by July Hall
“I suppose she must. We’ll find out on Friday if we should bother to learn it.”
Stephen finished his bourbon and gave a discreet cough. “Charles, you might wonder if there’s a reason Bradley doesn’t want to parade his girlfriends in front of you.”
There probably was. Charles called it spinelessness. “If I approve of her, he’s got nothing to worry about.”
“What if she doesn’t care about being approved of? Bradley’s a known quantity, but you’re talking about this young lady as if—”
“As if what? As if any girl can waltz in off the street and be accepted as one of our own?” Charles stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets, striding toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. From here, he could see the beginnings of sunset over the East River, the last light of the day reflecting off the water. The cars going over the Brooklyn Bridge looked like toys far below. “If she’s got any sense, she’ll want to be approved of.”
Silence. Charles’s skin prickled; this was Stephen’s thoughtful waiting period. It always presaged something Charles didn’t want to hear.
Sure enough, Stephen said, “You know, if you’re going to focus so much on a woman coming to the party…”
“Stephen…”
“…why not a woman of your own? Forget about Bradley’s girl. Really, I can find a dozen—”
“Stephen.” This was what happened when people in happy relationships got ideas about everyone else. In his pockets, Charles’s hands curled into fists. His heart began to pound, and he took a deep, controlled breath, willing himself to give nothing away. “That will not be necessary.”
He heard the shuffle of chair legs against the rug as Stephen stood up. “Are you sure? Ten years is a long time, Charles. Eleanor would be the first one to tell you that.”
Quite probably she would have. Eleanor had felt free to tell him things no one else would dare. It changed nothing. She was gone, gone for good, and he was alone. He’d learned to live with it.
“You deserve a life,” Stephen continued.
“I have a life,” Charles said, the words bitter in his mouth.
“I mean a life beyond the company.”
“The company is our family.” Charles refused to turn around for a conversation they’d had a dozen times and more, but that Stephen never seemed to tire of. “It is our family, it is our legacy, and it is all that matters.”
“If that were true, you’d have made me get married not long after you made Rosalie.”
Well, that was a new one. Charles finally caught Stephen’s gaze in the reflection of the window, and raised his eyebrows. “Why? Were you pregnant too?” Stephen rolled his eyes. For the sake of accuracy, Charles added, “I didn’t make Rosalie do anything. Speaking of relationships, will Craig be there on Friday?”
“Nothing could keep him away.” But Stephen was plainly not to be put off with a discussion of his own home life. “Come on, Charles, just think about it. There are ‘suitable’ women out there. Nobody would bat an eye at you taking a pretty divorcée out to dinner, and God knows we’ve got plenty of those. Someone who could be an asset to you.”
Stephen could think like a Magister when he wanted to. No doubt there were plenty of eligible divorcées, widows, and heiresses who would be happy to show Charles what they could bring to the table. But so what? Charles shook his head. “No, Stephen.”
Stephen persisted, “Or what about royalty? Next time I’m in Monte Carlo I can make inquiries, see if anyone has a princess or a duchess lying around somewhere in storage.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous. Either go home and make Craig a drink, or stay here and make me one. It’s five o’clock.”
“That’s the spirit!”
Charles released an inaudible sigh of relief when Stephen turned his attention to the sideboard. Since Eleanor’s death, Stephen had been his right hand and closest friend, but sometimes he went too far.
Charles looked again out over the bay, where the sunset was coming into full bloom. It would be damned cold after dark, but the city would illuminate, transforming into an endless stretch of headlights, lamps, and windows. The water and land would disappear, leaving only the lights shining through the darkness. He wasn’t normally given to fancy, but here, at the top of the city and insulated from all outside noise, it was easy to feel as if he was floating in space. An attractive notion.
Stephen tried, but he didn’t and couldn’t know what it was like to be the head of the family, the face of Magister Enterprises. He hadn’t paid the heavy price to get here. Charles had taken on that responsibility decades ago, and it was his responsibility alone.
Duty. Reputation. Legacy. In the end, that’s what endured. He’d loved once, and loved deeply; it was all he would ever know, and it was over now.
