crowd laughed out loud; those more brazen, who had probably known from the start what the “surprise” would be.
With a cry of alarm, the monster on the bed separated into two parts. Charlie, who had been on top, leaped up, grabbing the green bedspread and awkwardly trying to cover himself with it in a pathetic display of selfishness that left his partner completely exposed.
Furiously, the woman on the bed, who was now recognizable as Iliana Townsend, yanked at the bedspread, too. Charlie, whose face was red and pop-eyed with terror, wouldn’t let go, and the momentary tug-of-war was such a farce that everyone in the doorway burst out laughing.
Everyone except Townsend himself, and Bree. She suddenly felt dizzy, almost blind with fury. Oddly, she was angrier with Townsend for setting up this humiliation than she was with Charlie for causing it.
She glanced at the man now, wondering how he’d react to the sight of his wife’s expensive breast implants bobbing about for everyone to ogle. Wondering if he would find Charlie’s egregious lack of chivalry as disgusting as she did.
To her surprise, Townsend was still grinning.
Catching her horrified gaze, he winked salaciously. “Now look at that. Isn’t that sweet? In honor of the occasion, my loving wife apparently decided to wear her birthday suit.”
More laughter. Scanning the glassy-eyed, half-clad partiers and their mocking host, Bree realized suddenly that she was way out of her depth here. Back home in Silverdell, Colorado, nobody laughed at adultery. Back home, nobody invited an audience to a cuckolding.
Of course, back home, when her father had discovered her mother’s infidelity, he had thrown her down the staircase and broken her neck. So maybe this decadent indifference was more civilized, in the end.
But even so, she couldn’t understand it. It shocked her, and made her feel slightly ill. Perhaps that meant that, in spite of all the years living here in Boston, all the college education and the designer clothes and the artificially icy poise, she would always be just a Colorado cowgirl at heart.
What a joke...what a long, ironic laugh fate must be having right now, watching her try to handle these Eastern sophisticates—and fail.
Finally the red-faced, guilty cats seemed to find their tongues.
“Bill,” Iliana wheedled. “It’s not what it looks like—”
“Bree,” Charlie called, trying to move toward her, but pinned in place by his lover’s death grip on her end of the bedspread. “Bree, give me a chance to explain. She wouldn’t take no for an answer—”
“Why, you lying bastard!” Iliana jerked so hard on the spread that Charlie lost his hold. The sudden full-frontal nudity, which cruelly offered everyone the measure of Charlie’s shriveled, terrified penis, sent another wave of laughter through the room.
Bree turned her back on the sight. She eyed the others, drawing on every icy ounce of disdain she could muster, and willed them to move away from the door. Slowly, as if repelled by cold waves emanating from her, they did.
Chin high, she walked out. She didn’t look back, though she heard Charlie’s plaintive call of “Bree! Bree!” behind her, as if he were some kind of frantic cat stuck in a tree he’d foolishly climbed on a whim and now couldn’t figure out how to descend.
She kept walking. Down the stairs, through the other guests, who had gone back to their own drinking and flirting, long ago having forgotten that something was unfolding upstairs. Past the champagne fountain, past the pyramids of grapes and the string quartet, still sawing out Mozart to the tone-deaf crowd.
Out to the valet, to whom she handed her ticket calmly. She tipped him a hundred dollars as she climbed into her car because she was so grateful to him for bringing the means to escape.
Protocol required him to feign indifference. She could have handed him a coupon for a fast-food cheeseburger instead of money, and he was supposed to pocket the paper without looking.
But obviously he knew how to sneak a peek surreptitiously. His eyes widened.
“Thank you,” he said, shocked into revealing that he’d checked the denomination. “I mean...thank you, Ms. Wright. I hope you had a nice time at the party.”
“Yes,” she said automatically. She remembered him now. Tim. Tim Murfin. He owned the valet service, and she’d used his company before. He was honest, and he was smart. “Yes, it was a very interesting party.”
In her rearview mirror, she saw Charlie racing toward the portico. He was dressed, mostly, though he was still stuffing his shirt into his waistband with rushed fingers. “Bree, wait!”
“Excuse me,” she said politely to Tim, and he stepped away from the door, glancing toward Charlie with a furrowed brow.
As soon as the valet was clear, she pulled the door shut and stepped on the gas. She had no intention of letting Charlie reach the car. She wouldn’t put it past him to climb onto the hood and splay himself there until she agreed to listen to his stupid excuses.
Nothing he could say could possibly make any difference at all. He’d be busy trying to convince her that he really loved her, that his dalliance had meant nothing. He might even be craven enough to say he’d done it for them, for Breelie’s, to keep a customer satisfied.
He would imagine that he’d broken her heart. He’d think, no doubt, that she was hurt by his betrayal, and mourning their lost relationship.
But he’d be wrong. She didn’t give a damn about any of that. The minute she’d seen him jump from that bed, ungallantly covering himself and leaving Iliana helplessly naked before all her friends, she’d understood what the real victim of the humiliating melodrama would be.
Not their relationship. Not her heart.
No. She realized at that moment that she’d probably never loved him, not real love, not with her whole soul.
The damage he’d done was even worse than that.
What Charlie had destroyed, by sleeping with their most prominent client, and making a spectacle before half of Boston society, was Brianna’s career.
He had destroyed Breelie’s.
And she would never, ever, ever forgive him for that.
* * *
THE FRONT DRAWING room of Harper House, where Grayson Harper stood waiting for his grandfather, held at least ten red-silk-upholstered seats. He had his choice of armchairs, straight-backed chairs, two divans and one chaise longue. All unoccupied. All antiques, all chosen for comfort as well as beauty.
And yet he stood.
Sitting was something you did when you wanted to make yourself at home. Sitting was relaxed. Unguarded. Sitting made you the patiently waiting beta child to the superior alpha adult who would come stalking in, militarily erect, sneering down at his uninvited visitor.
So, no, he’d stand, thanks anyhow. Gray Harper was no one’s beta—especially not his grandfather’s. After all this time, he intended to meet the old bastard eye to eye.
Two could play the power game, and obviously his grandfather had made the
