by July Hall
Bradley kept his gaze focused down the aisle, his posture correct but easy. She knew he was used to being admired. He’d always acted like it wasn’t a big deal.
The next pair walked down the aisle: two groomsmen, side by side. Sandra didn’t recognize them, either, but they were here for Craig. That meant only one groomsman was left, and Sandra found her stomach knotting in anticipation. She realized that she was clutching her program so tightly that it was starting to crease and made herself relax her grip.
Sure enough, after the other two groomsmen took their place on the gazebo steps, Charles appeared with Rosalie on his arm. The crowd murmured again, and Sandra understood why. Bradley was gorgeous, but his mother and uncle radiated elegance and power, the essence of what it meant to be a Magister. Charles and Rosalie walked like sovereigns must walk, with invincible dignity, as if the world belonged to them. The attitude was sheer, arrogant entitlement—but somehow they made it work. Kristen would be spitting nails.
There was one undeniable benefit: by looking the way they did, Charles and Rosalie crushed anyone who might dare to make fun of Stephen’s special day. This was a Magister wedding, and it would have all the respect and ceremony it deserved.
Charles escorted Rosalie to the empty seat at the end of the aisle. He gave her arm an affectionate pat before she sat down and then took the gazebo step above Bradley. When he turned to face the crowd, Sandra got a look at the whole picture. She actually throbbed between her legs.
Forget Arnaud, forget Bradley—formal dress was made for a man like Charles. The line of the fitted tailcoat accentuated his tall, slim build. His white tie, shirt, and waistcoat made for a striking contrast with the black coat and trousers. The coat cut away just above the edge of his waistcoat. For a lot of men, this was dangerous territory, calling attention to any spare tires or love handles. Charles had no such problem. Sandra gulped. He should have been a king.
Jesus Christ. She’d drunk the Kool-Aid.
Then the music changed. Recognizing the cue, the audience rose to its feet. The quintet didn’t play the wedding march—maybe Stephen wanted to avoid any homophobic “here comes the bride” jokes. Instead, the music swelled into one of the overtures from Handel’s Water Music. Stephen and Craig walked down the aisle together, arm in arm. Unlike Charles and Rosalie, they didn’t radiate dignity. They radiated pure happiness, and Sandra grinned.
When they reached the gazebo, they climbed the front step and stopped, still arm in arm. The priest smiled down at them, and then raised her face to look at the audience.
“Dearly beloved,” she began, “we are gathered here today to witness the union of Stephen and Craig…”
The rest of the ceremony unfolded with no unpleasant surprises or nightmare scenarios. Nobody dropped the wedding rings, nobody rose to object, nobody forgot their vows. The most extraordinary thing that happened was the warm smile Charles gave Stephen when he handed over the ring. It made Sandra’s heart melt. This wasn’t just about putting on a Magister show; he was truly happy for his brother. The haters could go to hell.
She wasn’t sure Stephen noticed, though. He had eyes only for his husband-to-be. Sandra couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen someone so unabashedly in love, so overwhelmed with joy. Craig looked the same. Her eyes prickled with tears, and she cursed her decision to go heavy on the eyeliner and mascara. She didn’t normally cry at weddings, but she should have known this one would be special.
In the final part of the ceremony, the priest told Stephen and Craig, “I now pronounce you married. You may kiss one another.”
Stephen touched Craig’s face before he leaned in for a gentle kiss. Though the grooms stood in front of two hundred people, the kiss struck Sandra as something very personal, even private. Perhaps that was how they’d kissed for the first time. Maybe it had been tender and romantic and full of hope, and they were remembering it right now.
Then they turned to face the crowd, and the priest announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Stephen and Craig Magister.”
So Charles had succeeded on the name change. Judging by the blinding grin on his face, Craig hadn’t minded too much. Sandra knew fake smiles, and that wasn’t one. He was happy to be a Magister, one of the clan. Well, whatever else the future held, Sandra knew that his new family would accept him more than his old one had. This must be a bittersweet occasion for him, but he seemed to have embraced the “sweet” part of it.
