from several feet away she could feel his charisma. He was undeniably handsome, yes, with his blond, suntanned, clean-cut good looks. Piercing blue eyes, square jaw, broad shoulders, commanding height—clearly no one could argue his physical appeal. But it was more than that. He carried himself with a certain arrogance, yet his smile was friendly, and she could tell that he listened attentively whenever anyone spoke to him.
Her heart beat double time. What was she going to say to him? She’d better have one hell of an opening line or she wouldn’t stand a chance, not when so many of his admirers were attractive female types.
Eric looked up as Nick and Liz approached. “There you are,” he said to Nick. “Mother’s been looking for you.”
“Terrific.” Nick pulled Eric aside to where they could converse semiprivately. “Eric, I’d like you to meet Ms. Van Zandt.”
Liz held out her hand, still trying to come up with that perfect bon mot that would catch and hold this magnificent man’s attention. “It’s Liz,” she said smoothly. And then the words just poured out of her mouth. “My sister is very grateful to you.”
“And why is that?” Eric asked pleasantly, shaking her hand. His hand was strong, his grip firm. He listened to her with that same undivided attention she’d seen him devote to others, and it unnerved her.
“Well, she’s pregnant, and in a way you’re responsible!”
Eric’s smile froze. “Ms. Van Zandt, I don’t take accusations of that nature lightly—”
“Oh, wait, that came out all wrong—”
“One more word, and you’ll be talking to my lawyers, is that clear?”
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded—”
“This conversation is over. I don’t wish to make a scene at a charity event, but I trust I won’t lay eyes on you again this evening.” He turned and strode away.
Liz turned toward Nick, so she could at least explain to him what she’d meant, but the crowd had claimed him, also.
“Foot-in-mouth disease strikes again,” Liz murmured. She skulked away, wondering how she was going to explain her utter, humiliating failure to Bridget.
“TEHRE YOU ARE,” Mrs. Hampton said, limping arthritically toward Bridget, who was doing her best imitation of wallpaper. Again. She just wasn’t any good at parties. “My, such a crowd here. You are having a good time, aren’t you?”
“Well, not as good as Liz,” Bridget couldn’t resist remarking. Her sister really knew how to work a party. She mingled, she chitchatted, she glowed.
“Oh, you know how Liz is,” Mrs. Hampton said, patting Bridget’s hand as she pulled her along. “Come, now, there’s someone else I want you to meet. This one is in the art supply business. Now, promise me you won’t talk shop all night.”
“Promise,” Bridget said. Lord, could this get any worse? She wished brazen Liz would just walk right up to Eric Statler and introduce herself. Then Bridget could consider the night a success and go home.
“Here we are. Bridget Van Zandt, meet Fred Santoro.”
“How do you do, Mr.—”
The pudgy, fiftyish man shook her hand while his gaze focused firmly on her cleavage. “Nice to meet you, honey. Say, that’s some dress. Really displays the goods to perfection, know what I mean?”
Yikes! She was afraid she did. She looked helplessly for Mrs. Hampton, who had immediately disappeared.
“You married, little lady?”
Oh, barfola. Little lady? “Um, well—”
He upped the wattage of his leer. “Ah, I see. No ring. You must be one of these liberated gals, don’t want to be tied down with a kitchen and kids. Yeah, I understand.” He winked, then took her arm and tried to lead her away. At such close proximity, she could smell overindulgence on his breath. “Do you like Cadillacs?”
Bridget dug in her heels. “Let me go.”
“What’s the matter, honey?” he asked, genuinely befuddled. Maybe this approach usually worked for him, but she couldn’t imagine how.
“Listen, Mr. Santoro, I’m not your honey and I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He looked skeptical.
Feeling panicked, she resorted to a lie. “There’s my husband, that’s him, right over there.” She pointed to a complete stranger who stood out from the crowd, and not just because of his clothing. He was tall. And gorgeous. And a bit out of place in this fancy gilt ballroom with his outdoorsy good looks. She could picture him riding a horse or chopping wood or paddling a kayak.
He watched her, amused for some reason.
Her mouth went dry. My, my, why hadn’t Mrs. Hampton introduced her to him?
Mr. Santoro immediately released her. “Oh, um, sorry, there, now, didn’t mean to step on any toes.” He literally backed away, ducking his head, holding his hands out as if beseeching forgiveness before disappearing behind an ice sculpture.
“I see you’ve made another conquest.”
Bridget nearly jumped out of her high heels. The man—the fictitious husband—had materialized at her side, and he was looking at her through intriguing gray eyes with a mixture of amusement and disapproval. Surely he hadn’t been standing close enough a few moments ago to hear her fib to Mr. Santoro.
“I, um, apologize for pointing at you,” she said, stumbling on every word. “But that man was…I told him you were my, er, husband just to get rid of him. I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”
He shrugged. “As long as you don’t hold me to it.”
She looked at him quizzically. “Well, of course not.”
“Did you have a nice chat with my brother? Sorry I didn’t stick around after the introductions.”
“Who?” Bridget asked, even more confused. And then it hit her. This man, this gorgeous man with the steely eyes and the rebellious wardrobe, thought she was Liz. Her social-butterfly sister must have already gotten to him. And, Bridget thought, judging from the way he’d been sparring with her, Liz had probably done something to provoke him.
She was about to explain about her twin when he asked, “Exactly how many glasses of champagne have you had?”
She drew herself up. “None. I can’t drink alcohol because I’m…well, I’m pregnant.” There, she’d admitted it. She wasn’t planning to keep it a secret, after all, and in another three months or so she wouldn’t be able to, anyway.
His teasing smile fell away. “Congratulations. I guess that means I’ll have to stop flirting with you. If I don’t want your husband to deck me, that is.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” she said as matter-of-factly as she dared. “I’m not married.”
“Well,
