by July Hall
She sometimes suggested throwing the parties in her own home instead of his. Ridiculous.
At any rate, based on past performance, Rosalie should have calmed down by now and matters would be in hand. Charles adjusted his bow tie so that it was perfectly symmetrical. That was something else Eleanor had done, once upon a time—ah. There she was again. He had learned, more or less, how to live with his grief over the past ten years, but nights like tonight made it impossible to avoid the memories.
There was no point in dwelling. Charles glanced at his phone, wondering if he had time to call Andrew Huan again. No, probably not. If he waited much longer, his absence would be remarked upon.
He left his suite, intending to go directly down to the main floor where the guests would be congregating. But as he approached the landing, he remembered that he’d promised to lend Stephen the third volume of Churchill’s The World Crisis. He was fairly certain it was in the second-floor library. Might as well stop by and make sure; it would give them both a good excuse to escape upstairs for a moment after dinner.
Charles’s long stride took him quickly down the stairs and into the corridor of the second floor. As he rounded the corner and headed to the library, he frowned. Three of his home’s six bedrooms were on this hall, facing each other across the corridor. No guests were staying here tonight, but he could see light emanating from behind the door to the second bedroom. Had the maids left a lamp on?
He headed to the door, reaching for the knob, and paused. He distinctly heard noises coming from within.
Then he heard a crash, the sound of breaking glass, followed by a muffled exclamation.
An intruder? No, security was too tight for that, and even the foolhardiest burglar or kidnapper wouldn’t turn on the lights while ransacking the place in the middle of a party. There was no reason for the help to be messing about, either. Whoever it was, nobody was supposed to be up here, and nobody made free of his house without permission—certainly not in his goddamned bedrooms. Scowling, Charles flung open the door and stepped inside.
Discarded clothing covered the bed. A table lamp lay on the floor, broken into pieces.
And the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen was standing in the middle of his second bedroom, clad only in her underwear.
CHAPTER FOUR
Horror gripped Sandra so tightly that she couldn’t move or make a sound. Had she really thought the night couldn’t get any worse?
Bradley had pushed her into this bedroom with her change of clothes and told her to come downstairs when she was ready. She’d stripped her work outfit off and tossed it on the bed, and unzipped her garment bag. Then she’d taken an unwise step backward, caught her foot on the rug, stumbled, and elbowed a lamp right off the nightstand. It probably cost more than she made in a month.
And mere seconds later, here was some stranger, some man, looking at her with his mouth open while she was—
“Oh my God!” Sandra gasped, and grabbed the nearest thing to hand, which was her wool skirt. She tried to cover herself with it, hunching her shoulders while her skin broke out in goose bumps.
The man continued to stand in the doorway, looking at her as if he couldn’t quite make sense of what he saw. And she got that he was startled, she really did, but come on! “Excuse me,” she managed. Thank God her voice didn’t shake. “I’m changing.”
The man blinked. He was tall, lean, and wore a perfectly fitted tuxedo. His hair and closely cropped beard were dark, but Sandra could see hints of silver in both. He looked to be in his mid forties. And he just kept standing there, gaping at her, while the door stood wide open.
“I’m sorry,” Sandra said through her teeth, “but could you please close the door?” Her hands shook as she clutched her skirt.
Without turning his gaze from her, as if he was in some sort of trance, the man reached behind himself and began to push the door shut.
“I mean when you leave!” Sandra cried.
That did the trick. The man appeared to snap out of it and shook his head rapidly. Then he looked her up and down as if seeing her for the first time. His dark eyebrows drew together in a mighty scowl. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Sandra stared at him. Then she said, slowly and clearly, “I’m someone who’s changing her clothes. I would appreciate some privacy. Maybe we could do the introductions later.”
If that didn’t work, she didn’t know what she’d do. Pick up the fallen lamp and throw it at him? Call for help? But then his cheeks reddened and he looked away. Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room, slamming the door so hard it rattled.
