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There was a swell of laughter as Cass pointed to her high heels and Sean lowered her to the floor. Tonight, she was dressed in full Manhattan socialite armor: a sleek black pantsuit with ropes of big pearls linked around her neck. At her side O'Banyon was looking a little flushed, no doubt from what had happened back in the car, not the over-the-threshold routine. His big smile was grating as hell.
As more people stepped forward to say hello to the new arrivals, Alex stayed back, wishing he could leave. Spike was into the party, though, talking with a knot of women in the corner. And the guy's car was a stick.
Cassandra was laughing when she turned and saw him.
Her smile faltered, and the red splash that hit her cheeks was clearly shame, not delight, because it was backed up by a wince. She looked away quickly, not acknowledging him, but O'Banyon caught the exchange. He pegged Alex with a pair of hazels that read BACK OFF loud and clear. Then the man stepped in close and fit his arm around her waist.
Alex could understand the reaction. If Cassandra were his woman, he'd send the same message to any man who eyed her.
A meaty hand clapped on his shoulder, and Spike spoke right in his ear. “Do yourself a favor tonight, my man. Be careful with O'Banyon. This situation's got jaws of life written all over it.”
Alex nodded. “I agree with you completely.”
An hour later Cass was in total party numb. Too many people, too much noise, too little air.
Making an excuse to Jack Walker, the new governor of Massachusetts, she snuck out of the living room. She was surprised at the number of guests and partially grateful. The more bodies in the house, the harder it was to con?centrate on Alex.
Well, not really.
She found herself always watching him out of the corner of her eye, seeing who he talked to and how he acted. He didn't seem any more interested in the party than she was. The only time he smiled was when Spike shot him a couple of words and a dry grin. Otherwise, Alex was a tall, silent presence that commanded people's attention even though he rarely opened his mouth.
Predictably, the women were captivated by him. They came up to him all the time, smiling, getting in tight, touching his arm, his shoulder. He barely noticed. He looked over their heads or through them, even when they got really persistent.
Unlike Spike he clearly wasn't taking any of the lovelies home tonight.
It was so different from the way Reese had behaved. Even when she'd been with her husband at a party, Reese had engaged in social sex. He'd been a toucher, a looker, a flirter, walking the line between sensuous and sleazy perfectly. Women had adored him and he'd adored them right back.
Alex, on the other hand, was choosy about who he shared himself with.
Cass grimaced, thinking of how he'd withdrawn from her body. Yes, he was definitely choosy.
Pushing her hair back, she uttered a vicious little word. She hadn't been able to forget their brief time on his bed and not just because of her embarrassment. The preoccu?pation struck her as unfair. How could it be so right on one side and so wrong for the other person?
And why had he been so aroused in the first place? Men couldn't lie about that.
Maybe she just looked like his Miracle.
Oh, there was a lovely thought.
Cass walked down the hall and went through a closed door into a library. Like the rest of Gray's house, the room was done up with antiques and damask drapes and Oriental rugs. But that wasn't what recommended the space to her. Quiet was its main attraction.
Across the way there were a bank of windows that faced the water. She went over to them and took in the winter landscape. Snow covered the rolling lawn, a blanket that glowed blue in the moonlight. Farther down, the vast, frozen expanse of the lake stretched out between its cradle of mountains, flat as could be.
Voices broke her solitude as two women walked in, one blond, the other with sable-colored hair. Both were dressed in Soho black: close-cut, dark clothes made by obscure designers. If memory served, the blonde was an editor for Vanity Fair and her friend worked at Town & Country. Or maybe it was the other way around.
“I can't believe Alex Moorehouse is here,” the blonde said. “I would love to do a story on him. Tragic champion and all that.”
“I like his friend. Did you see those tattoos on his neck? I wonder how far down they go.”
"Allison, your last four boyfriends had roman numerals after their last names. That guy doesn't even have a sur?name. Spike? I mean, really."
“Did you see his eyes? They're yellow.”
“I was too busy staring at Moorehouse. I wonder what it would take to open him up. Maybe he needs a ride home.” The two of them noticed her.
“Do you know if there is a bathroom around here?” the one named Allison asked.
Cass nodded to a door in the corner. “I think it's through there.”
“You first,” the blonde said to Allison. Then she turned and smiled at Cass. “My name's Erica Winsted, we met at the Hall Foundation Gala last year, remember? You know, I was sorry to hear about your husband”
“Thank you.”
Erica did a little pirouette. “What a fabulous party this is. When Allison suggested we fly up, I thought she was crazy. But the people here? First-rate.”
Chatty was about the last thing Cass felt up to. “If you'll excuse me—”
“Say, you wouldn't be willing to introduce me to Alex Moorehouse, would you? I'm dying to get to him. And he was your husband's partner, right?”
Cass just stared at the woman. Reporters really were awful, she thought.
Erica smiled. “I mean, you know him, right?” “No, not at all.”
The woman frowned as Cass walked out.
