“I was just wondering where the man of the evening is. He said he’d meet us—Oh, never mind, there he is.”
Ian strolls toward us, looking very dapper in a charcoal gray tux with a crisp, white dress shirt and a silk tie that matches the black lapels of his jacket. “Ladies,” he greets us with his most charming smile. “I’m so honored to have two celebrities of your stature at my birthday party. Don’t worry, I forbid all the other guests from asking for autographs or selfies.”
With a roguish glint in his eye, Ian takes my grandmother’s hand and lightly kisses the back of it. “Viv, you are a vision,” he tells her. “If you’re not careful, every man in the Grand Salon will fall under your spell.”
“With great power comes great responsibility,” my grandmother bandies back.
Moving on to my mom, Ian inclines his head in deference. “Dr. Hart, you look stunning as always. Thank you for taking time away from your next bestseller to be here.”
“Your mother didn’t give me much choice in the ma— Ow!” She rubs her ribs where I just elbowed her and gives me a look of consternation. “Was that really necessary?”
“Yes, it was. You’re supposed to be censoring yourself tonight and not giving voice to every thought that crosses your mind, remember?”
“That being the case, I’m going to need a drink stronger than that Dom in the car,” she huffs.
“There’s a full bar upstairs at the party. Allow me to escort you.”
Ian offers an arm to Viv and the other to my mom, which leaves me the odd woman out. I was the only Hart who wasn’t the recipient of his lavish praise either, but maybe he thought he needed to work his way down from our family’s biggest ego to its smallest and he’ll compliment my appearance when we’re alone.
Ian ushers us to the elevators, explaining we only have to go up one level to the R-Deck. It’s a short trip and soon we arrive at Party Central. The corridor is full of people heading into and spilling out of a large set of double doors through which music, laughter, and the hum of conversation can be heard.
Stopping outside the doors, Ian says with his customary suaveness, “Ladies, if you wouldn’t mind going ahead without us, I’d like to whisk my beautiful date away for a few moments of private time.”
Huh, okay, not sure what this is about, but I’m all for taking a nice stroll up on deck before having to smile and make small talk with a bunch of strangers for several hours.
“No worries,” Viv says. “We can take care of ourselves. Have fun, you two.” She raises an inquisitive eyebrow at me, and I shrug in reply.
With his arm wrapped around my waist, Ian hustles me down the corridor, accepting birthday wishes, handshakes, and claps on the back from other partygoers along the way, then he’s yanking open a door and pushing me inside a long, empty, unpleasantly stuffy walkway that I presume is used mostly by people who work on the ship.
Ian glances to his left, then his right, confirming that we’re alone, then he expels a loud breath and turns to face me. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Okay,” I agree as I can’t imagine him making a request I wouldn’t be amenable to. “What is it?”
Reaching into his jacket, he extracts a black velvet ring box and opens it. “Put this on.”
My eyes almost bug out of my head.
“Are you serious? Is that real?” I lean closer to get a better look at the Art Deco-style ring. It’s a large (four carats or more!), glittering, green stone bezel-set on a platinum band surrounded by a halo of round diamonds with a vertical line of tiny emeralds on each shoulder followed by more diamonds that taper into the band. If Viv were here, she’d pull out her loupe, give the ring a thorough examination, and tell me exactly how much it cost. The woman knows her jewelry! I can only guess that it’s worth half-a-million or more.
“It’s a family heirloom.”
“And you thought it would look nice with my dress?”
I texted him earlier to let him know I had on an emerald green gown because his suggestion that I wear this color to his party had stuck in my head. The minute I saw this Alice + Olivia gown I knew it would be perfect. It’s just the right jewel tone and the design of the dress is sophisticated with a hint of sauciness. Although my arms are covered by long sleeves, the neckline is plunging and there’s a slit up the side to show some leg.
Plucking the ring from the box, I start to slide it on my right ring finger.
“Wrong hand,” Ian says.
I glance up, my face wrinkling with confusion. “But if I wear this on my left hand, people will think we’re—” I gasp. “Is this an engagement,” my voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper when I utter the word, “ring?”
