by July Hall
“Sure,” she said. “What time should I get to your place after the wedding? We’re meeting in the city, right?” It was bound to be really late, but that was okay. They could just crash. She loved sleeping in his arms. Everything felt safe there, not like in the Phantom.
And it would just be him and her. Nobody else. She’d have him all to herself.
“Yes, at my apartment,” he replied. “As to time, I don’t know, but Emilia can let you in if I’m delayed.”
“Oh. Sure.” Yeah, he’d probably have all kinds of things to do as the evening wound down. Sandra shifted from foot to foot and prayed for a miracle: that when the next train arrived, she’d be able to find an empty seat. “I’m going to get my earrings on the way home from work. I won’t take the subway,” she added quickly.
“I look forward to seeing them.”
“Me too.” Honestly, she was pretty excited about that. Maybe Charles shouldn’t have given her something so extravagant, but he had, and she’d been resisting the temptation for days to go back to the bank and try the jewelry on in that locked room. She couldn’t believe something like that actually belonged to her.
Dammit, she wished she could wear the necklace. But either everyone would think it was fake (and therefore tasteless) or they’d ask all kinds of inconvenient questions about how someone like her had managed to get her hands on something like that.
“No tuxedo, though,” he reminded her.
She laughed. Wow, that really had made an impression. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave the menswear to Arnaud.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he said, a little too casually. “I’ll finally get to meet the famous Mr. Diallo who keeps you at the office late every night.”
Sandra fought down a pang of unease. Arnaud was gorgeous, and Charles’s jealousy was nothing to sneeze at. No other men, he’d said. I’ll destroy them. But he trusted her, didn’t he? She’d never given him cause to doubt her.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “That’ll be, um, great. He can’t wait to see the house. He’s really excited. On a professional level,” she added quickly.
Charles grunted. “Will you be driving up together?”
“Yeah.” Plenty of time for them to plot strategy beforehand and debrief afterward. “He’s renting a car, so we can just…”
“Don’t let him drink,” Charles said immediately. When she was too startled to reply at once, he said, “Sandra, I’m serious. I will make certain he does not get in that car with you if I see him drinking.”
Sandra cringed when she realized he must be thinking of Eleanor. After all this time, his late wife still had such a strong grip on his heart. It was just another reason for Sandra not to be an idiot.
“Arnaud won’t get drunk,” she said. “Neither will I. It’d be bad for business. And if he can’t drive, I will.” She managed a laugh. “Charles, come on, I went to college. I know how this works.”
“I see.” Charles cleared his throat. “Nevertheless.”
“You’ve got other stuff to worry about,” Sandra reminded him. “I…I guess all the out-of-town guests are probably getting in tonight?” Especially if some of them were coming all the way from Monte Carlo.
Where was Josephine Banks staying? The North Shore house was huge and had plenty of room. Charles had said Stephen was trying to matchmake. Maybe she’d been invited to stay there.
“Most of them,” Charles said. “I have to go now, I’ve got a meeting. I only wanted to…well, it seems everything is fine. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” Sandra remembered the words she’d gabbled at him on Wednesday in her desperate escape from the car. They would probably be more suitable now than asking where Charles’s ex was spending the night. Or offering to meet him somewhere today if he was interested, because just hearing his voice made Sandra—
“Good luck with it all!” she chirped, and then cringed, because that had sounded so fake he’d be able to detect it from outer fucking space. “I mean, I’ll see you. Bye!”
“Good-bye,” he said curtly, and hung up.
Sandra dropped her phone in her bag and rested her forehead against the pole. Damn.
“Doll?”
Someone tugged at her elbow. She opened her eyes to see a short, wizened old man gesturing at an empty spot on the bench he’d just vacated. “Why don’t you take that?”
He had to be at least eighty. Mortified, Sandra said, “Oh, thank you, sir. I’m fine. Really.”