Sandra’s knees went weak, and she collapsed onto the mattress, her wool skirt pooling in her lap. Oh Jesus, who had that been? Whoever he was, she was going to have to face him again in a minute, because he was obviously here for the party. Bradley had assured her all the guests would still be downstairs this early in the evening, and besides, nobody would dare roam freely in Charles Magister’s home. Yet there that man had been, barging in as if he…
As if he owned the place.
Sandra bent over, putting her head between her knees until she was sure she wouldn’t faint. It didn’t help that she’d only eaten a single protein bar all day.
Then she grabbed her handbag and tugged out her phone, Googling Charles Magister’s name. She already knew what she would find. Sure enough, there he was in thumbnail proportions: the man who’d just seen her half-naked after she’d broken one of his possessions. And then she’d thrown him out.
Fucked. She was totally fucked. Bradley would never speak to her again, and her career would go up in flames after New York’s elite heard what had happened. She’d have to start all over in some other city—or maybe just start all over, period, go back to school and get her degree in a different field. One that would let her work in Antarctica.
No. Get yourself together. She pressed her shaking fingertips to her forehead. Never let them see you sweat.
The only way out of this was through. Whatever happened next, she’d meet it with her head held high. Dammit, Charles Magister had been the one out of line, not her. Even if it was his house, hadn’t he heard of knocking? Or even apologizing? Who the hell would stumble over a stranger in her underwear and not apologize?
Sandra closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then she took another. Then she rose to her feet, mindful of the shattered lightbulb, and carefully removed her silver dress from the garment bag.
She was going to look perfect. It was the least she could do. If she was to be summarily evicted the moment she went downstairs, then she’d go out looking flawless. She stepped into the sheath, put on her two-tone bracelet, and slipped on her kitten heels. Then she darted into the en suite bathroom for a hair and makeup check.
No, the hair wouldn’t do. She’d planned to leave it falling in waves over her shoulders, looking both feminine and approachable. Now, with her flushed cheeks and obvious agitation, she looked frazzled. She gritted her teeth and scraped her hair out of her face and back into a severe ponytail at the nape of her neck. She had a jeweled hair clip in her purse that would look pretty good.
Yeah, she thought, inspecting herself in the full-length mirror. Yeah, this works. If she had to be The Girl Who’d Destroyed Her Own Life, at least she would do it fabulously.
Then she had to think about what to do with her work clothes. In the end, she just folded them up and put them in the Macy’s bag. She’d thought she would nip upstairs at the end of the night and retrieve everything before she and Bradley left, but now…well, maybe Charles Magister would condescend to send them to her, unless he decided to set them on fire instead.
Sandra picked up her clutch, took another deep breath, and marched out of the room to meet the fray.
It took a few minutes. The fray was downstairs. She could hear the voices floating up, caught the occasional word of idle chatter, and as she descended the stairs she heard Rosalie’s high-pitched laugh. For a moment she froze. What if Rosalie h
ad been talking to her brother? What if she was laughing at Sandra’s ridiculousness?
Yeah. So what if she was? Sandra affixed a serene smile onto her face as she reached the marble foyer. Rosalie already disliked her. Now she had an additional reason—so what? Sandra wouldn’t—couldn’t—let it get to her. Especially now, as she was stepping into the ritziest crowd she’d ever seen.
She didn’t recognize any of these people. All of the men were in tuxes, and most of the women wore floor-length gowns, making Sandra very glad she hadn’t opted for the miniskirt. Jewels graced every woman’s throat and ears; one woman wore a choker with a ruby pendant the size of a sand dollar. In fact, everyone was dressed to the nines, and nobody seemed inclined to talk to Sandra, or even look at her.
So much for flawless.
Bradley had told her that eighteen people had been invited to dinner. Nine couples. Somehow it seemed like a lot more. Where was Bradley, anyway? She needed a familiar face. More than that, she needed to speak to him and explain what had happened, because she was pretty sure “Uncle Charles” would give a different version of the story.