He nods. “It was originally given to my great grandmother back in the twenties, then her eldest son proposed to my grandmother Frances with it in the fifties. She was a tough, old broad who didn’t kick off until she was well into her eighties, so her only son, my father, had to give my mother a different ring.”
“That’s a fascinating bit of Ellingsworth history, but I still don’t understand why you want me to wear this tonight. We never discussed pretending to be engaged.”
“I know and I hate to spring it on you like this, but . . .” Ian rubs his eyes wearily. “My parents were all over me earlier, lecturing me about how I’m thirty-five now and should be settling down, how my father wants to retire and the new head of our company . . .” He places a hand on his chest. “. . . should have a stable home life so that clients and business associates will believe he’s reliable and trustworthy, blah, blah, blah. I reminded them that I’ve been in a relationship with the same woman,” he waves a hand at me, “for almost two years, and my mother said that that was more than enough time for me to know if you were the right person to be my partner in life and worthy of the Ellingsworth name.”
With another beleaguered sigh, he begins to pace back and forth. “I had just gotten in from a long flight and was exhausted by the whole debacle with Mrs. Herrold and the cracked Tiffany lamp. P.S.” He comes to a halt in front of me. “She loved the Hermès scarf and said she was going to try it on. When she came back, she was wearing nothing but that square of silk, which barely covered her saggy bits. I’ve never seen such an old body naked before and it was totally traumatizing!”
A giggle escapes my lips, and I slap my hand over my mouth because I know this is not a laughing matter, but I can’t help it. The visual of some octogenarian trying to seduce Ian is just too funny.
“I’m glad you’re amused,” he says dryly. “Because I had a hell of a time extricating myself from that situation without offending her and losing her family’s business forever.”
“What did you do? Tell her you weren’t attracted to women?” That’s not true, but it would have gotten him off the hook with this randy cougar.
“No. I think she would have seen that as some kind of challenge. I told her I was kicked in the privates by my father’s polo horse when I was eleven, which resulted in me suffering from ED as an adult.”
“How could you besmirch Prince Valiant’s good name like that?” I tease with a smirk, knowing how much Ian dislikes horses despite claiming that he “devastates” in jodhpurs. Prince Valiant was his father’s prized thoroughbred when Ian was a child and that horse’s offspring, Valiant II, resides in an air-conditioned stable in Pacific Palisades where he probably receives Moroccan oil treatments on his mane and weekly hooficures.
“Seeing as how that smelly beast galloped across the Rainbow Bridge a decade ago, I don’t think he—”
The door to the walkway swings open and a young woman dressed in a nautical-style uniform of black pants and a cropped ivory jacket with large gold buttons enters. She seems surprised to see us, which confirms what I suspected about this being an employees-only area.
“Excuse me,” she says, and Ian and I move apart to give her room to walk between us. As the woman passes by me, she sees the ring in my hand and gives me a smile and a thumbs-up. She the
n scurries down the remainder of the walkway, probably thinking she interrupted a proposal, and also wondering why anyone would want to pop the question in this very unromantic spot—not only is it claustrophobic, there’s a rather noxious aroma of oil in here, which is probably coming from all of the machinery used to run this ship.
“So you escaped Mrs. H’s clutches with your virtue intact,” I prompt Ian to complete the story once we have the walkway to ourselves again.
“Just barely. I was so unsettled by the experience that it put me off my game with my parents. So when they started hounding me about needing a wife, I took the easy way out and told them that marriage was something you and I had been talking about. The next thing I know my father’s shoving this ring box into my hand and telling me to give it to you and make the engagement official.”
I glance down at the jewelry again. It’s not really my style as I’m more of a traditionalist when it comes to engagement rings, preferring diamonds to colored gemstones, but this is unique and undeniably gorgeous. I suppose I could try it on just to see how it looks . . .
No! Bad Vanessa! It wouldn’t be right to wear such a treasured piece of Ellingsworth history as a ruse.
