Where the Heart Chooses

by Tinnean

  “Thank you. Your father always did like this shade of blue. I must say you and Mark both look distinguished tonight. There’s something about a man in a tuxedo.”

  “I learned my fashion sense from my mother.”

  “Scamp. Don’t let your uncles hear that!” We both chuckled. “I haven’t seen Mark for a while. He didn’t seem too thrilled to be here tonight.”

  “He never is. He’s around somewhere, probably putting the fear of God into some hapless politico.” His smile was wry, but there was more than a touch of fondness in it. They’d been together for almost nine months now. “He doesn’t enjoy having to schmooze.”

  “I imagine he would be much happier canceling some of these people.”

  He paused in the act of gazing around—searching for Mark? “He said that very thing to me as we walked in.”

  “From what I’ve been able to learn, he’s better suited to the field.”

  Quinton shrugged. “WBIS policy is all field agents are retired to a desk when they reach the age of thirty-five.”

  Odd…I’d had the impression he was older than my son. “At any rate, he seemed very pleased with his new home.”

  “Yes, he was, and I can’t thank you enough for being willing to help him with that.”

  “Oh, it was my pleasure. He developed an antipathy toward Ms. Dashwood that was almost as instantaneous as mine.” In addition, I’d learned that Allison had given those ruby earrings to her sister-in-law as an incentive to move out. Allison seemed to feel it was a worthwhile trade-off.

  “I can’t believe I was jealous of her,” Quinton murmured with an abashed smile.

  “Well, considering your state of mind at the time, it wasn’t surprising. Your uncles must have been seriously displeased when they learned Edward Holmes had a hand in driving you to exhaustion.”

  “I don’t know why I try to keep anything from you…”

  “Why do you, sweetheart?”

  He pretended he hadn’t heard me. “…Gregor always tells you everything!”

  I hid my smile behind my raised champagne flute and decided to revert to our previous topic. “Did Mark tell you he and I pretended to be a couple?”

  “Really?” Where were his thoughts? On Holmes? On Mark? On something else? He obviously hadn’t grasped what I’d said.

  “Yes, Mark was supposed to be my boy toy.”

  “What!” He began choking on his champagne. “Mark was your what?”

  “You should have seen Francesca Dashwood’s face when it dawned on her that I was keeping him. I haven’t had such fun in a long time.” I set aside my flute and took a handkerchief from the tiny purse that dangled from my wrist, then dabbed at the spots of champagne Quinton had splattered over his front. When that failed, I signaled to a waiter. “A glass of club soda, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He looked vaguely familiar, but before I could puzzle out where I had seen him, Quinton broke into chuckles.

  “Mark was willing to go along with the idea of being a gigolo?”

  “Hardly that. More a high class, very expensive escort. Oh, thank you.” I took the glass of club soda from the waiter—where had I seen him before?—and dipped a corner of my handkerchief into it.

  Fortunately that seemed to do the job.

  “Thank you, Mother. If you hadn’t gotten the stains out, it would have been ruined, and this is one of my favorite tuxes.” The happy glint in the eyes was so like his father’s. “Mark and I are going down to Key West for a few days.”

  “Really?” A romantic getaway? He hadn’t gone away with anyone in such a very long time, it seemed. “What a wonderful idea!”

  “Thank you.” He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed it.

  “Why? Because I want my son to be happy?” I squeezed his hand.

  Quinton opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was lost when he swore under his breath.

  “Portia! My dear! How lovely to see you again!” Senator Wexler came swaggering up, as officious as ever. So that was who Quinton had been looking for.

  “Senator.”

  “It must be fate, dear lady!”

  No, it was karma, I was certain of it. I must have done something very, very wrong in a past life to be so hounded by the man. He would not accept that I was indifferent to him.

  “We’re constantly running into each other!” Due to his machinations. He studiously ignored my son, as if pretending he weren’t there would make it so.

  Quinton had no intention of humoring the man. “Good evening, Senator.”

