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“I’m glad you decided to come.”
I glance up at Byron, and my hard-won calmness instantly evaporates. I haven’t seen him since Monday morning, and I’ve gone back and forth on whether to show up at this fancy fundraiser.
I refuse to give him even a hint of the tremors rushing through me. “You promised it would be good exposure for my company for me to be here,” I reply.Well, at least that sounds calm enough.
“Yes, a lot of people are here. You’ll be able to make good contacts,” he assures me as he offers his arm.
We’re at the legendary Anderson mansion, and I can’t help but be happy to step inside its stately doors. Quite a number of jaw-dropping mansions can be found in this area, but none compare to the masterpiece Joseph Anderson built for his wife more than fifty years earlier.
The castle walls stand high, and the solid wooden doors open to a home of marble and elegance unlike any other. As Byron and I step inside, I have a difficult time suppressing a gasp at the grand staircase and priceless works of art lining the walls. And this is only the beginning.
I twist a piece of hair as I shift from foot to foot. I’ve dealt with wealthy men for years, but I’ve never entered a home like this one.
“You’re a stunning woman, McKenzie. There’s no need for you to be nervous,” Byron whispers.
“How would you know if I’m nervous?”
“I can see it in your eyes and from your fidgeting. Hold your head up. You belong here.” So maybe I don’t sound as calm as I think. Coming here is a mistake. Now I have little choice but to push down the nerves.
With his hand on my lower back, he leads me to another huge room with six-foot crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, music hanging in the air, and a polished waitstaff serving hundreds of guests.
“I can’t imagine growing up in a home like this,” I say. “How in the world did they keep track of their children?”
Byron laughs. “For one, I’m sure they have an army of staff to take care of the home and keep an eye out for missing children. But any house you make comfortable is a home. It doesn’t matter if it’s a one-bedroom apartment or a colossal mansion. When it comes down to it, we’re all the same,” he says as he accepts two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter.
I look at Byron for a moment before speaking. “That’s easy for you to say. This obviously comes from a man who’s never had to spend a day of his life in a small apartment.”
“No, I haven’t, but I did live with Bill for a while in a small house. We’re getting off subject though and...” He’s wise enough to change the subject. “Do be careful while you’re in this particular home. There are rumors that the family patriarch, Joseph Anderson, is quite the matchmaker. All three of his boys quickly fell into matrimony, and many who know the family say it has everything to do with their father. And then his nieces and nephews began marching down the aisle one by one after his children married.”
I scoff. “Their father — or the patriarch or whatever — can’tmakethem get married. That’s impossible.”
“Joseph actually loves his sons, something you don’t often see in wealthy families. Hell, wealthy children are often raised by the nanny and closer to her than to the people who gave birth to them. But rumor has it he helped... shall we say... prod them along.”
“What do you mean by ‘prod them along’?”
Byron glances around. “It’s nothing like an electric cattle prod. He played matchmaker behind the scenes. He hired the perfect assistant for his oldest son, a cook for his youngest — that sort of thing.”
“Just because he hires certain people doesn’t mean he’s playing matchmaker,” I point out.
He looks down at me with such intensity, I’m barely able to hold on to my champagne flute. “You know more than anyone what happens when two sexually compatible people begin working closely together,” he says, taking my breath away.
“You’re being inappropriate,” I warn.
“Just filling you in on some local Anderson history. Not trying to be inappropriate,” he says, but his hand moves up and down the length of my back, a back my dress leaves largely bare.
“Did I hear you speaking about me?”
I jump at the loud voice booming right behind me, both of us turn, and I look up, up, up. I thought Byron was tall — heck, he’s six foot three — but the man with the white hair and a groomed white beard is a giant compared to Byron.
“Only in the most respectful of ways,” Byron says. “How are you doing, Joseph?” I’m surprised to see genuine affection on Byron’s face. This is something new.
“I can’t complain in my old age, Byron.” His attention is quickly diverted to me, and he gives me an intense look. “And how are you?”
“I’m sorry, Joseph. I’m being rude,” Byron says. “Joseph Anderson, this is my date, McKenzie Beaumont.”
I’m flabbergasted. I don’t want to correct him in front of our host and tell the man I’m not Byron’s date, but I also don’t want him to think this is going to lead to a happy ending at the end of the night.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Beaumont. I hope you enjoy the party.” He ignores my hand and gives me a half-hug.