“I go swimming at the Y four times a week.” The man thumped himself in the chest and lifted his chin. “When Wilbur Schuylberg gives up his seat to a lady, he gives it up. You go on, sit down.” He stabbed a finger at a young man who started moving toward the empty seat. “Not you, you fucking little punk! You want I should kick you all the fucking way back to Flatbush?”
The young man’s jaw dropped. So did Sandra’s.
Wilbur Schuylberg shook his balding head as he turned back to Sandra. “You know what we don’t got anymore?” he asked. “Real gentlemen.”
* * *
Apparently, weddings put Stephen in a musical mood. At least, so Charles judged from the way his brother kept humming “I’m Getting Married in The Morning.”
When Stephen actually began to sing the words aloud, Charles felt obliged to intervene. “You’re not,” he said. He took one final look at the signed papers that the family attorneys had gone over in meticulous detail. The prenup was as close to airtight as these things could be. “You’re getting married at 7:00 p.m, and you hate My Fair Lady.”
Stephen winced, but it was too late. Craig raised an eyebrow at him. “Is he serious?” he asked his fiancé.
“Maybe it’s grown on me?” Stephen tried.
“That’s it. The wedding’s off.” Craig shook his head sadly and then gave Charles a mischievous smile across the conference table. Charles made sure that his own pleasant expression was firmly affixed. “I always swore I’d only marry a man who knew all the words to ‘On the Street Where You Live.’”
“Oh well,” Stephen said. “You’ll have to settle for living permanently in the Ascot Gavotte.”
Craig laughed, though Charles had no idea what that meant. It must have something to do with the musical, but it was also pretty rich coming from Stephen. “You love Ascot,” he reminded him.
“I do love Ascot,” Stephen agreed. “Let’s hope I’m as lucky there next year as I was with the Lions.”
“Saint Barts, here we come.” Craig reached out and took hold of Stephen’s hand. “God, this next month is going to be so crazy.”
“The most nerve-wracking part will be over in less than forty-eight hours, I promise you,” Charles said dryly. He looked at his watch. “Speaking of which, we’d better get to the rehearsal.”
This was not difficult, since the rehearsal was one floor away. They’d gone over the paperwork in the North Shore house. Stephen had even invited the attorneys to the dinner afterward, which Charles found inappropriate. The firm of Yorke & Prescott had worked for the Magisters for over fifty years, but a man who confused “lawyer” with “friend” deserved whatever he got. For some reason, Stephen thought it would be polite, as if it somehow made the prenup seem less like the business transaction it was. A gathering of pals and handshakes or something.
Charles preferred not to mince words, but it wasn’t his wedding.
At least the lawyers wouldn’t be attending the actual rehearsal. Just as well, since it didn’t take long. The ceremony would be short. It was to be held on the lawn, which Rosalie had already surrounded with heat lamps, and covered with portable flooring so the women’s high heels wouldn’t sink into the ground. The minister would marry Stephen and Craig in the gazebo while over two hundred guests looked on. The reception would immediately follow in the ballroom, with ample room for people to spill over into the parlor, the foyer, or outdoors. Given the amount of alcohol that would be available, Charles had told Rosalie to rope off the stairs that led down to the b
each.
Maybe it was just as well this was all happening so fast. In the last two weeks, Charles had heard more than he ever wanted to about the wedding of Trent Haversham, which had featured an eighty-piece orchestra, or the wedding of Sophia Westwicke, with ten ice swan sculptures and commemorative iPods for all the guests. He would have begrudged his brother none of it, but when did you cross the line from ceremony to circus? Magisters weren’t gauche.
The rehearsal went smoothly enough. Charles had had a friendly word with Bishop Newsome, who’d agreed that it would be best if another priest performed the ceremony while he kept his own thoughts to himself. The wedding party itself was small: Charles was Stephen’s best man, and Bradley was his second groomsman. Craig’s best man was his old college roommate. The roommate worked out of some insurance office in Utica and spent most of the evening being bug-eyed. The second groomsman was one of their friends from Chelsea.
