by Metsy Hingle
And her club must be doing well, Amanda thought, noting the size of the diamonds sparkling at the woman’s ears and neck. Amanda glanced around, surprised at the haute couture designs many of the women were wearing. “I don’t think I’ve seen this much glitter since I went to one of the Mardi Gras balls.”
“People in New Orleans like nothing better than dressing up for a party.”
Amanda laughed as they turned the corner of the walkway. “And to think I was worried I would be overdressed.”
Michael paused and focused his full attention on Amanda. Slowly, he moved his gaze over her indigo-colored silk dress, making her acutely aware of the deep slit up the back and the peeks of bare skin the opening afforded.
His eyes darkened and for a second Amanda was unable to breathe. Her skin burned as though brushed by a flame. Her nipples puckered beneath the silk and Amanda could almost feel Michael’s touch.
“Believe me. There’s not a thing wrong with the way you look.”
“Thank you,” Amanda managed, unable to look away. Her heart continued its wild race.
“Mike Grayson. Son of a gun, I thought that was you. I was just saying to Ellen...”
Michael turned at the sound of the man’s voice and Amanda’s body went limp as the moment was broken.
Twenty minutes and a half dozen introductions later, Amanda’s heart rate had returned to normal. As they continued along the tree-lined pathway, she relaxed. Enjoying the sight of the tiny white lights scattered amid the majestic oaks, she recalled the previous night and the way the lights of the carousel had sparkled in the moonlight.
They stopped at the large fish pond and Amanda admired the beautiful teal-colored cockatoo perched on its trainer’s shoulder.
“You’re supposed to be impressed by the bird, not the handler,” Michael whispered in her ear.
“Any reason I can’t be impressed by both?” His warm breath fanned her neck, sending a delicious shudder down her spine. Amanda cut a glance up at him out of the corner of her eye.
“Yes.”
She lifted one brow.
He caught her fingers, brought them to his lips and kissed their tips. “Tonight the only man I want you to be impressed by is me.”
The deep, husky sound of his voice, the hungry look in his eyes, sent a burst of pleasure through her. “You don’t have to worry. I’m impressed.” In fact, she was more than impressed. She was well on her way to falling in love with him.
Unnerved by the realization and the effect his nearness was having on her, Amanda turned away. She looked toward another path in search of diversion from Michael, from her feelings for him. Taking a deep breath, she caught the tantalizing scent of simmering spices. She sniffed again. “Hmm. What’s that wonderful smell?”
Michael smiled. “Why don’t we find out?”
He led her to another clearing filled with more than a dozen tables draped in pristine white cloths, each sporting large warming trays and serving dishes piled high with food. Cardboard tents with the names of some of the city’s finest eating establishments rested on each tabletop. “Most of the better restaurants donate one of their specialty dishes for tonight’s affair.” He looked at her and asked, “Hungry?”
Her mouth watered as the delicious aromas reminded her just how long it had been since she’d eaten. “Yes. I am,” Amanda replied.
“Anything special you’d like to try?” Michael took her past one row of tables.
“I don’t know.” She laughed. Each dish looked better than the last. “Everything! It all smells wonderful.”
Michael laughed, too. “It is.” He walked over to one of the steaming dishes. “If you’re feeling adventuresome, I recommend the crawfish étouffé.”
Amanda studied the tomato-colored sauce with chunks of crawfish being served over a bed of fluffy white rice. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that much adventure.”
“I knew that conservative Bostonian was going to show up sooner or later.” He grinned, effectively quelling any possible sting from his words before guiding her to another table. “How about the fettuccine Alfredo? It should be a safe bet.”
Conservative. Safe. Funny, she didn’t feel any of those things when she was with Michael. In fact, she felt anything but safe and conservative.
“Amanda? Do you want to try the fettuccine?” Michael asked, his gaze questioning.
