Snapdragon (Love Conquers None Book 1)

by Kilby Blades

  The truth was, Darby could set up her own research institute to study opioid addiction if she really wanted to. She could think of no better use of her inheritance than to honor her mother’s memory, to make sure that studies like hers were pursued and brought to light. Her egomaniacal boss’ neglect of the work she was doing sometimes made her want to take matters into her own hands. But Darby knew that if she took her research to an institute she herself had funded, that act alone would give way to vicious gossip about the validity of her results.

  No, she knew. She needed to prove that her research held merit, to win competitive funding from important institutions that believed in her work. She needed other people to be excited about it—for other people to associate themselves with it, and to stand by her results. She’d been careful to avoid any accusations of favoritism. She’d stopped donating to the hospital since she’d landed her job and had urged her father to do the same. She couldn’t have it look as if anything was handed to her because of her family’s role in the community. It was a harder hill to climb, but she knew she had to climb it.

  By Thursday, she found herself at Nordstrom, tucked several floors above Michigan Avenue with a personal shopper in a private dressing suite. When she wasn’t wearing scrubs around the hospital or warm pajamas around the house, Darby was a bit of a clotheshorse. Maybe it was all those years of private school uniforms, of being dressed by someone hell-bent on having her look appropriately conservative at official events, that made expressing her own style such a thrill.

  She rarely dwelled on her looks, but she knew she was considered to be quite beautiful apart from her taller, size six frame. Her long hair was thick, shiny, and fell naturally in soft waves to the middle of her back. Its color, a dark reddish-brown that brightened in sunlight, contrasted eyes on the lighter side of amber that seemed to do the same. Yet it was her face—ovular with high cheekbones, and perfectly symmetrical—that imitated her mother’s beauty. Darby liked looking at pictures of her mother when she was Darby’s age. Everyone who had known her said it, and Darby saw it as well—the two of them could have been twins.

  The navy suit she’d chosen for the grant review board was every bit as chic as you would expect from a sophisticated young doctor, but the blouse she’d chosen had a little bit of flair. The bright green border accents on the collar of the white silk garment were utterly tasteful but also a bit bold.

  “Anything else, my dear?” asked Iris, her favorite stylist.

  Iris had been there for as long as Darby could remember. She was in her early sixties, had three sons and a husband of forty-five years. Despite the fact that she only handled the highest net worth—and, therefore the highest maintenance—clients, Iris was one of the sweetest and most down-to-earth people Darby had ever met. She knew how every designer cut his clothes, knew which fashion trends to jump on from which ones to avoid, knew every garment in the store, and worked miracles to deliver anything they had to special order.

  “When was the last time we looked at gowns?” Saturday’s date with Michael had been at the front of her mind. Thinking about seeing him gave her a little thrill. Every moment she hadn’t been immersed in work that week, she’d been preoccupied with thoughts of him.

  “I remember you bought three,” Iris began, referring to Darby’s pre-season shopping spree. The woman had freakish recall. “A print by one of the new designers, the green Valentino, and something red.”

  Darby had worn the Valentino to Ben’s wedding.

  “So nothing I could wear to the Frigg Foundation Gala?”

  “Not even close.” Iris’ response was typically blunt. “This year’s theme is Gatsby, so we’ll have to go with beads and sequins. I’ve been dressing women for it all week. Give me a minute—I may have just the thing.”

  Five minutes later, Iris was helping her into a stunning Monique Lhuillier. It was sheer gray chiffon underneath, yet covered in so many elaborately-embroidered silver beads that the entire dress seemed to shimmer in resplendent Art Deco style. Darby’s breasts were just small enough to pull off the plunging V-neckline without seeming as if the look she was going for was sexy. The dress was cut across the bias, with a small train that mimicked the even steeper plunge in the back.

  “I tried this on somebody else yesterday, but she didn’t buy it,” Iris said with soft sincerity as she zipped Darby up. “I’m glad she didn’t—it looks much better on you.”

  Darby gazed at herself under fitting room light, which she suspected was deliberately flattering. It seemed to make her glow as she stood upon the platform. She watched as Iris silently fixed a bejeweled cuff bracelet around her wrist, another Art Deco piece, and pressed what looked like pale sapphire teardrop earrings into her hand. Sometimes cool colors like grays and blues were tricky to pair with Darby’s warm tones, but Iris had gotten the hues just right.

  “I’ll take it all,” she said, hoping that what she saw in the mirror would have the desired effect on Michael.

  She hadn’t heard from him again that week, not that she’d expected to, and she already liked how easy and casual it all felt. If they could really pull it off—repeat performances of sex that steamy without complications—it would be a phenomenal match. Darby’s last affair with a television producer named Felix had ended so badly that it had been the catalyst for her to swear off dating altogether. But this thing with Michael wouldn’t be dating. It would be moving the dreaded pressures and protocols of carrying on a relationship out of the way. It would be taking it all off at the end of the night and getting on with her real life the following morning.

