About forty-five minutes later, Natalie clattered down the stairs in a pair of black, high-heeled sandals and the backless, blue-lace cocktail dress from Prada. I met her at the foot of the staircase; I also had changed into a pair of black dress pants, white dress shirt, and skinny black tie.
“You look breathtaking,” I said, and I meant it. The fabric hugged the lines of her body and accentuated her lithe frame. “You are breathtaking.”
She smiled; the red lipstick she wore made her teeth seem whiter and brighter. “You don’t have to say things like that.”
“Why shouldn’t I? You’re going to have every man’s eyes on you tonight.” I leaned closer and breathed in her floral perfume. “And I know what I like when I see it.”
Her eyes widened, and I knew I’d knocked her off balance. Perfect. I had the upper hand, just the way I liked it. And, if she’d let me, I planned to keep it that way.
George, my house manager, had cleaned the BMW sedan that afternoon when I returned from the yoga class, so I decided we’d take that car to the reception. I pulled it out of the garage, then helped her in the passenger seat.
“So, you don’t always drive the McLaren,” Natalie said as I threw the car into reverse and backed down the short driveway.
“Nope. I’m not one of those assholes who always has to show off the exclusive sports car he drives.” I laughed under my breath. “At least, not all of the time.”
“Just on special occasions, right?”
“Exactly. The kind of special occasions that cause beautiful women to almost crash into the hood of it.”
“Well, in that case, I’m glad I did.”
“Me, too.”
I thought for a moment about telling Natalie why I’d bought the $250 thousand McLaren—that I did it at my lowest point, in the middle of my darkest hours. After Faye died, I’d lived in a fog, alive on the outside and dead on the inside. Nothing had mattered—and it was strange.
So, I started drinking. And buying expensive toys. About a week after I relocated permanently from New York to South Florida, I walked into the McLaren dealership and wrote a check for the full amount of the car. The sales manager had been floored; even in Palm Beach, people rarely paid cash for cars costing hundreds of thousands of dollars. It had been my most extravagant impulse buy during the worst year of my life.
But I wasn’t sure Natalie would understand something like that. She drove a Hyundai, worried about every penny she spent, and had student loans to pay. I’d probably sound like a jerkoff to her.
“We don’t have to stay long at this reception,” I said instead. “It all depends on you.”
The event took place in the back room of Nicolao’s, a restaurant and bar about a five-minute drive from my place. We could have walked there, but it didn’t work that way in Palm Beach. People wanted to make an entrance, and everything about receptions like this one had to be orchestrated. Nothing could be out of place. True, Palm Beachers wanted their cars, money, access, and designer clothing to be seen, especially by people they didn’t know. It had always been that way, and it would never change.
I’d been playing this game on and off for five years; I knew it well. Some might even say I’d mastered it.
I parked the BMW in an open parking spot across from the restaurant, helped Natalie out of the car, and escorted her across the street. The restaurant sat at the end of a long row of shops and storefronts. I nodded at a few of the immaculately dressed patrons eating dinner on the semi-covered patio, and waved at a few others.
When we reached the hostess stand, my palm grazed the small of Natalie’s muscular back. She didn’t pull away. I liked that; I wanted more of it.
And I planned to get it.
Soon.
“Right this way, Mr. Rothschild.”
The hostess pivoted on a sky-high, pink heel and led us to the back of the building: a pavilion strewn with a few tables, couches covered in outlandish, printed pillows, a small private bar, a few indoor plants, and strands of white lights overhead. About two dozen people already mingled in the center of the room, and I recognized many of them.
Even more reacted to our entrance as if they knew me—the kind of familiarity that had always come from having the Rothschild last name.
“Showtime,” I muttered. Natalie’s laughter rippled through my hand just before I removed it from her shapely back.
“Luke,” called Maryanne Plunkett, one of Palm Beach’s resident socialites, “so wonderful to see you tonight.” She glided toward the two of us and I leaned down to kiss both of her tight cheeks, ones that didn’t match her seventy-five years of age. Maryanne had very good doctors, of course, and like many women in Palm Beach, she paid for it. Or rather, her husband paid for it. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Thank you for having us.”
She placed her manicured fingers on my arm, and I smelled a familiar whiff of Shalimar perfume. The scent reminded me of my own grandmother, a straight-laced woman who’d started the family’s Palm Beach tradition by insisting on a vacation on the island at least once a year. “We couldn’t have this event without you. You know that.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not.” Maryanne grinned before she glanced at Natalie. “And who’s this?”
“May I present Miss Natalie Johnson?” I turned to my date, who extended her own hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” Natalie said as she greeted Maryanne. “What a wonderful evening for a party.”
“Of course, darling.” Maryanne dropped Natalie’s hand and visibly sized her up. “And are you down for the season?”
Natalie suppressed a grin. “I… No, ma’am, I live here year-round.”
“On the island? I’m surprised we’ve never met.”
I cleared my throat, knowing where this conversation would head. Natalie had about ten seconds to make an impression with Maryanne, and she’d need my help to do it. “Natalie helps run a successful yoga studio in West Palm. Has quite a following, actually.”
“Yoga? Oh, really?” Maryanne’s eyes brightened. “I’ve been meaning to get back into that. My doctor says it will be good for my overall health. Do you have Pilates, as well? I love Pilates.”
“Not yet, but we’ll be adding that soon.”
Maryanne cocked her head. “A shame you’re over the bridge, though. I simply hate venturing over there.”
“You should try it sometime.” I put my hand on Natalie’s back once more and felt her lean into it. “You might like what you find. I sure did.”
Natalie chuckled to herself. “Luke’s a new student at our studio.” She jerked her head in my direction. “He’s relearning…downward dog.”
