconds later, they were both standing in the doorway, staring at me with furious expressions.

  “You’re listening in on a private conversation?” Federico accused.

  “No!” I insisted. “I mean, I didn’t mean to. It’s just that the two of you are talking so loudly that it’s impossible not to hear you.”

  “Are you even supposed to be back here?” the New York accent guy said. I saw that he was dressed in an expensive-looking, meticulously tailored dark business suit and a boring striped tie. His dark, graying hair was definitely thinning, but what was left of it was well-cut and carefully groomed, giving him a decidedly corporate look that somehow seemed out of place here.

  While he wasn’t what I’d consider old—somewhere in his forties, if I had to guess—he definitely wasn’t one of the glamorous fashion folk I’d expected to see here tonight.

  “As a matter of fact,” I said calmly, “I am supposed to be back here. I’m one of the caterers. And passing through this hallway happens to be the most efficient way to get from the kitchen to the party area.”

  “Gotcha,” the New Yorker said. He glanced at Federico warily. “So I guess this isn’t the best time and place to be having this conversation. But it’s still one that you and I need to have.”

  Federico folded his arms across his chest and stared at the businessman defiantly. “I’m not going to budge on this,” he declared. “And neither is Omar.”

  They spent another few seconds glaring at each other, then stalked out of the room: Federico first, the other man right behind him.

  But while Federico took off as fast as his long skinny legs could take him, which was pretty darn fast, the other man stayed behind.

  “Sorry you had to hear that,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed. “We had no idea anyone else was back here.”

  “No problem,” I assured him.

  “Mitchell Shriver,” he said, reaching over to shake my hand. “I’m Omar DeVane’s business manager.”

  “I’m Kate McKay,” I told him. “I’m in business, too. The ice cream business. I own an ice cream parlor over in Wolfert’s Roost called Lickety Splits. But I also cater parties, which I what I’m doing tonight.”

  “I see.” For a few seconds, his hazel eyes clouded over, as if he didn’t see at all. Then they brightened. I could practically see the light bulb that had apparently just flashed on in his head. “Hey, if you’re ever interested in franchising, I might be able to help you with that. That’s one of the things I do: take a little guy and help turn him—or her—into a big guy.”

  “Thanks, but I’m pretty happy being a little guy right now,” I assured him. I was about to turn away when a question popped out of my mouth: “Have you really known Omar his entire life?”

  “Just about,” he replied. Chuckling, he added, “Believe it or not, he and I grew up together. He used to dream about becoming a fashion designer, and I wanted to be a surgeon.” He shrugged. “Instead, I operate on people’s finances.”

  I got the feeling he’d used that line before.

  “I should probably get back to work,” I said. “It was nice meeting you. Enjoy the party!”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll be sure to check out your ice cream.” With a wink, he said, “And I’ll let you know if I think that little shop of yours should go nationwide.”

  I was back in the sunroom, arranging ice cream cupcakes in neat rows and creating a pattern with the
ir different-colored tops, when I felt someone clutch my arm.

  “Kate,” Willow whispered, “do you know who that is?”

  I turned to see the person she was looking at. Standing a few feet away from us was a slim woman, about five-foot-eight. Her bronze-colored hair was in a perfect flip, and her makeup was flawless. She was wearing a white evening gown that flowed over her slender silhouette in an extremely flattering way.

  Somehow, the woman simply exuded elegance. Self-confidence, too.

  Given that white dress, I knew there would be no chocolate ice cream in her future. Vanilla, maybe.

  “She looks familiar,” I said. A couple of seconds later it came to me. “Oh, my. That’s Pippa Somers, isn’t it? The editor of Flair! Federico mentioned on the phone that she’d be here.”

  Willow nodded. “I’m actually more of a fashionista than you think. I mean, it’s not as if deciding what color yoga pants to buy is as involved as I get. But she’s so famous that even people who don’t care at all about what they put on their bodies know who she is!”

  It was true. Pippa Somers was often in the news.

  While most magazine editors were nothing more than names to their readers—if their readers even bothered to pay attention to something like that—Pippa Somers was as much of a celebrity as the fashion designers whose clothes filled Flair’s pages, the models who showed them off, and the celebrities and other prominent women who wore them. She invariably had a front-row seat at every important fashion show.

  She was also a presence at the Cannes Film Festival in France, the Academy Awards in Hollywood, and every other red-carpet event worth covering on Entertainment Tonight. Her name and face often appeared in gossip columns with reports on who she dined with at which restaurant or which Broadway play she had just been seen emerging from. Thanks to her fame, she was someone who had the ability to make or break any individual who crossed her path.