Andrew laughed. “With you out of the running, McClare, one can only hope.”
The orchestra began to play, and Jamie rose to escort his mother to the dance floor while Blake and Jess followed behind. Logan’s gaze settled on Cait. “Andrew, if it’s all right with you, I’d like an opportunity to dance with Cait if I may.”
“That’s up to Cait,” Andrew said with a light squeeze of her shoulder. He retrieved her empty ginger ale glass from the table and bent forward. “Cait, I saw someone I need to speak to across the room, so I’ll get you a refill on the way.”
“Thank you, Andrew,” she whispered, picking at her nails as her eyes trailed him into the crowd, as if she were reluctant to meet Logan’s gaze.
His voice was low as he grazed the soft skin of her shoulder. “Shall we, Mrs. McClare?” Seldom had Logan seen Cait more nervous, biting the edge of her lip as she rose. He heard the catch of her breath when he skimmed her arms with his palms. “If you’d rather not . . .”
She glanced up then, lips curving in a shy smile that reminded him so much of Meg. “And miss the chance to dance with the man of the hour, easily becoming the absolute envy of almost every woman in this room?” She looped her arm through his. “I think not, Mr. McClare.”
He grinned as he escorted her to the floor. “There’s only one woman whose opinion I care about, and I’m about to dance with her.” Hand to the small of her back, he guided her past the crowd to a less congested area, the distant glow of chandeliers overhead lending an intimate feel to a room lit by candlelight. Taking her into his arms, his chest ached at having her so near, the feel of her hands in his as natural as breathing. Hundreds of people crowded the room, but for him, there was only one.
One person.
One woman.
One love for the rest of my life.
“Have I told you yet just how handsome you look tonight?”
He grinned, her stilted attempt at flirtation so out of character that he knew she was flustered. “Are you flirting with me, Mrs. McClare?” he asked with a jut of his brow, laughing out loud when her cheeks fused bright pink. He neatly executed a wide spin, as fluid as if they were one. “And have I ever told you just how adorable you are when you’re nervous?”
“I am not nervous,” she said with a thrust of her chin, a flicker of a smile at the edge of her lips. A familiar spark in those mesmerizing green eyes told him he’d struck a nerve.
“Ah, now there’s the Caitlyn I know and love.” Palm grazing her shoulder blade, he swept her in a wide arc, her body as graceful and light as the chiffon folds of her dress as they fluttered in the breeze. His smile faded to tender. “This is me, Cait, remember?” he said quietly. “No need to be nervous.”
She looked away, the muscles in her throat contracting as if she didn’t know what to say, and his heart stalled for a split second. Suddenly she seemed as if she were a million miles away, so distant in her emotions that they might have been mere acquaintances. Her gaze roamed the room, lighting on anything but him, and instantly a hint of alarm curled in his belly.
He gripped her closer, palm firm against her back while his voice came out hoarse and low. “Don’t do this, Cait,” he whispered, “don’t leave me. I can feel you pulling away, and I don’t know why.”
Anyone else might have missed the almost imperceptible quiver of her lip, but not him, not in a face that haunted his dreams day and night. When she finally lifted her gaze to his, her face held a shadow of sadness despite a wellspring of affection misting her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, Logan,” she said softly, briefly cupping a gentle hand to his face. Her fingers quivered noticeably against his jaw, and it took everything in him not to place his hand over hers. Her expression was tender. “You and I share a friendship and love that will last forever.”
Her bodice expanded with a quick inhale, as if she were desperate to change the subject. “You and Jean certainly make a handsome couple,” she said casually, her gaze roaming the room, looking everywhere but at him. “It’s easy to see where Jamie gets his good looks.”
He fought the rise of a gulp, any and all nervousness suddenly his. So that was the reason for her detached behavior—Jean MacKenna. Sweat licked the back of his collar. But was it jealousy . . . or something else? Swallowing hard, he whirled her wide before his sober eyes met hers. “I’d rather not talk about Jean, Cait, any more than I imagine you want to talk about Andrew.”
The heightened color in her cheeks told him he’d struck his mark.
