by Susan Wiggs
He took a deep breath, then said, “Well, there’s this girl—”
“I knew it! Ringrazi il cielo, did you hear that, Sal? Tony’s got a girl. A Christmas Eve girl.”
He grinned, shaking his head. “Look, Ma, don’t get too exci—”
“Ha. Don’t you tell me. I know what it means when a man spends Christmas Eve with a girl. Didn’t your father and I get engaged on Christmas Eve, eh? Didn’t we?” She paused to blow her nose. “It’s just like when you were in college, and you kept promising to bring someone to meet us. It always broke my heart that you never brought her home, Tony.”
He knew he should explain that this was a casual date that happened to fall on Christmas Eve. He knew he should explain that Elaine St. James was out of his league, that they’d probably go their separate ways after tonight, that she was no more cut out to be a cop’s wife than he was to be a society husband. He should tell his mother that he’d stood in the middle of Elaine’s designer apartment today and felt like an alien life-form.
But he didn’t say any of that. Because there was something stubborn about his heart, something that made him think that maybe, just maybe, he and Elaine could get it right this time.
“Are your shoes polished?” she demanded, businesslike now.
“Huh?”
“Your shoes, your shoes. You shine them until you see your teeth reflected, you hear me?”
Grinning again, he excavated his dress shoes. “No problem, Ma.”
“And your suit—the one you bought for Uncle Rico’s funeral, yes?”
“An excellent choice.”
She rattled off a string of instructions while he held up each tie, looking for the perfect match.
“I got to get in the shower, Ma,” he said after a while. “I don’t want to be late.”
“Go, go,” she urged him. “But … Tony?”
“Yeah?”
“Bring her home this time, eh?”
He ripped the cellophane off the white shirt. “I’ll do my best, Ma.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ELAINE’S WORK on the St. James affair had long been finished. What she was supposed to do, at this point, was relax, enjoy the party and make sure everyone had a fabulous time.
But tonight was different. It was Christmas Eve, the clients were her parents and she was getting a shot at her biggest account to date. In the midst of all this, she was supposed to forget her troubles, forget that her best friend had betrayed her, forget that her boyfriend had dropped her.
But that wasn’t what was making her nerves jangle on the swift, thirty-one-story rise to the St. James apartment. Smiling tautly at the elevator man, she admitted to herself that the source of her apprehension was something—someone—altogether different.
There was no denying it. Just being near Tony Fiore, even the very thought of him, made her tingle with an awareness that was actually embarrassing in its intensity. She wasn’t a naive girl anymore, yet with Tony, she felt young and light and full of feelings she had long thought lost to her.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the smoke-tinted elevator mirror, she detected a splotchy blush on her neck. It was like a red map of the former Soviet Union rising up from the décolletage of her perfect cocktail dress. She hadn’t blushed like this in ages, though it used to be a common and embarrassing trait of hers. The red rash of rapture, she had once jokingly called it when her college roommate had asked her if she had a fever. Agitated, she raised the collar of her coat.
As they arrived at the thirty-first floor, the elevator man tipped his cap. “Merry Christmas, Miss St. James.”
“What? Uh, thanks. Same to you.”
Flustered, she stepped out of the elevator and into the place where she’d spent her over-privileged childhood. It was gorgeous as always, in the gleaming-marble, sleekly chic way of the city’s finest old money roosts. It had a special holiday sparkle imparted by the subtle, elegant touches of the floral designer she’d engaged for the event.
Graceful and minimalist, the seasonal decor avoided the usual swags of holly and mistletoe in favor of simple elegance. In the foyer, a pair of beeswax tapers flanked a single calla lily in a crystal vase, artfully displayed atop the Louis XVI side table. The living room had been arranged for conversation and dancing. She and the designer had talked her mother out of putting up the traditional twelve-foot tree because it would take up too much space. Instead, the designer had insisted that the “suggestion” of a tree—an abstract stainless-steel sculpture of a branch over the mantel—would suffice.