“Sandra! Babe!”
She’d never been so relieved to hear Bradley’s pet name for her spoken in such a cheerful, casual way. She whirled on her heel to see him heading toward her, carrying two flutes of champagne.
“So you found the party,” he said, smiling. He must not have spoken to his uncle yet. She should tell him right away, be proactive, laugh it off as a funny story.
Instead, she moistened her lips and took an eager sip of champagne. It fizzed against her nose, and she fought the urge to sneeze. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“You look fantastic,” he said, giving her an appreciative glance. She remembered his uncle’s shocked gaze back in the bedroom, and felt a sudden rush of heat. “I wish you’d shown a little more skin, but I can see why you didn’t want to. I forgot what a bunch of old farts these people are.”
“Um,” Sandra said. “Yeah. Definitely not showing any skin.”
“Don’t I know it.” He turned so that nobody could see him stroke her elbow. “But if tonight goes well, maybe we could change that later.”
“Maybe,” Sandra said weakly, looking at his fingertips on her arm and fighting the urge to push him away. Talk about hideous irony. She’d put on a new lingerie set this morning to feel confident and to show off to Bradley later if they felt like getting intimate. And who’d seen it instead?
Calm down. She was just rattled, that was all. She had to come clean and say what had happened. Surely Bradley would be on her side if his uncle made a fuss. He’d sounded so determined when he’d talked about introducing her to his family, about how he’d put his foot down with Rosalie at last.
“Bradley, darling!”
Speak of the devil. Sandra took a deep breath as she and Bradley both turned at the trill of his mother’s voice. Then Sandra froze. Rosalie was gliding toward them on Charles Magister’s arm.
Shit. There was no more time to warn Bradley—but Rosalie didn’t look either amused or pissed, so maybe Mr. Magister hadn’t said anything to her. Yet. Maybe he was waiting to do it in front of Sandra.
But he didn’t even look at Sandra as he and Rosalie stopped before them. He kept his eyes squarely on his nephew when he said, “Bradley.”
Bradley straightened his shoulders. Even through her own anxiety, Sandra was intrigued by the way a single word from this man transformed him: he almost seemed to shrink, and somehow his face looked younger.
To be fair, Mr. Magister literally looked down on Bradley. Sandra guessed he was maybe six-foot-two. In her kitten heels, she was about eye-level with his chin.
“Uncle Charles,” Bradley said. He touched Sandra’s elbow, and Sandra realized how ramrod stiff she was holding herself, so tense that Bradley couldn’t even take her arm. She forced herself to relax. “Good to see you. This is my girlfriend, Sandra Dane.”
“Is it?” Then Mr. Magister finally turned his gaze on Sandra.
His eyes were greener than Bradley’s, framed by long, black lashes. She might have called them beautiful if they hadn’t been so cold. Charles Magister looked at her as if he was trying to see all the way past her skin down to her bones, down to her pounding heart, and suddenly Sandra knew why everyone called him terrifying. He didn’t look at all like the man who’d stumbled in on her in the bedroom.
But…he had been that man. He’d been flustered too. He’d gotten his cool back, that was all, and she could do the same.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Magister,” she said, looking him squarely in the eye. “Thank you for inviting me.”
He blinked and looked off-balance for a second. She wondered if Bradley or Rosalie noticed.
“We’re pleased you could come, Miss Dane,” he said. His voice was smooth, deep, and not at all the voice of a man who was pleased by much. He withdrew his arm from Rosalie’s and offered Sandra his hand. Making sure to keep her pleasant smile on, never dropping eye contact, she took it.
The heat of his skin shocked her. She’d thought he would be as cold as his eyes. As their hands curled together she felt the roughness of his palm against her own, the dusting of fine hair on the back of his hand. For only a second, his thumb brushed against the pulse at her wrist, and suddenly, there they were.
Sparks.
His face never changed expression, but she saw his pupils dilate. He released her hand at once, leaving her fingertips tingling. She was suddenly short of breath. An idiotic little voice in the back of her head whispered, Thank God you’re wearing pretty underwear.