Rosalie, in an act of heroism, would be sitting next to Craig’s sister during the ceremony to show solidarity or something. In the meantime, she flapped around and overrode the wedding director at every opportunity. She wailed about how everything was an utter disaster and seemed to be having the time of her life.
“Mom’s pretty happy, huh?” Bradley asked Charles from the next step down on the gazebo.
“So it appears.” Olive branch, Charles reminded himself. The boy was trying. He was improving. And he’d lost Sandra. Nothing could be worse. “She mentioned that you’ve been helpful in making some of the arrangements.”
Bradley kept his eyes on his mother as she waved a bouquet in the wedding director’s face. “Yeah,” he said. “I hired the photographer.”
When the rehearsal had finished, everyone decamped to La Coquille, where Rosalie had reserved a private room. The drive was only fifteen minutes, which was unfortunate, because the moment Charles slid into the backseat of his car, he felt his eyelids go heavy. He’d hardly slept all week. There was work, and the wedding, and then of course there was…
He shifted restlessly in his seat. Tomorrow. He’d see Sandra tomorrow, and he’d sleep just fine. He’d keep her in his arms all night.
That was what had gone wrong on Wednesday. He hadn’t been able to hold her afterward. She’d shattered him, put her shirt back on, and fled. What they had needed was time to lie together, body to body, while he recovered enough to return the favor. Instead, he’d let her go.
You never ask me, she’d said in the car before encouraging him to do exactly that. No, not encouraging. Forcing. If you “encouraged” a man dying of thirst with the promise of water, what was the difference? And when he’d finally…asked…she’d rewarded him beyond his wildest dreams. He’d come so hard that it had felt like her hot, wet mouth was drawing the orgasm all the way up from his toes. He’d wondered if he might actually die. It shouldn’t have been possible. How could he have been so maddened by something that put him at her mercy?
She had controlled him again, for the second time—the first had been the first night they’d spent together. On that night, she’d been driving him crazy, he’d pleaded with her to take pity on him, and she had blithely ignored him, coaxing him instead into what was now the second best orgasm he’d ever had. It had made him an addict, even as he’d vowed never to give up control like that again.
And then he had, right in his own fucking backseat.
He hadn’t been in his right mind at the time, but in hindsight, he had the horrible feeling that he’d frightened her. She’d certainly scared the hell out of him. He’d been rough, and this time, she hadn’t liked it.
Then she’d apologized to him.
He needed time to make things right. The phone call this morning had told him as much. She’d been awkward, and he’d heard the false note in her voice that worked on strangers but never on him. At least she hadn’t tried to cancel Sunday. He’d have all day to…
Ask for what you want.
Charles hissed and ran a hand through his hair.
He took in a deep breath, let it go, and did it again. If Phillip noticed anything amiss, he said nothing, as always. He’d said nothing on Wednesday either. Both driver and bodyguard, he’d accompanied Charles through various shady dealings over the last four years: hostile takeovers, hirings and firings, all sorts of company gossip.
He’d never been asked to drive around aimlessly while his employer had a young woman in the backseat, but maybe there was something to be said for variety.
At least the memory served to revive Charles. By the time they pulled up to La Coquille, he was wide awake, even on edge.
In the private room of the restaurant, a man in a red vest tended bar in the corner while the wedding party plus a few guests (and the lawyers) stood chatting in small groups. Stephen waved Charles over with a smile.
Charles blinked at the glass of clear liquid in his brother’s hand. “Vodka?”
“Water,” Stephen said, to his surprise. “The bachelor party in the Village starts at nine thirty. I don’t want to die of alcohol poisoning before I get married.” He darted a quick glance over Charles’s shoulder and said, “But why not something for you, eh? Glass of red to get started? I’m guessing you’ll want the steak.”
God, he could murder a steak tonight. “Please,” Charles said feelingly.
“Mouton-Rothschild for my brother,” Stephen told the bartender.
He glanced again over Charles’s shoulder. Charles could have written off one glance, but not two. He turned around.
Josephine Banks.
