by Anna DePalo
“We don’t see each other for three years,” he pressed on, “and now we somehow run into each other for the second time in two months.”
“Believe me, it’s no more pleasant for me than it is for you,” she responded, coming to a stop before him.
He scanned her face, angling his head to the side.
He pretended to make his perusal casual, joking even. Still, he caught the way a stray strand of sun-kissed honey-blond hair caressed her cheek gently. He stopped himself from reaching out to touch her soft skin and run his thumb over the outline of her jaw.
Then he made the mistake of picking up the light scent of lavender that he’d associated with her ever since their first night together. He couldn’t help being attracted to her—he just couldn’t act on that attraction.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she demanded.
“I’m checking to see if you’re hiding hors d’oeuvres or canapés somewhere. I wanted to be prepared for another missile attack.”
His attempt at a jest was met with a frosty look.
Pia raised her chin. “I’m here to make sure this wedding proceeds without a hitch.”
“Ah, trying to rehabilitate your image?”
He’d meant to tease and test, and at her momentarily arrested look, he realized he’d guessed correctly.
Pia was still worried about her business. Belinda Wentworth’s almost-wedding had likely blemished Pia’s professional reputation.
In a moment, however, Pia recovered herself, and her eyes sparked. “My only concern is that you and your two compatriots, Easterbridge and Melton, are in attendance. I have no idea why another friend of mine would get mixed up with a friend of yours. Look at what Easterbridge did to Belinda!”
“What Colin did to Belinda?” Hawk asked rhetorically. “You mean speaking up as her husband?”
Pia narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together.
Hawk had started out this conversation trying to put Pia at ease, but ruffling her feathers was proving to be irresistible. “I defer to your superior experience with wedding etiquette. Are husbands even allowed to speak?”
“The marquess needn’t have done so at the wedding. A nice, private communication from his attorney to hers would have sufficed.”
“Perhaps Easterbridge had little notice of Belinda’s impending wedding to Dillingham. Perhaps he did what he could to prevent a crime from occurring.” Hawk arched a brow. “Bigamy is a crime in many places, including New York, you know.”
“I’m well aware of that!”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
Pia gave him a repressive look, and then eyed him suspiciously. “How much notice did you have of Easterbridge’s actions?”
“I wasn’t even aware that Easterbridge was married to Belinda.”
Hawk was glad he could set the record straight because Pia obviously suspected him of double-dealing as a wedding guest of Dillingham’s but a friend of Easterbridge’s. Not only hadn’t he known about Easterbridge’s past marriage, but he suspected that the only reason he’d been invited to the wedding in June was because Dillingham wanted to cement important social ties, however tenuous up to that point.
“And I have no idea what would have made Belinda wed a friend of yours two years ago, in Las Vegas, of all places,” Pia countered.
“Perhaps my friends and I are irresistible,” he replied mockingly.
“Oh, I’m well aware that you’re irresistible to women.”
Hawk raised his brows and wondered whether Pia was admitting to her own past susceptibility to him. Had she found him not merely attractive but irresistible? Had she fallen into bed with him because she’d been swept up in the moment and carried away by passion?
“Once I had your real name, a little internet search revealed a good deal of information,” Pia elaborated, dashing his hopes that she’d been referring to herself when she’d called him irresistible.
Hawk had no doubt as to what an internet search had revealed. He mentally winced at the thought of the news reports and gossip that must have come up about his younger, more spirited days. The women…the carousing…
“You know, I suppose I should have been wary three years ago when my Google search on James Fielding turned up nothing in particular, but then I supposed Fielding was such a common name…”
He quirked his lips. “My ancestors are no doubt rolling in their graves at being labeled common.”
“Oh, yes, pardon me, Your Grace,” Pia returned bitingly. “You can rest assured that I’m no longer ignorant of the protocol due to your rank.”
Damn protocol to hell, he wanted to respond. It was one of the reasons he’d preferred flying under the radar as plain James Fielding. Except these days, of course, having succeeded to the ducal title, he could no longer afford such a luxury. Then, too, he was all too cognizant of his responsibilities.
The irony wasn’t lost on him that having succeeded to the title of Duke of Hawkshire, he’d gained all manner of wealth—and responsibilities—that most men coveted, but had lost the things he craved most: anonymity, a certain freedom and being valued for himself.
“Tell me about your wedding business,” he said abruptly, turning the conversation back in the direction he wanted. “Three years ago, I recall you were still working at a large event planning firm and had big dreams of setting out on your own.”
Pia looked guarded and then defiant. “I did manage to start my own business, as you can tell. It was shortly after your abrupt disappearance, in fact.”
“Are you saying you have me to thank?” Hawk asked with exaggerated aristocratic hauteur and faint mockery.
Pia’s hand curled at her side. “Thanks, I think, would be going too far. But I believe it was your abrupt exit that provided me with the impetus to strike out on my own. After all, there’s nothing like a momentary disappointment to fuel the drive to succeed in another area of life.”
