by Carol Storm
Through all that, the only person she really had to rely on was young Jimmy Lunceford. The new assistant was skinny as a rail and covered from head to toe with spots, but he was a sweet boy, good at his job. He was also over the moon about her. Daphne sipped her drink, feeling a warm, almost motherly mix of tenderness and sympathy. She knew what was coming next.
Sure enough, the boy sucked in a huge breath and dove right into the deep end of the pool. “Miss Daphne, is there any chance you’re free tonight? I know it’s Christmas Eve, but a bunch of friends of mine are having a party in the East End, and I thought… I mean I hoped…”
Daphne cut him off with husky laugh and a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Not a chance, Jimmy. Tonight I’ve got a heavy date with my pillow!”
“Oh, no you don’t, baby doll!” cried a booming voice. “Tonight you’ve got a date with me.”
“Uncle Bertie!” Daphne’s pale features lit up at once, but her dazzling blue eyes showed both fatigue and puzzlement. “I thought you were busy tonight. Aren’t you doing that charity benefit at the Wig and Pen with Vera Chang?”
The bald, fat fashion legend waved a chubby little hand. “Later, later, baby doll. First I figured I’d give you a lift home, and maybe stop off on the Strand and say hello at the Wig and Pen.”
“Thanks, Bertie, you’re a real life saver!” Daphne hesitated, her lovely face clouded with doubt. “But you aren’t planning to stay long at the charity dinner, are you? I’m really tired!”
Jimmy swallowed nervously, his huge Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Miss Daphne, if you want to go straight home, I could give you a ride. I’ve got a scooter and...”
“Don’t even dream about it, junior,” Uncle Bertie told young Jimmy. There was a pecking order in the fashion world, and a photographer’s assistant ranked well below a powerful agent. Bertie wasn’t a bully, but his smile was a warning to back away.
“The night is young, Jimmy. Go out and enjoy yourself!” Daphne’s smile would have melted armor plate. Leaning closer to the boy, she whispered, “Tonight is some other girl’s lucky night!”
“I’ll say this for you, Red, you really know how to keep the suckers coming back for more.” Bertie’s raucous laughter seemed far too boisterous and loud for the luxurious interior of the long, black limousine. As the uniformed chauffeur smoothly stepped on the gas, the roly-poly modeling mogul leaned back against the cushions and lit up a huge cigar.
“It’s called the Christmas Spirit,” Daphne tartly informed her old friend. “You know, Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men? You might not get it, Bertie dear, but Jimmy does. I’ll bet he knows how it feels to be alone over the holidays, too.” The shapely redhead wrinkled her nose, waving away a reeking cloud of thick blue cigar smoke. Albert King definitely had his rough edges, even after years of phenomenal success on the fashion scene. The brash, fast-talking Londoner had started out as a Fleet Street photographer, snapping naughty candid photos for the infamous London tabloids. It was a dirty line of work, but Bertie’s fast-talking charm and gruff persistence had allowed him to work his way upwards and into the highly privileged, lucrative world of London fashion. Soon he was a sought-after photographer, then the owner of a modeling agency, his ruthless drive, lusty appetites and crude speech never quite concealing the kind heart underneath. Rough-talking Bertie was secretly a sucker for outsiders and underdogs of every class and background. That was exactly why he had agreed to represent a newcomer like Daphne Hart when her family arrived in London adrift and penniless after the revolution in San Reynaldo.
“Alone at Christmas?” Bertie’s round fat face took on a look of comical astonishment. “Is that what’s eating you, sweet cakes? Why the hell don’t you go over to your Mother’s for Christmas? I just read in the tabloids where she and that duke or whatever he is have set up housekeeping in a sixty-room mansion in Holland Park. I reckon they’ve got a spare bedroom!”