  TWO DAYS LATER, DARBY WAS putting in her last sapphire earring when she heard the doorbell ring. She inspected herself one last time in the stylish floor-to-ceiling mirror and smiled at what she saw. Darby adored her massive closet. It had once been a guest bedroom, but the year before, she’d converted it. Picking up the bejeweled sandals that sat in their place on one of her lighted pull-out shoe shelves, she bent to slip them on. She gave herself one final look before turning to answer the door.

  Darby’s cozy little brownstone suited her perfectly. It was situated in the middle of a quiet street on the Gold Coast a few blocks back from the water and walking distance to the Lincoln Park Zoo. It was a far cry from the ostentatious Evanston mansion she’d grown up in, which had been no place for a child. In place of the Fabergé eggs and Waterford crystal, Darby had chosen more practical themes. Bamboo floors and neutral creams were the base motif for every single room. Yet the lamps, rugs, pillows and other accent pieces in each room splashed teals, chartreuses and other bold colors. Comfortable furniture throughout gave her space the feel of a lounge.

  Though most of the rooms felt finished, it nagged her that she hadn’t chosen much art for her bedroom. The space above her fireplace mantel was conspicuously empty. She saved her movie-watching for the living room, and felt it would have been a bit of a cop-out to install a TV where she slept. She glanced at the empty spot for a moment as she walked back out of her closet to descend the stairs. It had been half a minute since he had rung and she needed to answer the door.

  Michael’s enchanting blue eyes sparkled more brilliantly than her sapphires when she opened the heavy door to him. For a pregnant moment, he was silent. He didn’t compliment her dress or kiss her hand or make any other debonair gesture. Yet, as he leaned comfortably against the frame, his eyes shadowed sultry remembrance of what had transpired the week before.

  “Hi.” His smile was roguish.

  “Hi.” They held each other’s gaze for another long moment before he finally took the rest of her in.

  “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

  “I think we’ll both turn some heads.” It was hard not to notice how well he wore his tuxedo. At the wedding, he’d rocked his suit pretty hard, but Michael’s elegance in white tie could have rivaled Robert Redford as Gatsby himself.

  “Is it too soon to bail?” Her eyes lingered on his body for a moment longer than she intended befo
re returning to meet his gaze.

  “The night is young,” he rejoined, though she thought she heard—more like hoped she heard—a twinge of disappointment. “Besides, it’s time for your interview.”

  “I should’ve known.” She liked their game. “What am I being evaluated on?”

  “Apart from making me look as unavailable as possible?”

  “How could I forget? There will be cougars on the prowl. If anyone grabs your goods on my watch, I won’t expect an offer.”

  Perfectly straight teeth peeked through an amused smile.

  “I also need you to be my wingwoman. Standard stuff—rescuing me from boring conversations, charming donors with deep pockets who like pretty girls, which is most of them. I’ll charm the ones who like pretty boys,” he added cheekily.

  “Fundraising. Check,” she nodded.

  “It won’t be as fun as the sex.” He said it apologetically, as if he were afraid she would be tempted to bail on this part of the arrangement.

  “I’m a politician’s daughter. I can do this in my sleep,” she reassured him. “And didn’t you say that if the main event was boring you’d make it up to me later?”

  “I did. And I will.” His voice was deliciously low as he offered her his arm.

  From the small table just inside her door, she grabbed her silver sequined clutch and her mother’s white fur stole, and shut the door behind her. Michael ushered her to his car—a dark gray Maserati that suited him somehow—and tucked her safely inside. She hadn’t noticed until after he closed her door that in place of formal shoes, he wore black and white Converse All-Stars. This detail made her smile.

  She watched him discreetly for several minutes as they sped down city streets. From the reverence with which he handled his car, and the obvious enjoyment with which he drove it, she got the sense that he was not just another handsome boy with an expensive plaything—he had a gentle way of handling anything he touched, and seemed like the kind of person who treasured his possessions.

  Yes, Darby realized. There was something different about Michael. Already, she had a tender curiosity about him. She thought back to their easy conversation on the beach—she liked smart people who knew how to have a good discussion. Even their small talk about wedding gropers and fake engagement rings had been refreshingly real. She recalled the chemistry in his hotel room, also surprisingly reactive. She was already looking forward to the end of the night.

  “What?” When he asked, she knew she had been caught watching him.

  “The way you’re touching your car…I think I’m getting a bit jealous.”

  The corner of his lip quirked up. “I thought we said no jealousy.”

  “We agreed that our jobs came first, but we never actually agreed on rules,” she pointed out.

  “Should we?” He shifted gears and glanced over at her as they turned south onto Lake Shore Drive.

  “Maybe there’s only one…” she mused. “No hard feelings about competing priorities.”

  “Is that enough for you?”

  She thought back to how inflamed she’d been at his comment about women being biologically incapable of not wanting commitment.

  “Still think you’re going to break my heart?” Darby teased.

  “Maybe I’m worried you’ll break mine.” His mouth widened into an even fuller smile. He smiled a lot. Working in medicine meant Darby was often surrounded by illness and despair. She appreciated that Michael seemed happy, albeit a bit intense.