This was his life, and it was of his choosing. He needed nothing more.
He loosened his tie. It was suddenly a little painful to breathe. “Make it a double,” he told Stephen.
CHAPTER THREE
“I changed my mind,” Kristen said around her chewing gum. “I like the flats.”
“Ha ha,” Sandra replied as she yanked up the zipper on the garment bag, sealing her dress inside. Kristen had been no help last night, refusing to offer her opinion when Sandra showed her different sets of dresses, shoes, and accessories. She’d said the whole thing was stupid and shallow, and why couldn’t Sandra just be real?
This morning, of course, she thought it would be funny to offer her opinion while Sandra was scrambling to get everything together before the cab arrived. Forget it. The silver sheath dress was going with the black kitten heels. Sandra usually preferred stilettos, but Bradley got huffy if they were too close in height. This wasn’t the night to push his buttons.
The shoes, the dress, and her makeup and accessories were all accompanying her to work today. The party started with cocktails at seven, and Bradley’s driver would pick Sandra up at the office by six and bring her to Bradley’s place to change before they went to his uncle’s. That seemed to be cutting it a little close, but Bradley swore it would be fine, they’d get there in plenty of time.
She took a deep breath. Don’t be nervous. Never let them see you sweat.
Kristen, sprawled on the bay window seat with a textbook, shot Sandra a curious glance. “Are you all freaked out about this?”
“I don’t freak out.” Sandra ran a hand over the nylon of the garment bag, smoothing down the lumps beneath. When the hell was that cab getting here?
“I know, but I keep hoping someday you will,” Kristen admitted. She tucked a lock of her dark brown hair behind her ear. “Come on, you’re going to rub noses with billionaires all night, and you’re meeting your boyfriend’s family. You’ve got to be a little nervous.”
Sandra stared at her. “I have to know. Does it cross your mind to say reassuring things, but you just decide you’d rather not?”
Kristen sniffed. “Let your stuck-up coworkers reassure you. I’m the one who keeps it real.” Sandra rolled her eyes. “Yeah, make that face. At least you know I’d never lie to you.”
“A little white lie never hurt anybody,” Sandra said automatically, glancing around their apartment. She’d been so busy yesterday evening that she hadn’t had time to do her usual cleanup, and of course the place was a wreck. Any place housing Kristen for a certain length of time was bound to be a wreck. It was a shame. Prewars in Cobble Hill didn’t grow on trees, and the apartment’s classic features looked fantastic when they weren’t covered in clothes, textbooks, and dirty dishes.
“Would it kill you to wash your pots in the sink before I get back?” she added.
“Would it kill you to say ‘please’?” Kristen snapped her gum.
God, Sandra was way too old for this. So was Kristen, at age twenty-two, but somehow they still kept fighting like they had all through their childhood. They were way too incompatible to live together. Sandra loved order, tidiness, and an elegant pair of nude heels. Kristen loved “freedom,
” “spontaneity,” and her beat-up Chucks.
But the apartment belonged to their parents, and saving so much money on rent was usually worth the headache. Usually.
Then Kristen said, “Seriously. I do hope you have fun tonight.” She offered Sandra a little smile that looked sincere enough. “I mean, I don’t like Bradley, but this is what you want, so…just be careful around those people, okay?”
“I’m always careful,” Sandra said, deciding to take the peace offering. “But thanks. Are you working today?”
“Yeah, I have to close the skate shop. You coming back home tonight?”
“I’ll probably stay at Bradley’s,” Sandra said, though they hadn’t discussed it.
Kristen snorted and said, “Make sure you tip the butler.” Then she returned to her homework. Détente over.
A horn honked outside. The cab had arrived. Normally Sandra took the subway, but today she was splurging, since she had to lug the heavy garment bag. She grabbed that, her purse, and the giant Macy’s shopping bag she’d thrown all the rest of her stuff into. “Right. I’m leaving. Wish me luck.”
“You’ll need it,” Kristen said, instead of “good luck.” “Text me if you need a rescue. I’ll come and get my socialist cooties all over the place. We’ll escape in the chaos.”
