Sawyer, Meryl (9 page)

"Wasn't Royce terrific last night?" Brent asked his
father.

"There's no hope for the homeless. They're a fact of life and
have been since the beginning of time."

Ward directed his comments solely to Brent. It was as if Royce
weren't present. Ward ignored most people, talking to the chosen few, like
Caroline, he didn't consider inferior. He never spoke to Royce unless he
couldn't avoid it.

"You're doing another trial program?" Eleanor asked
Royce.

"Yes. I'll be interviewing the head of the Center for Women
in Crisis. I'd hoped to do it last night to publicize this event, but I guess
they don't need my help. The turnout's great."

"On the next show," Eleanor said, a false note of warmth
in her voice, "you'll look better if you have the makeup man use more
concealer. Your freckles showed. And your hair—"

"Mother," Brent cut in. "Royce didn't want to hide
her freckles or change her hair."

Royce challenged Eleanor, staring into the older woman's
glacier-blue eyes. Seeking this woman's approval was futile. Never try to
please her again. "I don't want to be another blond prime-time clone. God
gave me naturally curly hair and freckles. That's what the viewer will get—the
real me."

Brent said, "Royce is an original."

Eleanor blessed Royce with the smile she saved for the homeless
and liberals. "I see."

Royce turned away before she said something hateful. Was her
relationship with Brent doomed? She walked around the table until she found her
place card and put her Leiber bag beside her napkin.

The jeweled cat looked more like a piece of art than an evening bag,
she decided. It threw off shards of iridescent light like a Fourth of July
sparkler. Still, its flashing green eyes looked so real that she imagined the
cat was laughing, making fun of her for wasting her time with people who hated
her. And always would.

Well, at least she'd have her two favorite men beside her tonight.
Brent was on one side of her and Uncle Wally was on the other. Wait. Brent was
with her, but the other card had an unfamiliar name. She left her cat bag
guarding her plate and marched around the table, remembering the fiasco at the
last party when she'd been seated with Mitch. She was positive Eleanor had been
responsible.

Naturally, Caroline was at the table between Brent and his parents,
seated with the Italian count. The other couples were friends of the
Farenholts. Coming to the auction had been Royce's idea. Uncle Wally was
supposed to be with her.

Brent walked up. "Let's look at the auction. Mother tells me
Cartier's diamond necklace and earrings are spectacular."

"I don't want to look at any jewelry," she snapped.

Eleanor chose that moment to walk up. "Oh, my. What's
wrong?"

"Why isn't my uncle beside me?"

"Well, I—that is we—" She turned to her son. "Your
father and I thought Wallace Winston would be more comfortable at another
table."

"You've got a lot of nerve."

Royce's tone sapped the color from Eleanor's face. She flung a
disgusted look at her son, then scurried away.

Brent caught Royce's arm. "Mother was only thinking of your
uncle, darling."

She yanked out of his grasp, every slight she'd suffered from the
Farenholts surfacing at once. But nothing could top this. Why had she put up
with it for so long?

"You're a fool. You know your parents don't approve of Uncle
Wally. Never mind that he's one of the city's—this country's—most respected
journalists."

"You're right," Brent reluctantly admitted.

"And they hate me too." She took a deep breath, already
regretting what she was about to say, but knowing she had no other choice. "I
don't want to be engaged to a man whose parents despise me. Uncle Wally is all
the family I have, and your parents deliberately hurt him. He bought a ticket
tonight to please me. Now he'll have to sit God only knows where."

Brent put his hands on her shoulders. "I'll take care of
it."

"Don't bother." She glanced over to where the Farenholts
were standing. Caroline and the Italian count had just arrived. Smiles. Hugs.
"I'm going to find my uncle and sit with him."

"Royce," Brent said, his brown eyes sad, "I love
you. I'll talk to my parents and make them understand."

"I'm calling off our engagement until we work things
out."

"No you're not, dammit!" His tone was
uncharacteristically angry. "We'll discuss this later"—he lowered his
voice—"when we're alone."

Barely controlling her own temper, she rushed off to find her
uncle. The room was too crowded to be comfortable. Too crowded to find anyone
quickly. The Dillinghams waved to her, but mercifully they were far enough away
to avoid them without appearing rude. She finally found her uncle at the back
of the room. Alone.

"I'm so sorry," she said when she found him.
"Eleanor Farenholt had your seat changed."

"It doesn't matter," Wally said with his usual smile.

"It matters to me. I can't go on like this. I called off our
engagement until we settle the situation with Brent's parents." She linked
her arm with his. "Tonight before I dressed I went up to Daddy's office in
the attic. I always feel close to him when I'm there. I couldn't help
remembering how happy we were as a family. It'll never be that way with
the—"

"Honey, don't toss aside a man you love too easily. Above
all, don't worry about them accepting me. I've lived with rejection most of my
life."

"It doesn't matter. I love you."

"In spite of what I am?"

"Because you're a wonderful person. You know, when I was a
little girl I used to tell everyone how lucky I was to have two daddies. Now
that Papa's gone, you're my father. And I'm not letting the Farenholts be nasty
to you. Come on, forget them." She tugged on his arm. "Let's find Val
and Talia."

"You go on. I'll wait right here."

Royce located Val in the auction area. Her friend looked very
striking in Royce's copper lame dress. Val's hair, a unique shade of red
somewhere between rich honey and chestnut, was swept upward in clusters of soft
curls. Thank heavens, she wasn't spending another night moping over her
ex-husband.

"Royce, I've been looking for you." Val's eyes swept
over Royce, registering her approval. "That's a great dress."