“You’re right about that,” Daphne said drily. “But I’m not exactly welcome at Mother’s house since I became a fashion model. A lot of people don’t like women who work at certain jobs.” The shapely redhead in the black silk lounging outfit turned to gaze at the vast blackness of the winter night. Victor Sebastian hadn’t approved of her new profession or her newfound independence either. The pain stabbed deep, but Daphne blinked back the tears and favored Uncle Bertie with a wry smile. “Besides, Mother isn’t keen on having me around her new husband. Apparently His Grace is the jealous type, and I’m a rather obvious reminder of her first marriage.”
“Well, it was a rotten break, your father dying broke right after the revolution.” Bertie puffed away on his big cigar, obviously confident that he would grow richer and richer till the day he died. “But isn’t there anyplace else you can go for Christmas, sugar plum?”
“Bertie dear, right now the only place I want to go is bed!” Daphne gave a her paunchy companion a playful poke, even as she was settling down to rest her head against his flabby shoulder.
“Sure, kid, it’s been a busy three weeks for all of us. You need to relax over the holidays. Maybe a few winks now would be good too, huh?” Bertie’s rough teasing was softened by the way he immediately put out his cigar and wrapped a fur cloak around her rather scantily clad shoulders.
Daphne nodded, nestling gratefully into the warmth her benefactor provided. She wasn’t the least bit attracted to Albert King. Yet for some reason he adored her, and she trusted him. The two of them were really the closest of friends, even though Daphne was well aware that naughty old Bertie had enjoyed a long string of much younger girlfriends ever since they first began working together. Exotic Vera Chang was only the latest, although Daphne did have hopes that the sexy, strong-willed fashion designer from Hong Kong might conquer bachelor Bertie at last. After all, he was getting older, and he’d certainly had a good run! Before Vera from Hong Kong there was Inga from Sweden, and before Inga was Olga from Moscow, and before Olga was Lucia from Milan. Bertie did seem to enjoy traveling all around the world and discovering fresh talent. All sorts of beautiful young women had benefited from his keen eye, and blossomed overnight into international modeling sensations. The only problem for Bertie was having so many willing women to choose from.
“Wake up, beautiful!”
“Huh! Where are we?” Daphne had been dreaming that Bertie’s posh limousine was really a sleigh, like the kind Father Christmas used to fly around the world giving away toys. In her dream, Bertie was Father Christmas, or Santa Claus as the Americans called him. And the reindeer pulling the sleigh were all fashion models wearing lacy red and white underthings, with antlers on their heads. As the sleigh swished through the chilly air, Bertie laughed and gave out presents, but when it came to Daphne’s turn there was only one gift she wanted. Yet she couldn’t remember what it was!
“Baby, have you been crying?” Bertie’s fat fingers gently brushed the last trace of tears from Daphne’s flushed cheek.
“No, no! Guess I had a bad dream, or something.” Daphne forced herself to sit up straight and get her bearings, pushing the thick, tumbled waves of flame-red hair out of her eyes. Bertie had put a warm cloak around her shoulders and told her to grab a few winks, but apparently she’d been out for several hours. Seeing the bright lights of the Strand, one of London’s busiest streets, Daphne couldn’t help frowning at the thought of facing more cameras. Right now she just wasn’t in the mood for pushy photographers and the pop-pop of flashbulbs “We’re not staying long, Bertie, are we?”
“It all depends on who we run into, baby doll. Anything can happen at Christmas time!” Bertie gave a loud laugh, as though he’d really said something very funny. But Daphne couldn’t make out the joke. All she could do was stare back at him, sleepy and a bit bewildered by the whole thing. Seeing the look on her face, Bertie laughed again, cupping her cheek with his chubby hand. “I know, baby. You’ve had a rough three weeks. Now get some paint and powder on that lovely face, and get that sensational flame-red hair back under cont
rol, and let’s brighten up the holidays!”
“Oh, all right.” Daphne went along, even though she felt like stamping her foot and refusing. She hated being put right back to work, especially when she was dying for a hot bath and an early night. But Bertie had been so good to her over the years, giving her a fresh start, a new life in a new city. Giving her something to come back to when Victor Sebastian broke her heart. So she made up her face and cranked up a smile, and walked into the Wig and Pen Club with her head held high.