Just then the waiter at the next station lifted the lid on a large pot of steaming gumbo. Amanda caught a whiff of the unique blend of onions, sweet peppers, celery, tomatoes and garlic simmering in a thick sauce with shrimp and okra. The cayenne pepper tickled her nose, but she couldn’t resist. “I think I’ll try the gumbo instead.”
“It’s hot,” Michael warned.
“I think I can handle it.”
“I take back what I said about you being conservative.” He raised two fingers for the waiter.
By the time Amanda had eaten the last morsel of rice in her bowl, she’d also finished two full glasses of ice water. “I can’t believe how thirsty I am.” She licked the last few drops from her lips and set the cup on the small table she and Michael were sharing.
Michael chuckled. “It’s all that cayenne in the gumbo. You’re not used to it. Wait here, I’ll get you a refill.” Taking her glass, he headed toward one of the two bars set up in the clearing.
Feeling more relaxed and happier than she had in a long time, Amanda shifted her gaze to the chattering guests. She smiled at the sight of two society matrons preening before one of the local newscasters.
“Amanda? Amanda Bennett, is that you?”
Amanda turned her head and spotted the elegant gray-haired woman approaching. She came to her feet. “Mrs. Winthrop, it’s so good to see you again.”
The woman pulled a pained expression. “I thought I asked you to call me Martha. Mrs. Winthrop sounds so old.” Smiling, she took Amanda’s hand into hers and squeezed it. “Besides, your mother and I were practically like sisters in college and I simply won’t hear of Elinore’s little girl calling me Mrs. Winthrop. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Now tell me, how are you, dear? It’s been months since I’ve seen you.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
Releasing her hand, Martha took a step back and surveyed Amanda. “Well, I must say you certainly look wonderful. New Orleans must agree with you.”
“It does,” Amanda admitted, smiling. She couldn’t help but wonder how much credit Michael Grayson deserved for her present happiness. “I love the city, the people. I feel like...like I belong here.”
Martha laughed. “I’m not sure your mother would be pleased to hear you say that. The last time I spoke with her, she and your father were missing you a great deal.”
“I miss them, too,” Amanda said, feeling a slight twinge of guilt. Her parents hadn’t been at all happy about her divorce and had liked the idea of her moving so far away even less. But Boston held too many reminders, too many remnants of dreams that had shattered. “I’m hoping they’ll come visit me during the Christmas holidays.”
Martha raised one perfectly arched brow. “Sounds like you really are here to stay.”
“I am,” Amanda said, and realized it was true. New Orleans had been a temporary sanctuary for her after her divorce, but somewhere along the way it had become home.
“Well, then, we’ll both have to twist your mother’s arm a bit and get her to come down for a visit. I haven’t seen her in years. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“I’m sure Mother would love it.”
“Here’s your wine, Aunt Martha.” Amanda looked over at the tall man with dark blond hair who came to stand beside Martha. In his mid-thirties, Amanda guessed, noting the strong resemblance between them. His white dinner jacket set off his deep golden tan beautifully. Years of habit, born from studying and assessing potential campaign donors in Boston’s political circle, had Amanda guessing at the designer and the price.
“Thank you, dear
.” Martha took the glass of white wine from him. “Bradley, I don’t believe you’ve met Amanda Bennett. She’s the daughter of my friend Elinore, the school friend from Boston that I told you about.” She turned toward Amanda. “Amanda, my nephew, Bradley Winthrop.”
Bradley took her hand in his. He smiled at her; his eyes, a striking shade of green, crinkled at the corners. “Hello,” he said warmly.
“How do you do?”
“Now that I’ve met you, much much better,” he said.
He was handsome, Amanda admitted, and obviously a charmer. She withdrew her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Winthrop.”
“Bradley,” he corrected with another smile. “May I call you Amanda?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Will you be visiting New Orleans long? I’d love to show you around the city.”
“Actually, I’m not a visitor. I live here.”
“Amanda moved here last fall,” Martha informed him. “Don’t you remember my mentioning it to you?”
“You mean this gorgeous creature has been living in the same city with me and I’m just now meeting her?”
