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Seth whooped gleefully. “Oh, man. This is awesome. True love, at gunpoint. It never fails.”
“Oh, God. I have got to go call Raine and Liv and Erin, right away,” Margot said. “This is so juicy. I love it. I justloveit.”
“Would you guys all just leave me the fuck alone?” Nick’s voice was plaintive.
Davy gave him a swat on the back that just about broke three of his ribs. “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Get used to it.”
CHAPTER18
Becca circled the Crystal Ballroom slowly. The banquet was a black tie affair, and the women in evening gowns glittered and shone.
So far, so good. No job-threatening disasters loomed on her horizon yet. The Meet-And-Greet in the Sunburst Room had gone smoothly, the jazz trio was playing a sentimental tune, the sommeliers and wait staff were doing their appointed jobs, the trays of lime sorbet to follow the fish were starting to circle, the big band was set up and ready to go for the dancing, everyone was in place, everyone knew what time it was.
Fifteen more minutes, and it would be time to start mobilizing the coffee and dessert, and get ready for the speechifying. The sheer volume of details to keep track of made it almost possible for her not to think about Nick. But oh, wow. She was going to see him tonight. The consciousness of her secret date gave her a constant toe-curling pleasure, like a wild coffee high.
She was so absorbed in trying to quantify the feeling, she almost ran right into the guy as he strode through the room. She reeled to the side, turning her head away with a gasp.
Oh, God. The Spider’s guest. Zhoglo’s mysterious business partner. The country club guy.
She turned, slowly, and ventured another peek, just to be sure.
He was in profile, looking trim and good in his tux, sliding into his seat with what looked like a murmured apology at one of the big VIP tables, next to a handsome blonde woman with a tight smile. He lifted his glass of red wine in response to something that she said.
She remembered him lifting his glass, on the island. Those glittering eyes fixed on her. The clink of glasses. Wine the color of blood.
To beauty. And desires fulfilled.
A sinkhole opened in the bottom of her mind. Beneath it yawned a hellish abyss.
Becca stumbled across the room, putting distance between them. She grabbed the edge of a table, fighting nausea. A wave of nasty faintness jangled through her body. Her ears roared, her eyes went dark. Cold sweat. Icy hands. She wanted to double over. Staying conscious was a struggle.
The reality of what had happened on the island just a few short days ago came smashing back. It had been lurking there all along, ready to pounce, destroying her fragile new equilibrium.
She could not faint. Could not. She had to get a grip. Had. To.
“Becca?” Marla’s voice was sharp. “What on earth is the matter with you? Are you ill?”
Becca wiped her clammy forehead, and peeked again. His glance swept over her without snagging on her. Thank God for the shorter, fluffier hair and the face-concealing, black-framed glasses.
Becca put her back to him. “Marla?” she whispered. “The guy behind me who just sat down at the VIP table? Six-two, black tux, late forties, gray temples? Next to the old lady with the dowager’s hump and the diamonds? Who is he?”
Marla’s eyes narrowed, and her finely shaped brows snapped together. “Becca. This is hardly the time for—ouch! Hey!”
Becca had seized her wrist, and was gripping it with furious strength, heedless of her fingernails.“Who is he?”
Marla jerked her arm away, scowling. “That’s Dr. Richard Mathes. He’s a famous thoracic surgeon. He’s giving the farewell speech for Harrison tonight! You knew that, Becca! He was late, because of some medical emergency.”
Becca pressed on her mouth with her hands. “Oh, God,” she whispered. She was going to heave her guts out. “Gotta run. Going to be sick,” she squeaked, through the hand clamped over her mouth.
She bolted towards the ladies’ room, caroming into tables, elbowing one of the catering staff who was carrying a tray of full sorbet dishes, all of which toppled, dumping themselves right onto the unfortunate woman’s crisp white blouse.
Becca fled, leaving shouts of outrage in her wake. She couldn’t stop and apologize, anyway. If she opened her mouth, “I’m so sorry” was not what was going to be coming out of it. Barfing on club members in evening wear would not help her cause.
Praise God, there was no line in the ladies’ room. She made it to the stall just in time.
The bathroom stalls in the club’s ladies’ rooms were little private rooms in their own right, made of peach-colored marble quarried in Italy. Each stall contained its own private sink with antique gold-toned fixtures and an enormous gilt-framed mirror. Hers reflected her own pitiful image when she finally dared to lift her head up from where it dangled over the toilet bowl. Oh, God. Very bad.
She was as white as a hospital lab coat. Eyes and nose streaming with tears, eyelids swollen and pink, mascara running copiously.
