Page 86 of Isabella and the Slipper

Delilah wrapped herself around his arm like a snake trying to squeeze the life out of its prey. “Do I get a goodnight kiss?”

Resisting the urge to gag, he stepped out onto the front steps. “Close your eyes.”

She puckered her lips and closed her eyes. He picked up her hand, pressed his lips to the back, and then scampered down the steps to the sidewalk.

“Good night!” he called as he sprinted to his car.

He sighed as he climbed in. That hadn’t gone as planned.

Chapter 28

Soft music played from the live band in the corner of the room. Chase straightened his tie and glanced around the large home. This was the kind of house that was meant for lavish gatherings, with the huge chandelier, the open floor plan, and the swinging doors to the kitchen so staff could constantly bring more hors d’œuvres.

His mother nudged him. “Mingle.”

He walked farther into the room and joined the female costar, Mel, who was standing with an older gentleman, chatting about what a hit the movie was going to be. Mel sipped a glass of sparkling something and grinned. “The screenplay is brilliant.”

The man chuckled. “Thank you.”

Chase nodded his head. “I thought the dialogue was fresh.” That was his go-to compliment when talking to a writer.

The man puffed out his chest. “And you are?”

Chase stuck out his hand. “Chase Hawkins.”

“Ah, I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.” He went on to talk about the screenplay, but Chase’s gaze had wandered.

Suddenly, he froze.

Isabella’s poppy painting was hanging on the far wall in the other room. He excused himself and made his way through the crowd of people.

His mother followed him. “That was rude.”

“Sorry,” he said absently. “This painting. I know it.”

A man with pure-white hair turned around and smiled at him. Jack Manning, the one throwing the party. “It’s stunning, isn’t it? I just acquired it. It’s a Shephard original.”

Chase’s heart pounded. “Isabella Shephard?”

Jack’s eyebrows knitted together. “No. Anthony Shephard. The famous Los Angeles artist who tragically died a few years ago. This was in his private collection. I picked it up for less than two million.”

Looking closer, he saw the signature in the corner. Anthony Shephard. It hadn’t been there in Isabella’s photo. Chase swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

Isabella’s paintings. She said her stepmother would sometimes take them. Elenore must be selling them as Anthony’s work.

And if that was the case, there was no way she’d let that money train go. Isabellahadto be locked up in the attic.

Why hadn’t she heard his song? Then a new thought entered his mind. What if she were drugged? What if he needed to get to her right away?

A sense of urgency rose in him. “This isn’t a Shephard original. You should call the police. Excuse me.” He left Jack, his eyes wide, and moved his way through the crowd to the door.

His mother grabbed his arm. “What are you doing? Why are you acting this way?”

“I have to go. Something urgent has come up. I can’t explain it now, but can you call Dad and have him come get you? I need the car.”

His mother frowned at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Isabella’s in trouble.”

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