you.” A slight inclination of the white-blonde head.
Paula had to be an idiot if she didn’t realize the mysterious Ms Erickson had summed her up on the spot and decided to shrug off the underlying hostility and dislike. Wise move, he thought. Play it cool.
“And the necklace!” Paula, big on jewellery, threw up both hands. “It’s absolutely glorious! You must tell me how you came by it. A family heirloom perhaps?”
Zero tact on Paula’s part. She might as well have shouted: As though that’s possible!
Just as he was debating abandoning Paula for the evening or perhaps treading on her expensively shod toe, Ms Erickson put her long-fingered white hand very lightly to the great glittering emerald. “My family lost everything at the end of World War Two,” she offered very gravely.
God, that woman, Anna Andersen, claiming to be the Grand Duchess Anastasia couldn’t have done it any better, Holt thought. Why on earth would she want to be a florist? She had everything going for her to be a big movie star.
“Really?” Paula exclaimed, incredulously.
He could read Paula’s thoughts. Ms Erickson was only making it up.
“That can’t be true! I feel you’re kidding me.”
“Too true.” Sonya Erickson’s reply was so quiet she might have been talking to herself.
High time to step in. The last thing he ever wanted was to offer the slightest embarrassment to his uncle.
“Shall we go to our table?” he suggested. His voice was as smooth as molasses, when his blood was heating up.
Marcus, who had tensed, gently took hold of the exquisite Sonya’s arm. “Lead the way, David,” he murmured.
He did so, shouldering responsibility like a man.
Since Marcus had pressed her to accompany him to this gala evening Sonya had wondered what it would be like. Now her gaze swept across the spacious room. Everything sparkled under the big chandeliers: glittering sequins, beading, crystals, expensive jewellery, smiling eyes. And the dresses! Strapless, one-shouldered, backless, daringly near frontless. A kaleidoscope of colour. She had known she would be mixing with the super rich, people in the public eye, and perhaps she would be meeting a member or two of Marcus’s family, although she knew his parents were currently in New York. She knew all about David Holt Wainwright. She had gleaned quite a lot from magazines and business reviews. He was very highly regarded, brilliant in fact, the man to watch even though she knew he wasn’t yet thirty. His mother was Sharron Holt-Wainwright, heiress to Holt Pharmaceuticals. Money married money. That was the way of it. Marcus always referred to his nephew as David. Mostly he got Holt from his mother’s family and just about everyone else, Marcus had explained. It was his uncle Philip, his mother’s brother, who had hit on the nickname. It had stuck, probably because the arresting good looks and the superior height had come from the Holt side of the family.
She felt Marcus’s family would be against her. The age difference would be a big factor although rich men married beautiful young women all the time. Whether such marriages were for love or not, young wives were rarely given the benefit of the doubt. That was the way of the world. The gossip would have gone out. She worked in a florist shop, a good one, but she wasn’t someone from their social milieu. She was a working girl. No one of any account. No esteemed family. No connections. No background of prestigious schools and university. Worse yet, she was twenty-five. Marcus was almost three decades on, not to mention his wealth. By and large, she had accepted the invitation against her better judgment. She knew her blonde beauty, inherited from her mother and maternal grandmother, gave her a real shot at power, but she had never entertained the notion she could land herself a millionaire.
Marcus was different. She had sensed the unresolved grief in him from the very first time he had wandered into her shop. He had been lingering outside, a distinguished older man, impeccably dressed, looking in the window, enticed apparently by an arrangement of lime-green lilium buds and luxurious tropical leaves, figs on branches, and some wonderful ruby-red peonies she had arranged in an old Japanese wooden vase. Just the one arrangement. No distractions.
She had smiled at him, catching his eyes. A moment later he came into the shop filled with beautiful flowers and exquisite scents. A shyly elegant, courtly man. She had taken to him on the spot. Trace memories, she supposed. The friendship had flourished. These days he allowed her to “work her magic” in his very beautiful home. It was way too big for a man on his own—a mansion. He employed a married couple, housekeeper and chauffeur/groundsman, who lived in staff quarters in the grounds but he had long refused to sell the house when many spectacular offers had been made. The house he had shared with his late wife. It held all his memories.
She knew all about memories. It had cemented their bond. It was just one of those things that happened in life. Like called to like. Marcus had later directed his aunt, Lady Palmerston, to her shop. Lady Palmerston in turn had directed many of her friends. She owed them both a lot. She realized for any young woman, especially one in her position, Marcus Wainwright would be a great catch. His age wouldn’t come into it. He was a handsome, highly intelligent and very interesting man. He was also the type of man who liked making the people in his life happy. Self-gratification wasn’t his thing. Marcus was a fine man. The first time she had met him he had commented on her green eyes.
“My late wife had wonderful eyes too. Green as emeralds.”
Poor Marcus with all his dreams of happiness shot down in flames. Similar tragedies had happened to her.
“What are you thinking about?”
Sonya turned her head towards that vibrant, very sexy voice. It was pitched low for her ears only. All through the lavish four-course dinner she had listened with fascinated attention to his contributions to the conversation. It volleyed back and forth between highly educated, professional people. Even so, it was Holt Wainwright who carried their table of eight along effortlessly. He had a wide range of interests about which he was very knowledgeable. He was highly articulate and quick witted. He effortlessly commanded an impressive company. And here was a man, easily the youngest man at the table, totally at ease and in control of himself. She had to give him full marks for that.
She had been seated between Marcus and Holt. Marcus was busy answering a flurry of questions from one of the women guests, Tara Bradford, a top executive with a merchant bank, a formidable looking woman in her well-preserved early fifties. Sonya caught the vibes. Not that it was difficult. Tara Bradford, a divorcee, tall, thin, handsome more than attractive, was very interested in Marcus. She showed it in every look, every gesture. Tara had been a close friend of Marcus’s late wife. She had directed only a few words Sonya’s way, but with a smooth courtesy. Public relations were important. Tara gave the strong impression she already knew Marcus would come to his senses. May-November matches were just so unsuitable. Besides, the mature woman had so much more to offer.
Sonya, for her part, had been intensely aware of Holt Wainwright. Nothing extraordinary about that. He was a very charismatic man. Scores of women would have felt his attraction. She wasn’t about to become enmeshed in such madness. But one couldn’t control chemical reactions. Mercifully caution had been inbred in her. Getting too close to Holt Wainwright would be like playing with fire. Any resultant conflagration could pull the life she had so carefully constructed for herself down on her head. That kind of insight lent an edge of fear, like a glittering sword poised over her head.
Holt sat in silence watching the gentle tenderness of her expression gradually change. It lost its warmth, became almost shuttered. “I