Elaine found herself wishing she had argued more with the designer.
Sinbad, who had no last name and whose talents were booked for years in advance, was warming up on the white Steinway. Elaine surrendered her coat to one of the caterer’s uniformed staffers, who bore it away to the guest room that tonight would serve as a cloakroom.
Elaine took a few moments for a quick tour. In the vast, well-equipped kitchen, Armand orchestrated the preparations like an air traffic controller. He paused only long enough to greet Elaine, assure her that everything was perfect and on time, and insist that she sample the tamarind-perfumed seviche.
“Outstanding,” she assured him, savoring the lime-cured raw fish. Secretly, she yearned for Chex Mix and little cubes of cheese.
The familiar tap-tapping of her mother’s footsteps drew her back to the huge, beautiful living room, which had been designed by Mongiardino. But the room itself faded to obscurity when Elaine’s mother walked in.
The press had always been especially kind to Freddie St. James, and for good reason. She had married Banner St. James, whose roots and wealth were sunk deep into the mythos of the city, and she was everything the media wanted from a woman like her: graceful, educated and generous. She was admired by everyone from her bookkeeper’s assistant to the attorney general.
Tonight she wore a Vera Wang original and Cartier jewels. An invisible fog of Gucci Rush surrounded her.
“Wow,” said Elaine. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were from central casting. You look perfect, Mom.”
Freddie smiled and held out both hands. “Hello, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.”
They leaned toward each other but didn’t touch except for their hands. Both were conscious of not wanting to disturb the other’s porcelain-perfect makeup. Freddie stepped away from Elaine and subjected her to a shrewd study. “Wow, yourself,” she said with genuine admiration. “That dress is fabulous.”
Elaine had thought so when she’d first put it on. Over a long-sleeved tunic of black Sea Isle cotton, the designer had draped a shimmery mesh of babyfine gold cord.
“You think?” she asked, realizing how much she had always sought her mother’s good opinion by trying to appear just right. “It reminds me of chains. Didn’t Marley’s ghost wear chains?”
“Merry Christmas,” called a jovial voice. Banner St. James joined them, timelessly handsome in his crisp Armani tux.
Elaine greeted her father with cordial warmth, and regarded both her parents with a certain diffuse wistfulness. Despite that she was an only child, they weren’t really a close family. Her most cherished Christmas memory was the year of the biggest blizzard in the history of the city. Socked in by a record snowfall and extended power outage, the three of them had slept together under duvets in the living room around the fireplace. They’d fixed canned soup and crackers for supper, then played board games by candlelight. Something about the slow rhythm of that magical day had fulfilled her more than any international ski trip or luxury cruise.
She did not doubt that her parents loved her, or she them, but they had never shared the sort of easy, natural affection she sometimes observed in families that were less busy, less self-conscious, less preoccupied with appearances.
As she smiled with confidence and assured them that the party was going to be wonderful, there was so much she wished for. She wished she could tell them about Bobbi and Byron. She wished she could explain that she’d run into
Tony Fiore and was totally confused by him. She wished they could spend Christmas doing something quiet and cozy rather than over-the-top entertaining. But, of course, she couldn’t say those things to them.
Melanie and Jenny arrived, setting off a chain reaction of preparatory events, followed by the arrival of the guests in convivial clusters. Within a short while, the St. James affair was underway. With Sinbad’s expert playing as a sound track, the party burst into a flurry of celebration that seemed to Elaine to be as staged and visually busy as a music video.
When Tony Fiore walked into the room, there seemed to be a subtle pause, like a collective intake of breath. Even as Elaine hurried to welcome him, the speculation started, an insistent current of whispers flowing beneath the surface small talk. He was a rising young star, a socialite’s lover, an Olympic athlete.
As he removed his parka and gloves, he was either oblivious or took the attention in stride, focusing solely on Elaine. He looked wonderful in a dark suit and white shirt that set off a burgundy-colored tie.