He continued before she could speak, tempering his words with the same logic, calm, and confidence he utilized in his profession. “Jamie was in a bind because he obviously couldn’t escort both Jess and his mother, so I bailed him out, Cait, nothing more.”
The blush in her cheeks deepened. “Logan, really, it’s none of my busi—”
“Of course it is,” he said, cutting her off with a pointed tone. His face softened when she peeked up at him with a sheen of tears, a shadow of grief haunting her gaze that near shredded his heart. The volume of his voice dropped to husky. “I’m in love with you, Cait—when are you going to realize that means forever?”
“Sorry, old boy, but your second dance just ended.”
Both he and Cait startled, obviously so focused on each other neither noticed that the song had stopped and another was just beginning.
“The orchestra just indicated last dance of the night, Supervisor,” Andrew said with a clap on Logan’s back, his smile kind, but the jest in his tone getting on Logan’s nerves. “So despite your lucky win tonight, I believe a court would rule in my favor since the lady is my date.”
Date.
His. Not Logan’s.
Salt in a wound that had just begun to heal.
Employing the unruffled demeanor for which he was known, Logan stepped back and graciously offered Cait’s hand to Turner along with an easy smile that wasn’t easy at all. But not before caressing her palm with the pad of his thumb, squeezing lightly before finally letting go. “I defer, old boy, but I think a jury would concur, counselor, as to which of us is luckier tonight.” With a slight bow, Logan turned to make his way through the crowd, fielding a flurry of handshakes on the way, masterful at hiding the awful jealousy that clawed in his chest. All around him, people offered congratulations, cheering and praising him for the award he had won. A coveted wooden plaque with a brass inscription—the prize he’d take home tonight.
While Andrew took Cait.
Changing his course midstride to the table, he made a beeline for the terrace door instead, skimming his fingers inside his collar to loosen his tie. No question about it—the Dickherber Award recipient definitely needed privacy and distance and a whole lot of air. He shoved through the French doors, the sharp blast of sea breeze doing little to cool his temper.
Because despite the polished brass plate carefully etched with his name? A swear word teetered on the tip of his tongue. He wasn’t the winner at all.
25
I had a wonderful time, Bram.”
Bram stood on the Darlington marble portico with Amelia, wishing he were anywhere but here. Not that he didn’t like her—he did. But the conversation with Meg had unsettled him more than he wanted to admit—especially to Meg. He cared too much about her happiness and peace of mind, he realized, and the threat of Caldwell hurting her again disturbed him as much as it did her. He frowned. Not necessarily a good thing now that she was all grown up and poised to live her own life. And he, his. He refocused on Amelia, noting the doleful slope of brows and the two tiny creases above her nose, and guilt instantly cramped in his chest. You’re an idiot, Hughes.
“But you didn’t, did you?” The quiver of hurt in her whisper shot straight to his heart.
“Of course I did,” he assured her, taking her hands into his own. “I’m just a little distracted right now, that’s all, and I apologize for that.”
“Distracted because of . . . Meg?” There was a childlike quality to her voice, soft and uns
ure, overriding any shock he might have experienced over the pointed question she asked.
He exhaled slowly. “Actually, yes, but only because Meg is like a sister to me, so when she’s upset, I’m afraid I revert to being her big brother, protective to a fault.”
“But you’re not,” she whispered, a glimmer in her eyes that hinted at tears. “Her brother, that is, which makes it all the harder to accept the fact that . . .”
Her lower lip began to quiver, and he tightened his grip. “Accept what?” he asked softly, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms and comfort her like he’d always done with Meg.
She gave a tiny lift of her shoulders while she stared at the floor, looking far more like a little girl than a woman of almost twenty. “Well, you know . . . accept the fact that men aren’t . . .” Her voice broke on a tiny heave. “A-Attracted to me.”
He bit back a groan, regretting that his preoccupation with Meg had affected Amelia’s evening as well. Desperate to appease, he lifted her hands to graze her fingers with a tender kiss. “That’s ridiculous—you turned many a head tonight, Amelia, and I was proud to be your escort.”
