by Teri Wilson
She swallowed and said a little prayer of thanks that he couldn’t read her thoughts.
She fully expected him to walk away, for his long legs to carry him to the other side of the ring so he could view the dogs as a group.
He didn’t. He stayed right where he was, unnervingly close. “It’s nice to see you again.”
His voice took her by surprise in both its mere presence and its sincerity. Judges rarely spoke to individual exhibitors in a crowded ring, and certainly not about anything unrelated to the show. Part of her wondered if he was simply mocking her. Her earlier appearance in the ring could hardly be described as nice. But the haughty air about him had somehow seemed to dissipate, leaving her in a fog of confusion.
Will the real Mr. Darcy please stand up?
“Um, thank you.” She kept her response brief. To the point.
What was she supposed to say? Lovely to see you again, Mr. Darcy. The last time was such a pleasure. Let’s see...I can’t seem to recall which moment I enjoyed the most. Could it have been when I accidentally flashed you, and you looked down my dress? Or perhaps when you insulted my dog? Or maybe when I started to cry? Yes, that’s it! A moment to cherish, for certain.
He paused, as if waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, thunderclouds gathered in his eyes before he finally turned away.
The exhibitor beside Elizabeth groaned under her breath. “Thanks a lot.”
Elizabeth glanced at her, more out of curiosity than anything else. She was taken aback to find the woman glaring at her with hostility. “Excuse me?”
“I said thanks a lot,” she hissed without moving her lips, “for putting the judge in such a foul mood. I don’t know why he didn’t excuse you or why he’s even talking to you, for that matter.”
“For your information, I’m not responsible for his mood.” Elizabeth cast a fleeting look at Bliss in search of support. A nod would have been nice. A low growl perhaps?
Nothing.
The woman rolled her eyes. “We all saw the way you acted,” she muttered, once again without the slightest movement of her lips.
Elizabeth was beginning to wonder if she was a ventriloquist. Probably not, she decided. How could someone who worked with puppets be so bitchy?
Elizabeth started to explain that Mr. Darcy was undoubtedly born in a bad mood, but thankfully, she caught him watching her before she opened her mouth. She turned her back on the woman and made every effort to focus solely on Bliss.
I will not screw this up. I will not make a scene. I will not flash the judge, and I most definitely will not cry.
She inhaled a deep breath. All she had to do was go through the motions and wait for the winners to be awarded their ribbons. Bliss didn’t have a chance. So getting out of the ring without losing it again would be her only victory.
Mr. Darcy made a circular motion with his right hand, and everyone obediently led their dogs in a loop around the ring. The exhibitor at the front of the line paused once the lap was complete, obviously expecting Mr. Darcy to request to see each dog trot across the diagonal of the ring individually, as was customary.
Instead, he pointed at the second dog in line, a very nice little black-and-tan girl. “This is our Winner.”
His announcement was met with squeals of delight from the winning exhibitor and several people standing outside the ring. Despite herself, Elizabeth felt a stab of envy. To see a judge point to Bliss like that, even once, would go a long way in helping her forget all about everything that had happened back home. It might even make nasty Grant Markham nothing but a distant memory.
Before she could give herself any kind of mental pep talk, or even quell her disappointment the slightest bit, Mr. Darcy pointed his elegant finger once more. And this time, he aimed it directly at Bliss. “And this is our Reserve Winner.”
Elizabeth looked at Bliss, expecting to see a different dog on the end of her lead, as if Bliss had traded places with another Cavalier when she wasn’t looking. A Cavalier with a creamy-white, freckle-less muzzle. But to her complete and utter astonishment, she found her own dog still there.
Bliss reared up and pawed at the air with her tiny fringed feet, reveling in the joy of her victory as runner-up. Her happiness caused a knot to wedge in Elizabeth’s throat, and it quickly became clear that she would soon break her pledge not to cry.