She took his hand, grimacing a little. “You’re freezing.”
“My hands are always cold. Even when I remember my gloves.” He handed the gloves, along with his jacket, to an attendant.
Elaine’s parents greeted him with their usual poise, but also silent questions they couldn’t quite conceal.
“Byron’s not coming,” Elaine said, taking the coward’s way out and breaking the news in the safety of the public eye. “Tony’s my plus-one tonight.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Freddie said, her voice perfectly modulated.
“He’s an ex-hockey star,” Elaine added, easing into the familiar phony party patter she’d developed into an art. She was an expert spin doctor, adept at making people and products seem larger-than-life. With a simple verbal twist, she changed out-of-work actors into rising stars, has-been artists into cutting-edge visionaries.
But the trouble was, Tony seemed amused by her spin. When she said, “He’s in law enforcement—”
He burst out laughing and said, “I better get you out on the dance floor before I find out I’m a Kennedy cousin.” He offered her parents a jovial smile, and led Elaine into the midst of the milling couples.
“I get it now,” he said.
“Get what?”
“The reason it wouldn’t have worked out for us.”
“Really. And why is that?”
“Your folks. I’m sure they’re great people but I’m not exactly their idea of the perfect guy for their daughter.”
“Back then, maybe.”
“And now?”
“Now that so-called perfect daughter has a mind of her own.”
“I was counting on that, Elaine.”
She found herself swept against him, and something incredible came over her, as it had when he’d taken her skating. He moved with the grace of an athlete, his hand firm and secure at her waist. There was magic in his embrace, in the hard bulk of his body and the soft smile that curved his full lips. She was engulfed by his nearness, his warmth, the heady essence of his masculinity.
As the music filled her, so did memory and emotion, warmed by a contentment deeper and more real than anything she’d felt in years. She’d been out in the cold too long and had gone numb in vital places. Now she was thawing out and she welcomed the surging tingles of pain that reminded her she was alive.
When was the last time she had danced just for the pleasure of it? Just for the feel of a man’s arms around her and the mindless delight of moving to the rhythm of the music? She couldn’t remember, because these days when she danced in a man’s arms, it was to entertain or conduct business or impress someone. Tony Fiore couldn’t know it, but this was such a gift, to simply be with him for no other reason than to dance. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the reason for this newfound sense of fun and freedom was Tony. He had that effect on her. That was why she’d fallen for him the first night they skated together, and why she’d kept coming back.
She tilted back her chin to gaze up at him. And to her astonishment, a tear slipped from her eye. She prayed he wouldn’t notice. He did, of course.
“Hey, what’s this?”
What the heck, she thought. He already knew far too much about her. He always had. She saw no point in hiding her feelings. “This is fun,” she said. “I love dancing with you. It’s sort of like skating, but I’m better at it.”
He grinned. “If this is your idea of fun, I guess I don’t want to see you depressed.” With infinite gentleness, he brushed his thumb over the crest of her cheekbone, wiping away the tear. His smile softened, and she was startled to discern a hint of genuine, uncomplicated affection in his regard. It was so different from the way others looked at her. With interest, perhaps. Ambition, undoubtedly. Wariness or respect, occasionally. But straightforward, no-strings-attached caring was something she rarely encountered. He made her feel important and valued, not for her social pedigree but simply for being in the world.
“The women in my family get all choked up over Christmas, too,” he said, misinterpreting her tears. “My Aunt Flo can’t even look at a manger scene without turning into a leaky faucet.”
Elaine decided to leave it at that. Her unexpected reaction was too complicated to explain. Nor did she want to try explaining that she didn’t like Christmas because she was afraid to let it mean something to her. She couldn’t bring herself to confess that the last time she’d tried to let someone into her heart, she’d been so hurt that she’d simply stopped trying. And she would never admit that the someone had been him.
“He’s here,” Jenny hissed, breaking in on their dance without apology. “It’s showtime.”
“We’re in the middle of a dance here,” Tony said, his voice neutral but firm.