It was a real madhouse inside the restaurant. The Wig and Pen was an old building, in fact, it was one of the few buildings left that went all the way back to the Great Fire of London in 1666. Bertie loved it because he had started out as a Fleet Street photographer, and tons of reporters and tabloid journalists still hung out here, along with judges and political types from Westminster. When she turned to peep at the intricate pattern of wigs and pens set right into the aged plasterwork, Daphne got caught up in wondering how many great men had dined here in the past, drinking punch and singing Christmas carols just like everyone was doing right now. The wigs stood for the lawmakers and politicians, while the pens were for authors and journalists. Of course, all of them had been men in those days. Women were not even allowed to enter. Had things really changed?
“Come on, baby, there’s someone I want you to meet!” Bertie was really enjoying himself, greeting all sorts of different men and dragging Daphne along like a leaf caught up in a whirlwind. But somewhere along the way they got separated, and she found herself being pawed and pushed about by a whole bunch of rather intoxicated young men she didn’t know. Daphne had really had enough, from Victor and from Bertie and from Mother and from everyone, and instead of waiting around for someone to rescue her, she cursed and kicked and pushed back against the clutching hands, shoving her way clear and plunging at last through a closed door into a private room.
When she got inside the quiet dining room the first thing Daphne saw was a table set for two. There was a candle on the table, glowing brightly, and there was also a lovely golden-brown pan of sweetbread that gave off a sweet and spicy smell that took her all the way back to her childhood.
There was only one person on earth who knew what that smell meant to her.
“Victor!” Daphne turned with a gasp as the tall, dark man of her dreams came forward into the candlelight.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come, my love.” Victor was looking sensational in evening dress, his dark eyes devouring her even as his generous mouth quirked slightly with a secret pain. “Waiting and praying for another chance.”
“How did you know? How did you arrange all this?” Daphne was in shock, reaching back to smooth her hair, even though the tumbling flame-red waves were all in order. She felt a bit frowsy and disordered all the same, for she was still in the black silk lounging outfit she’d worn for the shoot, the borrowed string of pearls still around her neck. But Victor didn’t seem to mind. He pulled back a chair for her, and she sank into it without even noticing. The whole thing was like a dream!
“Your friend Bertie comes here every Christmas Eve,” Victor explained, seating himself across from her at the polished oak table. “I assumed that where he was you would be as well.”
“I guess that’s a safe assumption,” Daphne acknowledged, smiling a little in spite of herself. “But Bertie never said a word, he never even hinted you were in England! Does he even know you’re here? Why are you in England, anyway?” The bewildered redhead had to fight to hold her tongue. She didn’t want to sound eager to see the man. She didn’t want to sound desperate for a reunion. She didn’t want to forget she was a woman and start gobbling Christmas sweetbread like a child.
Victor began cutting up the warm, sweetbread, putting a gigantic hunk on Daphne’s plate. “I have been reconsidering my place in the new government,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.
“Your place?” Daphne was more at sea than ever. “But you’re the governor of a whole province! You’re the symbol of the revolution, the stable hand who rose to be a leader! And besides, you’re devoted to the people. Your place is with them, remember? Your work means everything to you!” The redhead’s tone was just slightly sarcastic, her sapphire-blue eyes just slightly mocking.
Victor winced. “Do you remember when you told me that San Reynaldo had changed? That was the purpose of all I have done. Yet change has cut me off from all that I have loved.”
“Yes, well you can’t stop change, Victor.” Daphne gave her companion a look, letting him know she wasn’t about to give in. But she couldn’t help taking a small bite of the golden sweetbread. The flavor was exactly the same as she remembered, rich and sweet yet spicy and nutty too.
“No, that is correct. No man can stop change, and no man can hold on to the past. Yet that is what I was trying to do when I lured you back to San Reynaldo.”
“What do you mean?” Daphne asked. “I thought you were trying to punish me!”