She gathered Bliss into her arms and headed toward Mr. Darcy to collect her Reserve Winner’s ribbon. Somewhere behind him, Elizabeth could see Sue Barrow jumping up and down and clapping like mad, but Sue was little more than a fuzzy, dreamlike vision. She was focused on one thing and one thing only—Mr. Darcy’s magnetic gaze, drawing her to him. No longer stormy, his molten amber eyes pulled her in, held her spellbound, until all else disappeared.
“Miss Scott.” His gaze turned questioning when she reached him. “Those are happy tears this time, are they not?”
“Yes. Very much so.” She nodded and swallowed around the lump in her throat.
She had the very sudden desire for him to say it again...her name, in that debonair accent of his. Miss Scott. How could she have tired of hearing him say it before? It was like poetry.
He presented her with a satin ribbon. The left half was white and the right half purple, and it was printed with shiny gold letters that spelled out Reserve Winner.
She ran her thumb over the words. Seasoned dog-show exhibitors might have accepted such an honor with a tinge of disappointment. Reserve Winner was, after all, simply a fancy term for runner-up. The reserve dog didn’t earn any Championship points.
But it was the highest honor ever bestowed on Bliss. Elizabeth couldn’t have been happier, even if it did come from Mr. Darcy. Or perhaps because it came from him.
“Thank you,” she breathed and tugged on the ribbon, ever so gently.
He held on to it, playfully refusing to let it go, until he gave her a liquid-gold wink. “You’re welcome, Miss Scott.”
As Elizabeth gripped her ribbon and floated out of the ring toward the grinning faces of Sue and Alan Barrow and Jenna, fresh from her Starbucks run, toting a venti-size paper cup in each hand, she was left with the distinct impression that Mr. Darcy, of all people, was flirting with her.
3
Elizabeth watched Jenna pick a piece of confetti out of her wineglass. Black confetti, to match the black streamers and oh-so-charming balloons tied to Elizabeth’s chair that screamed to the world she was now Over-the-Hill.
“One more time...” Jenna buried the confetti in her napkin. “What does Reserve Winner mean again?”
Sue and Elizabeth exchanged an exasperated look. Hadn’t they already explained this several times since arriving at the restaurant next to the show site for Elizabeth’s intimate birthday gathering? Intimate meaning it consisted only of Elizabeth, Jenna and the Barrows.
Alan chimed in. “First runner-up.”
At least he paid attention. Elizabeth doubted if any of her family members would ever know what Reserve meant, no matter how many times it was explained to them.
“Like in the Miss America pageant. I get it now.” Jenna sipped her wine, likely ingesting a tiny paper coffin or two. She’d been a little heavy-handed with the decorations. “So if the winner ends up being a former stripper or if there are naked photos of her somewhere on the internet, then Bliss takes her place?”
Alan’s face split into a wide grin, and he motioned toward Jenna. “I like this one.”
Elizabeth laughed and took a sip of her own drink, which she’d let Sue order for her—something British called a Pimm’s, which was surprisingly delicious. “Let’s not forget to congratulate Sue here. You won Best of Breed today, didn’t you?”
“Well, my dog did, if you want to be technical about it. And under Mr. Darcy, no less. Quite an honor. He’s positively renowned back home in Britain
. And all my other terriers won their classes, as well. I don’t know what I would have done today without your help, Elizabeth. You’re a good handler. I wished you lived in England. I could put you to work in a heartbeat. I can’t very well show four dogs at once.”
“Wait a minute.” Jenna made a time-out motion. “The judge’s name is Darcy? And he’s from England? Is this a joke?”
“No. He’s very much real,” Elizabeth said.
If anything, he was too real.
“Real as can be. The English never joke about men named Darcy.” Sue pushed her empty glass toward Alan. “Alan, dear, I’d love another.”
“Your wish is my command.” He gave Elizabeth and Jenna a questioning glance. “Anyone else need a refill?”
Much to her irritation, Elizabeth’s thoughts wanted to snag on the mention of Mr. Darcy, and she had to fight to keep up with the conversation. “No, thank you.”
“Have another. It’s your birthday.” Sue lifted her gaze to the shiny black balloons, as if Elizabeth could forget she was turning thirty. “I’m off to the loo.”