  “Mann. Didn’t see you there. Heh, heh, heh. How are you, my boy? Your little escapade in Paris last spring left no ill effects, I trust?”

  “I’m quite well, Senator.” Quinton grinned at him. In that moment he looked so much like his father that my heart stuttered. “I must say I’m intrigued that you’re familiar with what happened. Only three organizations were aware of that operation, and to my knowledge, you’re not involved with any of them.”

  Wexler’s complexion turned green. “I…I…”

  Oh, yes, very like his father!

  “And how are you and the lovely Mrs. Wexler?”

  He scowled, disliking the reminder he was married, perhaps? “She’s around here some place.” He waved his hand in a vague gesture. “There are so many lovely ladies here tonight, Mann. Why don’t you try and find one? I’ll be more than happy to keep your mother company.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Senator.”

  “Excuse me, Senator?” His aide was suddenly at his side. “The ball is about to start.”

  Wexler’s eyes lit up. “Portia?” He extended his hand.

  “Sir.” His aide looked annoyed. “Mrs. Wexler is waiting for you to dance with her.”

  Wexler took my hand before I realized what he intended, and pressed a sloppy kiss to my palm. “We must talk more, dear lady. Later, when we’ll be undisturbed.”

  The two men walked off.

  “I don’t appreciate being threatened like that.”

  Quinton didn’t smile, as I’d hoped he would. He took my handkerchief and wiped the moisture from my palm. “I don’t imagine you’ll want to keep this.”

  “No.”

  “Lapin almost appeared to be angry with the senator. Interesting.” He waved down the same waiter and dropped the handkerchief on his tray. “Dispose of this, please?”

  The waiter looked from the handkerchief to Quinton. “Yes, sir.” He hurried off.

  “I can understand why any man in his right mind would want to spend time with you, Mother, but Wexler’s married, and if he keeps this up, he’s going to cause talk.”

  “He’s just not taking ‘no’ for an answer. Perhaps I should simply introduce him to my right knee.”

  “That might teach him not to cross my mother.” Quinton chuckled. “They’re playing a rhumba. Shall we?”

  I put Wexler out of my mind.

  * * * *

  “Quinton, have you been running interference?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Every time Senator Wexler starts his approach, you seem to pop up like a jack-in-the-box, coming between us. It’s becoming exhausting.”

  He smiled into the bubbles of his champagne but didn’t confirm or deny. “Have you seen Mark, Mother? I have a club soda for him.”

  “Not in the last few minutes. He’s not drinking champagne?”

  “Oh…no.” Quinton blushed. “He’s…allergic.”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone having an allergic reaction to champagne. That’s too bad. This is a very fine vintage.”

  “It is that. Oh—” He bit off what he was about to say. “Looks like the senator has decided he wants the next dance. I’ll hold him off for you, if you’d like to make an escape?”

  “Thank you, sweetheart. I don’t know why the man persists in believing if he just pushes hard enough I’ll fall madly in love with him.” I turned and walked into a solid chest. “Oh!”

 
“Sorry.” Mark was staring blandly over my head at Wexler.

  I glanced over my shoulder to find he had come to an abrupt halt a few yards from us. One foot was still in the air, and his mouth was working although no sound emerged.

  “The music is about to start again. May I have this dance, Mrs. Mann?”

  “Thank you, Mark.”

  “Quinn, take my glass.” It was a champagne flute. My son looked at it, and then frowned at Mark. Mark raised an eyebrow, and a slow, intimate smile lit his face. “I’ve only had a sip.” He offered me his arm in an old-world gesture and said to Quinton, “Why don’t you let the good senator know your mother has a dance partner?”

  The expression on Quinton’s face was entirely too pleased, although I had no doubt that by the time he confronted Wexler, it would have been wiped smooth.

  I took Mark’s arm and let him lead me onto the dance floor. “I was under the impression that you were allergic to champagne.”

  He was coolly studying the couples on the floor. “Allergic? To champagne? Not a chance! Who told you that?”

  “Quinton.”