The crowd rose to its feet once more and applauded. Glancing around, Sandra saw that most people wore polite smiles. Roughly half of the applause was muffled beneath kidskin gloves. Feeling somehow as if she ought to take up the slack, she clapped harder, and beamed at Stephen and Craig, even though they weren’t looking at her.
Then Charles glanced her way. He probably hadn’t meant to—he was scanning the crowd with an imperially raised eyebrow, as if making sure that everyone was showing his brother the proper respect. But his eyes met Sandra’s, and her face went hot. That was strange, because she also wanted to shiver.
He looked away immediately, but her heart still raced. Oh shit, the reception was going to be rough. This was what happened when they made eye contact for one second? What was she going to do?
Sandra kept her gaze fixed on Stephen and Craig as they began to walk back down the aisle. The string quintet picked up where it had left off, moving into a peppier section of the overture more suited to a recessional. She took a deep breath to get her heart rate back under control.
When Stephen and Craig were nearly at the door that led back into the house, Charles escorted Rosalie down the aisle. She was dabbing delicately at her cheeks with a tissue, but it was anybody’s guess whether that was just for show. The warmth had vanished from Charles’s face, but it was obvious—to Sandra, at least—that he was trying to look pleasant. Deep breaths, deep breaths. She just had to think about anything other than how she’d had his cock in her mouth two days ago and how he’d kissed his own come off her lips.
Easier said than done.
After Charles and Rosalie came Craig’s groomsmen and then Bradley and the unidentified woman on his arm. Sandra looked down at her lap to avoid accidental eye contact with him, too. That wasn’t going to work all night, but after feeling electrocuted by Charles’s eyes, she needed a respite.
Arnaud touched her elbow. The crowd was rising to its feet, gathering purses and scarves, murmuring things like “Well, that was just lovely,” and “Shall we head in to dinner?” Sandra turned to the doors to see that more men in white jackets had emerged and were politely pointing the way toward the reception area.
“Ah, the time-honored tradition,” Arnaud said. “Getting out of the way so the family can take pictures.”
Sure enough, Sandra saw several people lugging equipment—cameras, tripods, lenses, clamps, and backpacks that were probably stuffed full of smaller, more delicate parts—through a side door of the house. Between them, two men carried heavy-looking…Sandra blinked. Were those stage lights?
She followed Arnaud toward the doors and got a nasty shock. Out of nowhere, a man jumped right in front of them and snapped their picture. Spots danced before her eyes as the light faded.
“Whoah, take it easy,” Arnaud said, blinking rapidly.
“Sorry,” the man said. He wore a warm-looking black turtleneck and jeans, and a black wool cap protected his head from the night air. He might as well have been a camera-wielding ninja. “Just testing the equipment. Thought I’d take a candid.”
“We’re better when we pose,” Arnaud said dryly.
The man looked both of them up and down. “I bet you are,” he said, and smiled. He raised the camera again. “Okay…say cheese.”
Arnaud and Sandra kept their arms linked, and smiled obediently though nobody said cheese. This time, Sandra was ready for the flash and even thought it was sort of fun—like she was a big star at a movie premiere getting mobbed by the paparazzi or something. After all, she was in an evening gown and
standing on an actual red carpet.
“Perfect,” the photographer said.
Arnaud glanced toward where the other people were setting up at the gazebo. “That’s your studio?”
“I wish! I’m just an assistant. I mostly live off of my freelance work.” He raised the camera again and pointed it at Sandra. “Not that you aren’t both pretty, but how about a picture just of you, gorgeous?”
“Oh—um—” Was he making fun of her? She glanced at Arnaud. “I guess so.”
“Just testing the equipment,” the photographer repeated. “Give me a big smile, honey.”
Sandra indulged him for one more photograph, but she wasn’t anxious to stick around for more. Something about him was creeping her out. She knew her fair share of event photographers, and while many of them were personable, none of them invaded people’s personal space with no warning and started using pet names. This guy could test his equipment out on somebody else, as far as she was concerned. Forever.