I raise my eyes to Ian’s once again and say, “I know you just want to keep the peace with your parents, at least for tonight since they’ve gone to so much trouble and expense to throw this party for you, but I don’t think it’d be fair to give them false hope.”
“It doesn’t have to be false.” He lifts my left hand, then takes the ring from me and slides it on.
“It fits!” I exclaim in surprise. “And I have slender fingers, so rings always have to be sized down for me.”
“Maybe it’s a sign.”
“A sign of what?” I wonder as I hold up my hand to admire the ring and the way the light reflects off the jewels. The brilliant green color of the emerald provides a striking contrast to my pale skin, and the silvery Smith & Cult polish on my nails pairs beautifully with the bling of the ring.
“That the ring was meant to be yours, and this engagement should be a real one.”
My eyes widen in shock and my hand drops to my side with an audible thud. “You want us to get married?”
“Why not? Our arrangement has worked out pretty well so far, hasn’t it? And the more I think about it, the more it makes sense for us to kick it up a notch. You’re well-versed on my feelings about marriage and monogamy.” He purses his lips with distaste. “But if I have to be eternally bound to someone, I can’t think of a better person than you. You know the real Ian and accept me with no judgment, we always have a blast together, and our kids would be supermodel gorgeous.”
“Since when do you want kids?” I query with a frown.
“I don’t. They’re whiny, disgusting crap factories, but I need an heir or when I die, the auction house will go to one of my cousins and they’re all spoiled, lazy brats who’ve never had any interest in learning the business.”
“But in order to produce offspring, we’d have to . . .” As handsome as Ian is, and as much as I care about him, I can’t imagine the two of us ever being intimate.
“We can have our children made in a lab and I can hire a surrogate so that you don’t have to go through the whole pregnancy thing.” He grimaces as if the idea of a woman in that condition is horrifying to him. “And you won’t have to take any time away from your career to be a mother because we’ll have a houseful of nannies, chefs, tutors, and whatever else our little darlings might need.”
That’s not at all how I envisioned parenthood, but Ian’s children would certainly want for nothing. And while being a father has never been a priority for him, I have no doubt he’d adore anyone created in his image—once they passed the getting-bodily-fluids-on-his-bespoke-suits stage. Having kids is just one part of marriage, though. What about the rest of it?
“Am I correct in assuming that you’d still be engaging in your extracurricular activities after we were married?”
“Of course. And you’re welcome to join in the fun anytime you like . . .” My expression must be similar to the one he made when talking about pregnancy because he hastens to add, “. . . or take lovers one at a time whenever the mood strikes. We’ll be like all of the other power couples here in LA who have open marriages.”
“Are there really that many?” I’m tempted to ask him to name names, but I don’t think I really want to know who these couples are. To each their own, but . . . “That’s depressing.”
“Or smart. I know love and romance are your stock-in-trade, but surely you’ve realized by now that they’re not sustainable. Look at Viv. She followed her heart to the altar six times—”
“Seven,” I grumble the updated number since I’ve had to add a Greek con artist to her list of former spouses.
He winces. “She really is a glutton for punishment, isn’t she? Also a prime example of what happens when you marry for love—disappointment, drama, and ultimately divorce. Isn’t it better to take emotions out of the equation and marry someone you like rather than love; someone who lays all of their cards on the table from the outset and can never hurt you because your heart isn’t involved; someone who can provide security, companionship, and in my case charm and wit along with stellar fashion advice—I told you you’d slay in that shade of green, didn’t I?” He gestures at my gown.
“You did. Thank you. And I admit that you’ve presented a compelling argument in support of our union, but I have to ask: how can you think marriages based on love are futile endeavors when your own parents are proof otherwise?”
“Because they’re not. Their happiness and compatibility have nothing to do with them being madly in love. They may have had those feelings at the beginning of their marriage because they were young and swept up in the excitement of starting their lives together, but it all petered out a few years in. They haven’t even shared a bedroom since I was a child, but they have the deepest respect and affection for each other, and their relationship works just like ours would.
