My gaze slides over you, lingering on your throat, the slender arch of your collarbone, the rise and fall of your breath, a little faster than it was a moment ago. “No,” I say finally. “Not now that I look more closely.”
I extend a hand and give you my name. You give me yours in return, as if it’s possible to be in the room without knowing it already.
My eyes linger briefly on the diamond glinting from your ring finger. Pear-shaped and at least three carats, though I’m hardly an expert in such things. “Best wishes for your engagement.”
“Thank you,” you say, letting your eyes drift away. “It was kind of you to come.”
Your voice, startlingly low for someone so young, gives me pause, but I’m amused, too, by your smooth delivery. You clearly have no idea who I am. If you did, you’d hardly be so polite.
You look me up and down again, lingering on my empty hands. “You’re not drinking.” You crane your neck, casting about for a waiter. “Let me get you a glass of champagne.”
“No, thanks. I’m more of a gin-and-tonic man.”
“You’re British,” you say, as if you’ve only just worked out that I’m not one of your set.
“I am, yes.”
“Well, you’re certainly a long way from home. Might I ask what has brought you to our shores? Because I’m certain you didn’t fly all the way across the big blue ocean just to attend my engagement party.”
“Adventure,” I say simply, evasively, because it won’t do to admit what has really brought me to the St. Regis tonight. Or to the States, for that matter. “I’m here for adventure.”
“Adventure can be dangerous.”
“Hence its attraction.”
You run those wide-set amber eyes over me again, long and slow, and I find myself wondering what it is you see—and how much you see. “And what sort of adventure suits you?” you ask, with that air of boredom you sometimes assume as a defense. “What is it you . . . do?”
“I’m a writer.” Another evasion, but a smaller one.
“Really. What do you write?”
“Stories.”
We’re getting warmer now, closer to the truth, but not quite. I can see that your interest has been kindled. The word writer has that effect on people.
“Like Hemingway?”
“One day, perhaps,” I answer, because that part at least is true. One day I might write like Hemingway. Or Fitzgerald. Or Wolfe. At least, that’s the plan.
You wrinkle your nose but make no comment.
“You’re not a fan of Mr. Hemingway?”
“Not especially. All that bristling machismo.” Your eyes wander out to the dance floor, and for a moment I think you’ve grown tired of our conversation. “I’m more of a Bront? girl,” you say at last over the muted brass of “Never in a Million Years” drifting from the bandstand.
I shrug vaguely. “Brooding heroes and windswept moors. Very . . . atmospheric. But a little gothic for my taste.”
You tip back your glass, draining it, then give me a sideways look. “I thought the English were terrible snobs about books. Nothing but the classics.”
“Not all of us. Some of us are actually quite modern, though I’ll admit to being a Dickens fan. He wasn’t terribly romantic, but the man knew how to tell a story.”
You lift one silky, dark brow. “You’ve forgotten about the dubious Miss Havisham and her awful cake. That isn’t gothic?”
“All right, I’ll give you that one. He did stray to doomed young lovers now and then and reclusive women in ruined wedding gowns, but as a rule, he wrote about social issues. The haves and have-nots. The disparity between classes.”
I wait, keeping my face blank, wondering if you’ll take the bait. I’m trying to draw you out. Because I’ve already formed an opinion of you and suddenly, inexplicably, l want very badly to be wrong.
“And which are you?” you shoot back, neatly turning the tables. “A have or a have-not?”
“Oh, definitely the latter, though I aspire to more. One day.”
You cock your head, eyes slightly narrowed, and I see a new question gathering there. A self-admitted adventurer with neither money nor prospects, and here I am rubbing elbows at your pretty little party. Drinking your father’s champagne and being impertinent. You want to know who I am and how someone like me got my foot in the door. But before you can ask, a stout woman in rusty black taffeta seizes you by the arm, all smiles beneath her chalky layers of powder.
She runs an eye over me, dismissing me as no one of import, and presses a kiss to your cheek. “Bonne chance, my dear. To both you and Teddy. No doubt your father is pleased. You’ve done well for yourself. And him.”
You respond with a smile. Not your real smile—the one you reserve for functions like this. Practiced and mechanical. And as I watch you simper, I can’t escape the feeling that the woman standing beside me, this glittering belle with her silk and her pearls, is a sham, a player in a lavish costume drama, a well-oiled being comprised of wheels and gears.
The smile slips the instant the woman departs, gone as suddenly as it appeared. You look deflated without it, less shiny somehow, so that I almost feel sorry for you. It’s the last thing I expected to feel this evening and I find myself annoyed. Sympathy is an indulgence men in my line of work can ill afford.
I incline my head, the barest of nods. “If I didn’t know better—and I suppose I don’t—I might almost think the lady unhappy. Which is surprising, considering she’s managed to land one of the most eligible bachelors in all of New York. Oil. Property. Horses. Quite the specimen too. A golden boy, one might say.”
You stiffen, piqued by my tone. And by the fact that I’ve seen through your shiny veneer. “You seem to know quite a lot about my fiancé. Are you a friend of Teddy’s?”
“Not a friend, no. But I know a little about your young man and his family. Interesting collection of friends they’ve managed to surround themselves with. Not all top-shelf but definitely . . . useful.”
A hard little crease appears between your brows. “Useful?”
I respond with a chilly smile. “Everyone needs friends in low places, don’t you think?”
You’re off-balance now. You don’t know what to make of my words. Are they a threat? A request for an introduction? A sexual reference? You raise your glass to your lips, forgetting you’ve already drained it, then lower it again with a huff. “Are you here by invitation?”
“I am, yes. Though I fear my date’s gone missing. She stepped away some time ago to powder her nose and hasn’t returned.”
“And who might your date be? I hate to ask, only it is my party.”
“I’m here with Goldie,” I say simply, because no last name is necessary when talking about Goldie.
Your nostrils flare at the mention of her name. “I would have thought someone who seems so concerned with the quality of my fiancé’s friends would be more careful about his own choice of companions.”
“I take it you don’t approve?”
“It’s not for me to approve or disapprove. I just wasn’t aware that she’d been invited. I’m not accustomed to rubbing elbows with the sort of woman who’d own a string of gossip rags.”
“Only one is a ‘gossip rag,’ as you call it. The rest are legitimate newspapers.”
You toss your head and look away.