She had just entered the room, where she was being greeted by Rosalie. From this distance, it looked as if she hadn’t aged a day in eight years. Her little black dress showed off her voluptuous curves—he’d certainly enjoyed those—and she hadn’t cut off her mane of black hair, as she’d always threatened. Tonight it was pulled back in an elegant French twist.
Then Josephine turned to regard Charles and Stephen from across the room, lifted her chin, and proceeded toward them. Charles had forgotten the sheer presence the woman managed to exude. Eleanor had never cared for her; she’d told him once, “Josephine doesn’t walk into rooms. She arrives at them.”
Personally, Charles had found it appealing, though he’d never been stupid enough to say so. But it had, perhaps, been one more reason why their affair had ended. How could he get serious with a woman his wife had actively disliked?
But Eleanor’s disapproval wouldn’t have mattered when it came to Sandra, which meant that had only been another excuse.
When she reached them, Josephine smiled. She appeared genuinely pleased to see them both. “Stephen, Charles,” she said. “Oh my God, it’s been so long.”
“Too long!” Stephen agreed. He bent down so that Josephine could press an air kiss to his cheek. “So glad you could make it.”
“I’d never have missed it.” Then she turned to Charles. Her smile softened. “Hello, Charles,” she said, her voice almost gentle. She looked at him as she would an old friend.
So it seemed almost natural to bend down for his own air kiss. To his relief, her lips never touched his skin, but her cheek was soft against his. She still wore Chanel No. 5.
What was the name of Sandra’s perfume? He’d never asked. He’d really only smelled it on that note she’d sent him. On some nights, he caught a trace of scent up close, but it was worn thin at the end of a long day. She hadn’t left any in his apartment. He’d have to find out.
Josephine pulled back and gave him a considering look. She didn’t have Rosalie’s delicate features, but she’d never failed to turn heads, either. Her father was the financier Timothy Banks. He’d scandalized the old money of Philadelphia when he’d married a woman descended from a line of Turkish diplomats.
Luckily for Josephine, she’d inherited her mother’s striking looks. Safiye Banks had been one of the most celebrated beauties in Ankara. Timothy Banks looked like a man submerged in cold water for too long.
“When did you get in?” Stephen aske
d.
“Just this morning,” she replied. “Hideously early, in fact.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Oh, the Pierre, of course!”
“And how long will you be in town?” Charles inquired. Then he almost winced. It had been the natural follow-up, but in this context, it might have sounded like an invitation.
“I’m not sure yet,” Josephine said. “I did promise Mother and Father I’d spend Christmas with them, so eventually I’ll be off to Pennsylvania. In February, I’ll be hosting a fundraiser at the Rittenhouse, so I might as well settle in the States for a while.”
“Oh, marvelous,” Stephen said. He clapped Charles on the shoulder. “Always nice to get old friends together. Can we offer you a drink?”
Josephine glanced at Charles again. Her lips quirked, and she said dryly, “Please do.”
Once, hours with Josephine had passed swiftly. At the time, Charles had been shocked. Now he was shocked by the reversal. The evening dragged on and on. He couldn’t fault her, of course. None of this was to do with her at all, though she wouldn’t find that flattering.
No, it was all to do with him. The food was excellent; the company was fine. Stephen, Craig, and Rosalie managed to keep the conversation going all night, as if they were passing a ball that they encouraged other players to pick up. Even Craig’s former roommate—Allen, that was his name—kept his head above water, though he looked embarrassed when he admitted he didn’t belong to a country club. The lawyers stuck to talking about golf.
As for Charles, maybe he wasn’t pulling his weight. Josephine sat to his right, making her his dinner partner. He couldn’t help remembering Sandra on the night they’d met, when they’d been in the same position. It had been the last time he’d felt so reluctant to fulfill his social duties.
No, that wasn’t accurate. He’d wanted to talk to Sandra. He’d found her soft, thoughtful voice as alluring as everything else about her. But he hadn’t managed it—in fact, he hadn’t felt so tongue-tied since he was a teenager. Every time he’d looked at her, he’d lost his breath again.