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“Second, I presume?”
He grinned. “More like sixth.”
He brought her around to where a group of men and women stood by a spectacular ten-foot-tall wine fountain. “The woman drowning in jewels over there is Irene Hillsborough; she owns the most extensive collection of Impressionist art in the States. Old money, very polite.”
“Very snotty?” Virginia added when the woman lifted her head to stare at her then promptly glanced away.
An appreciative gleam lit up his eyes as he smiled down at her and patted her hand. “How perceptive.”
“Allende.” A bearded middle-aged man Marcos had presented her to just moments ago—Samuel…something—came back to slap his back. “Haven’t seen much of Santos lately. What is that troublemaker up to?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Marcos said with a rather bored intonation, then uncharacteristically offered, “You can ask him later if he shows.” He steered Virginia away, and an immediate image of Santos—surely gorgeous and bad, so bad—made her ask, “Santos is coming?”
“If only to be a pain in the ass, yes.” He said it so decidedly, so automatically, her eyes widened in surprise.
He then urged her around, and a woman with silvering hair and an ecstatic look on her face was fast winding her way toward them.
“That would be Phyllis Dyer,” he c
ontinued, “the director of donations and—”
“Marcos,” the woman said, lightly laying her hand on his shoulder as she kissed one cheek, then the other. Her voice quivered with excitement. “Marcos, I can’t thank you enough for your generosity. I heard from the Watkinson Center for Children today and they were all wondering why the early Christmas. It was so kind of you, as usual.”
Marcos gave her a curt nod. He then brought Virginia forward. “May I present Virginia.”
The woman’s soft gray eyes went huge. “Oh, well, how lovely to meet you. I believe this is the first time I have had the pleasure of meeting one of Marcos’s girls.” To her, she leaned forward to whisper, “This one’s a keeper, darling, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I’m not his… I’m actually his—”
After a bit more small talk, Phyllis left with an encouraging pat on Virginia’s shoulder, and Virginia ventured a glance at him. “Why didn’t you tell her I was your assistant?”
Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he guided her toward the sweeping arched doors that led out into the terrace. He didn’t answer her.
Stepping past an elegant trellis, he led her across the terrace, illuminated with flickering gas lanterns that lined the perimeter.
When he loosened his hold on her, Virginia stepped forward and leaned on a cement banister and gazed out at the fountain. A breeze stirred the miniature trees in the nearby planters, the chilly air making her flesh pebble with goose bumps.
Unconsciously, she rubbed her arms up and down, listening to the soft piano music audible through the speakers. Somehow, the notes couldn’t completely mute the faint rustle of water.
She drew in a steadying breath. “Aren’t you up for a speech soon?”
Through the corner of her eye, she followed his movements as he set his wineglass on the flat surface of a stone bench. “Yes.”
She gasped at the feel of his hand, warm and strong, curling around hers, tugging her forward. In a haze, she found herself slowly but surely gravitating toward him, captivated by the play of moonlight on his features and the gentle, insistent pull of his hand.
“I want us to dance, and I had a feeling you’d say no if I asked you in there.”
“Dance,” she parroted, mesmerized.
He smiled. Manly appreciation sparkled in his eyes as he curled his arm around her waist and pulled her even closer. “Te ves hermosa, ven aqui.”
Anything Marcos told her in Spanish Virginia did not understand, but she felt the words so deeply, as though he were telling her a secret her instincts knew how to decode.
Both arms enveloped her and their bodies met in a visceral move, seeking a fit of their own volition. Surrounded by the piano music, feeling the cool breeze on her skin beside the fountain, Virginia suddenly wondered if she would ever experience this again. Everything. What he made her feel. The flutters inside her when she became the sole focus of those pitch-black eyes.
“Marcos,” she began to protest.
“Shh. One dance.”