  “How about this? We promise each other that when it ends, it ends in a single word—whether that be tonight or a year from now. No awkward confrontation. No messy breakup talk. That’s the shitty part anyway, right? We agree to keep it fun and simple. And, when it stops being fun, or stops being simple, it’s over.”

  “Sounds sensible.” There was hesitation in his voice.

  “But?”

  He seemed to think about it, as if deconstructing the idea in is mind.

  “No, you’re right,” he said finally after he had worked out whatever was holding him back. “So what’s our code word?”

  “Lotus.”

  He looked offended. “What if we’re talking about cars?”

  “Skittles,” she offered, her eyes falling to the red packet of candies she had noticed sitting in the cup holder on his center console.

  “I use that word too much in everyday conversation.”

  He sounded completely serious.

  “Broadway,” she blurted as her eye caught a billboard for a musical.

  He smiled as he looked over at her. “I love show tunes too much.”

  That earned him a laugh.

  “Alright, smart ass—what do you think it should be?

  He was quiet for a moment as the smile faded from his face.

  “Snapdragon.” His voice was quiet as he said it. She had no idea what had made him come up with that word, but she liked it.

  “Snapdragon, then,” she repeated, just as he stopped at a red light and looked over to meet her gaze.

  Darby hadn’t been lying earlier. As a senator’s daughter, she had attended events like this all her life. She would not have been surprised to find her father himself lurking someplace. But they were always on the outs and she hoped not to run into him that night. Michael, too, seemed at ease in this environment. Both of them were well-acquainted with a number of partygoers, so much so that she wondered how they had never crossed paths before.

  “So you fundraise for the foundation?” She asked when they had a moment to themselves back at their table. The mingling had dulled after the first two courses were served. They’d set down dessert and she was now enjoying watching Michael’s lips melt into a tiny smile every time he slipped a mini fruit tart in his mouth.

  “My tenure as fundraising chair ended last year, but I’m still on the Board. I have relationships with most major donors, so it’s always a good idea for me to show my face.”

  And a beautiful face it was. At the wedding, she’d mainly seen him in dim light. But, fully-lit, he was splendid. He possessed a striking combination of undeniable masculinity and delicate beauty. His strong jaw juxtaposed full, kissable lips, a heavy brow and hooded eyes as blue as deep ocean waters. Light stubble shadowed skin that was otherwise baby-smooth—a fact she remembered from the week before.

  “I didn’t know you had such a tangible connection to all this, “Darby said.

  “You thought I came for the hors d’oeuvres and free booze?”

  “$1,000 a plate isn’t free.”

  He fixed her with a pointed look. “Nothing in this world is free.”

  She noticed once again how even his most casual words never seemed off-handed; they always seemed to convey an absolute truth

  “I give to the foundation every year,” she offered.

  “I know you do. And not a small amount. But you save the majority of your giving for the arts. I hear they want to name a gallery after you at The Art Institute, but you won’t let them.”

  Something inside her hardened a bit at his comment. It must have shown on her face.

  “Chicago’s a small town, Darby. Everyone in philanthropy knows where the big families give.”

  She took a long sip of her drink, swallowing down the reminder of how little privacy she had. She didn’t mind that Michael knew, but she did resent that so much of her business was spread through the grapevine, and freely shared for public consumption.

  “It only seems right that I use the money my mother left me to support causes that she loved. The Art Institute was her favorite museum.”

  “But not one of yours, I take it. I’ve never seen you at any of their events.”

  If he knew whether or not she attended events, that had to mean he supported the museum as well.

  “Actually, I love it there. It’s just…been hard to go since she died.”

  Realization dawned in his eyes.

  “I know a thing or two about that.” As he said it, some of his intensity softened.


  “What else do you know about me?” She was eager to change the subject and curious about what else he had heard.

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “So you’re saying you want to know more?” she flirted.

  He leaned in closer, his voice lowering as he said the words.

  “I told you before. I like complex things.”

  Before she could respond, he stood and held his hand out to her, beckoning her to join him for a dance. She couldn’t remember the last time she had accepted an offer to dance with someone. As they swayed together, it was hard not to notice that everyone around them was watching them with interest—even more interest than Darby was accustomed to. She couldn’t remember hearing his name mentioned in her Chicago society circles. But it was becoming clear that Michael was an object of attention all on his own.

  “Did you recognize me? At Ben’s wedding?”

  “Not until you told me your name. When you did, I pieced together your connection to the senator and to the foundation, but by then I was already interested.”

  “I thought you said you’d given up on women…” she challenged lightly as they moved to the song.

  “Given up hope on dating, yes. Stopped being attracted to fascinating women?” He shook his head. “I didn’t think anything would happen between us when we first met, but I fully planned to enjoy our time together.”

  “How very Buddhist of you…”

  “I don’t take Buddhist practice literally, but I identify with its principles,” he rejoined. “I try to be present in the moment—to enjoy what’s right in front of me. Right now, I’m enjoying the smell of your hair and your breath on my cheek and the way you feel when we’re dancing this close. I’m not thinking of what happened earlier today, or what will happen tomorrow.”