Brothers of Paradise Series

He sighs, as if he’d forgotten all about his youngest child. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had. “Don’t remind me. I know I’m expected to make some kind of toast, and she’ll skewer me if I screw it up.”

That does make me grin. My little sister is fierce, and she had gone eye to eye with my father about her decision to be with Hayden-who hadn’t exactly been what Michael Marchand would call respectable growing up.

“You have a few weeks to work on it.”

“Yes. Take care, son.”

“You too,” I say, uselessly, because he’s already hung up.

His way or the highway-nothing else mattered. If it wasn’t done according to his business practices, it was obviously wrong. Him offering me a cut of this project was symbolic; I know it as clearly as he did. He was finally offering me recognition.

But the Chicago project is wrong. I feel it in my bones, and I suspect going up there to see won’t change my mind at all.

I’m in a terrible mood when the car finally stops outside a large brick building in Brooklyn, tapping my fingers against the leather seat in irritation. The last thing I want to do is spend the evening with acquaintances and strangers, pretending to enjoy their inane small talk.

I write a quick text. Car outside.

I’ve just pressed send when the door opens, and Faye gets in beside me. “I was waiting downstairs,” she explains, smoothing down the wrinkles in her dress. “So we wouldn’t be late.”

No woman I’ve picked up for a date in New York has ever done that. And not a single one of them looked like her. I tear my eyes away and nod to the driver. “We’re ready.”

She looks like a mixture of her work-self and her date-self, and more stunning than ever. Her hair is pinned back from her face, most of it falling down her shoulders and back, waves of shimmering, silky-soft blackness.

Her dress is dark gold. Even sitting down, I can see that it follows her shape, clinging to every curve in a way that’s going to test my already nonexistent patience.Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

Part of me misses her office look, with the work mask on, the nondescript knee-length pencil skirts and suit jackets. It was easier to deny my pointless attraction to her then.

Faye clears her throat softly. “Is everything all right?”

Damn. I’m so out of sorts-from the phone call, from her-that I haven’t even greeted her yet. I make an effort to soften my voice. “Yes. Thank you for agreeing to this tonight.”

“Anything for the firm,” she says smoothly. “I’ve run through the guest list and memorized about ten different ice-breakers.”

Some of the tension drains from my shoulders. “Tell me.”

She clears her throat dramatically. “Here it goes. ‘Have you ever thought about why there’s a D in fridge, but not in refrigerator?'”

“That is awful.”

“Yep,” she says cheerfully. “I found a website listing thirty of these.”

“Were they all this Shakespearean?”

“Some were actually good,” she says, voice thoughtful. “I liked this one: ‘Let me just begin by saying that we have something in common. You don’t know what I’m going to say next, and quite frankly, neither do I.'”

I shake my head and lean forward. “Pete? Pull over here. Miss Alvarez is getting out.”

“What! No!”

Pete laughs-confirming my suspicion that he always listens to the conversations I have in the car-and keeps driving. Faye laughs too, and I realize how rarely I’ve heard that sound. “All right, all right. I won’t use those two, then.”

“Thanks,” I say dryly, but I’m amused. Tonight might not be so bad after all.

The gala is held in one of New York’s less-famous museums, overlooking Central Park. It’s a beautiful building, usually filled with schoolchildren and tourists. Tonight, there’s a red carpet rolled out and tons of people-organizers, photographers, security. The Founders’ Gala is usually quite small, and always for charity, but things like this attract people like flies, drawn to the appearance of glamour. Pete stops the car in front of the building.

“Miss Alvarez…” I say, turning to face her fully. Her lashes are long, sweeping up as she meets my gaze. “There is a risk that Elliot Ferris is here tonight.”

Her eyes blaze with determination. “I know. I saw him on the guest list.”

The subtext is clear. I can handle it. I nod and reach for the door. “Here we go, then.”

Faye climbs out after me, straightening in a flow of black hair and golden fabric. I offer her my arm, and she threads hers through mine effortlessly-like we’ve walked this way thousands of times. Like we belong together. Two halves of a couple. I glance down at her, but she’s staring straight ahead, a faint smile on her lips.

I’ve escorted dozens of women to events in this manner-why would the feeling of her body moving next to mine feel different? And yet, it does.

We stop for an obligatory photograph before I move us along and into the museum. Posing for the camera is something I have never enjoyed. Leave that to the people who enjoy celebrity.

The museum is one of New York’s most cherished buildings, and it never fails to impress. The enormous marble foyer and the many gallery rooms make for an excellent gala venue. At the moment, though, it’s silk, taffeta and cravats, as far as the eye can see. The sound of conversation and laughter mingles with the music from a string quartet.

I glance down at Faye again. She’s uncharacteristically quiet, taking in our surroundings.

“Something to drink?” I gesture for a waiter. He presents a tray of flutes, the small bubbles dancing inside the golden liquid.

Faye accepts one, and I take another. “Thank you.”

On the first sip, I can tell it’s not particularly good champagne. It’s acidic on the tongue and far too carbonated.

Faye looks amused. “You’re frowning. Not up to your standards?”

It’s slightly unsettling that she can read me so easily. The honest truth is no. I spent many summers in France with my mother’s family, and that had included a trip or two to the region of Champagne.

“I’m afraid to answer,” I say, “and have you accuse me of elitism again.”

She shakes her head, but her eyes are alight with amusement. “It would be unwise of me to do that here, where your connections are needed.”

“Indeed.”

“And where I’d prefer it if you didn’t throw me to the wolves.”

I snort. “Very wise.”

We make our way into the southern gallery. There are familiar faces here; the regulars at these events rarely change. They live like butterflies, flitting from one function to another, as if putting on evening gloves was a profession in and of itself.

A man with a bushy mustache stops us with the effortless smile of a seasoned mingler. “Henry? It’s been what, a year? Two?”

“Jack! How have you been?”

“Oh, you know. Too much wine and too many divorces,” he jokes, laughing at his own outrageousness. “I’m on my third one now.”