“So . . .” He lifts my bejeweled hand in the air once more. “. . . what do you say, Gingersnap? Will you entertain the idea of becoming my wife? I’ll sweeten the deal and tell you that there are even more impressive baubles where this . . .” He glances down at the emerald ring. “. . . came from. You could get married wearing a century-old diamond tiara made by Fabergé, or hell, you could wear it while eating breakfast every morning.” His mouth quirks up on one side with amusement at the thought.
“While I do love things that sparkle, I can’t be bribed by them,” I say before sliding my hand out of his. “This is a big decision and I need to give it some serious thought. In the meantime, I will wear this ring tonight for your parents’ sake. They’re not planning on making any public announcements about our engagement right away, are they?”
He shakes his head. “They promised to keep it on the q.t. until we give them the go-ahead.”
“Good. When I’m not with your parents, I’ll twist the ring around so that the jewels aren’t visible and I don’t get any uncomfortable questions from the other partygoers.”
“Thank you for playing along, Gingersnap. I owe you big time.”
“Yeah, you do,” I retort with a smile as he envelops me in a hug.
CHAPTER 41
The Grand Salon definitely lives up to its name. It’s a huge space with room for several hundred of the Ellingsworths’ nearest and dearest to mingle and sip their bubbly while an all-male quartet plays smooth jazz. Ian’s mother has gone all in on a regal color scheme for the family’s prince as the salon’s elegant architecture is being uplit by red accent lights and the large mural of swans and peacocks on the back wall is being similarly bathed in gold. In the center of the room there are long banquet tables covered in satiny red cloths with gold runners that are studded with (faux?) jewels. The tables are illuminated by flickering flames from the tapers in the candelabra that are positioned at strategic points, as well as those in the red and gold votives arr
anged next to small black vases of red roses, and there are gold-rimmed plates and crystal goblets for each place setting. Hard to imagine a feast sumptuous enough to live up to this décor, but I expect luxury foods like fresh-off-the-boat lobster, Jidori chicken, Wagyu beef, summer black truffles, duck confit, uni butter, and/or edible gold leaf will be making an appearance.
Ian is chatting with some family friends as I try to act interested in who’ll be yachting where this summer while surreptitiously scanning the salon to see if I can get a bead on the other Harts. I know they promised to be on their best behavior, but I don’t feel comfortable leaving those wild cards on their own for too long. Also they need to hear about this “engagement” with Ian from me first so that they’re not blindsided.
Viv isn’t out on the dance floor, which is a surprise because that’s where she can be assured everyone will be watching her and she never has any trouble finding a man to play Fred to her Ginger. I don’t see my mother either, but then she’s harder to pick out of the crowd since she’s wearing black and this lighting is creating shadowy pockets in the room. Hold on, was that a flash of coral over by that palm tree . . .
Yes, it’s Viv and she’s animatedly regaling her companions with some story that requires lots of expressive hand gestures. My mother, who’s standing to her right, barely avoids a smack to the cheek when Viv’s arm swings wide. I can’t see who they’re conversing with because there’s a large column blocking my— Oh, no. No, no, NO! This is not good. Of all the people in this cavernous room for my mother and Viv to glom onto . . .
I tug on Ian’s tuxedo jacket, trying to be subtle, but he doesn’t notice because he’s too busy debating which is the best Mediterranean port, so I’m forced to interrupt. “Capri sounds divine, Lawrence. I’ll be sure and add it to my bucket list. Ian, your mother just waved at us. We should head over and see what she wants.” I slide my eyes to the left so that he’ll look in that direction.
“Ah, yes,” he says after glancing over my shoulder and seeing our parents chatting away. “She probably wants to know if I’m for or against everyone singing ‘Happy Birthday’ when they bring out the cake.” Leaning toward the Huttons, he murmurs, “Definitely against. There’s not a single Ellingsworth who isn’t tone-deaf,” which elicits an amused chuckle from the rest of us. “Lawrence.” Ian gives the man’s hand a hearty shake. “Maud.” He bestows a kiss on each of the woman’s heavily powdered cheeks. “Thanks again for helping me celebrate this special occasion. Enjoy your evening.”
Straight from the Hart Page 38
