she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet and into his arms. “You have country music playing up there?”
He pretended to be insulted by her query. “Blues, baby. Only the blues for me.”
Her toes sank into the plush carpet and she sank into Ethan’s embrace. His hand gripped her waist, then slid to her back to pull her closer. She felt feminine and unsure, but she didn’t want him to release her.
“I don’t know how to dance,” she admitted.
“I’m not that great at it, either,” he said. “But I can manage a few turns and the side-to-side swaying.”
His eyes were so expressive, so full of life. They could leap from anger to lust to boredom to amusement in mere moments, but it was these times that made her toes curl, the times when he stared at her with unabashed longing.
As he rocked back and forth, as his hips brushed hers and his palm pressed possessively against her hand, Mary experienced a feeling so powerful, so new it made her heart thump painfully in her chest. She was enjoying herself, with Ethan Curtis, the man who had forced her into—A man she should never enjoy herself with.
Her thoughts dropped away suddenly as Ethan quickened his pace, twirling her first to the right, then the left. With a sinful grin, he grasped both of her hands and gave her a gentle push back, then he turned her and pulled her into his body, so her back was pressed against his chest.
She glanced over her shoulder at him and smiled at the amusement in his eyes. “Tell anyone about this and I’m never dancing with you again.”
Laughing with delight, Mary let him sway them both to the right and left, then squealed when he dipped her. When he rolled her out toward the couch, she released him and dropped back on the brown leather cushions. Chuckling along with her, Ethan did, too. For a moment neither of them spoke, then they both turned to look at each other.
“We’d better be careful,” Ethan said.
“Why?” Mary asked breathlessly. “What do you mean?”
He reached over and brushed a strand of honey-colored hair from her cheek. “If we don’t watch our step we might have fun together—or worse, actually start liking each other.”
To Mary’s delight, the brunch fell on a glorious late-August day. The trees were starting to contemplate change, their green leaves making room for rich golds, ruby reds and pumpkin oranges. Mary had nixed the Cajun idea, but the pre-autumn Southern barn theme was there and looking fabulous. As she meandered through the guests, who had almost doubled in size since the last party, she took in her handiwork with a proud grin. The deck and surrounding land was decorated with an odd but interesting, contemporary rustic charm; hay bales in glass troughs like funky centerpieces, scarecrows dressed like runway models, Tom Sawyer-style rafts in the water, and on and on. Then there was the food. Pumpkin and sage soup in miniature pumpkins, fried catfish with a spicy green tomato relish, mustard greens with pancetta, watermelon and pecan pie tartlets.
Everyone seemed relaxed, the stuffy atmosphere of this crowd’s customary Saturday cocktail party forgotten. Diamonds still sparkled from ears, wrists and fingers, but the backdrop was denim and Ralph Lauren plaid.
Mary spotted five-star-inns’ Isaac and Emily Underwood coming toward her and smiled welcomingly. She knew that, as of last Monday, the couple were now Ethan’s clients. “Well, hello, there. Are you two enjoying yourselves?”
“Your creativity is astounding, Mary,” Isaac said, gesturing to the backyard.
“Thank you.”
“Yes, amazing,” Emily added.
Isaac dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Even though we don’t have to work, the feeling of success can bring great rewards, don’t you think?”
Mary’s brows drew together. Contrary to what the Underwoods believed was reality, Mary had to work for every penny. The Harringtons didn’t help her one bit, never had, nor had she ever asked them to.
“This is a great success,” Emily said, two-carat diamond studs sparkling in her ears. “Especially for Ethan. Invitations to his parties will be sought-after now.”
“Now?”
Heat spread across Emily’s face and she stumbled to explain. “Well, what I mean to say is…”
Isaac quickly covered for her. “Curtis is brilliant, and he has the client list to prove it, but as far as socializing…well, he’s not really one of us, you understand.”
She certainly did, and she had to resist the urge to grab the pumpkin out of Isaac’s hand and dump the contents over his head. Lucky for her and for them, the Underwoods spotted another group of snotty elitists over by the bar and excused themselves. Why did Ethan want to be a part of this world? she wondered, heading inside the house. She scanned the room looking for him, expecting to find him in the center of a group of wealthy people who were looking for free advice, but he wasn’t there. She sidled up to one of the waitstaff. “Have you seen Mr. Curtis?”
“I think he’s in the kitchen.”
“Alone?”
“No, there’s a full kitchen staff in there, Ms. Kelley.”
“I mean, was he with anyone? A guest?” she asked tightly. Like maybe a Tiffany—one F, two Ys?
The man shook his head. “Not that I saw.”
As she walked toward the kitchen, the sound of clanging pots and hustling staff was interspersed with a shrill, critical voice that Mary instantly recognized as her grandmother’s.
The door opened and as a mortified-looking waitress rushed out with a plate of food, Mary heard the older woman’s voice again. “You can take my family’s company, hire my granddaughter to act as your wife at parties and invite the top shelf as your guests, but that will never make you one of us.”
Interrupting the conversation didn’t sound like a good plan. She didn’t want to embarrass Ethan any further. So Mary watched through a crack in the door. The room was busy with waitstaff, chefs and to Mary’s horror, not only her grandmother, but two of her grandmother’s closest friends. Grace Harrington stood a few feet from Ethan, who had his back to the sleek Wolf range, her friends behind her like a scene from one of those movies about exclusive high school cliques.
“Breeding cannot be bought,” Grace continued, her tone spiteful and cruel. “Where and who you come from is in every movement you make. Make no mistake about it, Mr. Curtis, you wear your trailer-park upbringing like a second skin.”
The room stilled. The chefs stopped chopping, the waitstaff looked horrified as they tried to stare at anything but Ethan.
White-hot fury burned in Ethan’s eyes. “I know exactly where I come from, Mrs. Harrington, and I’m proud of it.”
“Is that so? Then why try so hard to impress us all?”
“My work makes enough of an impression to satisfy me. These events are a way to gain more clients. After all,” he said with a slow smile, “before I came along, Harrington Corp. was not only hemorrhaging money but about to lose seventy percent of their client