“That I am,” I said, no longer caring about Maryanne Plunkett and her too-tight facelift. “And I’m lucky to have such an excellent teacher.”
As if on cue, a server in a white dress shirt breezed by the three of us with a tray of champagne flutes. I grabbed two and handed them to the ladies before taking one for myself. “To another fantastic evening in paradise,” I said. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” they repeated, before taking long sips. When they finished, we had the out we needed. Maryanne’s attention turned to someone who had arrived after us, and she excused herself, so she could greet them, as well.
I leaned down and put my mouth near Natalie’s earlobe. “Good work. You passed the first test.”
“Test? I wasn’t aware this was an exam.”
“In Palm Beach, everything always is.”
“Meaning?”
“The people at a party like this always want anyone they meet to seem interesting, like decorative potted plants. They insist that newcomers ‘enhance’ the flow.” I let my attention drop to the swell of breasts I saw peeking out from the neckline of Natalie’s cocktail dress. “I’d say you did that very well.” I lifted my gaze again and tightened my arm around her waist. “So, congratulations.”
Man, I was coming on thick...
“Thank you,” she said, but I still saw her hesitate.
“Don’t believe it?” I swallowed the rest of the champagne and placed the empty glass on the nearby bar. “Maryanne Plunkett is one of those ladies you’ll see everywhere when—if—you start spending time over here. If she likes you, you’re in,” I said in a lowered voice.
“In where?”
“All of the parties. The private receptions. Society.”
“And you go along with that?”
“Along with what?”
“This? All this tete-a-tete? That kind of decorum?”
“Of course,” I said. “It’s just how things work. It’s tradition. And if you don’t know the rules, you can’t win.”
“You like to win, don’t you?”
“When I can.” I cocked my head. “And especially when it’s something that I want.”
We lived in different worlds. No question about it. No matter what, that would never change. But I also found his world fascinating.
Luke Rothschild had more money than anyone I’d ever met, and just the way people looked at him that night told me that he also had a lot of power, the kind that didn’t come overnight. All the partygoers seemed to defer to him, and more than one appeared focused on making sure he acknowledged them over the passing around of plates full of canapés, smoked salmon, and miniature quiches. Systematically, he worked the room, too, and we posed more than once for photographers who told me they worked for various society publications.
I got the feeling that Luke Rothschild liked the life he led and the status he held. No, not just that. He was comfortable with it.
“Did you have a good time?” Luke asked as he drove us back to his house.
“I did. Delicious smoked salmon.”
“Nicolao’s does that very well. You should try their guacamole, too. Excellent.”
I chuckled. “You have a thing for guacamole, don’t you?”
“A thing?”
“It’s the second time you’ve brought up guacamole to me. You also said you liked the one they have at Rocco’s Tacos.”
Luke blinked at me. “I did?”
I nodded.
“Well, I’m—what can I say? I like it.” He snapped his fingers. “Consider me a guacamole connoisseur.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
My attention wandered back to the car window and I watched the city streets pass. My thoughts rewound to the party we’d just attended. When was I ever going to step foot in a restaurant like that again? Best guess—never. That place had white tablecloths and exotic champagne stocked at the bar. I probably couldn’t afford a glass of wine there, let alone dinner.
But it had been fun to be on Luke’s arm. More than fun. Intoxicating.
Luke maneuvered the BMW into the driveway and stopped the car in front of the garage. “I had a good time with you tonight. Thank you for being my last-minute date.”
“You’re welcome. Any time.”
And, of course, I meant that. Luke lived a life that would be easy to fall in love with, if I let myself. He owned a beautiful beach house, a car that cost several hundred thousand dollars, and he spent his free time drinking expensive liquor with people who worried about things like where to vacation for Christmas. My meager reality didn’t resemble his at all.
Remember that, remember that, remember that…
I hooked my fingers around the passenger door handle. “I guess I better get going. What should I do with the outfit? Have it cleaned?”
His gaze roamed over my body, spending a little extra time on the swell of my small breasts. “Keep it.”
“Can I pay you for it?”
He shook his head.
“I couldn’t—”
“You should. It’s yours. I don’t have any use for it. And it looks great on you.”
“But…you don’t have to give me something like this. It’s too nice of you.”
“Just thank me,” he whispered.
I swallowed. “Thank you.”
We fell silent. His stare met mine again, and I sucked in a sharp breath. Was he going to kiss me? Did I want him to?
What was I doing here?
“Good night, Natalie,” he said instead.
My heart sank a little. The night was over. Time to get back to my real life. The fantasy had ended.
“Good night.”
I got out of the car and walked over to my own vehicle. As I unlocked it with my key fob, I heard him climb from the BMW and trot over to me.
“Wait,” he said as his hand caught my shoulder. I whirled around, and his gaze searched my face once more.
“What?”
Please kiss me…
“You left your clothes inside.”
I blanched. “I did?”
“Let me go get them.” He spun and jogged into the house, then returned a few minutes later with a small black tote bag. “Here you are. Wouldn’t want you to miss these.”
“Thank you.” I took the bag and our gazes locked. I sucked in a deep breath and held it inside my chest. The way he looked at me—I longed for him to look at me like that for the rest of my life.
“I want to see you again.” He brushed a strand of hair off my cheek and tucked it behind my ear. His gaze followed his own movements. A warm tremor moved from my ear, down my neck, and into my lower belly. He shifted his eyes up and locked his gaze with mine. “Tomorrow night. Dinner. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” I whispered, mesmerized by the deepness of his voice. “Absolutely.”
His mouth twisted into a half-smile. “Good. What’s your phone number?”