Amanda couldn’t help but laugh at the crushed expression on his face. Yes, Bradley Winthrop was definitely a charmer. But he didn’t make her heart race or her pulse beat faster—not the way Michael did.
“Behave yourself, Bradley. You were away on one of your little sailing adventures when Amanda arrived. Otherwise, you’d have met her sooner.”
“If you had told me your old school friend had such a beautiful daughter, I would have cut my trip short and come home.”
“Ignore him, Amanda. Instead of taking over his father’s business, sometimes I think Bradley should have gone on the stage.”
“I’m sure he would have done quite well,” Amanda said, grinning at Bradley’s pained expression.
“Anyway, I’m ashamed to admit that I haven’t called this dear child in months to even see how she’s been getting along. When you and I talked last, I believe you said you were taking some sort of classes.”
“Yes. Refresher courses. At the University of New Orleans. I’m hoping to take the state exam this fall and get my license to practice in Louisiana.”
“Practice?” Bradley asked. “Are you a doctor?”
“A child psychologist,” Amanda explained.
“Amanda worked for a very reputable firm in Boston before her marriage,” Martha informed her nephew.
“You’re married?” Bradley asked, his show of disappointment almost comical.
“Divorced,” Amanda said, hating the failure the word implied.
Bradley brightened. “In that case, I hope you’re planning to stay in New Orleans for a while.”
“I am, provided I can get on with one of the clinics.”
“Maybe Aunt Martha can help. She sits on a number of the hospital boards. Don’t you, Aunt Martha?”
“Bradley’s right, dear. And of course, I’d be glad to send a letter of recommendation for you,” Martha added. “Do you have a particular clinic in mind?”
“Not at the moment.” Although she appreciated the offer, Amanda didn’t want any favors. That had been part of the reason she’d come to New Orleans. Here she was simply Amanda Bennett, not Ambassador Bennett’s daughter or somebody important’s wife. And any job she got was going to be on her own merit, Amanda vowed.
“Well, let me know if I can help. I’d be happy to put in a word for you,” Martha said.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. But right now, I’m concentrating on getting through the next four weeks of classes. Then I’ll have to wait until the fall to take the exam.”
Bradley grimaced. “I certainly don’t envy you. I’m sure you’ll be glad to get all that behind you and start working again.”
“Yes, I will. But, actually, I am working now. With a group of children at Saint Margaret’s. Of course, it’s only in a volunteer capacity, but I enjoy it.”
“Saint Margaret’s.” Martha took a sip of her wine. She drew her brows together. “I don’t seem to recall any Saint Margaret’s clinic or hospital. Where is this place located?”
“It’s uptown. But it’s not a clinic or a hospital. It’s a Catholic grade school. I’ve been doing some counseling there a few afternoons a week.”
Martha’s face paled. “The little school off of State Street?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
Martha’s hand shook slightly as she set her wineglass down on the table. “Do you work with all of the children there?”
“No,” Amanda responded, puzzled. “Just the ones whose parents or teachers have recommended them for counseling.”
“You mean, the problem kids,” Bradley said, scorn in his voice.
“I wouldn’t call them ‘problem kids’,” Amanda informed him, frowning. She wondered then how she could have thought him charming. “Sometimes the children are just afraid or they might be having trouble adjusting to a new environment.”
“Tell me, Amanda. Would you happen to have come across a little girl there by the name of Summer Grayson?” Martha’s voice was calm, but she seemed tense, edgy. “She’s seven years old and in the third grade. A pretty little thing with long black hair and green eyes.”
Suddenly uneasy, Amanda looked from Bradley’s scowling face to Martha’s anxious one. For some reason she was reluctant to tell them anything about Summer. “Martha, you know a doctor can’t reveal anything about her patients,” she said, trying to sound light.
Bradley narrowed his eyes. “Then the Grayson kid is one of your patients?”