She put her arm back in Arnaud’s, and they made it to the doors that led back inside the house. One of the ubiquitous men in white jackets told them, “Dinner will be served in the anteroom, adjacent to the ballroom. Hors d’oeuvres are being served before dinner begins, if you would like to be seated.” It didn’t really seem like a request so much as an instruction. “When you arrive, you will be directed to your proper table.”
It was all so precise. A wedding planner there might be, but Sandra suspected Warrick’s hand in this too. She wondered where he was. Hopefully she’d have a chance to say hello sometime during the festivities.
Sandra and Arnaud walked together back toward the foyer. The ballroom and anteroom were on the other side. She couldn’t help noticing that as they passed by, people sometimes stopped talking and, when they were almost out of earshot, began whispering again. It made her skin crawl. What was their problem? So she and Arnaud hadn’t been born Vanderbilts. So what? They’d been invited to the wedding too, even if the circumstances were weird.
Unless that was the problem. Maybe word had spread that Sandra was Bradley’s ex. Shit, that was probably it. There was nothing else that would make the Upper East Side pay attention to two interior designers at a shindig like this, no matter how good Arnaud’s reputation was. It would be all about the gossip.
Fuck them. Sandra kept her chin up and wore her most reliable smile: the polite one that placated everyone and hid everything. It was like a second skin.
“Why do I feel like I’m back in high school?” Arnaud muttered. She glanced up at him to see that he also had his pleasant expression on. Of course, his was ten times cooler than hers.
“Because you pretty much are,” Sandra said. She couldn’t help tightening her grip on his forearm a little. Her palms were sweating in her gloves. “Nothing ever really changes.”
“You’re too young to say a thing like that.”
“Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”
“Hmm.” Arnaud glanced at the giant Christmas tree. Then he gave Sandra a wry half smile. “Well…I guess it’s better than not being talked about at all.”
* * *
They looked like goddamned movie stars.
Charles had heard the murmuring the moment he and Rosalie had left the photographers. Craig and Stephen were still getting their couples photos made; the other groomsmen had already left, with Craig’s old roommate valiantly escorting his sister to the anteroom before Charles had a chance to offer. Of course, they must already have known each other.
This meant that Charles had no extra distractions and couldn’t help being finely attuned to the words: “…used to date Bradley, but I don’t know what happened there. I can’t believe you didn’t see her. She’s here with a new man.” A pause. “You know, the black one.”
Charles and Rosalie came to a halt together, glancing to the side to see old Alice Fortescue in her diamond tiara, talking to the Fitzgeralds.
“Oh, that was her?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked. “Well, that’s what I call a good revenge. I’ve never seen such a stunning couple.” She tittered. “Poor Bradley, that must sting.”
“Everyone was staring,” her husband agreed. “I wonder what the hell Rosalie was thinking with the invitation? Water under the bridge?”
“Oh, who knows with Rosalie,” Alice said.
Rosalie went stiff next to Charles. Before she could say something unwise, Charles pulled her away, trying to keep his own blood pressure under control.
“Water under the bridge!” Rosalie spat. “I thought he was her employer.”
“He is,” Charles said immediately. “It’s his firm, for God’s sake. Get ahold of yourself. It’s not important.”
“It most certainly is! People think my son—our family heir, if that matters more to you—got thrown over by that tart from Brooklyn!”
“Because he did!” Charles snapped and then lowered his voice. It was too late; Rosalie’s eyes were already blazing. “You can’t rewrite history, Rosebud. Just ignore them.” It was the sort of thing he’d been saying to her since they were children, trying to pull her out of a tantrum or sulk.
Still, even this was preferable to thinking about the “stunning couple” that apparently had everyone in a flutter.
Rosalie tugged her arm from his, then glanced over his shoulder and put on her most dazzling smile for whoever was approaching them. “Don’t call me ‘Rosebud,’” she said through her teeth. “Elizabeth, my dear! Did you enjoy the ceremony?”
