So tonight Cathlin forced a smile and straightened her hair, reminding herself that this exposure helped her business and gave her access to the stuffed shirts she needed, even if she did find them incredibly irritating.
“Ready to go?” A jeweled finger pressed her shoulder.
“Serita, you pest, why do I ever agree to do these things? If I die of Joy inhalation, it will be your fault and yours alone.”
“But what a way to go.” Serita McCall, Cathlin’s partner, stood six feet tall and drop-dead gorgeous in gold lamé. She knew everyone worth knowing and all their various wine preferences. For five years she’d badgered Cathlin to come to London, and now that Cathlin was here, her friend was determined to see her paired off and happy.
Cathlin had very different ideas. Serita’s string of introductions had left her utterly bored, and she was having no more of them.
But suspicion was a hard habit to break, and Serita had that old gleam in her eye again. “What is it, Serita? Don’t tell me there’s another sweet, dear man you want me to meet. I warn you, I’ve had it with making small talk with strangers.”
Her friend gave her a sympathetic look. “I was terrible, wasn’t I? Well, you can breathe easily, because I’m done with all that. I’m only thinking about that man who’s been asking about you. See, over there.” She opened the door and pointed. “Beside the Japanese contingent.”
Cathlin studied the tall man striding past a marble column. She had time for only a dim impression of broad shoulders and dark hair before he disappeared into the jeweled throng. “Am I supposed to know him?”
“No, but I am. His name is Dominic Alexander Montserrat. He’s the tenth earl of Ashton, actually.”
Cathlin’s lips pursed.
“Don’t go all New World snob on me, Cathlin O’Neill. Dominic is a perfectly nice man who asked me to point you out. For purely business reasons, I might add. He owns a vineyard himself.”
“Great. Another dissipated absentee landlord. Forget it, Serita.”
“You’re wrong, Cathlin. He’s very quiet about his involvement, but he does take a great interest in his wine and he’s very knowledgeable, believe me. I’d tell you more, but he’d shoot me, since he’s very sensitive about his privacy.”
“So am I.”
Serita smiled. “As a matter of fact, he said you were far too young to be an expert on anything so subtle as nineteenth century Sauternes.”
“Just what I need, another pompous ass. I dearly love you, Serita, but really, you English seem to grow pompous asses the way we grow Florida oranges. And these auctions just seem to pull them out in droves.”
“But he is a most attractive man, Cathlin. There’s something different about Dominic. It’s his eyes, I think. He looks at you and really sees you. There’s something seductive, but dangerous about that kind of total focus in a man.” She shrugged. “Then again, I’ve already had two glasses of Taittinger, so my judgment is probably a tad hazy. Now I must be off. There’s a man waiting for me outside who has a blank check from a very fine department store in Texas and I mean to see he spends every cent of it here tonight.” She winked at Cathlin. “And a few more after that.”
Knowing Serita, she’d do just that, Cathlin thought, as her partner moved back into the crowd. For a moment Cathlin was envious of her ebullient friend, who always seemed to know just how to put people at their ease and bring out their best points.
Unlike Cathlin, who seemed too serious, too competent, too—
Capable. Yes, that was the word. She’d had to be capable, losing her mother so young. Worrying about her footloose father. Then losing him, too.
Sighing, Cathlin picked up her repoussé gold evening bag and headed for the columned auction room. Capable or not, she had made a promise to Serita and that meant she had some very old and very valuable Bordeaux to sell.
Halfway between the potted palms and the carved ice swans a man blocked her way. A very tall man with hair the color of the oak casks used to age the finest Dom Pèrignon.
“Ms. O’Neill?” His black brow arched.
Cathlin looked into his cool green eyes and thought they were too knowing, far too confident. Not that he didn’t have reason to be. His formal black jacket was just about perfection and his bronzed face spoke of just the right amount of time shuttling between Cap d’Antibes and the latest haunt in Mustique.
Which meant that in Cathlin’s eyes he was a grade-A washout.
