it was still apparent why the newspapers often called her one of the sexiest women in nonprofit. Her frosted gray hair was cut in a sleek natural style that showed off her long-lashed bedroom eyes and pillowy lips. Her still-youthful body and the way she spoke with someone as if they were the only person in the room made her irresistible to many.
Despite her boss’s call for her attention, Diana couldn’t resist a last look over her shoulder toward Marcus. Then she deliberately pushed him from her mind and concentrated on the event at hand.
The Prism Award Ceremony and Gala was one of the best attended and most prestigious charity events in Miami. The award honored business people and philanthropists in south Florida for the outstanding charity work they had done for the local community. Although Building Bridges had been doing its work for more than eight years with Nora at the helm for three of those years, this was the first time the organization had been invited to the Prism gala.
It was a well-known fact that when an organization’s head was personally invited to the Prism gala, it meant the organization was either being awarded or considered for an award the following year. Either way, Nora and the Building Bridges family were ecstatic. It meant more notice to their small nonprofit, which hopefully would translate into more donations, more interest and more work being done for the children they helped place in loving and safe homes.
As assistant executive director, in addition to her regular duties, Diana had to also be her single boss’s “work wife.” That included supporting Nora at events like this. She brushed a bit of lint from Nora’s shoulder, then sat down at the table they shared with Trish and two other members of the Building Bridges staff.
The round table was set up with a beautiful floral centerpiece, full water glasses in front of each of the five chairs and the proper utensils for the meal to come. They were seated near the middle of the room, not so far to the front as the Gates Foundation but definitely not by the kitchen, either. Diana knew Nora would care about that. She nervously touched the back of her ear, then forced her hand to her lap.
“How was the dance?” Trish appeared at Diana’s side. She sat down at the table, sliding both their purses near the table’s centerpiece. Her amused whisper was for Diana’s ears only.
She bit the inside of her lips to prevent a smile. Her friend was always trying to save her love life, usually with mixed results. “It went well,” she said. “He’s a good dancer.”
“Who’s a good dancer?” Nora looked up from her prepared speech, tapping the index cards briefly against the table.
“A man Diana just met.” Trish grinned wickedly. “He took her off to the dance floor earlier. I thought he was coming my way, but when he latched on to our sweet girl, I was tickled.” The look on her face suggested she wanted to say much more, but she contented herself with making kissing faces when Nora wasn’t looking. Diana rolled her eyes, hiding a smile.
“What’s his name?” Nora asked.
When Trish told her, Nora’s brow furrowed.
“That name sounds familiar.” Nora adjusted her pearls at her throat, eyes looking into the middle distance as she thought about who Marcus was. “Ah, yes. That most enterprising young man who owns the boat my friends and I always see sailing the bay early Sunday mornings. The Dirty Diana, I think it’s called.”
Trish chuckled. “Sounds like a match made in heaven.” She winked at Diana.
Diana kicked her friend under the table, then deliberately turned to Nora. “He seems interesting,” she said.
Nora laughed. “Of course, dear. Even I can see what a lovely piece of man candy that is.”
Trish guffawed. “Man candy, for sure. Something for you to suck on, Di?”
Nora cleared her throat, subtly letting Trish know she had gone a little too far. Trish only grinned, unrepentant.
As the women talked, the room quickly filled with some of the wealthiest and most influential citizens of Miami. Their voices rose and fell in conversation and in laughter as they found their seats. Then the clink of water and wineglasses. The faint strains of Tchaikovsky leaked from the speakers overhead while the host from the Prism Foundation, Sheila Beck, stood at the podium, checked the microphone, then gestured to someone Diana couldn’t see. Before long, everyone was seated at their respective tables, the conversation and music lulling. Unable to help herself, Diana stretched her neck, looking for Marcus. But she didn’t see him.
* * *
Marcus stood at the entrance to the ballroom, watching the crowd settle into their seats. From across the room, he saw Diana at the table with her friend, Trish, and three other women. He shook the hands of several men and women he’d done business with over the years and congratulated them on the good work they had been doing.
Although he was supposed to be at the table with Reynaldo and representing his company and his father at the award ceremony, an event where a bunch of rich men and women congratulated each other on the amount of money they were able to write off by tossing peanuts to one cause or another, Marcus was exactly where he wanted to be: watching Diana.
Why did he find her so damn interesting? Marcus asked himself the question as he took in the slender shape of her inclined in a listening pose toward the older woman seated at her table. It could have been that air of innocence about her. The way it made him want to pull her into a dark corner and find out if her lips were as soft as they looked.
“Marcus!”
Reynaldo’s voice pulled him from his reverie. The slender, dark-haired man appeared at Marcus’s side in his tuxedo, black bow tie against his gleaming white shirt. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
Marcus hadn’t been sure he’d make it either. After a long night and morning at a party in Coconut Grove, he hadn’t been in the mood for anything more than his bed. But responsibility had kicked in. He shrugged off his exhaustion, showered and looked over his secretary’s notes about what was supposed to happen at the event. The Prism Gala was a good PR opportunity for Sacrum Holdings. His donations to their various charities made his company look good and made him look good.
“The committee appreciates your presence,” Reynaldo said. “And I do as well.”
“Of course.” Marcus nodded and shook the man’s hand. “Where are we sitting?”
The VP showed him to a table near the front of the room, a brief walk through the large ballroom that felt like a parade. How many CEOs had shown up to see one of their executives honored? Marcus knew he was one of the few and was being looked at positively as a result. The members of the Prism committee may be a tight-assed lot, but they were also very powerful. You never know when you might need a favor, Marcus thought as he unbuttoned his blazer and sank into the plush chair at Reynaldo’s side.
The ceremony began shortly after they sat, with the music winding all the way down and the conversations tapering off as the host, an excited-looking woman in her mid-forties, Sheila Beck, made her way to the stage and took the microphone. Marcus relaxed in his seat, bracing his elbows on top of the table as he looked around the crowded ballroom.
It was a sea of sameness. Tuxedos, gray dresses and black dresses, pearls, jewels, the occasional flare of a pale blue or green dress, the women for the most part keeping to the traditional muted tones, even though this was Miami. Marcus had no respect for such boring presentation.
Instead