“Sandra’s an interior designer,” Rosalie cooed, and Sandra found herself back on Earth, surrounded by other people. “She’s working with a very fashionable firm.”
Rosalie was smiling. Her smile looked fake as hell to Sandra, but then, it always did. Nobody seemed to care. She had the same elegant beauty as Bradley, with her dark hair, green eyes, and perfect teeth.
Though he shared the coloring, Mr. Magister didn’t dazzle in that same way. He didn’t look as if he’d stepped off the cover of GQ like Bradley did. Mr. Magister had plainly stepped off the cover of Time instead, where he’d been named Man of the Year or something.
She’d imagined an ogre. Whatever he was, he sure wasn’t that.
Now he responded, “Is she? I’ll have to hear more about that.” He looked back at Bradley, and suddenly it was like Sandra wasn’t even there. “You’ll both dine at my end of the table, of course.”
Oh…shit. Sandra felt sweat break out on her palms. Rosalie’s smile froze. Then she said sweetly, “Charles, you’ve got Stephen and Craig on one side, and the Cookes on the other. You said you wanted to talk about that new man in Hong Kong, didn’t you? I’ve made all the arrangements…”
“I don’t imagine that place cards take long to switch,” Mr. Magister said.
“No,” Rosalie said, her smile getting tighter by the moment. “Stephen and Craig won’t mind. I’ll—”
“Move the Cookes,” Mr. Magister said.
Rosalie’s eyes widened, and then she looked over at a couple standing next to the huge flower arrangement on the center table. The Cookes, Sandra presumed, and they appeared to be drunk already. In spite of everything, she felt a pang of sympathy for Rosalie. Did Mr. Magister just bulldoze over people like this all the time? Maybe Bradley’s complaints hadn’t been exaggerations after all.
Then Mr. Magister nodded at Bradley, turned, and walked away to speak to some other people in tuxes and gowns. Rosalie took a deep breath and then turned her fake smile back on. “Well! I guess I’d better go take care of that,” she said. “Bradley? Mind yourself at dinner.”
“Jesus, Mom,” Bradley said, glaring at her. “I’m not a four-year-old.”
“And mind her too,” Rosalie said, not even looking at Sandra before she turned and headed toward the dining room in a rustle of taffeta skirts.
Bradley ran an unsteady hand over his hair. “Shit,” he muttered.
/> “I…I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Sandra said, not sure of that at all.
He rolled his eyes. “Spoken like someone who’s never spent two hours straight talking to Uncle Charles. We’re going to need more champagne.” He drained his glass and gestured to the nearest server.
That didn’t seem like the best idea to Sandra. Somehow she doubted Mr. Magister would appreciate sitting next to two sloshed twentysomethings all night. Mindful of her empty stomach, she finished her first glass of champagne and declined a second when Bradley pressed her. Instead, she nabbed a couple of hors d’oeuvres when the trays passed by. No cheese and crackers, for sure; these were delicate little arrangements of toro tuna, caviar, candied figs, and other things she couldn’t even recognize, much less afford.
Now, with some breathing room, she could take the time to look around and try to appreciate the space. Mr. Magister’s apartment was stunning. It even seemed misleading to call it an apartment. Three floors, Bradley had told her, with Mr. Magister’s private suite at the very top, where he had a terrace view of Central Park.
The decorating was nothing like Arnaud’s minimalist style. Everything was done in the classical manner, with sculpted crown molding, elegant sconces, and curtains that fell into perfectly pleated jabots. Some of the furnishings had to be hundreds of years old, but everything seemed to be in pristine condition. The artwork leaned toward the European eighteenth century, with its realistically rendered landscapes, muted colors, and lack of sentimentality.
Whoever had decorated Mr. Magister’s home had done so with a very specific vision and a great eye for detail. Sandra could have ground her teeth with envy. What a lucky designer, to have a space like this to work with.