Sandra elected to reply, “Gah.” Then she fled through the door and rushed down the stairs to the waiting cab before someone else could snatch it.
Maybe it was just her frayed nerves, but work that day felt even more hectic than usual. She had two in-home client consultations, the second hard on the heels of the first, and no time for lunch. Maybe that was for the best—her stomach was tied in knots—but she ought to eat a little something so she wouldn’t pass out into tonight’s soup course.
She was sitting at her desk, surrounded by fabric samples for Alexios Mykoulos’s new condo, when a protein bar appeared under her nose. She looked up to see Arnaud offering it to her, his eyebrows raised. “You and that ivory suede are the same color,” he said. “Eat something.”
Sandra meekly accepted the protein bar and started unwrapping it. “Thanks.”
“Tonight’s the to-do at Charles Magister’s place, isn’t it?”
The knot in her stomach returned. To hide her discomfort, she took a small, ladylike bite of the protein bar that supposedly tasted like chocolate caramel. “Yes, it is.”
“I admit I’m jealous. I’ve heard his apartment is really something.”
No kidding. Mr. Magister lived in the most exclusive apartment building in the entire city, with only thirty-one units spread out over seventeen floors. It was inhabited solely by billionaires, both self-made and heirs to fortunes. Supposedly one apartment belonged to a Saudi prince. And Sandra had heard a rumor that Barbra Streisand once tried to buy in, but the co-op board had rejected her.
“So have I,” she said. “I’ll bring everyone a full report. Indira made me swear to.”
“Good luck,” he said, to her surprise. “Though I don’t think you’ll need it.”
Sandra laughed before she could help herself. “You and my sister should switch places. That’s exactly what she refused to say to me this morning.”
“Your sister.” Arnaud tapped his chin. “Kristen, right? I met her once, at your old studio. She seemed like a real free spirit.”
Sandra thought of the pots in the sink, which by now were probably developing their own forms of sentient life. “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”
Arnaud shrugged. “Well, I liked her. She seemed devoted to you, in her way.” He glanced at the garment bag hanging next to Sandra’s desk. “Your ensemble for tonight? What is it?”
She almost didn’t want to tell him. Arnaud had flawless taste, and if he thought her outfit sucked, she had no idea what she’d do this late in the game. But she said, as confidently as she could, “Silver sheath. Black suede peeptoes. Two-tone chunky bracelet and a matching clutch.”
“A sheath? How short is the skirt?” Sandra stood up and pointed just above her knee. “Good. Keep it modest. I’ve heard Charles Magister prefers decorum in all things.”
Relieved, she said, “Bradley wanted me to wear a miniskirt. I said no.”
Arnaud nodded approvingly. “Old money can be conservative. But that’s why I think you’ll do well—you’re not the type to light fires.”
Sandra’s shoulders stiffened, and she felt her breath catch. Arnaud didn’t appear to notice that he’d said anything amiss, and merely returned to his office with a brief nod of his head.
She tried to tell herself he’d meant it as a compliment. It still stung. She wasn’t one for flashy displays, sure, but what girl wanted to be told that she didn’t light fires?
Sandra took a deep breath and shook her head. Arnaud didn’t know everything about her, no matter what he thought. She was who she was. And if Charles Magister liked her…decorum, well, they’d get along just fine.
She wondered what else he liked. Bradley had always been vague when talking about his family, except to complain of his uncle’s mistreatment of him. But when she’d pressed him, he’d sworn up and down that Sandra knew everything she needed to know for tonight.
“Just don’t mention my dad, okay?” he’d said. “Uncle Charles hates him. That’s it. You’ll be fine.”
Sandra hadn’t met Bradley’s dad either, so she had no idea why she’d mention him to Charles Magister. Robert Cliffe and Rosalie Magister had divorced when Bradley was eight. Of course Sandra wouldn’t say anything to Rosalie’s brother, for crying out loud.
In spite of her nerves, she kept so busy for the rest of the afternoon that 5:45 crept up without her realizing it. As she checked her phone, Sandra felt her stomach churning again. Bradley should have called by now to let her know that his driver was on the way. Of course he tended to run behind on things, but wasn’t this particular thing important?
