Learning Curves (14 page)

His barb may have escaped the groom’s notice but Gillian’s eyes burned with anger at his clever slur. He saw Leanne’s lips twitch, and he felt a surprising sense of satisfaction.

Jeremy leaned forward, his manner open and friendly. “Well, that’s super. Leanne’s a great girl. How’d you meet?” He placed a loving kiss against his fiancée’s temple. She inclined her head, acknowledging the gesture, but her cold eyes never left Brandon’s face.

“Grad school, actually. We’re both students at Wellington.”

Sandra looked surprised and Leanne laughed, the husky sound sending a shiver of attraction down his spine that he did his best to ignore. Now was not the time to get sidetracked by his overactive libido. But just standing next to Leanne, her distinctive floral scent teasing his senses, made focusing on the chitchat difficult.

“I did my undergraduate work at Wellington but I got my MBA at Yale.”

“I guess we’re all Wellies, then. What a coincidence,” Gillian said, using the nickname for Wellington alumni. “Of course, I graduated a number of years after Jeremy but I still I keep in touch with so many friends from those days. After all, in my field, personal connections are so important. I’m determined to crack the top twenty-five in regional sales next year.”

“I’m sure you’ll make the top ten, sweetie,” said Sandra supportively. Leanne rolled her eyes discreetly, her mother’s preference clearly coming as no great shock.

Leanne spoke suddenly. “And your sorority sisters? Do you keep in touch with them too?”

The comment seemed innocuous enough but Gillian froze for a moment, as though startled by the question, but recovered quickly, although her eyes were glacial as she looked across the circle to where Brandon and Leanne stood.

“Of course I do,” she said sharply. “What kind of silly question is that? Delta Delta Phi forever.” She laughed and took a sip of champagne, but she seemed a little less sure of herself now and kept throwing speculative glances toward Leanne, as if trying to discern her intent.

Jeremy nodded. “Gill’s not the only one with her eye on the prize, though, Sandra. Didn’t I see something about you in the latest alumni magazine?”

“There was a profile in the October issue. I guess they ran it because I was short-listed for the Walters Prize.”

“Impressive.” Jeremy congratulated her and Brandon felt a spurt of jealousy at the honest goodwill in his voice. Gillian scowled too, as though unhappy with the friendly praise her fiancé offered. “When do you hear the results?”

“Not until after the public interview next week. I present to the committee on Tuesday.”

“Yes, Leanne’s always been a good student,” her mother offered and Brandon felt heartened by her support until she added, “Just make sure you wear something nice, with strong colors. And don’t forget to smile. A good smile is very important in these kinds of situations.”

Leanne’s lips quirked at the unsolicited advice. Brandon wasn’t sure if a good smile was important in
all
situations, but right now it was damn distracting, making him think of all the ways he could apply himself to teasing that elusive tilt from her succulent lips.

A lull made Brandon realize he’d missed a good chunk of the conversation. Jeremy was looking at him expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “You were saying?”

“Just asking if you’re in the MBA program. Because they’ve got an excellent program for a midsized university, don’t you agree?” Jeremy rummaged in his breast pocket. Withdrawing a business card, he handed it to Brandon.

Investment banker. No big surprise there. Jeremy’s entire demeanor proclaimed his wealth. Brandon felt a momentary spurt of inadequacy but he quickly smothered it. Everything he’d achieved in his life, he’d earned, and while he didn’t begrudge Jeremy his success, he knew he had nothing to apologize for.

“I wouldn’t really know. I’m not in that field, actually.”

“Brandon’s in the faculty of fine arts.” Leanne spoke up then and Brandon felt an unfamiliar lurch of happiness at her proud defense. “He’s a very talented choreographer, working on his PhD.”

Sandra’s demeanor thawed a few degrees. “I studied ballet before I met Leanne’s father,” she confided. “The choreographer was always the lifeblood of any successful performance. What styles do you work in?”

“I’ve dabbled in all of them at some time or another. Jazz, ballet, even some street styles,” he admitted. “But I really prefer a more modern, free-form style for my own pieces.”

Mrs. Galloway actually smiled at that and her resemblance to her daughter intensified. She was a very handsome woman and Brandon had a sudden premonition of what Leanne would look like in twenty-five years.