Once Sue was a safe ten feet away from the table, Alan winked and then whispered to Elizabeth and Jenna, “You would never know that I own my own company and am actually the boss of about fifty people, would you? She says jump, and I ask how high.”
From her spot halfway to the ladies’ room, Sue waved a dismissive hand and shouted, “Whatever he’s telling you, it’s not true. Don’t pay any attention to him.”
Elizabeth laughed. “How did you know?”
Sue scurried back over to them. “Oh, please. We’ve been married for over forty years. I know what he’s thinking even before he does.”
Jenna’s eyes grew misty. She’d always been a hopeless romantic. “Forty years. Wow.”
“We met when we were twelve years old.” Alan winked again. Only this time, he aimed it at his wife. “I’ve loved her ever since.”
Jenna held her glass of wine toward them, as if giving a toast at a wedding. “Cutest. Couple. Ever.”
Elizabeth could only agree. And for a split second, she wondered if she was wrong about marriage, after all. Maybe there were good men out there, as Jenna and her mother so often insisted. Maybe there was a man somewhere who would look at her like Alan looked at Sue, even after forty years together. They couldn’t all be Grant Markhams. Could they?
As Sue and Alan went off on their respective errands and Jenna checked her phone for text messages, Elizabeth sipped her Pimm’s and gave herself permission to think about Donovan Darcy. Only for a minute, she decided. She’d been doing her best to forget him ever since they’d left the show site, but that had been before the black balloons.
And the alcohol.
Like Grant Markham, he was certainly rich. And powerful. Those two qualities alone would have been enough to make most women swoon. Elizabeth was not, however, most women. She knew firsthand how dangerous such a combination could be. And, to top it off, Donovan Darcy had already proved that his words weren’t always as pretty as his face.
The man was a mystery, equal parts beautiful and maddening. Sue had been right. Elizabeth had wanted to slap him, right across his gorgeous face. Then he’d gone and switched gears on her, awarding Bliss Reserve and turning on his British charm. Elizabeth wondered if he had any idea how overpoweringly appealing he could be when he wasn’t scowling.
Oh, yes, he knows, she decided. He can probably turn it on and off on command. They probably teach it over there in some kind of James Bond charm school.
Feeling a little shaken, and more than a little stirred, she aimed her attention back at Jenna. “Thank you, big sis.”
Jenna looked up from her phone. “What for?”
“For coming this weekend.” Elizabeth smiled. “And for this little party. It’s perfect.” Aside from the morbid decorations, but let’s not get picky.
“I’m afraid you might not think so after...” Jenna’s voice drifted off, and her eyes grew wide as she focused on something in the distance. “Who is that?”
Elizabeth knew without even turning around in her chair that her sister was looking at none other than Donovan Darcy. In the flesh. Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, as if she’d conjured him simply by indulging in a little harmless daydreaming.
She glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, there he stood, at the hostess stand. Glowering, as usual.
Elizabeth glowered right back, until he aimed his gaze directly toward her.
Damn.
He’d caught her openly staring at him. She tried to tell herself otherwise, that he hadn’t even noticed. The slow grin that came to his lips told a story all its own, however. He most definitely had noticed. And it appeared to please him.
She looked away, took a deep breath and tried to calm the frantic beating of her heart.
If ever there was a man who embodied the word dangerous, it was him. Elizabeth would sleep better at night when he went back to England and there was a vast, fathomless ocean between them.
Jenna cleared her throat. “I said, who is that?”
“Who?” Elizabeth feigned innocence to buy herself more time to regain her composure.
“You know who.” Jenna lifted a brow in Mr. Darcy’s direction.
Great. Now he knows we’re talking about him. She wished she could shrink small enough to crawl into the tiny plastic coffin that sat atop her birthday cake in the center of the table.
“Oh, him.” Elizabeth doubted she was fooling anyone with her attempt at nonchalance, least of all Jenna. “That’s the judge from this afternoon. Our very own Mr. Darcy.”