“Maybe.” Her eyes skimmed his body, noting the exquisitely cut white shirt that came from one of the finest tailors on Savile Row. His wrist held a worn but extremely valuable Swiss designer watch that would have bought a year’s lease on her shop back in Rittenhouse Square. “But probably not.”
There was a flare of emotion in his eyes, something that Cathlin decided was a mix of anger and humor. She found the combination startling.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like how you talk.”
A muscle flashed at his bronzed jaw. “You haven’t heard me talk yet.”
Cathlin pursed her lips. “Then because I don’t like how you look.”
“I can take off the suit if it will help.”
“Not interested. You’re too high on the food chain and I don’t like your attitude.” Cathlin smiled sweetly. “Is that reason enough?”
Again the flare of mingled emotions, only this time the anger was winning out over the humor. “My credit is good and my references are excellent. As for my attitude—” His lips curved slightly. “I’d be glad to discuss that further over dinner.”
Cathlin had heard it all too many times before. As a woman in a man’s world, she was considered fair game for every Bond Street Lothario and would-be Don Juan with a storefront and a two-line wine list. It was true back in Philadelphia and it was equally true here in London. “Sorry, I never mix business with pleasure.” She turned to leave.
He moved in front of her with a silent grace that left Cathlin frowning. “Then let’s leave the pleasure for later and focus on business. I have a proposition for you.”
“I’ll just bet you do.”
“A business proposition.”
“Let me guess. You need to decide between an imperial of Château Lafite-Rothschild ’71 and a 1912 Château d’Yquem Sauternes and you simply must ask my advice.”
His eyes weren’t just green, Cathlin saw then. They were smoky, the color of the finest China jade. Too hard to be carved, the stone could only be shaped by the slow and laborious abrasion of some harder substance like crushed garnets or rubies.
The result was objects of phenomenal price but extraordinary beauty.
Looking into those eyes, Cathlin thought of the imperial archer’s ring her father had brought back to her after one of his frequent Far Eastern trips.
Cathlin had found the piece lovely—at first. Soon she had come to hate it, because it represented the government work that kept him away from home for months at a time, constantly on the move—and perpetually in danger.
And the work had finally killed him, before Cathlin had ever really gotten a chance to know him.
The green eyes narrowed, hardened. “Sorry, no Lafite.”
“No? How disappointing. Good-bye.” Cathlin saw his eyes change again. She sensed a raw edge of violence, not quite hidden by that sleek, cool veneer.
If so, that was his problem.
She was turning away when his hand snagged her wrist. She felt the hard palm and the ridge of calluses lining his fingers. Not exactly the hand of a playboy, she thought. But he’d probably gotten the calluses from counting tax write-offs and opening bottles of tanning oil for Victoria’s Secret models. “Let go of my hand.”
“The Lafite ’71 has definite potential, but hasn’t opened up and come into its own yet. The d’Yquem ’12 was a flat-out disappointment.” A slow, cocky grin. The kind of grin that said he was smart and good to look at and he knew it.
“Now.”
“Maybe I don’t want to let
go of your hand.”
“There are two kinds of women in this world. Those who say no and mean it. And those who say no and mean it.”
“Very clever, Ms. O’Neill. But there are two kinds of men in the world—those who think there are two kinds of women, and those who know they’ll never know the first thing about the incredible subtlety of the female mind. I happen to fall in the second group. Now what about my proposition?”
Cathlin shook her head in disbelief. “There are probably four hundred women in this room right now. Most of them would seriously consider armed robbery to hear a proposition from you. Go pick on one of them.”
The jade eyes glinted. “I don’t want one of them. I want you.”
“So call my shop. It’s on Regent Street. Right under H for hard to get.”
“This is important, damn it. I need to talk to you.”
Somewhere out in the auction area, a man’s voice announced that the final lot of champagnes had just been sold, tallying up to a grand total of fifty thousand pounds.
Which meant Cathlin was on next.
She stared at their overlaid hands, trying to ignore his carefully controlled power. Her jaw hardened. “For your information, the Lafite ’71 is more than passable even now and its potential is tremendous. The d’Yquem ’12 was intense but quite uneven. Both are better than anything that could be said for you.” She jerked her hand from beneath his. “And if you ever try that again, I’ll break your wrist.”