By a stroke of dumb luck, the stairs were right there and Cass used them with relief, heading up away from the party. She wasn't a coward to run to her room, she just needed a little space.
At least until the urge to lob a crepe at that reporter faded.
On the top landing there was a bench, and she sat on it, taking a deep breath. The party noise was dimmed only slightly, but it was enough to take the edge off and she found she liked watching the people funnel through the hall down below.
Until she heard, “Alex! Alex Moorehouse.”
Alex came into view, and she caught the darkening of his expression.
The blond reporter came up to him and stuck her hand out. “Hi! I'm Erica Winsted. I'm such a huge fan of yours. All those races. I watch them religiously.”
Alex looked at the woman from his height advantage. When he stayed silent, Erica plowed ahead.
“Listen, I would love to interview you”
“I'm sorry,” he said, “what was your name?”
“Winsted. Erica Winsted. I write for—”
“Erica, I don't do interviews. Not now, not ever.” “Couldn't you make an exception for me?” She sidled up to him, moving her body closer to his.
Cass stiffened, imaging how Reese would have wel?comed that kind of attention with a charming joke and an arm slipped around the woman's waist.
Alex stepped back pointedly. “Not for you. Sorry.” “Are you sure?”
God, you could practically hear the woman's eyelashes bat, Cass thought.
“Excuse me,” Alex murmured, turning away.
“When are you going back to the boats?” Erica said. “When's your next race?”
Alex looked over his shoulder. “That's none of your business.”
Cass frowned as he disappeared from sight.
She'd never thought about him going back. But of course he would. His leg was healing, and sailing was his profession.
The idea left her cold, even as she told herself it was none of her concern.
But, dear Lord, that hungry, scary ocean. That vast grave?yard for sailors.
“Hey, beautiful. What's doing?”
She glanced down. Sean was at the foot of the stairs, leaning on the banister. He held out his hand. “Let me get you some dessert and coffee. Fireworks are going off at midnight and we don't want you to miss them on your birthday. Especially if Gray manages to toss the lit punk into the roman candle box. Like he did last year.”
Cass smiled and went to him. As her palm slid into his, she said, “Sean, you're a nice guy, you know that?”
“Shh. Keep it to yourself. Nice guys get eaten alive on Wall Street.”
Chapter Eleven
Sean O'Banyon liked to believe he had a talent for accu?rately assessing people. Aggressive men such as himself in particular.
So as he eyed Moorehouse from across the dining room, he knew the two of them were going to go at it tonight. Ever since he'd walked into the mansion with Cass, he and that hard-eyed athlete had been circling each other like a couple of wolves.
Cass stepped in front of him, pressing a coffee cup into his hand. “Sean?”
He smiled down at her. “What?”
“What's going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do you look like you want to wipe the floor with someone?”
He bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
She gave him a level look. “I'm going to go find Joy, okay? Try and stay out of trouble.”
The moment she left, he pegged Moorehouse with a hard look that was returned pound for pound.
Time to get this over with, he thought, putting the coffee down.
Moorehouse must have come to the same conclusion because the guy started heading around the table from the other side. They met head-to-head in front of the dessert tray. Just as someone called out that the fireworks were about to go off down at the shore.
“You got a problem there, Moorehouse?” Sean asked as the room cleared.
“No more than you do.” Moorehouse's sizable shoulders moved back, his unblinking eyes steady as a cobra's.
Man, he was a big one, Sean thought with satisfaction. This was going to be fun.
“You know,” Sean said, “Cass left here a week ago feeling like hell. But as soon as she was back in Manhat?tan her mood improved. I wonder why?”
“None of my business.”
Sean laughed and slipped the buttons on his suit jacket free.
“Well, wouldn't you know. You and I agree on some?thing.” He tapped his temple with his forefinger. “But see, this is where I get confused. You've been staring at me all night like maybe you and I have something going. Except considering that Cass is not your woman, I can't figure out why you're bothering. Unless you like the color of my eyes or something.”
“I don't like much about you.”“Why's that?”
“You know your reputation as well as I do.”
“Ah. Don't approve of my working-class background, do you?”
“How many lovers have you got going right now, O'Banyon? In addition to her, I mean?”
“So protective,” Sean murmured. “You clearly think of yourself as her champion in some twisted way, don't you? Like it's okay for you to treat her badly, but no one else can, is that it?”
Moorehouse's blue eyes narrowed. “Careful, O'Banyon, reading other people's minds can be a real buzz kill.”
“So can making a good woman cry. Or do you get off on it? Did you feel good, making her hurt like that?”
“Just so we're clear,” Moorehouse said evenly, “the next insult you throw's coming back at your jaw.”
Cass gasped.
The sound she made brought the men's heads around to the doorway. The effect was like a bell ringing in a boxing match. The two of them broke apart, Alex going over to the window, Sean dragging a hand through his hair and turning toward her.
“What is going on here?” she demanded.
“Just talking.” Sean smiled and sauntered over to her, not that she bought his easy stride or lazy expression for a nanosecond. “Let's go watch the fireworks.”
