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Inside Carmel, California's largest church, the unseasonalearly September heat opened the pores of theone-thousand-plus gathered for Stephen Whitney'smemorial service. The mingled scents of deodorant, aftershave,hairspray, and perfume rose above the crowdto hang like a thick cloud over the pews, making eachof Angel's breaths a struggle.
Add to the cloying humidity yet another piercingHallelujah!, followed by the droning voice of yet anothermoralistic muckety-muck at the podium, and Angelwondered if she'd made the short drop to her own personalhell instead of the short drive from San Francisco.Her scalp itched beneath her broad-brimmed blackstraw hat. She pressed the fingertips of her black cottongloves to her upper lip to blot the moisture gatheringthere.
She needed air.
She needed out.
But she could hardly retreat now.
Not after pitching the idea of an in-depth profile onStephen Whitney in such winning tones to her editor,Jane Hurley. Not after following that up with an interofficee-mail inquiring if Jane had any contacts thatmight be helpful.
Jane herself proved to be that -- Angel had counted onit. While her editor was the woman who had turned WestCoast magazine from a monthly filled with decoratingtips and regional recipes into a nationally read and respectedpolitical and cultural journal, she was alsoHearst-rich and maintained a second home on the famedSeventeen Mile Drive. So thanks to Jane, Angel hadscored one of the scarce press passes to this memorialservice, and her name was on the short list of guests for amuch more private ceremony taking place later that day.
Nevertheless, Angel couldn't quash her serious secondthoughts about digging into Stephen Whitney'slife. In the past, she'd made it her mission to ignoreanything having to do with the "Artist of the Heart,"just as he'd ignored her when she'd so desperatelyneeded him. Maybe she shouldn't --
Oh, stop being such a sissy, the journalist inside her interrupted,there's good stuff here. A story worth telling.
But even as another choral ensemble trooped up tothe front of the church, Angel continued to waffle. Soshe settled her latest dilemma the same way she'd settlednearly all of them since she was a lonely twelve-year-old hooked on the video of All the President's Men.
WWWD? Angel asked herself. What Would Wood-wardDo?
And the answer was obvious, of course. Woodwardwould work the story.
Without delay.
Inhaling a deep breath, she glanced left and appraisedthe person nearest her in the second-to-the-lastpew. Middle-aged lady, politely interested expression,quiet mauve suit. A likely source for some basic info.
Abandoning her niche at the outside corner of thepew, Angel slid closer. The filmy chiffon overlay of hersleeveless, little black dress floated up around herknees and she settled it back down before catching thelady's eye.
"Excuse me," she murmured. One of the very fewthings Angel knew about the artist was that he'd married."I wonder if you could point out the widow."
Ms. Mauve took her time giving a less-than-neighborlyonce-over, which made Angel sorry she'dtucked her hair beneath her hat. She had yards of thecurly blond stuff, and though it was a real pain to manage,it did take ten years off her age. That was a real blessingin the news-gathering biz, because people tended totrust those who looked more vulnerable than they.
It was another long moment before the woman finallyspoke. "Stephen Whitney," she said in a bitingwhisper, "didn't believe in black."
Angel glanced down at her dark dress. "Oh." Thatexplained why she was the lone beetle among thethrong of butterflies in the room. She'd thought it wasthe heat that had everyone wearing pastels. "How,uh ... colorful of him."
When her comment did nothing to endear her to Ms.Mauve, Angel gave up and slid back toward her corner. But instead of the outside of her right leg findingthe inside edge of the wooden pew, it found the long,hard thigh of a man.
"Oh!" Angel exclaimed again, scooting away to stareat the person who had invaded her corner when shewasn't looking. "Pardon me."
He glanced at her. Well, she supposed he did. It washard to tell exactly what he was looking at when hiseyes were hidden behind the dark lenses of Armanisunglasses.
"Don't mention it," he said in a low voice, his attentionreturning forward.
For some odd reason, Angel's attention stayed onhim. He must have known Stephen Whitney betterthan she, because the man beside her was dressed in abutter-yellow linen shirt and a light olive suit. Both thesuit and the shirt looked a little too big on him. He wasvery tan -- oh, like, for sure, the tan, the expensive suit,and those fancy shades just screamed Malibu Beach --and his shiny dark hair untidily brushed his collar inan I-don't-give-a-damn sort of way.
As if sensing her continued regard, he turned hishead her way again.
A sharp jolt of something—something like ...like ... uh, recognition? -- straightened her in her seatand stirred a sexy little tickle low in her belly. Angelbarely suppressed the sudden urge to squirm againstthe wooden bench as her hormones said, Hell-o! Yougotta check this guy out!
But then, thank God, in dour, sensible tones, herhead reminded the rest of her they were at a funeral.Stephen Whitney's funeral.
Feeling an embarrassed flush rising up her neck, shetried glossing over the awkward moment with a warmsmile ...
Do Not Disturb. Copyright © by Christie Ridgway. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
Excerpted from Do Not Disturb by Christie Ridgway
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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