by Dee Davis
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to sell Frenetic on Fifth?” Cybil asked, turning from another conversation to join us. “I’ve had at least four offers for it.”
“Not a chance. I love that painting.”
Stephen had once offered me a painting and I’d chosen Frenetic on Fifth. And, because I think it’s one of his best, I’d agreed to let him have it back for the show—strictly on loan. Which I suppose, in a weird kind of way, makes me an original patroness of the soon-to-be famous Stephen Hobbs. (Okay, maybe patroness is stretching it a bit too far. But I was definitely an early fan.)
“Never hurts to ask,” Cybil continued. “I suspect you could get six figures.”
“Well, kudos to Stephen. But no dice.” I snagged another canapé. This one brioche topped with goat cheese and what appeared to be a bit of sun-dried tomato, although it better resembled damp cardboard. Fresh ingredients are the key to any good dish. And cutting corners is inexcusable. Especially when playing at this level.
“Don’t say anything to Anna,” Cybil said, eyeing the napkin where I’d discreetly folded the food. “She’s used the same caterer for years, and Vanessa says she won’t consider anyone else.”
“I’d never say anything,” I protested. “Besides, it’s not bad. Just a bit pedestrian. And I’m overly critical anyway.”
“You’re an expert,” Stephen said, loyally. “And actually, I agree.”
“Me, too,” Cybil laughed, “but we’ll keep it on the QT.”
“Hey, beautiful.” Two arms encircled my waist as the words tickled my ears. “I’d wondered where you’d gotten to.”
As more people stepped in to congratulate Stephen, I turned to smile up at Dillon. “Just mingling. How about you? Had enough of this party?”
“Hey, I’d had enough before I even got here.”
“You should have been drinking champagne.” I held up my half-empty glass as proof. “It has a way of making everything look rosy.”
“Even Althea?” he queried. “I saw you talking with her and Vanessa.”
“Couldn’t be helped. She’s hard to avoid. And besides, she wanted to gloat. Seems Bethany’s gone over to the dark side.”
“Dating Michael Stone, you mean? I always thought he was a bit too pompous for my taste.”
“Well, you think anyone who lives above Fifty-first is pompous.
“True. But you agree with me.”
“For the most part.” I reached up to brush a wayward curl out of his eye. Dillon has the most glorious hair. The kind that God really should have given to a woman. But for some reason it never happens that way. Like eyelashes. Have you ever noticed that guys often have the most amazing eyelashes? It really isn’t fair. “Anyway,” I continued. “The relevant point here is that Althea set Bethany up.”
“With Michael?” Dillon frowned. “I suppose it makes sense. But I thought your friends were off-limits.”
“Apparently, the rules have changed. Only no one bothered to tell me.”
“Well, there’s no way it’ll last.”
“Exactly what I said. Anyway, what’s done is done.”
“Sounds like you’re taking it all rather well.”
“I wasn’t. But as I said, I’ve had a few of these to dull my indignation.” I shook my glass again for emphasis. “Besides, Bethany is a big girl. And if she wants Althea to set her up, I suppose it’s not really any of my business. It certainly beats the hell out of Althea trying to set me up.”
“I know she doesn’t like me,” Dillon said, still frowning. “But I really don’t like her trolling for a replacement.”
“She hasn’t tried anything in ages. Although I’m sure she would if she could. You should have heard what she was saying about you.”
“Anything I should be worrying about?” His expression was teasing, but there was something in his voice that gave me a moment’s pause.
“Is there reason to worry?” I purposely kept my voice light, but my heart had stuttered to a stop.
“Of course not.” He brushed a kiss across my forehead, but I wasn’t convinced. “So what did the old battle-ax have to say?”
“Just that you were spending an unusual amount of time flirting with Diana Merreck.” I laughed, but the resulting sound wasn’t all that cheerful—I suppose, in part, because of all the people Dillon could have chosen to flirt with, Diana was the absolute worst. She stands for everything I hate about Manhattan society—a social predator who ranks her friends according to their breeding. She lives to judge others, and believe me, most are found wanting. To say she’s a piece of work is an understatement, and the idea of Dillon spending time with her quite frankly made me sick to my stomach.