Hawk gave a weak imitation of a smile. He very much regretted his actions in the past, but he wondered what she’d say if she knew the extent of his responsibilities, ducal and otherwise, these days.
“You were very creative with the décor at Belinda’s wedding,” he said, ignoring her jab in an effort to be more conciliatory. “The gold and lime-green color scheme was certainly unusual.”
At Pia’s look of momentary surprise, he added, “You needn’t look so taken aback that I noticed the detail. After savoring baba ghanoush, I believe contemplating the scenery became a much more engaging pastime.”
He had let himself study the décor because he had been curious about any detail that would reveal anything about her—and it had beat deflecting curious looks and probing questions from the other wedding guests.
“I’m glad my excellent aim had at least one beneficial consequence,” Pia responded dryly.
“Ah, I assume the consequences to your wedding business weren’t so satisfactory?” he probed, taking advantage of his opening.
Pia’s expression turned defensive, but not before Hawk saw the fleeting distress there.
“What sort of wedding would you have for yourself, Pia?” Hawk asked, his voice suddenly low and inviting. “Surely you must have envisioned it many times.”
He knew he was playing with fire, but he didn’t care.
“I’m in the wedding business,” Pia responded frostily. “Not the romance business.”
Their eyes held for moments…until a voice called out Pia’s name.
He and Pia turned at the same time to look back in the direction of the house, where Tamara was descending the terrace steps.
“Pia,” Tamara announced, coming toward them across the lawn. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“I was just walking over to the pavilion,” Pia responded. “I wanted to see what can be done with it.”
Hawk watched as Tamara glanced curiously from Pia to him and back.
“Well, I’m glad I found you,” Tamara said, and then hooked her arm through Pia’s.
Hawk’s lips quirked. Tamara wasn’t one to stand on ceremony. Though she was the daughter of a British viscount, she’d been raised mostly in the United States and had the decidedly democratic tendencies of the bohemian jewelry designer she was.
She’d also obviously sailed in like a mother hen to rescue Pia.
“Not at all,” Hawk murmured to Tamara’s retreating back.
He watched the two women cross the lawn.
When Pia turned back briefly to glance at him, he returned her gaze solemnly.
He’d gleaned a lot from their conversation. He’d guessed correctly—as evidenced by her momentary distress just now—that Pia’s wedding business needed help in the wake of Belinda’s wedding. The fact that Pia’s firm had managed to survive for more than two years said something, however.
Pia obviously had talent, and she’d nurtured it since their one night together.
With that thought, as he turned back to the house, Hawk realized that a conversation with his sister, a prospective bride, was in order.
Three
As she and Tamara walked toward the pavilion, Pia noticed her friend glance at her.
“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” Tamara remarked, and then paused at Pia’s continued silence. “On second thought, perhaps I hope I did.”
As Tamara suddenly stopped to speak with one of the staff who hailed her, Pia stood nearby and soon found herself lost in thought about the night that she and Hawk had first met.
The beat of the music could be felt in the bar stools, on the tables and along the walls. In fact, everything vibrated. It was loud and packed, bodies brushing past each other in the confines of the tavern.
A bar wasn’t her preferred scene, Pia thought, but she’d come here with a coworker from the event-planning business she worked for in order to rub shoulders with bright young things and their beaus.
People who liked a party—and needed event organizers—usually attended parties prodigiously. And it had almost been a job directive from her boss to be social after work hours, making connections and trying to bring in business.
Except Pia’s interest wasn’t in anniversary parties or coming-of-age celebrations.
Instead, she liked weddings.
Someday, she promised herself, her dream of having her own wedding planning business would become a reality.
In the meantime, she shouldered her way past other patrons and reached the bar. But at her height, she could barely see above those sitting at the bar stools, let alone signal the bartender.
A man next to her gestured to the bartender and called out an order for a martini.
She glanced up at him and, a second later, sucked in a breath as he looked down at her with an easygoing grin.
“Drink?” he offered.
He was one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. He was tall, certainly over six feet, his sandy hair slightly tousled, and his hazel eyes, flecked with interesting bits of gold and green, dancing. His nose was less than perfect—had it been broken once?—but that added to his magnetism. His grin revealed a dimple to the right of his mouth.
Most importantly, he was looking at her with warm, lazy interest.
He was the closest thing to her fantasy man as she’d ever seen—not that she’d ever admit to anyone that, at twenty-four, she’d had a fantasy lover and no other kind.
Pia parted her lips—please, please let me sound sophisticated. “Cosmopolitan, thank you.”
He gave the briefest nod of acknowledgment, and then looked away to signal the bartender and order her drink. Within seconds, he effortlessly accomplished what to her had been blocked by multiple obstacles.
When he looked back at her, he was smiling again.
“Are you?” he asked, his low and smooth voice inviting intimacy.
She stalled. “Am I…?”
His eyes crinkled. “Are you a Cosmo girl?”
She pretended to consider the question for a moment. “It depends. Are you a pickup artist?”
