We’re operating like an old married couple, not needing words to communicate our thoughts or feelings. Despite her release, she’s no less tense or defiant. She’s still opposed to the idea of us, believing she hates me.
She straightens her dress when I pull into the parking lot of the country club. After finding a parking near the entrance, I come around to get her door and help her from the car.
“All right?” I ask, cupping her waist and pulling her close.
“Yes,” she says, meeting my gaze squarely.
That’s my girl, my blazing comet. She’ll set the sky on fire.
Taking her hand, I lead her to an extravagantly decorated ballroom where everything from the flowers and candles to the tablecloths and chair covers are white. We’re ten minutes early, but the hall is already packed. A group of coworkers is gathered around the bar while others are smoking outside. Gus and Elliot are conversing with Carter on the veranda. The end of Gus’s cigar glows red as he puffs on it.
When a waiter approaches, I grab two glasses of champagne and hand Violet one. Heads turn as we make our way through the hall, not only because of the dress, but also because they’re curious about our relationship. I’ll satisfy their curiosity soon. I want to announce our engagement before she moves in with me.
My soon-to-be fiancée walks stiffly next to me as I lead her onto the veranda. Mindful of her heels, I take her elbow and slow my stride.
Gus looks up when we step into the light. “There they are.” He waves us over, an ember flying from his cigar and the burnt-out ash sifting through the air to land on his shoe.
Keeping an arm around Violet’s waist, I shake Carter’s hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Same here,” he says, trailing a gaze over Violet.
Dragging her closer, I give Carter a pointed look. I don’t care who he is. If he values his eyeballs, he’ll stop staring at her as if she’s on the menu.
A woman not much older than Violet in a white dress that stretches over her round belly walks up to us. She must be seven or eight months pregnant.
“Violet,” she exclaims. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was worried I’d be the only woman.”
“This is Candice, my wife,” Carter says.
“Fifth wife,” Candice says, winking.
Carter adds with a wry chuckle, “Sixth child.”
Judging by her age, he didn’t have the other five kids with her. He must be paying a fortune in child support.
“I need someone to accompany me to the ladies,” she says, pulling Violet from my embrace. “Pregnancy.” She utters a sigh. “I have to pee every five minutes.” Giving a finger-wave, she says, “We’ll catch you later, guys.”
I follow them with my gaze as Candice takes Violet inside and stops to speak to a group of men from programming.
“Don’t worry,” Carter says, nudging me. “They won’t disappear.”
I don’t bother to reply. It’s my responsibility to make sure Violet is safe. After a minute, they disappear down the hallway. I check my watch. If they’re not back in ten, I’ll go after them. I’m only too aware of all the dangers that can befall a woman, no matter where. In my occupation—my real occupation, that is—I learned to be cautious.
Nine minutes later, they’re back, taking up a position close to the food table. Violet is mostly quiet, listening while Candice talks between popping mini sausage rolls into her mouth. I relax enough to give the conversation my full attention. Carter is talking about the threat to his business if the government succeeds in approving the municipalization of privately owned mines and how expansions and new developments are mandatory for survival.
Violet and Candice return just as Carter says, “Your brother is in the business of mining, isn’t he, Leon?”
“That’s right.” I don’t elaborate. My family members have questionable reputations, and delving into our history can only open a can of worms.
“The owner of Hart Diamonds, no less,” Gus says, riding on the balls of his feet.
Violet looks at me quickly, a question burning in her eyes.
The Hart brothers are infamous. Ian was known as the biggest thief in the history of the continent, and Damian served time in prison. Even if Damian has proven his innocence, the stigma is like a smell that pulls into the woodwork. No matter how hard you scrub, you can never get rid of it. As for myself, I’m lucky to have gotten off scot-free without a blemish on my reputation. I owe Damian, who created a bogus history for me, for the latter part.
“You should put us in touch,” Carter says. “Who knows? We may have mutual interests.”
I doubt that very much. Damian does everything on his own terms, and he’ll hate Carter. Damian isn’t fond of the so-called old boys’ club. After they deprived him of his mine, who can blame him?