by Costa, Bella
"But, I wonder at the expense that's gone into putting a lavish function like this together."
"What's your point?" he urges, appearing genuinely interested.
"Well, it'll probably cost more than it will raise. Just another attempt by some socialite, to feed his or her self-inflated ego." I sip my champagne. I know these things. Robert was very good at it, so I am pretty much an expert.
He gazes at me thoughtfully, his lips curving in a slow and sexy smile. I feel the raw power of masculinity exuding from this mysterious Adonis and I want to stand here all night, basking in his presence. I long to know what he is thinking but his mask is keeping his expression a firm secret. Finally, he clears his throat gently and speaks; his previously dulcet tones slightly frosty.
"So you think my ego needs feeding?"
Oh, shit! Brain to mouth malfunction! Trust me to make a meal of small talk!
"I don't know. Does it?” I snap, mentally punching myself with both fists. Okay, snapping is a bit unfair - but he did ask for my opinion and I gave it fair-and-square!
"Truthfully?" he tilts his head again, and then suddenly smiles widely. "I don't know. I've never thought about it," he finishes, taking me completely by surprise with this unexpected response.
"But I can assure you, that I never lose. At anything. This event will make more than it costs." He raises his glass, taking a generous sip.
I stare, fixated, as his lips part slightly. Small creases form as the glass presses against his bottom lip. When the glass is lowered, his lips are damp again and I squirm, spellbound as his tongue sweeps them clean. The chiselled outer edges of his mouth tilt slightly up, forming the most adorable dimples on either side. I lick my own lips. Only when his smile widens to a full-blown grin, do I realise I have been staring. He is laughing at me. Feigning interest in the crowd, I turn away to hide the shades of purple I am sure are visible below my own mask.
"The real question of the evening is yet to be asked," he speaks softly behind me, his amusement still perceptible.
"Oh?” I gaze ahead, unseeing, all my senses, finely tuned to the magnetic draw of man behind me and alarm bells that are blaring in the pit of my stomach.
"Why is the most beautiful woman in the room hiding behind a potted plant?" I sense him lean closer, his warmth caressing my bare shoulder and hear his intake of breath, as if he is about to speak again. I freeze in anticipation and dread.
"Shit!" he eventually mutters under his breath.
Nice! Excellent way to flirt with a girl. Then I spot the object of his curse. An elegant woman, in her late fifties I think, is making a beeline for us - floating across the dance floor like a ballerina. She appears engulfed by a cloud of baby blue chiffon, and her slender neck is dripping in diamonds. Her smile is reflected in her eyes, as she breezes to a halt in front of us.
"Now dear, this will not do! Hiding behind pretty ladies will not excuse you from our dance," she pouts humorously at my handsome stranger.
"Mavis, where is your mask?" he grins back, his voice laced with a playful fondness, that can only be bred from familiarity.
"I'm wearing it, Darling! I have spent enough money on this face for it to be a mask. Hell I haven't seen my own face in years!" she laughs a genuine, easy laugh.
"You don't mind if I steal my Toy Boy do you, dear?" she directs her question at me.
Toy Boy! Christ, is she kidding?
"Excuse me," he says politely, offering me a gallant bow and she takes his hand, pulling him onto the dance floor. He moves her into a lively spin around the dance floor, guiding her with polished ease. Every so often, I imagine his eyes on me as he flashes by in a spin and suddenly I'm feeling like a spare part, even more uncomfortable than when I arrived. My little safe haven, behind my traitorous potted friend, feels achingly lonely.
At that moment, a waiter knocks a jug of liquid from the banquet table, forcing me to move as a small squad of uniformed personnel, sweep in to clean up. I drift around the edge of the room, spying another tall plant, which might offer refuge, and reach my goal, un-accosted.
I cannot see the dance floor very well from here and for some reason this irritates me. I gaze across the ocean of sparkling evening gowns, feathered masks and black ties, feeling more and more out of place as the minutes drag on. I really just want to go home now, before the speeches start and I am forced to take my seat - wherever it is. Giving my empty glass to a passing waiter, I plan the best route to the exit, located near the improvised bar.