He laughed, his expression saying he was respectful of her parry even as his interest sharpened. “I don’t suppose you’d give a hint as to what the right answer is supposed to be?”
Pia played along. “Do you need a hint? Doesn’t charm get you the answer you want?”
His accent wasn’t easy to pinpoint—he appeared to be from here, there and anywhere—but she thought she detected a faint British enunciation.
“Hmm, it depends,” he mused, rubbing his chin and showing his dimple again. “Are you here with anyone?”
She knew he meant a man—a date. “I’m here with a coworker, but I seem to have lost track of Cornelia in the crowd.”
He looked momentarily intent and seductive beneath his easygoing veneer, but then his casual appeal took over again. “Great, then I can be as charming as I’m able. Let’s start with names. No woman as lovely and enchanting as you can be called anything but—?”
He quirked a brow.
She couldn’t help smiling. “Pia Lumley.”
“Pia,” he repeated.
The sound of her name falling from his chiseled lips sent shivers chasing over her skin. He’d called her lovely and enchanting. Her fantasy man had a voice, and it was dreamy.
“James Fielding,” he volunteered.
Just then, the bartender leaned in their direction and slid two drinks across the bar between seated patrons.
James handed the cosmopolitan to her, and then picked up his martini.
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against hers.
She took a small sip of her drink. It was stronger than her usual party libation—a light beer or a fruity beach drink was more her style—but then again, she’d wanted to appear sophisticated.
She suspected that James was used to chic women. And she’d grown used to projecting a polished and stylish image when trying to drum up business for work. Potential clients expected it—people didn’t want an inexperienced girl from small-town Pennsylvania running their six-figure party.
After sipping from his drink, James nodded at a couple departing from a corner table near them. “Would you like to sit?”
“Thank you,” she said, and then turned and slid into a padded booth seat.
As she watched James sit down to her left, a little thrill went through her. So he meant to continue their conversation and further their acquaintance? She was happy she’d held his interest.
She hadn’t had many men hit on her. She didn’t think she was bad-looking, but she was short and more understated than bold, and therefore easily overlooked. She was cute, rather than one to inspire lust or overwhelming passion.
He looked at her with a smile hovering at his lips. “Are you new to New York?”
“It depends on what you mean by new,” she replied. “I’ve been here a couple of years.”
“And you were transported here from a fairy tale called—?”
She laughed. “Cinderella, of course. I’m a blonde.”
His smile widened. “Of course.”
He rested an arm along the back of the booth seat and reached out to finger a tendril of her hair.
She drew in a breath—hard.
“And a beautiful shade of blond, it is,” he murmured. “It’s gold spun with wheat and sunshine.”
She looked into his eyes. She could, she thought, spend hours studying the fascinating mix of hues there.
James cocked his head, his eyes crinkling. “Okay, Pia,” he continued in his smooth, deep voice, “Broadway, Wall Street, fashion, advertising or The Devil Wears Prada?”
“None of the above?”
His eyebrows rose. “I’ve never struck out before.”
“Never?” she asked with feigned astonishment. “I’m sorry I ruined your track record.”
“Never mind. I trust your discretion will spare my reputation.”
They were flirting—or rather he was flirting with her—and she was, amazingly, holding her own.
It was all exhilarating. She’d never had a man flirt with her this way, and certainly no one of James’s caliber.
In fact, though, she wasn’t an actress, a banker, a model, or in advertising or publishing. “I’m an event planner,” she said. “I organize parties.”
“Ah.” His eyes gleamed. “A party girl. Splendid.”
There were party girls and then there were party girls, she wanted to say, but she didn’t correct him.
“What about you?” she asked instead. “What are you doing here in New York?”
He straightened, dropping his arm from the back of the seat. “I’m just an ordinary Joe with a boring finance job, I’m afraid.”
“There’s nothing ordinary about you,” she blurted, and then clamped her mouth shut.
He smiled again, his dimple appearing. “I’m flattered you think so.”
She lifted her drink for another sip because he and his smile—and, yes, that dimple—were doing funny things to her insides.
He was studying her, and she tried to remain casual, though he sat mere inches away.
She was very aware of his muscular thigh encased in beige pants on the seat beside her. He wore no tie, and the strong, corded lines of his neck stood in relief against the open collar of his light blue shirt.
He nodded, his eyes fixed at a spot near her collarbone. “That’s an interesting necklace you’re wearing.”
She glanced down, though she knew what he’d be seeing. She wore a sterling silver necklace with a flying fish pendant. In deference to the July heat, she’d worn a sleeveless turquoise blue sheath dress. The pendant was one of her usual accessories.
She’d come directly to the bar from work, and she figured he’d done the same from the way he was dressed. Though he wasn’t wearing a suit, his attire qualified as business casual. Work dress code was more relaxed in the summer in the city, especially on a dress-down Friday.
She flushed now, however, at the thought that between the color of her dress and the symbol on her pendant, she resembled nothing so much as a pond with a solitary fish swimming in it.