“I always flirt,” Dillon said, finishing off his champagne. “You know that.”
“That’s what I told Althea, actually. But she implied she’d seen you together on more than one occasion.” The last bit just sort of slipped out on its own, sounding much more accusatory than I’d intended.
“Really.” There was definitely an underlying note in his voice. Not panic, exactly, but something very closely kin to it.
“Dillon, what is it?”
“Nothing,” he said with what I considered a forced smile.
“Oh, come on,” I said, stomach churning, “you don’t even like champagne and you just drained your glass.”
“There’s nothing, I swear. You’re just letting Althea get to you.”
“No. I’m not.” I shook my head, my heart threatening to leap right through my dress. “I know you too well. Something’s up. So spill it.”
“I don’t think now is the right time. Why don’t we head home and—,” he started, but I was too wound up to let it go.
“Dillon. Whatever it is, just say it.”
“I . . . ,” he started, and then stopped. For a moment he just stared at his feet, then with a sigh he lifted his head, the look of regret on his face making my stomach do three-sixties. “Look, I didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”
“Find out what?” I snapped, working hard to keep my tone civil. It’s just that I had the sudden impression that my carefully ordered life was about to spiral completely out of control.
His hands slid to my arms, palms massaging small circles as if somehow his touching me was going to make everything okay. And quite frankly, five minutes ago I’d have agreed with the idea. But that was then, and . . .
“I have been seeing Diana,” he said finally.
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms as I struggled to comprehend the finality of those five little words. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. This was Dillon we were talking about.
My Dillon.
We might not have exchanged rings, but we were definitely committed. This was the man who knew me better than anyone. My lover, my friend. The person I trusted most in all the world. I’d shared things with Dillon I’d never told anyone. Not even Bethany. We laughed at the same jokes, loved the same movies, shared a passion for Manhattan and for each other. Or at least that’s what I’d believed until two minutes ago.
“It wasn’t like I planned it, Andi,” Dillon was saying, his words shredding what was left of my heart. “I mean, initially, I was just trying to help. She’s throwing a party for a friend and she wants to have it at The Plumm. I have an in there, and so she asked if I could arrange things.”
I sucked in a breath, fighting tears as I swallowed the retort forming in my head. I needed to take the high road. I needed to hang on to some semblance of normalcy.
“So anyway.” He shifted uncomfortably, his hands dropping to his sides. “One thing led to another . . .”
“And you were having a private party for two?” Okay, so maybe I’m not so good at high roading. But it beat the alternative— completely and utterly falling apart.
“Yeah. But it’s not like I was trying to hurt you.” He actually sounded apologetic. As if in saying the last bit, he’d somehow make everything all right.
“Actually, I’m gu
essing I wasn’t really on your mind at all in the moment.” The first tears trickled down my cheeks, even as I struggled for composure. “So, was it just the once?” It was a stupid question, but you try being erudite when your boyfriend is telling you he’s been schtooping someone you loathe.
“No.” He shook his head. “But it’s more than just sex. At least, I think it is.”
Oh my God. Dillon hadn’t just cheated on me. He’d gone and fallen for the woman. My gut clenched as I rejected the notion. This couldn’t be happening. Not here. Not to me. I felt as if I’d blundered into some kind of alternate world. One where Bethany needed a matchmaker and Dillon had the hots for Diana Merreck. And lest you think I'm being judgmental, you have to understand that Diana’s all Hermes and pearls, while Dillon is three-hundred-dollar vodka and partying until dawn. Like old money and new money—they don’t mix.
“So what?” I said, fighting to breathe normally, to keep some semblance of calm. “You’re dumping me for Diana Merreck?” My heart had stopped beating altogether now. Although I suppose that’s impossible, since clearly I was still standing there listening to Dillon destroy my life.