Jeremy and Gillian’s faces reflected surprise at his unconventional career path, but Brandon couldn’t care less what they thought. All that mattered was that Leanne was proud of him. As for the rest, they could take a flying leap from the nearest cliff. He wasn’t there to impress them. He was there to support Leanne as a friend.

And more?

He was so startled by the idea that he froze, the hand still holding Leanne’s tightening involuntarily. He saw her wince from the corner of his eye, and with an effort, forced his fingers to loosen. But the question still echoed in his mind and he couldn’t dismiss it.

There wasn’t time to formulate a response to that notion, even for himself, because Gillian, peeved that the focus of the conversation had shifted away from her and clearly still smarting from his not so subtle insult earlier, wasn’t quite yet ready to forgive. She smirked. “Aren’t most of the men doing that sort of thing, well,
gay?”

Leanne’s less than ladylike guffaw carried across the room, drowning out the muted conversations and the clink of crystal glassware. Heads swiveled. Brandon saw Larry, carrying their drinks, crossing the room, circumventing the groups of chattering guests.

“Thank you for your concern over my sex life, Gillian, but that’s not something I have to worry about with Brandon.” She turned to him, smiling as though she were enjoying their listeners’ discomfort. “Is it, sweetie?”

Even if he’d been made of stone, he couldn’t have ignored her flirtatious appeal. “No, I don’t think either of us have any complaints in that department, do we, Lee?” An image of her lush breast in his mouth flashed across his mind and he had to work hard to suppress it or risk embarrassing himself. “No problems at all.”

Her mother’s glimmer of approval disappeared, and Jeremy chuckled. Only Gillian failed to react in any fashion. But when he looked at her, he knew she was the type with a very long memory and he felt a spurt of unease at the cold, calculating manner with which she sized him up.

Brandon didn’t know how Leanne could stand twenty-six minutes with most of the people he’d met during cocktail hour, let alone twenty-six years. He’d been forced to listen as guest after guest directed sly digs toward Leanne and her chosen career path. Of course, no one was rude to her face, but in a myriad of subtle ways, they communicated their condescension, and worse, their pity. When a tinkling bell had announced the meal’s readiness, he’d been all too happy escape the inquisition for the fixed arrangement of the dining room.

“Leanne, you sit here,” Barb Saunders directed, pointing to a seat at the far end of the elegant table, so distant from the bride and groom as to be relegated to insignificance. “And your friend can sit beside you.”

“Yes, Aunt Barb,” Leanne agreed, refusing to rise to the bait. Brandon held out her chair and she looked back at him, startled. He winked, waiting for her to accept his gesture. She smiled, her gaze lingering on his face for a moment, and then slipped gracefully into the chair.

Waitstaff descended, bearing salads. Brandon hadn’t even finished pouring the dressing across the elaborate plate of leafy greens before the woman seated across from them smiled.

“So, Leanne. Are you working yet?” she asked, stabbing her fork into a leaf of radicchio.

“No, I’m still in school, finishing my degree.”

“How many years is it now? Six? Seven?”

“Nine. But I expect to defend my thesis this spring.”

“Maybe you should talk to Paul.” She gestured toward the head of the table where the father of the bride sat. “He might be able to find you something in his office. Do you speak Spanish?”

“French and German, actually.”

“Pity,” the woman said dismissively, the thick platinum ropes around her neck and wrists glinting in the low light of the room’s chandeliers.

The elderly matron sitting on Leanne’s left wasn’t any better. Leaning over her, she’d subjected Brandon to a thorough visual examination, appraising his five-year-old off-the-rack suit with shrewd eyes.

In a piercing whisper, she said, “You’re looking surprisingly well tonight, Leanne. I do hope this relationship is more successful than your other ones. But only time will tell, I suppose.” And then she’d sighed, signaling how little faith she had in her own prediction.

Never lifting her eyes from the scallops in roasted red pepper sauce, Leanne nodded politely. “That’s very nice of you, Dora. Did I hear you had surgery lately? How are you feeling?”

The woman quickly launched into a detailed description of her hip replacement surgery, providing enough details to ensure that when the main course of sirloin, roasted fingerling potatoes and vegetable compote was set in front of him, he’d lost what little appetite he still possessed.