Just then Amanda looked past Bradley and spotted Michael heading toward her. Relief flooded through her. “Michael,” she said, ignoring Bradley’s last question. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”
Michael swallowed, trying to ease the thick knot of anger and panic that had lodged in his throat at the sight of Amanda with the Winthrops. “No. Just a long line at the bar.” He flicked his gaze over Bradley and Martha. “Here’s your Perrier.”
Amanda took the glass of sparkling water. “Thank you.” She moved to his side. “Michael, I’d like to introduce you to Martha Winthrop and her nephew, Bradley. Martha and my mother were roommates in college. Martha, Bradley, this is my friend, Michael Grayson.”
“The Winthrops and I are already acquainted,” Michael informed her.
Martha’s chin tilted up slightly. Her eyes flashed. “Yes. Michael and I share...a mutual interest.”
“You and I share nothing,” Michael said fiercely, angry at Martha’s implication that they shared Summer. They didn’t. Summer belonged to him.
“I didn’t realize you knew Michael, Amanda. Tell me, dear, how did you two happen to meet?”
“Yeah, Amanda.” Bradley leaned nonchalantly against a tree. His gaze raked lazily over Amanda. “How’d a classy lady like you get tangled up with a guy like Grayson?”
Amanda gasped.
Michael clenched his fists at his side. He took a step toward Bradley, wanting to wipe that smug look off his pretty-boy face. “Another crack like that, Winthrop, and you’ll find yourself paying a visit to your dentist before the evening’s over.”
Bradley straightened. His mocking smile disappeared. “Maybe you’ve got the rest of the people in this town falling for that ‘tough guy’ and ‘poor boy makes good’ image of yours, but I don’t. I’m not afraid of you because I know what you really are. You’re still Crazy Alice Grayson’s punk kid.”
“Bradley!” Martha glared at her nephew. “That’s enough. You’ve had too much to drink and you’re making a scene.”
Michael grabbed Bradley by the lapels of his jacket, crushing the expensive silk. It had been years since anyone had taunted him with that hated name the kids had labeled his poor, sick mother. Yet the mere mention of it made him feel twelve years old again and all the old hurt and anger came back.
“Michael, don’t.” Amanda tugged at his arm. “Please.”
He looked down at Amanda, her fac
e drained of color, her dark brown eyes wide with concern. He glanced to his left, noting the small group of people watching. “Be grateful I’ve learned some manners, Winthrop. Twenty years ago I wouldn’t have given a damn about ruining this little party. I’d have broken you into tiny pieces. Come anywhere near me or what’s mine again, and I will.”
Shoving Bradley away from him, he turned to Amanda. “Let’s get out of here.”
Six
“I‘m coming inside,” Michael told Amanda as she unlocked the front door. “We need to talk.”
“By all means,” Amanda said, leading the way. She had a few questions of her own for Mr. Michael Grayson. Like, what had happened between Bradley and him to cause the other man to be so rude? And how did Martha Winthrop know Summer? And why had the other woman been so interested in the child?
Amanda flipped on the light switch, bathing the living room in a soft white glow. After placing her evening clutch on the coffee table beside the vase of flowers, she turned to face Michael.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked, trying to defuse the tension that had mushroomed between them during the silent drive home. “I don’t have any beer, but I’ve got some wine.”
“What? No brandy? That is what you blue bloods drink, isn’t it?”
Amanda froze, taken aback by the underlying anger in his tone. His derision stung; but Amanda struggled to keep her voice calm. “I think I have a bottle that my father gave me. Since you were drinking beer at the party, I assumed that’s what you prefer. But if you’d rather have brandy—”
“Forget it. I wouldn’t want you to waste the good stuff on me. Save it for your friends,” he said, his voice cold, his expression hard.
“I don’t know why you’re so angry, Michael. I’m not even sure who you’re angry with. But I do know you have a real hang-up about what you perceive as social classes, and I don’t like it.”
“And you, my dear Amanda, have a nasty habit of playing shrink. You can save the analysis for somebody else.” He tossed his coat onto a chair. “Right now, all I want from you are some straight answers.”
