A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)
“I know you have strict orders not to serve hard liquor––Bentifourt gets tetchy about such things––however, do you think you could do an old man a favor? Could I tempt you to be bad?” I couldn’t resist the silky British accent, or the devilish twinkle in his eyes.
“What may I get you, sir?” I asked, smiling.
“What a darling girl you are, beautiful too. If I was five years younger… Macallan––55, if he has it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
When I returned to the sitting room with a crystal glass of the extremely rare vintage balancing on my tray, Mr. Bentifourt grabbed my arm. “Who’s that for?”
“The man in the navy double breasted, sir.”
His grip on my arm relaxed. “Charles Hightower, yes, alright. But no one else.”
“Pardon, sir, but who is he?”
“The late Mr. Horn’s best friend, also an important client of the bank.”
I located Mr. Hightower near the fireplace, holding court with a couple of young bank employees, and handed him the glass.
“Beautiful and resourceful. I like that in a woman.”
After managing to unload another tray of champagne glasses at record speed, I went to stand next to Charlotte against a wall on the other side of the room. “There’s that bitch sister-in-law,” she said, tipping her blonde head towards Paisley.
After picking my chin up off the ground, I asked, “Did you just say sister-in-law?”
“Yes, her husband is Mr. Horn’s step-brother.” Good God…he was sleeping with his sister-in-law! This would require excessive analysis at a later date. “She makes my life a living hell every time she’s here,” Charlotte whispered. “Last time she had me pick the chocolate chips out of the mint chocolate chip ice cream––no exaggeration.” It was almost impossible for Charlotte not to exaggerate.
These people inhabited a world so far removed from mine. Sleeping with your sister-in-law was way outside the norm of decent behavior in my book, the stuff soap opera’s were made of. I glanced at Paisley and found her in an animated discussion with Mrs. Redman. They were obviously well known to each other. And so alike in their dress, their appearance, their mannerisms they could have been mother and daughter.
Looking bored and restless, her husband, Marcus sat opposite them in a spindly Louis xvii chair with his ankle resting on the opposite knee and his thumb tapping the armrest. He scanned the room impatiently until his gaze settled on me. His chocolate brown eyes traveled from my face to my feet in a subtly appraising manner I didn’t care for. Unfortunately, when he motioned me over, it was too late to pretend I hadn’t seen him.
“May I get you something?”
His index finger rested on his full lips as he deliberated. “Are you British?”
“No.”
He motioned for me to come closer. I braced with apprehension for a moment, before bending down slightly.
“Did anybody ever tell you that you look a lot like Natalie––”
“No, never,” I interrupted.
And of course his Royal Highness chose that exact moment to make an appearance. When he stepped into the room, a collective silence fell over the crowd and all eyes turned to him. He was magnificent in a lean navy suit. His soft white shirt cleaved by a deep purple tie of thick silk and a double Windsor that few men could wear without looking ridiculous.
Heir to the throne.
Unfortunately, his gaze was elsewhere…fixed with laser precision on me. I immediately knew there was going to be trouble when Sebastian’s eyes narrowed––not that he had any right. Regardless, by now I knew how irrational he could get when that look came over him. And there I was, bent over and flushed, with Marcus’s dark head dipped and his eyes trained on my breasts. Snapping straight, I hurried away. Sebastian’s scrutiny followed me until Charles Hightower approached him, his face softening as they exchanged friendly pats on the back. There was genuine affection between the two and for whatever absurd reason it pleased me. He always held everyone at a distance.
Except when he’s kissing you, the devil in me spoke.
He moved gracefully about the room, making friendly conversation and shaking hands with his traders and clients. For a man that was so often closed off and alone, he was a born leader. People naturally gravitated towards him.
Sadly, I realized that my eyes were not the only ones that followed him everywhere. Aside from Paisley, the wives and girlfriends of a number of the guests stared with undisguised hunger, some brazen enough to openly flirt under the noses of their dates. One in particular, dressed in an elegant white sheath dress, devoured him with her pretty blue eyes and stalked him around the room.
When he finished making his rounds, his gaze connected with mine and summoned me over. I walked to him balancing a tray of champagne flutes. Although he took one, he didn’t drink it. The silence stretched on.