“No. I mean, yes. Oh, God, Andi, I don’t know.” Again with the adorable confused look. Everything about him was so familiar. So much a part of me. And yet, it was as if I were listening to a total stranger. Someone I barely knew.
“Well, you can’t have it both ways.” The words came out on a strangled whisper, and I quickly downed the rest of my champagne in a vain attempt to find my balance.
“Why not?” he asked, his hair flopping onto his forehead again. To my credit, I resisted the urge to yank it out of his head. “You’ve always talked about our having a modern relationship.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean three-ways,” I hissed through clenched teeth, anger finally showing its wonderfully reinvigorating head. “If you think you’re going to have your cake and eat it, too, you’re out of your mind.”
“I see,” he said, looking defiant and apologetic all at the same time.
“So that’s it? Just like that it’s over?” I half expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out and tell me I’d been punk’d. Dillon wasn’t seeing Diana Merreck. It was all just a big joke. With me falling for it lock, stock, and roasting pan.
“I don’t want it to be. But I can’t quit seeing her. I just can’t.”
So this wasn’t a joke. Or some godawful dream. It was real.
Dillon was seeing someone else. He was seeing Diana Merreck. I’d trusted him with my heart and he’d made a complete and utter fool of me.
It was over. Just like that. Right here. Right now. In the middle of a fucking party in front of everyone we knew.
“Fine,” I said, brushing angrily at my tears. I’d be damned if I’d let him be the one to cast the deathblow. “Then let’s just end it now.”
Without giving him a chance to respond, I turned and walked away with as much dignity as I could muster considering the circumstances and the fact that I was wearing four-inch heels. Okay, there was also the small matter of a little too much champagne. But hey, I was thankful for the insulation.
I swallowed my tears, smiled graciously at several well-wishers, ducked a conversation with a concerned-looking Vanessa, and even managed an air kiss for Kitty Wheeler. Which tells you right there how upset I was. Normally, I’d have avoided her like the plague. Besides being generally annoying, she’s Diana Merreck’s best friend.
Three minutes later and I was out on the sidewalk, hand extended for a cab. Except, of course, there wasn’t one in sight. So I turned and started walking, reaction setting in, my body shaking as the tears began to fall in earnest. I still couldn’t comprehend the enormity of what had happened. In less than two minutes my life had imploded, everything I’d believed to be true proving false.
Tears dripped off the end of my nose and I swiped at them, trying to keep my pain to myself. Fortunately, it wasn’t that difficult a task. In Manhattan, no one really gives a damn. Which meant my breakdown was going pretty much unnoticed, except for a guy in a box on an abandoned stoop.
“Hey, lady,” he called from his cardboard studio. “It can’t be that bad.”
I shook my head in answer, his words triggering the floodgates. Tears turned to sobs, and I closed my eyes, struggling for at least some semblance of composure. I could fall apart later. First, I had to get home.
I sucked in a breath, squared my shoulders, and moved forward, my foot landing on . . . nothing.
Nothing at all.
And, with an inverted jackknife worthy of an Olympian diver, I fell, butt first, into the abyss.
Chapter 2
Okay, not an abyss so much as a cellar.
I’ve lived my entire life in fear of falling through the hammered double doors that dot the sidewalks of Manhattan. When I was little I actually made quite a production of avoiding them. You know the drill—jumping over them. Running around them. Inching past the dubious ones, especially when the sidewalk was really crowded. But, as I got older, I realized that with a little prudence (and possibly a little less theatrics) I probably wasn’t going to wind up squashed at the bottom of a dank old cellar.
Apparently, I was wrong.
The place was damp and smelled of mold. Thankfully, I’d landed on something squishy. Although on second thought, this was New York—home of Son of Sam, the Gottis, and eleven hundred episodes of Law & Order. My mind shifted into nefarious gear and I shuddered, trying to push to my feet.