By the time the waitstaff carried out the elaborate dessert trays, Brandon’s jaw ached with the effort of holding his tongue. The final insult had been defending himself against the drunken groping of one of the bridesmaids who’d been seated next to him. He jumped as a hand insinuated itself beneath the linen napkin spread across his lap and squeezed his thigh, perilously close to his groin.

“So, are you seeing Leanne exclusively? Or do you have a more
open
arrangement?” she whispered, favoring him with a blast of the wine she’d been knocking back throughout the meal. The complimentary bottle had already been replaced several times.

Fighting down the urge to flee, Brandon returned the wandering digits to their rightful owner without comment and shifting his chair as far away from the blitzed bridesmaid as possible. She pouted, making a point of refilling her wineglass, but he was in no mood to jolly her along.

He didn’t know when he’d had a more unpleasant time. Only Leanne’s company made the three-ring circus bearable. But worst of all was Gillian. She scrutinized him from the head of the table, where she sat beside Jeremy and her parents, the implacable set of her mouth telegraphing her displeasure at his immunity to her charms. Throughout the meal, she peered at him repeatedly with a puzzled consideration, as if she knew she had seen him before but couldn’t quite place him.

By the time Paul Saunders delivered his toast, he’d had enough. Throwing his napkin down on his chair, he stood. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said into Leanne’s ear.

She looked up at him, concern in her eyes.

“Everything okay?”

He kissed her then, hot and possessive and reckless. Her lips parted in surprise at his unexpected gesture, and he was conscious of the avid onlookers up and down the table watching their display. Brandon didn’t give a damn what they thought.

“I’m all right. I’m just going to excuse myself for a second,” he murmured, looking down at her and admiring her bright color. “You good if I go?”

She smiled, the corners of her wide, tempting mouth turning up wryly. She understood his unspoken question perfectly.

“No problem,” she said, her voice pitched to reach the ears of their audience. Her shoulders straightened and she sat with confidence, a world away from the miserable creature he’d seen only a few hours before. Picking up her fork, she gestured him away. “But I make no promises as to the safety of your chocolate cake.”

He paused and she shooed him away again with her free hand.

“I’ll be here. Go.”

Still conscious of the eyes watching him, he forced himself to walk slowly as he crossed the room and exited into the wide hallway beyond.

He needed a moment to collect himself.

Because if he didn’t get away from that stifling room, he was going to do something to embarrass himself.

Or worse, embarrass Leanne.

And that wasn’t what boyfriends—real, pretend, temporary or otherwise—did at a country club dinner. He just wasn’t sure which of those he was anymore.

“So,” the bride’s voice crooned into his ear, “what I want to know is how much she paid you for tonight.”

Brandon whirled around.

Gillian leaned in the doorway of the lounge he’d retreated to. The menacing expression on her face sent a bolt of fear racing along his spine. “It had to be a lot to get someone like you to pretend to sleep with someone like her.”

“Excuse me?” He tried to slip past her but she blocked his escape. She pressed against him, far too close for his liking, but unless he was willing to manhandle her, he was momentarily trapped in the small room.

Gillian advanced as he retreated, her hips swaying with each step of her sexy heels. A walk clearly perfected with years of practice, designed to make a man think about sex. But for all her allure, all Brandon was reminded of was the mesmerizing sway of a deadly but beautiful cobra.

“You heard me,” she said, her mouth curving in a victorious smile. “I know who you are.”

“You should. We were introduced before dinner.”

She laughed again and wagged an admonishing finger. “Cute but that’s not what I meant. Let me rephrase it for you, shall I? I meant I know what you do,
Brandon.
”

His body chilled at the threat in her voice but he carefully schooled his face into a neutral expression. He tried to move past her once more. “Aren’t your guests expecting you?”

“I’m powdering my nose. No one will miss me for a few minutes.” Her smile widened, the menace clear despite its dazzling whiteness. “Took me most of the evening to put the pieces together but I finally figured out where I recognized you from. You know,” she added flirtatiously, “you have a very distinctive way of moving. Onstage. Offstage. I just didn’t recognize you with all those clothes on.”