so maybe her thirtieth birthday celebration wasn’t going to go quite as perfectly as she had planned, since she was going to have to be seated near a jerk. And—oh, all right—maybe it wasn’t only because of the jerk that the celebration wouldn’t be exactly what she’d had in mind. Maybe it wasn’t even because her gown and accessories were rentals from a Michigan Avenue boutique instead of pulled casually from her own closet.
Maybe, just maybe, it was because, in addition to not being the life of a millionaire, Della’s current life wasn’t even her own. Everything about her life these days—every thing she did, every place she went, every word she spoke—had to be vetted and controlled by Geoffrey. Her life would never be normal again. Or, at least, it would never be the life she had made for herself or the one she had planned. It would be a life manufactured and orchestrated by someone else.
As soon as the thought formed, she pushed it to the furthest, darkest recesses of her brain. She wouldn’t think about any of that tonight, she reminded herself again, wondering why she was finding it all so hard to forget. Because tonight, she didn’t want to be Della anyway. Tonight, for one night, she wanted to be the woman she had envisioned herself to be two decades and two thousand miles ago: CinderDella, toast of the town and belle of the ball. Nothing was going to mar this evening. Not even Prince Less-Than-Charming over there who was still making bedroom eyes at her while waiting on a girlfriend who could do a helluva lot better.
As if cued by the thought, the hostess seated a boisterous party of four at the table between them, completely blocking the man from her view. For that Della was grateful and not disappointed, even if some twisted part of her made her think that was what she was feeling.
Well, even if he was a jerk, he was still the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
And she saw him again an hour and a half later—at the Lyric Opera when she was trying to locate her seat. After realizing she was in the wrong part of the auditorium, Della asked an usher for directions, then found herself gazing at a box across the room that afforded an amazing view of the stage … and where sat the handsome stranger she’d seen at dinner. Just as he’d
been at the restaurant, he was surrounded by gold, this time a cascade of engraved gilt that encrusted the walls and ensconced the stage. Likewise as he’d been at the restaurant, he was seated alone.
Okay, so maybe as she’d left Palumbo’s, Della had happened to notice that his date still hadn’t shown up. Not that she’d been trying to notice that. She just had, that was all. Though whether the woman had gotten waylaid somewhere and been unable to make their rendezvous, or she’d wised up about what kind of man he was, Della couldn’t have said.
Not that she cared either way. Hey, she’d barely noticed. In case she hadn’t mentioned that.
Now as she strode down the aisle to her seat, she similarly barely noticed that it was not only in the same box the man was occupying, but also in the same row, as well—a small one at the front that contained only three chairs. She also barely noticed that he had placed both a program and a long-stemmed rose on the seat beside his own, as if the chair would soon be occupied. So evidently his girlfriend had indeed been waylaid earlier and was intending to catch up to him here.
Butterflies head-butted Della’s midsection at the prospect of having to sit in such close proximity to the man. Once she squeezed past him to get to her seat, there would be no escaping him—unless she wanted to pull a Groucho Marx maneuver from A Night at the Opera and swing across the auditorium on a cable.
She inhaled a single, fortifying breath and forced her feet to move forward until she stood at the edge of the row beside him. His head snapped up, and, when he recognized her, he grinned that shudders-down-the-spine grin again. Heat flared in her belly, her brainturned to mush, and the excuse me Della had been about to utter evaporated in her mouth.
He murmured a greeting as he stood, but she barely heard it, because she was too busy trying not to swoon. Not only did he smell delectable—a luscious mix of spice and wood smoke—but he was also much taller than she’d realized, forcing her to tip back her head to meet his gaze. It was an action to which she was unaccustomed, since she pushed the six-foot mark herself in the two-inch heels she was wearing. Even without heels, she was accustomed to being at eye level with virtually everyone. With this man, however, eye level meant gazing at shoulders that spanned a distance roughly the size of Montana.
But it was his face that drew her attention. His jawline was resolute, his nose was straight and refined, his cheekbones looked as if they’d been hewn from marble, and his eyes … Oh, his eyes. His eyes were the color of bittersweet chocolate, a brown so dark and so compelling that Della couldn’t tear her gaze away. Then she realized it wasn’t the depth or color of his eyes that so captivated her. It was her recognition of something in them that was at odds with his dazzling smile. A somberness, even sadness, that was unmistakable.
The moment she identified it, however, a shadow fell over his eyes, almost as if he was aware of her understanding and didn’t want her to see too deeply into him.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said, his smile broadening.
The humor in his tone surprised her, coming as it did on the heels of the shadows in his eyes. Even so, she couldn’t quite keep herself from smiling back. “It is a little odd, isn’t it?”
“Actually, I’m thinking of a different word.” Not sure that she wanted to know what it was, she heard herself ask anyway, “Oh?”
“Lucky,” he said immediately. “I was thinking it was lucky.”
She wasn’t sure what to say in response to that, so she held up her ticket and gestured toward her seat. She made sure to give the rose-laden chair between hers and his a meaningful inspection before saying, “If you don’t mind? That’s my seat.”
For a minute, he only continued to gaze at her, his eyes revealing nothing now of what might be going through his head. Then, “Not at all,” he replied, sidestepping into the aisle to give her room to pass.
When he did, she hastened to take her seat, immediately opening her program to read it before he had a chance to say anything that might start a conversation.
He didn’t take the hint, however, and said as he returned to his seat, “How was your dinner?”
Not looking up from the program, Della replied,
“Lovely.”
Her one-word response did nothing to dissuade him, either. “I ended up ordering the pheasant. It was amazing.”
When Della only nodded silently without looking up from her program, he added, “You should try it next time you’re at Palumbo’s. I highly recommend it.”
He was fishing. Trying to find out if she lived here in town the same way he had when he’d asked her why she’d never been to Palumbo’s. He was trying to gauge whether or not there was a chance the two of them might run into each other again, either by accident or by design. Even with a long-stemmed rose and mystery woman between them.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” she told him. And returned to reading her program.
But still, he didn’t take the hint. “You know, I don’t meet many people of my own generation who enjoy opera,” he said, trying a new tack. “Especially not enough to see it performed live. Or spring for box seats. You must really love it.”