“You were?” Her eyelids flickered several times, lashes spiky with tears, and then his stomach clenched when her lip started to tremble again. “But if th-that’s true, then wh-why did Antonio b-break my heart . . . ?” Her voice trailed into a quiet sob.
Bram blinked, paralyzed for half a heartbeat before he gathered her in his arms, soothing with a gentle caress of her back. “Okay, young lady, just who is this Antonio?” She hiccupped in his arms, and a faint smile tipped the edge of his lips at the soft little girl hidden so carefully beneath the perky veneer. The notion that she was like Meg in this respect seemed to calm him, unleashing the caretaker in him. He gave her shoulder a squeeze while tease tempered his tone. “The truth, Miss Darlington, if you please—do I have competition to worry about?”
She pulled away, eyes wide and wet, and the nervous peak of her brows made him want to hug her all over again. “Oh, no, Bram—I didn’t mean to imply that, it’s just that . . . that . . .”
More moisture pooled in her eyes, and before she could utter another word, he steered her to an ornate wrought-iron chaise on the Darlingtons’ rock patio at the side of the house. Gently prompting her to sit, he joined her while the gurgle of a marble fountain filled the night air, hoping it would mask any conversation—or weeping—that might occur. He took her hands in his, voice as tender as his smile. “Amelia,” he said softly, “I want you to start at the beginning and tell me who Antonio is, and I promise you will not offend or hurt my feelings. Yes, there is an unspoken understanding between our families and us, I realize, but that doesn’t preclude others we may have cared for in the past.” He tucked a finger to her chin, lifting her swollen gaze to his. “And frankly, Miss Darlington, you’re way too pretty and young to know heartbreak, so I want to know the source of your grief, all right?”
She nodded, sniffling while she groped in her reticule for a handkerchief that appeared to be lost in a dark hole. Battling a smile, he slipped his own freshly starched handkerchief into her hand and placed her beaded purse between them. “Okay, I assume you met Antonio in Rome?”
Blond curls bobbed in agreement while she blew her nose in a dainty manner.
“And you obviously cared for him a great deal.”
He tempered a smile when a loose flower in her hair flopped with another jerky nod. “So what happened?” he whispered.
A tiny shudder traveled her body before she finally released a wavering sigh, head bowed and shoulders slumped, handkerchief limp in her lap. “I . . . met h-him at a g-gathering Aunt Flora’s dear friend Isabella gave to welcome me to Rome. He was her daughter Gia’s friend, actually, and we . . .” She dabbed at fresh tears. “Hit it off beautifully . . . even magically, you might say.” Her gaze rose to meet Bram’s, tragedy welling in her dark eyes. “We spent . . . so much time together . . . with Gia and her friends, and h-he . . .” A muscle spasmed in her throat. “H-he told me he loved m-me, Bram . . . that he wanted to m-marry me . . .” Her voice cracked on a heave. “And then . . . then h-he . . . w-was gone.”
“Gone?”
The flower that dangled in her hair flapped unmercifully, but Bram found no humor in it now, aching for this young woman whose heart had been shattered. “To Milan, he s-said, a family matter h-he needed to attend to.” Her eyelids weighted closed, sending a trail of tears down each sodden cheek. “Only he . . . he . . . ended it after he left.”
Bram reached for her hand, palming it between his. “What do you mean ‘ended it’?”
She sniffed, handkerchief blotting moisture in what appeared to be a valiant attempt at composure. “A . . . brief n-note a few days later, saying he was s-sorry to lead me on but that it was nothing m-more than an innocent f-flirtation . . .”
Her broken words trailed into weeping so anguished, Bram could do naught but cradle her in his arms. “Amelia, I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, feeling her pain in every shudder. “But it sounds as if God may have spared you from a shallow relationship.”
“That’s wh-what Auntie Flo said, b-but it d-doesn’t make it h-hurt any less . . .”
“No, it doesn’t, but we’re going to do something about that.”
“We are?” she said with a soggy sniff, luring a smile to his lips.
“Yes, we are.”