“Sorry, but we’re in the middle of a deal here,” Jenny said, flashing a smile designed to dazzle.
He wasn’t dazzled. Elaine could see that immediately. “Give us a minute, Jen.”
“Half a minute,” she said curtly.
Elaine pretended to be amused as Jen hurried away. “So you’ve got thirty seconds, and then it really is showtime.”
“Elaine, even I’m not working on Christmas.”
She tried to forget how much it meant to dance with him, how it had felt when he’d wiped away her tears. She reminded herself of the importance of landing this account. And not just to her. Jenny and Melanie needed it, too. The three of them had built the business and rose or fell with the firm’s success or failure. And her partners didn’t have room to fail. Unlike her, they had no trust fund spread out like a safety net below them, ready to cushion them when they failed or simply got bored and walked away.
“Look,” she whispered to Tony, “I gave my word I’d help out with this guy. And we’re shorthanded tonight.” The thought of Bobbi tugged at her spirits. She pictured her former friend alone in her tiny walkup, fretting over unpaid bills, wishing she’d gone home for Christmas. The image of Bobbi’s misery gave Elaine no sense of justice or moral victory. It was merely depressing.
“Okay,” Tony said good-naturedly. “I’ll go help myself to more of those liverwurst sandwiches.”
She couldn’t help smiling as he headed for a waiter holding out a tray of pâté de foie gras en croute. For the next hour or so, Tony mingled effortlessly with the glittering company, his friendly, genuine manner endearing him to everyone, from the bartender to the ambassador of Uruguay.
There was an artful pause in the music and conversation when Axel entered the room. The subtle hush was different and more dramatic than it had been for Tony, because Melanie had arranged for Sinbad to pause dramatically in his playing. Axel and his Euro-chic entourage were so cutting-edge sharp that they resembled fashion mannequins. Their close-cut hair was slick and glossy, their black suits glovelike around starving bodies that probably subsisted on Campari and Dunhill cigarettes.
“So there he is,” Melanie murmured in her ear, “the holy grail of accounts. Let’s hope yo
u can snag him without Bobbi’s help. Get going.”
Elaine turned on the charm with no more effort than flipping a switch. She made introductions and drew the somber Swiss man into the center of the action. He was stunningly handsome, his slender body impeccably clad in an Italian suit, his face as perfectly smooth and gleaming as carved and polished wood. He had a reputation as a fabulous but demanding lover, and was nearly always found draped in supermodels. That was where Bobbi came in. Without her, they’d have to improvise. Jenny came forward with the hired escorts, a pair of bony, bright-eyed actresses in borrowed designer dresses.
Axel was suave and low-key, greeting everyone with continental panache. Elaine’s parents were as taken with him now as they had been at Parents’ Day at school in Lugano. He was precisely their type. Despite the trendy moniker, he had a family tree hung with European royalty. Anyone who could call Prince Rainier “Uncle” was certainly welcome in their home.
She felt his attention on her like a beam of cold light.
“Your daughter has always charmed me until I cannot see straight,” he declared in an accent more delicious than melted chocolate.
It was all Elaine could do to keep from rolling her eyes. Although just thinking about Tony could summon up a blush, blatant flattery from a Swiss billionaire blew past her like dust bunnies.
She caught Tony’s eye and motioned him over. The moment he joined their group, she saw the contrast between them. Side-by-side, they were almost comical, with Tony the picture of the all-American male, big and brawny, exuding self-confidence and a tangible amount of testosterone. By contrast, Axel was a svelte and polished European import, his sculpted mouth taut with a condescending smile. Clearly they both sensed an undeclared rivalry afoot.
“May I have this dance?” Axel said to Elaine, offering his hand. The nails gleamed from a Japanese manicure. His laser-whitened teeth flashed as he smiled.
Winning his business was the sole purpose of the night, she reminded herself. She said, “Of course,” then turned to Tony. “Jenny and Melanie will take good care of you.”