5:50 came, then 5:55, then 6:00, and no word from Bradley. Biting her lip, she texted Bradley, I thought driver would be here @ 6?
But she had no reply, nothing at all. 6:20. 6:30. She sent three more texts in tones of increasing urgency, and one unanswered call. The party started at seven! Had Bradley forgotten about it or something? Or maybe something had happened. Maybe it was something bad. Sandra had the contact information for a couple of his friends—if she didn’t hear from him soon, she could try them, see if they knew what was going on.
Then, at 6:37 on the dot, the studio door opened. Sandra looked up when she heard Bradley’s voice calling out, “Hey, babe! You ready to go?”
She hurried out of her office toward the waiting room, where Bradley stood with his hands in his pockets. “Where have you been?” Sandra asked.
Bradley looked her up and down, his brow puckering at her work clothes. He looked gorgeous in his tuxedo, but Sandra wasn’t exactly in a place to appreciate it. “You’re not wearing that, are you?” he asked.
“Of course not! I was supposed to come to your place and get changed, remember?”
“Oh. Yeah. I was running a little behind today, and I had to send Benjamin out on some errands, so he didn’t have time to pick you up.” Bradley ran his hand over his hair and appeared a little abashed. Not abashed enough, though. “I meant to text you back, but then it was late and I thought, might as well pick you up myself.”
Sandra got a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Pick me up? You mean—we’re going straight there?”
Bradley was starting to look irritated. Well, now that she knew he wasn’t splattered all over the road, that made two of them. “Where else would we go? Come on, we’re running late.”
“I can’t wear this. I—” Sandra cast a desperate eye toward the tiny washroom at the end of the hall. She could feel Arnaud staring at her through his open office door. At least Indira had left half an hour ago. “Give me a couple of minutes to change.”
“Here?” Bradley looked as disgusted as if she’d suggested eating lunch off the toilet seat. “Forg
et it. Just grab your stuff, you can change at my uncle’s place. It’s only a few blocks away. If we get going now, there won’t be many people there yet.”
“He won’t mind?” Sandra asked, thinking of the man who valued decorum.
“He won’t even notice. He never comes down until there’s already a good crowd. My mom handles all the details for him. Trust me, it’ll be fine.” Bradley headed over to her desk and removed the garment bag from its hanger. He glanced toward Arnaud’s office and saw him watching the scene from his desk. “Hey, Armand, how’s it hanging?”
“Fine, thanks,” Arnaud said dryly. Bradley never got his name right. “You two kids have a great time.”
“Sure, yeah. Let’s go, babe. Our chariot awaits.”
Sandra picked up her purse and the Macy’s shopping bag that she had never intended Bradley’s family to see. With a quick farewell to Arnaud, who shook his head in sympathy, she followed Bradley into the elevator and down to his waiting car, which he’d left in a No Parking space.
She couldn’t believe he’d picked tonight, of all nights, to be so thoughtless. He’d acted like this really mattered to him when he’d invited her. Damn it, she was well and truly pissed—but now wasn’t the time to pick a fight. It’d be a bad idea to meet his family with a thundercloud over her head.
By the time Bradley’s cherry-red Ferrari roared away from the curb, Sandra sat buried beneath her own belongings in the passenger seat. She sent up a little prayer to whatever gods or angels might be listening. Please, please let the night improve from here. It had to, didn’t it?
Surely there was nowhere to go but up.
* * *
Two floors below, the guests should be gathering. Up here, in his penthouse suite, Charles couldn’t hear them.
The ormolu clock on the mantle told him it was 7:10. Rosalie would be welcoming everyone while the maids took their coats and the servers walked around with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
He’d arrived from the office a half hour ago to a scene of barely controlled chaos. As usual, his sister had been fluttering around his home all day in a tizzy, as if she hadn’t arranged these events dozens of times. Rosalie could capably throw a party, but she lacked the effortless grace Eleanor had always shown, the gift of welcoming people and making them comfortable. She was too high-strung. But with Eleanor gone, it had fallen upon Rosalie to take up the role of Magister hostess.