Dark glints lit the jade eyes. “What if I let you be on top next time?”
“Certainly. If I were wearing cement boots—with a whole lot of spikes.”
“Have you ever eaten Bordeaux oysters fresh from the salt marshes on the Seudre River, Ms. O’Neill? With just a hint of lemon juice and nothing more. You’d like them. Then we’d add some hot sausages and a little pastry from Gascony. Maybe a foie gras or two and a big white Burgundy. Or perhaps a bottle of Sauternes, since that’s your specialty.” His eyes narrowed, considering. “A Château Climens ’71, I’d say. Big and gorgeous and magnificently well bred.” His eyes followed the curves suggested but not quite revealed by the black velvet of Cathlin’s jacket. “Chilled just fractionally to give an edge, of course.”
The man was smooth, all right. And he bloody well knew his wines. He also didn’t give up. “I don’t eat oysters and I don’t mix business with pleasure, Mr.—”
“Montserrat,” he finished smoothly. “Dominic, since we’re going to be on a first name basis.”
“Not in this lifetime we aren’t. Lord Ashton,” Cathlin added a moment later, remembering what Serita had told her of the man’s background.
In the next room a very Oxonian voice announced that the Sauternes category was next and that this year’s auctioneer would be Ms. Cathlin O’Neill of Nonesuch Wines, Philadelphia and London.
There was a ripple of applause.
“Very impressive, Ms. O’Neill.”
“Not as impressive as I’m going to be if you hold me up any longer.”
“Tell me which Sauternes I should bid on.”
She looked him over thoroughly. “A ’61 Climens, I think. Pleasant but hardly exciting. Impeccable opening aroma, but a thoroughly disappointing finish.”
With that, she pushed off through the crowds already thronging the auction floor.
Dominic Montserrat’s lips curved up in a hard smile. “Tough, aren’t you? But let’s see how a case of Château d’Yquem vintage 1792 worth two million dollars grabs you, Ms. O’Neill.”
“NEXT ON OUR PROGRAM WE have a very fine Château Climens ’71. This, as you all know, is a superb sweet white Bordeaux with excellent balance, exquisite overtones and a fine finish. It would make a perfect companion to some of the chocolate trifle I had here earlier. Now who will give me fifty? No one? Come, come, Mr. Smythe-Hampton.” Cathlin made the words a sultry caress as she smiled at a tall man in an $8,000 Patek Phillipe watch.
He smiled. His pale fingers wobbled.
The man beside him muttered something and stabbed at the air.
Two minutes later the sale was closed at two thousand pounds.
Cathlin breathed an inward sigh of relief. Her feet were killing her and her shoulder itched. But there was one lot left to go.
“Our last lot tonight is a very special bottle of Château d’Yquem 1870. It is, quite simply, a legend that deserves being a legend, with marvelous texture, perfect balance, and wonderful finesse. It is also distinguished by a resolute finish. I suggest you offer it with a wedge of Grand Marnier soufflé and a bit of Vivaldi. In a Georgian drawn-stem wineglass, of course.” Her lips curved. “Except for you, Reginald.” She gestured at Mr. Smythe-Hampton, who was sweating openly now. “You can drink it out of that gold bullion you keep in your vault. My partner Serita will no doubt be happy to help you carve it into a suitable-size container.”
Amid the laughter, the rare bottle was carefully lifted for display, to a host of muffled sighs.
“Let’s be dangerous, shall we? No need for preliminaries.” Cathlin swept a curve of satin hair back off her cheek. “Do I hear, say, three hundred pounds?”
“Five hundred.”
Heads crooked. Women whispered at the unorthodox size of the bid.
And Cathlin felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.
The voice was cool and correct and utterly brash. It could belong to only one man.
Dominic Montserrat.
Cathlin made a point of not looking. “Do I hear six? Six hundred pounds?”
Mr. Smythe-Hampton nodded.
“Six hundred. Do I hear—”
“A thousand.”
Cathlin looked up and met piercing jade eyes. “Perhaps our mystery bidder has a few chunks of gold bullion of his own lying around among the Bentleys. I have a thousand,” she repeated. “Do I hear a thousand one?”
