such a thing, she thought cynically. Had any woman ever found a love that lasted forever? Who was truly, madly, deeply happy without an ounce of heartache or disappointment?
“Mariella?”
She blinked and refocused on Joe as his arm tightened around her a fraction with the question. This close, she could feel his hard torso, his powerful thighs. The outline of his cock. The memory of what he’d done to her mere hours ago dragged slowly across her senses. Firing her up. She wanted to sway closer still. Brush her own thighs against his and deepen the intimacy.
But. No.
“I’m happy my Elana is married,” she replied to his first question. “Now I have one less thing to worry about when I go to sleep at night. Thom is dependable. He’s successful, ambitious and rich.” She shrugged. “What else can a mother ask for?” she asked.
A look passed over Joe’s face. She knew she hadn’t answered to his satisfaction. But she didn’t intend to. Not here. Not now. Maybe never. How could she, when she had no clue herself?
His answer was to smile down at her, the arm around her waist drawing her a fraction closer.
She sighed.
A few familiar faces were staring at them from the edge of the dance floor. Her sister, as she danced with Gabe.
Teresa St. Claire, the wedding planner and MSM team member, looked refreshingly different in a dress despite her customary headset attached.
A few of the women from the handful of specially selected charities who she hadn’t been able to not invite, despite despising them.
Gossipmongers and carrion lovers. One or two were even brazen enough to openly gossip about her, their rabid eyes fixed on her and Joe as they sipped the vintage Krug Clos d’Ambonnay and nibbled on Iranian Almas caviar on crackers she’d provided.
She should care about the gossip.
She should create some distance between herself and Joe, or she risked inviting the kind of speculation she couldn’t afford right now, when her whole world seemed to be poised on the edge of an abyss.
She would.
As soon as the song ended.
* * *
Look at them, gliding around in their ten-thousand-dollar dresses and priceless diamonds. Self-absorbed. Pampered and primped and made to think they were kings and queens. Not a care in the world.
The urge to bare her teeth and scream out her secret rose like a tidal wave within Nora. She could march onto that dance floor right now, drop her grenade in the middle of their snobbish existence and watch their world detonate.
And why not?
Harrison, the handsome fool, deserved it for abandoning her. Would she feel an ounce of remorse?
Absolument pas.
They all deserved it.
She didn’t doubt that each and every one of them would look down their fake noses at her if they knew who she was and what she’d been to their precious Harrison. He kept her tucked away at home in Paris like some dirty little secret.
Nora suppressed a bitter laugh. No, she didn’t plan on remaining a secret much longer. As for being little...well, her bump would tell its own tale in time.
A waiter walked past bearing a tray of the golden caviar Nora had only read about in Marie Claire and on Billionaire.com. Since her arrival at the reception, dozens of trays of the stuff had been carted around as if it cost nothing, except she knew the true cost of the world’s most expensive caviar. These people treated it like nothing when one mouthful could pay her rent for a month! Not that she’d ever paid rent. Since she’d turned sixteen, her many lovers always cared for her. And Harrison was no different. Until he walked out a few months ago, leaving her future uncertain...
She flicked her hand out to stop the waiter as he would’ve walked past her. For an instant he looked startled to see her standing there, in the shadows beside the delicate cake tree bearing three hundred cupcakes frosted with edible twenty-four-carat-gold leaf.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see you there,” he blurted, confirming her suspicions.
She waved his apology away, took her time to spoon a heap of the expensive gold onto a delicate cracker, then flicked her hand in dismissal.
As he hurried away, she turned back to observe her quarry, musing on how best to strike for maximum effect and maximum gain. With a smile, she placed the cracker on her tongue, let the flavor of success suffuse her senses.
Her hand dropped to rub her bump. “Very soon, mon cher enfant, this will become our daily staple.”
* * *
Vanessa smiled as the band struck up a more up-tempo beat. The waltzes and slow smooch songs were fine for a bit, but while she’d thoroughly enjoyed the Cinderella dreaminess of it, the dancer in her preferred music that heated her blood and spoke to her soul. Even in this dress that cost more than she would earn in a year, even feeling as she did today—like a fairy-tale princess granted one night’s reprieve from drudgery—she couldn’t deny who she was. Or what she was.
Tomorrow would come soon enough, and with it the uniform that announced to whomever she came into contact with just what her role was within the esteemed Marshall household.
But right here, right now, she could pretend she was one of these people.
You are one of them.
She smothered the voice inside her head and smiled wider at her dapperly dressed dance partner.
“Thanks for agreeing to come with me. I’m sorry for the short notice.”
Her date, Bernard Atwater, raised his eyebrows. “Are you kidding? This is one of those times when I’m not ashamed to admit I don’t mind coming second on your list. Although I was a little surprised to hear from you. What happened to your date, anyway? Did she bail on you at the last minute?”
She laughed. “Yes. Her loss is your gain.” Joy had decided at the last minute not to come, preferring to stay back at Casa de Catalina and defy Mariella’s strong hint that she wanted all her staff to be here.
Vanessa got the feeling her absence wouldn’t go down well. One of the mounting set of negative marks the disgruntled chef was accumulating. Fireworks were brewing between her friend and her employer, and Vanessa, for one, wasn’t looking forward to the eruption.
She caught the smitten look in Bernard’s eyes. “You look sensational.” His gaze dropped to subtly brush her cleavage on the way down her body.
She tried to fight the blush that rose in her cheeks and failed miserably. The dress Mariella had lent her fit like a dream. Her jaw had dropped when she’d spotted the label. And she hated to be superficial, but God, the dress made her feel like a million bucks. Finally she was beginning to get why these filthy-rich people looked like they were walking on air all the time. Money certainly gave one a cushion against most things. Not everything, though...
“Thanks. But you don’t need to say things like that,”