Then I see him. His perfectly proportioned body is leaning against the bar, his eyes probably scanning the crowd. A steady stream of guests, men and women alike, stop to chat with him before moving on. Sometimes he smiles, other times he just nods and mutters a few words. A beefy man, in a 'Jason' hockey mask stops approaches and they embrace warmly. Together, the two men stroll off, disappearing into a back room. Maybe he's part time Toy Boy, part time gay!
~.~
I give Victoria the abbreviated version of events, omitting the part about me hiding, feeling plain and consciously not putting effort into my appearance, more than well aware of how self-defeating my actions are, without a lecture from my well-meaning therapist.
"Oh my, so Acacia puts her proverbial foot in it – again!" she mocks almost gleefully. Victoria is using all her willpower, not to burst into gales of laughter. I sigh deeply, having suffered my humiliation last night, I am beyond that now.
"So, tell me," she asks, the corners of her mouth still twitching with mirth. "Do we know who he is? My invitation didn't mention the name of a host, just the name of the charity."
"No clue," I sigh.
"What attracted you?" Victoria leans her chin on her fist, waiting for me to offer an explanation. I think back to our encounter.
"Well, with my heels on he was only a little taller than me. I know he had very dark, thick hair, possibly quite long; but it was slicked back, so hard to tell. His mask hid most of his face. He was well built but graceful, if that makes any sense at all, and he smelled amazing." I inhale deeply at the memory but get a lungful of lavender room freshener instead. "But the most notable thing was his presence."
"What do you mean?" she asks, unfurling her fist to rest her chin on the heel of her hand instead.
"I'm not sure. It's hard to explain but he gave off this thing, this feeling - I can't articulate. Next to him, I felt safe but in danger, calm but alive. It scared me, but I wanted more. Anyway...” I shrug. "...this much older woman came along and dragged him away.
“I watched him for a while. People gravitated to him the whole evening, but it was not as if he was an exhibitionist. At least I don't think so. He was just there, graceful and self contained and people came to him."
"He sounds like the perfect Alfa Male," Victoria states, smiling.
"What? No!" I gape at her horrified.
"Acacia, what?" she asks, concerned.
"I can't be attracted to that kind of person again?” I wail, the tears threatening.
"Acacia, calm down. There is a world of difference between an Alfa Male and a Narcissist! On the surface, yes - people gravitate toward them both but the reasons are different. An Alfa Male is in control...of himself, and for no other reason than he knows what he wants and what he needs to get it. He is self-confident and it is a natural, honest thing. People gravitate toward him, because they trust him.
"A Narcissist tries to be an Alfa Male. His control extends beyond self, often skipping self altogether as he tries to control events and people around him."
"I suppose...but what if I am drawn to a particular personality type? And how can I be sure that someone I'm attracted to is an Alpha Male and not another Robert?" I search Victoria's face through a watery haze, looking for answers.
"Acacia, there are no guarantees. Life is a risk you have to take; getting hurt is bound to happen. Consider yourself better prepared because of your experience."
I sniff loudly and steal a couple of tissues from the box on the small t
able.
~.~
Tense and unsettled. The phone shrills; making me jump and bringing me sharply back to the present.
"Hello?"
"Acacia, is that you?" I groan inwardly as the high-pitched voice cuts through me.
"Hi Susanne, to what do I owe this honour?"
"You are joking right? Tell me you are joking! Acacia my wedding is tomorrow! You forgot didn't you?"
Shit, yes I did. It's her own fault. The dress fittings and shoe fittings were so long ago, it feels as if the wedding is already a distant memory.
"No. Of course I didn't! We are meeting at your moms in the morning, and then we will all go to the stylist together and so on... See? I remember," I lie.
"I don't believe you! Actually, is there any chance you could come over tonight and spend the night instead? I worry about that old lump of junk you drive. If you leave last minute and it breaks down it would be a disaster. Pleeeeease?" I roll my eyes.