She pulled from his embrace to peer up with puffy eyes. “What?”
He pressed a kiss to her nose and tipped her chin up. “Well, first we’re going to get your mind off of it.”
“How?” His heart softened at the somber blink of blue eyes that appeared far too innocent to have been dealt such a blow.
He deposited a kiss to her head. “By getting to know each other as friends until you’re ready to court.”
She pulled back, fissures of strain melting away on a lovely face that now glowed with hope. “Oh, Bram, do you mean it? You’re not upset that I still harbor feelings for Antonio?”
“Nope.” He carefully removed the precarious flower from her hair and tucked it into the pocket near his lapel, dispensing a smile edged with tease. “I’m an old-fashioned type of man, Miss Darlington, who believes friendship is the most solid foundation a courtship can have.”
She flung herself into his arms as a giggle escaped. “Oh my, Bram, you are truly the best friend a girl could ever have!”
Meg’s image flashed in his mind, and heat stormed up his neck at the attraction he so vehemently denied, buried so deep he prayed no one would ever know.
The best friend a girl could ever have?
Maybe. His eyelids lumbered closed as a muscle jerked in his throat.
And then again . . . maybe not.
With a squeaky twist of the tarnished brass knob, Meg entered the district attorney’s office, near exhausted from an afternoon at the district court hunting documents to complete her report. No question it would be another late night, but Meg didn’t mind. She thrived on the research that would bring Andrew—and her mother—closer to the goal of shutting the Marsicania down. Her mouth twitched with a near smile despite the fatigue in her bones. Not to mention the satisfaction of completing my report before Devin completes his . . .
“Uh-oh . . . looks like somebody’s feeling pretty smug.” Bonnie glanced up from her typewriter, appearing far more energetic than Meg felt at the end of this grueling day. With a smile as fresh as her crisp pinstripe blouse, she jerked a piece of paper from the platen and placed it on a stack of letters while assessing Meg over the rims of her stylish new glasses. “Something tells me Devin’s day just got a whole lot worse, which I didn’t think was possible.”
Meg couldn’t help but grin as she quietly shut the door, the thought of besting Devin once again bringing a little too much pleasure. A chuckle broke loose as she waggled her brows, attaché case in hand. “Why, whatever do you mean, Miss Roof? I’m only doing my job.”
Bonnie’s lips quirked, her short no
d down the hall indicating Devin was working late too. “A little too well if Devin’s crabby mood is any indication.” She shook her head. “Goodness, Meg, how did a shy and sweet little thing like you ever become so bloodthirsty in business?”
Meg plopped the attaché on the edge of Bonnie’s desk with a clunk, a touch of guilt overriding her victorious mood. “Survival of the fittest, I suppose,” she said with a weary sigh. Her gaze flicked from the clock on Bonnie’s desk that registered six to the office where she knew Devin would be the only other one still present, and seriously considered taking her work home.
Their evening at the Barrister Ball had been nice enough if you discounted the jittery feeling in her stomach whenever he held her in his arms for a dance. The real problem, however, had begun when Devin had interrupted her conversation with Bram on the terrace. It seemed from that point on, something had changed in Devin’s mood, his manner almost grumpy. Meg had been relieved when her mother declined the dessert and coffee Andrew suggested after the ball. And when Devin arrived for work this morning with little more than a curt greeting that came off more as a grunt, Meg had silently rejoiced she’d be spending her day at district court. Goodness, she was barely comfortable working and teasing with the old flirtatious Devin, much less this cranky, sullen one. Her gaze darted toward their office and back. “So he’s still in a crabby mood, then?” she asked, feeling a sudden urge to chew on a hangnail.
A drawer slammed down the hall, causing one side of Bonnie’s lip to swerve up. “Oh, I think we’re well beyond crabby.” She carefully covered her typewriter, then rose and slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “What on earth did you do to him, anyway? He’s been in a huff all day.”
She blinked. “Nothing, I promise.”
Bonnie delivered a wink. “Well, there you go. Or . . . I suppose it could be the fact Andrew changed the deadline for your reports from next Friday to this Friday.”