Smythe-Hampton wiggled uncomfortably and inched up one finger.
“One thousand one.”
Two rows away a well-groomed man in a Turnbull and Asser shirt raised a manicured finger.
“I have one thousand two. You’d like this one, Richard.” Cathlin smiled at the well-groomed international financier she had worked with on several occasions. “Much better than that last batch of erratic ’83 Burgundies you bought.”
Richard Severance smiled tightly and raised his hand. Cathlin’s comments were dead on target, of course, so he shrugged gracefully.
“I have one thousand two. Do I hear one thousand three for this brilliant Château d’Yquem? Come now, ladies and gentlemen. One of our most famous statesmen and presidents admired this wine greatly. You do remember Thomas Jefferson, don’t you? He was on the other side of that little war we fought a few years back. But really, no hard feelings. You got to keep the peerage and we got to keep the tea, even if it was at the bottom of Boston Harbor. So now, for Mr. Jefferson, do I hear—”
“Five thousand pounds.”
Cathlin swallowed. The man was mad, utterly mad.
She saw heads bend and mouths gape open. She saw bejeweled women turn clear around in their seats.
And she saw the president of the wildlife fund smiling broadly in the front row, already counting his money.
Cathlin took a breath. “Five thousand pounds. Do I hear six? Six thousand for this memorable vintage?” She waited, glancing at Mr. Smythe-Hampton, who looked flushed and sulky. He shook his head.
Cathlin’s eyes swept the room. “Do I hear six?”
Richard Severance frowned and looked away.
Cathlin brought down her silver gavel. “Sold for five thousand pounds. End of lot. End of category. Thank you for all your warm participation. I’m sure our lucky buyers will enjoy these exceptional Sauternes and that the proceeds will go to help a very good cause.”
She moved out, fast and silent, but she wasn’t fast enough.
He closed in on her before she even got to the bottom of the stairs. “Go away,” she hissed. A countess in too many opals and too little silk blinked a
t her and sniffed.
“Now that one’s a Chablis.” Dominic moved right in behind her. “An ’82, I’d say. Overweight and overpriced.” He slid into step, his breath tickling the soft skin at her neck.
Cathlin tried to ignore him.
“That one’s an ’80.” He pointed to a man in polished loafers and a head of hair that was obviously not his own. “He’s had his good moments, but now he’s fading fast.”
Cathlin felt her lips curve into a reluctant smile.
“And then there’s that one.” Dominic pointed to a woman in a black dress whose brevity barely qualified as decent. She looked very glossy and expensive to maintain. “Definitely a ’75.”
“A keep-away vintage?”
“At all costs.”
So he really did know his wines. Cathlin studied him closer, noting the tiny lines around his mouth and eyes. From too much beach time or something else? “And what exactly are you, Mr. Montserrat?” Not that it mattered, of course.
“Oh, I’m definitely Château d’Yquem 1870, the exact lot you sold to me. I’m all marvelous texture and wonderful finesse.” His eyes burned over her face and settled on her full lips. “Especially the resolute finish. Care to try it out with me?”
“The wine?”
“Of course. Did you think I meant something else?”
Definitely. His eyes were hinting at something much more earthy. Cathlin shrugged. She’d heard all the innuendos before. At least this man did it with panache. “You’re asking me to share the bottle you just bought for five thousands pounds?”
“I could always get something more expensive, if it’s not enough.”
“Are you serious? Does money mean nothing to you?”
“You might be surprised.”
“I doubt it.”
He moved ahead of her, blocking her way. “I’ve just spent a great deal of money to secure your good opinion, Ms. O’Neill, but it looks like I’m failing. Help me a little here.” The mockery was gone from his voice. He seemed almost sincere.
As sincere as a car dealer at a convention of little old ladies, Cathlin thought sourly. “Listen closely, Lord Ashton. I can’t. I won’t. I’m not interested. End of lot. End of category.” The bluntness had always worked before. Somehow Cathlin found herself regretting that it would work again now.
Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams Page 15