Royce wore a loose-fitting beaded lavender gown that deepened the
green of her eyes. The shower of lavender beads had a high neckline—she'd
learned her lesson last weekend—but it glimmered as she moved, making her even
more noticeable. Like all of Royce's clothes it had a dramatic flair. This gown
had a bare back that plunged to her waist, exposing most of her back, a stark
contrast to the demure front.

"So, where's the parsley king?" Royce asked.

"He's inspecting the vintage wine, trying to decide if he should
bid or not."

"Here's a tip. The king is into escarole and endive—big time.
Tonight, if it's green and it's on your plate, eat it."

"You're too much," Val said with her familiar smile, a
smile Royce had rarely seen since her divorce.

"Let's check out the jewels from Cartier." Royce looked
at the long table with security guards standing behind the display cases.
"Talia is over there."

By the time they'd winnowed their way through the mob, Talia had
disappeared into the throng.

"Don't turn around," Val cautioned, her voice low.
"Mitch Durant is coming this way."

"What's he doing here? He never attends charity events."
Royce turned her back to the aisle, feigning interest in a Frette comforter on
display. She kept her head down, determined to avoid Mitch. Although she didn't
turn, every muscle tensed, alert to his presence. For a minute he waited behind
her, not saying a word, but she could feel the heat of his body.

"Hello, Royce." The tone was thoroughly masculine,
undeniably Mitch's voice.

She had no choice but to turn and face him. He stunned her with a
smile, not just a casual grin, but an affectionate one. Wasn't he angry? The
last time she'd seen Mitch, he'd been furious. Somehow she stumbled through an
introduction to Val.

"Excuse me," Val said with a apologetic glance at Royce.
"My date is waiting."

Royce could have killed her, except the parsley king was trapped
by the mob in the mock vineyard, waving for Val to join him.

"Last night was great, wasn't it?"

Caught off-guard by his friendliness, she managed a nod. Mitch
didn't wait for her answer, nor did he attempt to hide his gaze. His eyes
roamed down her shoulders to her breasts to the flare of her hips, then up
again, lingering on her lips.

The last time she'd been this close to him, she'd been in his
arms. She battled the unexpected urge to move closer, sucking in a quick breath
and stepping back. For the life of her she couldn't explain her reaction to
this man.

"You're clever, Royce. You had everyone in town talking about
your show. Arnie loved it."

Arnold Dillingham had liked the show, she thought with pride. He'd
sent her five dozen long-stemmed roses this morning. With the flowers was a
note saying her Q-factor was unbelievably high. The Q measured name recognition
and audience approval. Eleanor Farenholt could go to hell. Freckles, wayward
curls, were what the public wanted, not sleek blondes whose only talent was
reading the TelePromp-Ter.

She spun around, pretending to be interested in the comforter,
deliberately being rude. Why didn't Mitch just go away? But he moved closer—or
maybe it was her imagination. The man to her right had just bumped her. The
room was far too crowded.

Mitch's warm hand touched her bare back. Royce froze, shuddering
inside. His touch set off a depth charge of excitement. Get away from him, she
told herself, but she couldn't move. There were people on either side of her
and Mitch stood directly behind her. Or maybe she didn't want to move.

Maybe she wanted to see what Mitch would do next. Every nerve she
possessed was on full alert. Mitch had a devastating effect on her. Her mind
might hate him, but her body had other ideas.

He hovered near her, his head just behind her ear. For a moment he
didn't say anything, letting his warm breath ruffle her hair. When he spoke,
his voice was low, smoky. "Did you tell him, Royce?"

"Tell who?" she asked, not daring to turn and face
Mitch.

Instead of answering he slid his hand lower and lower... and lower
yet. The heat in his fingers sent chills across her breasts. And a surge of
heat that unfurled in the pit of her stomach. This wasn't really happening, was
it?

"Don't!" She elbowed him in the ribs and tried to turn
around, but he pressed against her from the rear, his powerful body imprisoning
her. There was no chance of getting away without causing a scene.

"Answer my question, Royce."

The ache in her throat was so powerful, she couldn't talk. Lord,
what he could do to her without half trying. She hated him, but still found him
terribly exciting. Why?

"Answer me." His hand dipped beneath the fabric of her
dress, caressing the soft skin on her lower back. Moving still lower with
agonizing slowness. Oh, my.

It didn't matter that no one could see what he was doing, she felt
it and knew her expression would tell the world how terribly sexy she found
him. Her stomach clenched as he stroked the tender flesh at the base of her
spine. She wanted to stop him, she honestly did. But excitement, pure sexual
excitement, paralyzed her.

"If you don't answer my question," Mitch whispered, his
lips brushing her ear, sending a shocking wave of heat to the pit of her
stomach, "I'm going to unhook this garter belt and those sexy silk
stockings are going to hit the floor."

"You wouldn't." Her words came out in an embarrassing croak.
Of course he would. The stinking jerk never played fair. His fingers were now
fondling the cleft of her buttocks. And just look at her. She responded with
throbbing breasts and a heavy ache in her thighs.

"No, I didn't tell Brent about kissing you."

Her answer should have stopped him, but it didn't; he was still
toying with the hook on her garter belt. "Why not?"

She was breathless with anticipation, not knowing what she
expected. He wouldn't do anything in a crowd like this, would he? He could get
his hand only so far without ripping her dress. But it was far enough.

He explored the flare of her hips where the garter belt rode low,
sensuously running very experienced fingers over her sensitive skin. Holding up
the comforter in front of her, she sucked in her breath and let his hand edge
around to touch her belly button. Even though the people around him couldn't
see what he was doing, just knowing they were there made it even more exciting.

"I asked you a question." His voice was low, rough. A
promise and a threat. Every instinct she possessed told her to stop him, but
she couldn't.