Jenna’s gaze grew even more appreciative, if such a thing were possible. “That explains why he looks like he just climbed down from a polo pony.”
“Didn’t you see him earlier today at the show?”
Jenna shook her head. “No. Definitely not. I was actually looking at the dogs.”
That was a first. “Well, don’t let those good looks fool you. He’s an ass.”
“He looks like Daniel Craig’s younger, hotter brother. And besides, he almost crowned Bliss Miss America. How big of an ass can he be?”
Where to start? “You have no idea.”
“Let me guess.” Jenna returned her glass to the table with a little too much force. Wine sloshed to the rim, threatening to spill over onto the crisp white tablecloth. “He’s rich.”
“Of course he is.” Elizabeth plucked a piece of tombstone-shaped confetti from her lap and rolled it between her fingers.
Jenna leaned forward, her gaze probing. “And that automatically makes him an ass?”
“It doesn’t help his case.” Elizabeth squirmed. Jenna looked as though she was on the verge of a full-on lecture. Where was Alan with her refill? She could use a sip of Pimm’s—or wine, or anything with alcohol, really—right about now.
“Not all rich men are like you-know-who. There are a few decent wealthy people in the world.” Jenna crossed her arms and gave her a look somewhere between smug and sympathetic.
“Name one.” Elizabeth sat back and waited, sure she’d found just the words to silence her sister.
She was wrong.
“I’ll name two.” Jenna’s voice softened. “Alan and Sue.”
Elizabeth glanced at the bar, where Alan Barrow stood chatting up the bartender, his face split into an endearing grin. “Alan and Sue?”
“Surely you’ve realized they’re rich. They divide their time between London and New York. She raises Champion dogs and shows them all over the world. Did you think they were poor?”
Elizabeth slumped a little lower in her chair. “I hadn’t given it any thought, actually.”
“Well, maybe you should.” Jenna reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “And maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to label that hot ju
dge an ass.”
Elizabeth stole another quick glance in his direction.
He appeared to be studying a menu, but everything about his countenance said he was fully aware the two sisters were talking about him. His lingering wry smile, the subtle gleam of satisfaction in his eyes...the casual way he crossed his feet at the ankles and leaned against the doorjamb of the entryway—all a deliberate, and successful, attempt at looking carelessly sexy.
Or maybe he just really was that sexy without even trying.
It was infuriating.
Elizabeth turned back to Jenna, full of fresh indignation. “Jenna, you never see a fault in anybody. But I assure you, Mr. Darcy thinks awfully highly of himself. You weren’t there. You didn’t see how he treated me in the ring today.”
“Well, here’s my chance.” Jenna took a larger-than-usual gulp of her wine. “Don’t look now, but he’s coming over here.”
Elizabeth stiffened. “He is not.”
“Yes, he is.” Jenna muttered a countdown under her breath. “In four, three, two, one.”
She sounded like Mission Control.
Elizabeth’s stomach churned with each passing second. Houston, we have a problem...
“Miss Scott.”
She opened her eyes and found him looking down at her with a gracious smile. Gracious, but somehow still sexy.
She returned his greeting in a neutral tone. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy.”
“Are birthday wishes in order?” He motioned toward the balloons tied to her chair, which she’d conveniently forgotten about, and the cake with its black plastic coffin topper.
The decorations looked even tackier next to him. Elizabeth wanted to die. Since that wasn’t an option, she opened her mouth to affirm that, yes, she was indeed the one who’d become over-the-hill. But before she could utter a word, a very pretty, very young woman joined him at his side.
“Zara.” Mr. Darcy turned and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
As she watched him welcome his lady friend, Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice two things. First, this Zara woman was nowhere near over-the-hill. With her slim hips and luminescent skin, she looked as though she’d never even seen the hill, much less crossed over it. And second, when he looked at her, Mr. Darcy didn’t show an ounce of the coldness he’d had on full display since Elizabeth had first laid eyes on him. In fact, he practically oozed warmth and charm.