But my legs were having none of that, and I immediately collapsed again, pain coursing through my leg and chest, something sticky dripping down my face. My left heel had broken off and my dress had a rip that made Althea’s pronouncement of debauchery totally true. It was not only downright X-rated, it was impossible to repair. But, on the positive side, my shift in position had illuminated the source of my padded landing.
Cabbages—surrounded by crates of tomatoes, parsley, and what looked like turnips. I’d fallen into a vegetable market. Or, more likely, a bodega cellar.
So much for dead bodies.
“Are you all right down there?” A deep voice floated through the open doors above me. For a moment my mind played tricks on me, and my heart lurched, thinking that Dillon had come to find me. To rescue me (which was a ridiculous notion for any number of reasons, but I’ve always had a vivid imagination).
A dark head, clearly not Dillon’s, appeared in the opening. “Should I call an ambulance?”
The idea of making a further spectacle was abhorrent. I shifted again, this time moving more slowly, anticipating the discomfort, and was satisfied that although the motion did make me a little nauseated, the pain wasn’t completely unbearable. “No,” I said, pulling together the tattered remnants of my dress. “I think I can make it home. I only live a couple of blocks away.”
“Well, I’m coming down to make sure.”
Just what I needed—a witness to my debacle.
“No, really,” I called, “I can make it out. If you’ll just give me a hand?” But before I could manage to move a muscle, he’d climbed down the steps (a much more sensible mode of entry) and was kneeling beside me.
“What hurts?”
“My head. A little. And my chest. Well, more my side, really.”
He reached out gently to push my hair aside. “You’ve got a pretty nasty cut there.”
“That explains the sticky stuff,” I murmured. “I think I’d have preferred it be from a tomato or avocado or something.”
He frowned, his fingers probing around the wound. “How hard did you hit your head?”
“It’s a vegetable haven in here,” I said, by way of explanation, waving weakly at a pile of potatoes in a corner. “And not that hard. At least I don’t think so. Are you a doctor?”
“No.” He smiled at that, and I was surprised at how much the gesture softened his face. “Just your average Good Samaritan.”
I glanced up at the doorway, half expecting a crowd of faces. But the
opening was empty.
“You said your chest hurts?” His hands moved down my shoulders, still palpating.
“I’m fine,” I said, pulling away. “Really.” Considering the situation, I was enjoying his ministrations entirely too much.
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that.” He smiled again, and I nodded, grateful for the moment to let someone else be in charge. My head was starting to throb, and to be honest, I felt a bit woozy.
“So what happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I was just walking and then boom, I landed here.”
“Drinking?”
I searched his face for judgment, and seeing none answered honestly. “A little champagne.” Okay—not so honestly. “But I needed it. I just broke up with my boyfriend.”
“I see,” he said, his words echoing Dillon’s.
“No, it’s not like that,” I hastened to add, not sure exactly why I wanted to explain myself. “He’d just confessed to cheating on me. At a party. In front of half of the Upper East Side.” Actually, I was making it sound worse. Go me.
“Well, that explains it all, then.” His laugh was warm and kind of gentle. It made me shiver. Or maybe it was the damp. Actually, it had to be the damp. The guy was a total stranger. I was just going into shock or something.
“Well, I don’t think anything’s broken,” he pronounced, sitting back on his heels. “What do you say we get you out of here?” I nodded as he slipped his arms underneath mine and lifted me upward. For a moment the world spun like crazy, then it cleared and I actually managed to stand on my own two feet. “Thanks,” I said, clutching my dress. There wasn’t much material in the first place, and thanks to some pretty provocative rippage it was not easy to stay covered.
“Here,” he said, slipping out of his jacket. “Take my coat.” Well, blow me over with a feather. Chivalry is alive and well and living in a bodega cellar. Who knew?
“But I’ll get blood all over it.”
“So I’ll get it cleaned.” He shrugged. I slid in my arms as he held the jacket for me, grateful for the warmth. “How about I follow you up the steps?”