  Mark looked interested. “He said that, did he?” A hand rested on my waist, and he took my right hand in his left. I could see he wasn’t going to answer me, and I wondered what kind of reaction Mark Vincent did have to a glass of champagne.

  The orchestra leader raised his baton, and the woman seated behind the grand piano struck the beginning notes of “It Had to Be You.”

  I could feel the power contained in him, and then Mark drew me into the first steps of the fox-trot.

  “You dance very well,” I said.

  “Thank you.” Mark Vincent gave nothing away, not even the fact that he might have been pleased by my compliment.

  I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. “This was our song, you know, Nigel’s and mine.”

  “You met at work.”

  How he’d learned of that…”My brother told us to call it a night and get some dinner. I don’t think he realized what that would lead to. Afterward, we went dancing, and the trio played this song. Nigel had them play it the rest of the evening.”

  “It’s a pretty song.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He began to hum quietly under his breath, and I wondered if that was an excuse to keep from talking to me. Well, no matter. I was dancing with a man who knew how to lead a woman around the dance floor, and that was a pleasure.

  Nigel had also known how to do that. “In the time we had together,” I murmured, “we were very happy.”

  Abruptly he said, “And you’ve remained faithful to him, even after all this time. That’s pretty rare these days.”

  I opened my eyes and looked at him. He seemed genuinely puzzled. “Sebrings love once, Mark. Hopefully it’s the right person, and we have a lifetime together.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “We go on. We survive.” I thought of Bryan, although lately he had seemed…happy.

  “My old lady couldn’t remain faithful for more than a day, if that long.”

  “Are you saying you believe the ability to be faithful is in the genes?”

  “Nature versus nurture? I don’t know.” He looked uncomfortable, and normally out of simple courtesy, I’d change the topic, but I felt he needed to know where I stood on this matter.

  “Quinton is as much a Sebring as he is a Mann. If you hurt him he’d grieve. I, on the other hand, would go after you and shoot you down like a dog.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Didn’t I ask you not to call me that?”

  “Yes, ma’…Mrs. Mann.” He grinned, suddenly looking younger and not as dangerous. And how deceiving was that?

  Quinton came up behind Mark and tapped his shoulder. “Cutting in. And I want to dance with my mother, Mark, not with you!”

  “I’m devastated.” He laughed softly. “Mrs. Mann, it was my pleasure.”

  “I enjoyed it myself, Mark.”

  My son’s gaze was happy. Mark Vincent, of all men, had put that look in his eyes.

  Quinton took my hand and easily picked up the rhythm of the dance.

  * * * *

  The ball was starting to wind down, and Gregor had gone to bring the Town Car around.

  I knew Quinton and Mark were still here, and I went looking for them to say good-night.

  They were in the grand foyer, and I walked up to them in time to hear Mark say, “I’ll be right back.”

  “Mark…” There was a warning in Quinton’s tone.

  “I just have to—” He saw me and cleared his throat. “—see a man about a horse. I won’t be long.” He sauntered off.

  “Mark spotted Wexler heading for the men’s room.” Quinton offered me his arm, chuckling, and we strolled to the cloakroom. “I know it isn’t correct, but Wexler deserves whatever Mark wants to throw at him.”

  “I have no objection to that.”

  I handed him the chit for my lynx coat, and once he’d collected it, he held it as I slid my arms into the sleeves.

  “You look a little tired, Mother.”

  I smothered my yawn. “Watching you play cat and mouse all evening with Senator Wexler was more exhausting than dodging the man myself.”

  “Where did Mrs. Wexler disappear to? Ill with another migraine?”

  “If I were married to Richard Wexler, I’d suffer from migraines.” I sighed. “No, she spent most of the night with his aide, dancing or…” I shrugged. “Peter Lapin. What were his parents thinking?”

  Quinton gave a startled choke of laughter. He knew as well as I that “lapin” was French for rabbit.

  Gregor strode through the doors, damp and irritated. “All that oil money and you’d think these clowns would keep their parking lots in better shape!”

  “What’s wrong, Gregor?”