Charles sighed, arranged his own face, and turned to greet the Adamsons. It was going to be a long night.
His irritation—with the Fitzgeralds, with Rosalie, with the evening in general—lasted until they finally got to the anteroom, after stopping for various greetings on the way. Stephen and Craig would be arriving to make their entrance soon. The wedding planner had suggested that the wedding party should already be seated at the head table by then, unless they wanted to make a grand entrance themselves.
Charles had made enough of those for one night. So he entered the anteroom without fanfare and was therefore taken completely off-guard when he saw Sandra with her arm through another man’s.
It was hard to miss. Rosalie had seated them in the least desirable location—right by the main doorway. The moment he walked in, Charles was face-to-face with, he presumed, Arnaud Diallo.
He and Sandra were standing behind their chairs, exchanging introductions with the other unfortunates who were already seated at their end of the table. Both of them looked up when Charles and Rosalie walked in, and for a second, all Charles saw was beauty; in the next second, he wondered if his blood had just transmuted into acid.
“Oh!” Sandra said, sounding a little breathless. “Mr. and Ms. Magister. Good evening.”
Rosalie put her smile back on and marched away without a word.
“Um.” Sandra cleared her throat awkwardly. “Mr. Magister, this is my boss, Arnaud Diallo.”
Diallo extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Magister.”
Charles shook his hand and took the opportunity to scrutinize someone he’d like to send to Pluto. Arnaud Diallo looked like a man who’d never once cut himself shaving.
“Likewise,” he replied.
Then he did what he could no longer avoid doing and looked at Sandra. He should have remembered to breathe first. She had on a navy gown that turned her skin to cream and brought out her eyes. Her copper hair fell softly around her shoulders in loose waves—most of the women had their hair up, but Sandra wore hers as it was meant to be worn. Emeralds and diamonds hung from her earlobes, catching the light of the chandeliers and candles.
On the night they’d met at his dinner party, she’d looked elegant but untouchable. Severe, even. Tonight, like this, she cried out to be embraced, kissed, loved into exhaustion—and other men knew it.
It was actually, physically painful to look at her and not be able to…
He extended his hand toward her. “Miss Dane,�
�� he said.
Sandra wore kidskin gloves. She reached out, and for one moment they could touch. When he took her hand, Charles wondered that the room didn’t burst into flame.
“Thank you for inviting us,” she murmured.
He let her go. It was like being tossed from a fire into a snowbank. “Not at all. I hope you’ll enjoy the evening.” He nodded at the other couple, whom he did not know. “And you as well, of course. Thank you for coming.”
Before any of them could say anything else, he turned and left, wondering what that ringing sound in his ears was. Rational, he reminded himself. Rational and calm. You’ll speak to her tonight. What were those words he’d been rehearsing? He couldn’t remember. Something about caring for her and…
A woman in red appeared in his path. It took a moment for him to realize who she was.
“Hello, Charles,” Josephine said. She wore a slightly mischievous smile as she put her hand on his arm. “Rosalie said I had to rescue you, but you seem to have escaped on your own.”
Oh, hell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Josephine Banks. Sandra had never laid eyes on the woman, but she knew. When she put her arm through Charles’s and they walked toward two empty seats at the head table, it became a sure thing.
Sandra wondered if she was going to be sick. Her hand still tingled beneath her glove, and her heart was still racing from his touch. What did her face look like? Had she slipped? Would anyone in the room be able to take one look at her and know that she was in love with him?
Probably not. They were probably all busy looking at Josephine Banks, who was in love with him too.
Or…she had been once. That was obvious. Josephine had touched Charles in a casual way, as if it was no big deal. Nobody ever did that. Charles shook people’s hands. That was all. Nobody ever gave him a hug or even patted him on the shoulder. It was an unwritten law of the universe: Thou Shalt Not Touch Charles Magister.
But Josephine had, as if she was used to it, as if nothing had ended eight years ago. She’d smiled up at Charles in an easy, affectionate way—Sandra had never seen anybody else do that either, not even his own family.