“I never expected my cousin to be such a Bridezilla and don’t knock the Beast!" I tease, but she has a point. "Fine! I'll see you later."
"Thanks hon. Bye." I have never really felt like part of the family and it still irks me that I was only chosen to be one of her bridesmaids at the insistence of her mother. Having an even number of maids to escort her down the aisle was most likely a convincing factor.
I catch my reflection in a mirror. The woman looking back at me is paler than usual today, her face puffy and tired. Sad hazel eyes match my appraisal, still a little red rimmed, from a waterworks display at Victoria's office. The hair, thankfully, is looking great. The cold is keeping the moisture in the air frozen and the usual frizz is under control. For once my long auburn locks are tamed, sleek and shiny and without hours of pampering. I grab a hair band from my jeans pocket and sweep it back into a high pony and adding a little youth to the face.
I check my watch. I had better get going. I pack up some paperwork to review over the weekend and gather up my bag, popping my head into the kitchen.
"Grace, I have to go. I have forgotten about my cousins wedding and I still need to see Grant before I go to Seattle. Call me if you need anything."
"Sure thing honey, you go, and have some fun." Her emphasis on the last three words is hard to miss.
I am just climbing into the Beast, when my blackberry buzzes and I glance at the screen. It is Grace. I see her waving at me through the small office window, phone against her ear.
"Glad to know I'm needed so soon," I answer dryly.
"And don't you forget it girl! Listen, I have that Savannah woman on the phone again and let me tell you, she needs to learn some manners. I'm going to transfer the call to your blackberry."
"Okay, thanks Grace." The line goes dead for a moment then I hear an impatient greeting.
"Is that Acacia Jones?"
"Um, Acacia Ward." Being called by my ex-husbands name makes me uncomfortable.
"Right - Sorry. Mrs. Ward!"
"Ms. Ward," I correct patiently. The phone goes eerily quiet and I silently wonder if I should have just kept my mouth shut. After all – What is in a name, right? Other than my reputation, sanity and the contents of my stomach!
"Let's stick with Acacia." Savannah's voice oozes impatience. "I am told you need to come over and look at the facilities. Well, the only availability I have is tomorrow evening, five o'clock."
"I have an important event tomorrow and..."
She cuts me off. "We're off season. Take it or leave it!"
"I'll take it.” I reply quickly. I will come up with something.
"Between five and six pm, don't be late!" The line goes dead.
I put the Blackberry down on its cradle, wondering if Savannah is always so abrupt.
"I guess we all have our problems.” I mutter to myself, remembering Victoria and her 'nasty dog' analogy as I start backing out the drive. I need to get some food in me before I muddle through my commitments for tomorrow. My head is positively pounding now and I am feeling light headed.
First stop – SUBWAY for a sandwich, second stop – Grants office, then pick up a weekend bag and head for Seattle. Oh, joy!
~.~
I head up the dank stairs to the second floor where Page and Associates General Legal Practitioners have their modest offices and go in search of Grant.
"Hey Grant." I find his lean, tall body bent over double, trying to pry a paper jam from the photocopier.
"Hi Acacia, I'll be with you in a minute." He is deep in concentration, his lips pursed and deep furrows mar his expansive brow. I lean against the door jam and watch in amusement. Twice he runs his fingers through his receding, neatly trimmed sandy hair, his green eyes squinting at the problem at hand.
"Grant, when are you going to get a secretary to do all this for you?"
"When I actually get paid for the work I do, so I have money to pay the secretary. There!" He straightens and smiles victoriously, at the offending photocopier.
"Good point!" I murmur. More than half the work he takes on is pro-bono, the shelter's tenants and I included.
"You wanted to see me?” I ask, as the copier starts smoothly spitting sheet after sheet of paper, into a collection tray.
"Yes, and I'm glad you're a little early." He gestures to the hallway and we both leave the copier to continue its work unsupervised. I note that the name plaque on Grant's door has finally fallen off. It's been hanging precariously, for several months.
"Coffee?" he asks as I take a seat in one of the two mismatched chairs in front of a cluttered desk.
"I'm good. Thank you.” Grant's coffee should come with a health warning.