Victor nodded. “When I set up the ceremony at the dam, I was planning to get you alone. I was hoping to make you suffer, to humiliate you. I even imagined putting you over my knee and spanking you for what your family did to me all those years ago!”
“My goodness,” Daphne breathed. “I don’t think I could have endured that.” The two of them shared a long, sizzling look that was equal parts challenge and anticipation of pleasures to come. “All right, so you had a plan. What ruined it? What came over you?”
“You came over me,” Victor said roughly. “The way you opened up to me below the dam, the way your mouth and hands and body seemed to welcome me… I fell into deep desire and let my shallow lust for vengeance slip away. And then it seems I made my great mistake. I thought to myself, Daphne has not become a cruel, shallow super model. She’s still the same shy English girl she was all those years ago. When in reality you are not that girl at all anymore.”
“That’s right,” Daphne chimed in. “I’m a woman now, not a girl. And I’m proud of being a fashion model, even if you don’t understand it.”
Victor nodded. “I understand the magic of your power over people. I witnessed that at the dam. I think you have become someone very special, a kind of artist, even a kind of leader.”
“Well, I don’t know about all that. But I’m not cruel and shallow!”
“Agreed.” The gorgeous young governor gave her a knee-weakening smile. But then his mood grew thoughtful again. “At any rate, to hold on to what we love the most all of us must adapt, change and grow. After you left I had much time to think. It seems to me that if I truly believe in change, I must make changes in myself as well as in the world around me. If I truly love you… then I have to change too.”
“Do you love me, Victor?” Daphne gave him the full fashion-model look, turning on her most intense, sapphire-blue gaze. She wanted to believe he was in love with the woman she was now, not the lonely little girl she had been so many years ago. That poor kid had been so grateful for any attention or show of kindness, gobbling up even the tiniest slice of sweetbread.
“I love you, Daphne.” Victor looked into her eyes, carefully reading the challenge of her gaze. “I love you with all my heart and body and soul. But you are not the little girl I loved before. You don’t need me walking beside you as you ride your pony, to catch you when you fall. You are able to make your way in the world and help others to find their way as well.”
“I never fell off my pony, not once!” Daphne couldn’t help smiling.
“You fell often, little one. But you always got up again.” Victor smiled back at her. “You have grown, you are strong, and you have changed. But for all these things, I love you more. If you do not wish to share my life in San Reynaldo, perhaps you can let me be a part of your life in England.”
“But how is that possible?” Daphne looked down at her sweetbread, which somehow gave her the same warm Christmas feeling it had long ago. Only there was too much to eat alone. She cut her slab in two and loaded half of it ont
o Victor’s plate. “You are the governor, you need a wife who can be with you when you travel around the countryside. Someone who can help the people.”
“You can do those things,” Victor acknowledged, picking up his fork. “But only when I return to San Reynaldo. You see, Daphne, I have resigned my post as governor, and accepted a diplomatic post here in England. The president’s daughter shall rule in my place until I return.”
Daphne gave a husky laugh, her throat a bit tight. “I’ll bet that scheming, no-good Antonia set up this whole thing so she could grab more power for herself. She was so damned nice to me back in San Reynaldo, flattering me and begging me to get back together with you and even bribing me with peppermints. I think she’ll make an amazing governor!”
“I think so too,” Victor agreed. He was already hard at work on the sweetbread. “You know, this did not turn out too badly.”
“No, it didn’t.” Daphne looked at him, giving the sexy side of her personality full rein. “So now, do you want to keep on eating sweetbread or do you want to devour me instead?”
“I didn’t come all this way for sex,” Victor said, wiping crumbs from his gorgeous mouth with an air of solemn dignity. “This is more important than that. I came here for you, Daphne. I came to give you my heart, not my body. And of course, I came to give you my sweetbread.”
“You made this yourself?” Daphne picked up a spongy bit from his plate, and chewed it. Something as good as this never needed to change. It was special and forever, just like Christmas.
“Yes, of course I did. You know my mother taught me when we were children. I miss her.”