  “We’ve got two flats, Mrs. Mann. I’ve already called AAA, but they’re tied up for hours. And it’s starting to rain.” He held up the umbrella in his hand.

  Quinton fished his car key and the valet parking chit from his pocket. “Here, Gregor. Take my car. I’ll find my own way home.”

  Mark had returned from whatever he’d done to Wexler. “I’ve got my car, Quinn, and I’m going your way. I can give you a lift.”

  Gregor looked as if he were torn. On the one hand he needed a vehicle to get us home. On the other he was leaving Quinton to Mark’s mercies. Reluctantly, he took the key and the chit.

  I looked from Mark to my son and smiled. “Have a nice evening, sweetheart, Mark. Gregor?”

  The doorman held the door for us, and we went out into the wet night. While one parking attendant accepted the chit, another ran up and took the key, and we waited under the canopy while the car was brought around.

  I shivered in spite of my fur coat. Indian summer had come to an abrupt end.

  * * * *

  Chapter 40

  Gregor opened the rear door of Quinton’s pale gold Lexus, and I slid into it. Most vehicles driven by Federal officers were black or dark blue. Trust my son to find such an unusual color.

  I settled onto the seat and buckled up.

  Gregor tipped the attendants, climbed into the front seat, and fastened his own seat belt. He switched on the lights and the windshield wipers and took a moment to familiarize himself with the car’s controls before steering it out of the Embassy’s drive and down the road that led to the Beltway.

  “Interesting evening, Portia.”

  “Yes. I think having Mark in his life is making Quinton happy.”

  “That wasn’t what I—Are you sure this isn’t a mistake, trusting Vincent of all people?”

  “Didn’t we have this conversation once before?”

  “Yes, but he’s Vincent!”

  “Gregor, he got Quinton out of the hands of those maniacs.”

  “Quinn would have gotten himself out of that mess,” he assured me staunchly.

  “Do you really believe that, my friend?”

  “Portia, what I believe is
that leopards don’t change their spots.”

  “I think this is one of those things we’ll have to take on faith.”

  He growled and turned the car to U.S. 1-S. “Did you remember to tell Quinn about that lunch with Jefferson next Sunday?”

  “No, he was busy trying to keep some distance between me and that wretched Wexler, and I forgot all about it. I wonder why Jefferson wants a family gathering.” I bit my lip and asked innocently, “Could it be for your birthday?”

  “It had better not be! I’m too old for that bull-stuff. Here.” He handed me the car phone over his shoulder. It began to rain harder, and he increased the wiper speed.

  “Thank you, Gregor,” I said meekly, hiding a smile, and dialed Quinton’s cell phone number.

  He picked it up on the first ring. “Hello, Mother. What’s up?”

  Of course, Quinton knew it was me. All our phones were equipped with Caller ID. “I’m just calling to tell you your Uncle Jefferson wants everyone to meet at Shadow Brook for lunch next Sunday.” He and Ludovic had lived there for more than thirteen years. “He has something of grave importance to tell us,” I intoned in a fair imitation of my brother’s voice.

  “Oh?” I could hear the smile over the phone. “Now, I wonder what it could be.”

  “That’s exactly what…Just a second! Quinton Mann, are you insinuating that you know what it is?”

  “Now, Mother…”

  Instead of telling him not to ‘now, Mother’ me, I asked, “Will you be back from the Keys in time for it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will Mark join us?”

  “I’ll—”

  Gregor spat out a curse, his reaction a trifle overboard.

  I covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “Gregor?”

  “The bas-son of a-The idiot behind us has his brights on.” He adjusted the rearview mirror and glared at it. “Damn halogens are hitting me right in the eye.” He turned his attention back to the rain-slicked on-ramp to the 495. “Sorry. I’m on it, Portia.”

  “All right.” I returned to my conversation with my son. “You were saying, you scamp?”

  “I was saying I have no idea, truly I don’t…”

  The Lexus suddenly seemed to shiver and jerk forward. A split second later came the delayed shriek of metal on metal.