"Okay. I have a Mr. Willow coming to see us in a bit. He represents an organisation which wants to propose becoming a Fiscal Sponsor." He tells me, as he pours himself a cup of sludge from a dumbwaiter in the corner of the room.
"A Fiscal Sponsor? What does that mean exactly?"
"I only received a copy of the proposal this morning and have only had a brief look at it. In this particular case, it means that Broken Haven will officially become a project, so to speak, of their organisation. Although as far as I can tell, it will remain Broken Haven and operate independently as such, at least in the public eye."
"What's the point? Broken Haven becomes their project but doesn't change - why bother?" Grant looks a little uncomfortable. I suspect there is a lot more to this and he is not sure how to tell me.
"You could lose ultimate control of Broken Haven.” Grant looks down at his coffee and concentrates on stirring it thoroughly.
"What? Why would I even consider it?" I am astounded that Grant even thinks I might be prepared to entertain the idea. "You should have run this by me before arranging this meeting with Mr. What's-his-face." Grant assesses the horrified expression on my face and shifts uncomfortably.
"Willow. Mr. Willow. Acacia, losing ultimate control of the charity is not necessarily a given. It's a legal requirement but doesn't necessarily have to be enforced by their board, unless there were serious legal problems."
"Serious legal problems like what exactly?" I am struggling to get my head around what this all means.
"Like fraud, law suits, insurance claims." He is watching me wearily. "Acacia, it's just a proposal. You don't have to accept."
"I know, but I could have done with more warning to prepare before being thrown in the shark tank. Who are they?"
"Liberal Brotherhood."
I gape at him.
"Liberal Brotherhood," he repeats slowly.
"And they expect to be taken seriously? They sound like a nut-job political movement, like the K.K.K. or the Free Morgans!" I splutter, almost tempted to burst into fits of disbelieving giggles.
Grant takes a seat opposite me and puts his coffee down. At least he has the sense to look amused. "Acacia, I think you need to hear Mr. Willow out."
"And that's your professional legal advice?" Grant nods and waits for my response. I narrow my eyes at his long angular face wondering what h
e's playing at.
"Fine," I sigh warily. Right on cue, a head pops around the door, advising Grant that a Mr. Willow has arrived. Grant rises to invite him in. I rise as Grant ushers a short, spherical man into the office and makes introductions.
"Mr. Willow.” I mumble, trying to hide my mirth as I shake his hand.
Chapter 2
The man is small and rotund, with a mop of thick black hair, curling over the tops of his ears. His thick mustard tweed suit, complete with waist coat, stretches over his ample stomach and the olive drab bow tie under his loose jowls looks far too large. I take in his surreal features with interest as he pushes his round, wire rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his stubby nose, exposing more of his ruddy cheeks. Small wise eyes evaluate me, one eyebrow arching higher than the other. I get the distinct feeling, that if this man auditioned for a role as a goblin in Gringott's Bank, serving Harry Potter, he would get the role instantly.
Grant motions for everyone to sit and Mr. Willow takes the seat next to me while Grant settles back into his own chair, behind his desk.
"Ms. Ward, may I just say that it's a pleasure to meet you finally? I have heard a lot about you. Not all of it flattering of course, but then the press can be quite brutal." He smiles at me and his smile is kindly. His honesty is disarming and heightens my curiosity about this strange little person and the equally strange organisation he represents. I try to place his accent - Diagon Alley perhaps?
"Yes, the press can be brutal.” I admit. "Mr. Willow, Grant tells me your um... organisation has a proposal for me. He has given me a very brief overview, but I am not sure I understand much of it. Perhaps you could enlighten me." I lean back in my chair, resting my hands loosely on the armrests and hold his gaze steadily. Mr. Willow clears his throat loudly. He does not seem intimidated and I suspect clearing his throat is just a habit.
"Firstly Ms. Ward, Liberal Brotherhood is not my organisation; I merely represent them, primarily as their accountant but I have a few other roles as well. The board of the organisation is large and its members prefer to remain anonymous where ever possible."