I was art—”
“No need for explanations.” The look he gave her was suddenly cold, uncompromising. And definitely disapproving.
“But it’s not what you think. You see—”
He actually backed away from her. “Really. Enough said.”
“Will you let me finish?”
He waited for her to go on, but his expression was so implacable she suddenly couldn’t imagine what possessed her to confide anything to him.
“Oh, never mind,” she finally said in a much cooler tone. “I guess this isn’t the time or place to defend a lifestyle choice. But I might caution you not to make snap judgments. ‘Enough said’ is a convenient way of cutting off what you think you don’t want to hear.” She turned away, tears burning at the back of her eyes.
“Wait. You never told me what you thought of my brother.”
Bridget, longing to flee this train wreck of a conversation, paused. A sneaking suspicion occurred to her.
“Your brother…?”
“Eric,” he supplied, a tad impatiently.
Bridget just nodded. If she tried to explain now about Liz, things would only get more confusing. “Nice guy,” she said, then made good her escape.
NICE GUY?
Nick watched her retreat with mixed feeling. Earlier he’d decided she wasn’t his type, only to reconsider a few moments ago. Just now she’d seemed funny and vulnerable and altogether his type, and he’d been questioning his sanity in dismissing her before. He’d been crazy to introduce her to Eric! Then she’d blithely announced she was pregnant, sans husband, and he’d had to revise his opinion yet again.
Her announcement had truly surprised him. Didn’t anybody get married and have families in a normal way these days? He didn’t like to think of himself as a judgmental kind of person, but he supposed he was. Not about everything. But the irresponsible conception of children hit a nerve. His unmarried mother hadn’t meant to get pregnant with him, but she had. And he’d endured the consequences, both before and after her marriage to his stepfather, Eric Statler, Jr.
If Ms. Van Zandt—he still couldn’t remember her first name—was so careless about bringing another life into the world, that was her choice. Still, part of him wished he hadn’t alienated her. Even now he felt a tremendous urge to scour the ballroom until he found her again and apologize—for what, he didn’t know.
SO, BRIDGET THOUGHT when she was safely away from the self-superior lout, she’d been talking to Eric Statler’s brother and hadn’t even realized it. Apparently Liz hadn’t been as slow-witted. She’d finagled an introduction to Eric.
Good for her! Mission accomplished. Now all Bridget wanted was to get out of this stuffy ballroom and kick off her heels. First, however, she had to locate Liz and find out how the meeting went.
She looked all over but couldn’t find her twin. How was it that a woman as flamboyant and noticeable as Liz could manage to become invisible?
She checked the ladies’ room. No Liz. Nor could she be found at the bar, or at the long tables where items for the upcoming auction were displayed.
She trolled the ballroom one more time and suddenly found herself only a few feet from Eric Statler himself. She’d never been this close to him, and she found herself stopping and staring. He was quite a magnificent specimen of man, but not nearly as intriguing as his brother. Bridget found herself comparing the two men. Eric was handsome, but his face wasn’t as mature looking as Nicholas’s. There was more of a boyish quality there, though his eyes had a certain determined set to them. Yes, that combination would appeal to Liz.
The crowd shifted, and Bridget stood mere inches away from the millionaire philanthropist.
Suddenly Eric turned. He made eye contact with Bridget. Immediately his smile froze, his face reddened, and he darn near snarled.
“I thought I told you not to come near me again.”
Chapter Two
Bridget’s mind worked furiously. What on earth had Liz done? “I think there must be some—”
“Save your breath, Ms. Van Zandt. I don’t listen to money-grubbing little gold diggers. If you’d like to pursue a paternity suit, go ahead. But you’d better know you won’t win. I won’t pay off your sister just to get rid of the annoyance, and a DNA test will prove unequivocally that I am not the father of her baby.”
As the great man spoke, he motioned to someone with his hand. In seconds, two security guards had Bridget by the elbows.
“Escort Ms. Van Zandt out of the ballroom, please,” Eric instructed the guards. “And see that she doesn’t get back in.”
Bridget looked around with the faint hope that someone would rescue her. Mrs. Hampton, maybe? But she saw nothing but the faces of strangers, some hostile, some amused.
The guards led her away. The crowd parted. People stared. This was the worst moment of Bridget’s life, and she was going to kill Liz when she saw her again.
NICK FELT a strange sense of loss as the security guards led the pretty blond woman away. He had to know what was going on. Normally his staid, oh-so-respectable brother did not make scenes.
“What was that all about?” he asked as soon as he could get his half brother’s attention.
Eric rolled his eyes. “Man, has she got some nerve. She thinks she’ll make a fast buck by naming me as the father of a baby I had nothing to do with. She obviously doesn’t know me very well.”
Despite the brave talk, Eric looked a bit shaken, and Nick couldn’t blame him. Eric had been wary of women ever since a casual girlfriend in college had tried to decimate both his reputation and his bank account by pulling a similar stunt.
Nick wasn’t quite sure how to phrase his next question. As an older brother, he’d often cautioned Eric about the wily ways of women and how to avoid the worst of the pitfalls. But he hadn’t had such a brotherly conversation in, oh, ten years. Still, he blundered forward.
“Um, Eric, you don’t know that woman, do you?”
“You mean know? As in the Biblical sense?” Eric laughed. “I never laid eyes on her till about ten minutes ago. Are you having a good time?” he asked, moving away from the knot of people he’d been conversing with so the brothers could have a rare, private conversation. “I’m surprised you’re here at all. You’ve always hated these things.” He gave a disapproving once-over to Nick’s attire, but said nothing about it.
“Mom did a number on me,” Nick admitted without any real venom.
“She brought up that Steuben vase again?”
Nick nodded. When he’d shattered the vase with a badly aimed Frisbee twenty-five years ago, he’d never dreamed the incident would stay with him this long.
“With me it’s the crumpled fender on her Lincoln,”
