“As I was saying, Logan . . .” Doyle’s reedy voice rose a bit. “I wanted to talk to you a bit more about the meeting this afternoon.”
“Of course,” Logan said, and glanced at Cade. “Would you mind introducing Brontë to a few people? I’m sure this won’t be interesting for her.”
“I would be delighted,” Cade said, offering her his arm. “Shall we?”
“Sure,” she said, placing her hand in his arm and letting him lead. She gave Logan a reluctant wave good-bye and allowed Cade to pull her away and into the mix of the party. She looked up at her escort. He seemed friendly enough, and the expression on his face was kind. Handsome, she supposed, if she were looking, but everyone paled in comparison to Logan’s cool, austere good looks. “How do you know Logan?”
“We go way back,” Cade said easily. “College. Dartmouth. We studied business there together. Same frat and everything.”
She smiled at the thought. “Same frat? Logan doesn’t strike me as the party boy type.”
“He’s not. Even back then, he’d glare at us over our drinks and remind us that we had a test in the morning. He’s always been excessively responsible, I’m afraid. He tries to keep everyone in line.”
She laughed. “That sounds like Logan.”
“So how do you know Logan?” he asked her. “It’s been a long time since he’s brought a date to one of these sorts of things.”
“We met under inauspicious circumstances, I’m afraid. Did you hear about his trip to Seaturtle Cay resort?” At his interested glance, she filled him in on the details—their meeting in the elevator and how they’d been stuck there for nearly a day, their nights spent curled up in the stairwell as the hurricane raged around them, their day spent on the beach, and Jonathan’s timely rescue. She omitted her own subsequent return home due to hurt feelings. That seemed a bit too personal to share.
“I suppose we can credit Hurricane Latonya for bringing you both together, then. Logan seems happy enough.”
Brontë took a sip of her drink, smiling politely. “Does he?”
“Indeed.” Cade seemed amused. “From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t been at work nearly as much since returning, and we were speculating as to why. It seems I’ve found out the answer.”
“We?” she couldn’t help but ask. “Who is we?”
“Logan’s closest friends. Would you like to meet a few?”
“Please.” She was intrigued.
“Hunter’s not here tonight. He never attends these sorts of functions. But he and Logan are very close. I’m sure you’ll meet him at some point. Griffin’s over there, by the ice sculpture. The one with the glasses.”
She turned, studying the crowd until she located a man with glasses. He was tall and lean, almost lanky. His face was handsome, his style and poise suggesting he was at ease in these surroundings. The expression on his face betrayed sheer aristocratic boredom.
“He seems . . . nice,” she lied.
“Oh, Griffin? He’s a snob,” Cade said easily. “His family’s British aristocracy. Very old money. Grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and a polo pony at the ready. He’s extremely intelligent. Good guy, once you get to know him, though.”
“I’m sure,” she said in a noncommittal voice.
“He doesn’t take kindly to strangers, though, which is why we’re standing over here talking about him instead of introducing you. If you were on a committee or wanted to discuss funding for a university project, I imagine he’d talk your ear off. Most of us run in fairly exclusive circles, you understand.”
She was beginning to understand, all right, she thought with a sinking feeling. Did all of Logan’s friends have money and success? How on earth would she fit into his world?
“Reese is also here tonight. See the man to Griffin’s left with the women hanging off of him?”
Brontë scanned the room and spotted a well-built, dark-haired man with a rakish look. Two gorgeous women were laughing at something he said, and as Brontë watched, he reached out and brushed a lock of hair off of one of his companion’s shoulders in a very intimate move.
He glanced up, as if noticing Brontë’s stare, and winked at her.
She blushed in response, turning back to Cade. “I think I found him.”
“Reese is a bit of a ladies’ man, which is why we’re standing way over here. If I take you over to Reese, Logan will probably charge over to protect his territory.”
That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, Brontë thought with another sip of her wine. “And you? Where do you fit into the picture? You’ve shown me the professor and the playboy. Where do you fit into all these neat little categories?”
He grinned at her, flashing white teeth. “I am a Lancelot at heart, I’m afraid. I like nothing more than to be of service. You’re looking at the world’s largest Boy Scout. Show me an old lady who needs to cross the street, and I’ll show you a man who will trip over his own two feet to assist her.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “That’s a rather interesting picture you paint of yourself.”
Cade shrugged. “I find that most people fit into basic archetypes if you think about it.”
“Oh? Where do you see me?”
“I don’t know enough about you yet.” He studied her for a moment. “What do you do for a living?”
It figured that he’d ask that. She bit back her grimace and kept her face deadpan. “I’m a waitress. Does that change things?”
His eyebrows rose, but he nodded. “I’m still forming my opinion. You’re definitely more of a Mary Ann than a Ginger, though.”
“Can’t argue with that. Unfortunately, it feels like this party is full of Gingers.”
“These sorts of shindigs always draw a lot of Gingers,” he said sympathetically. “Luckily for me, I’ve claimed the one Mary Ann in the bunch. Much better conversation.”
He was such a sweetheart. She couldn’t help but smile at him. She took another sip of her wine and then pointed at Logan’s broad back as he stood commanding a small group that was hanging on his every word. “And Logan? What is he?”
Cade grinned. “He’s the boss, of course. Just like everyone wishes they could be.”
“Mmm. ‘He who owns a hundred sheep must fight with fifty wolves.’”
He gave her an impressed look. “Who said that?”
Another man moved to her side, and to her surprise, she found it was Griffin. The snob. “Plutarch,” he told Cade with an arch smile. “And you’re keeping Logan’s new friend all to yourself tonight. I’m wounded, especially when I come and find that she’s quoting Greek philosophy to you.”
She put her hand out in greeting. “I’m Brontë.”
“Of course you are,” Griffin murmured, his voice cultured and smooth. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing the back of it. “Anne, Charlotte, or Emily?”
“Take your pick,” she said lightly, feeling a bit more comfortable. If he could name all three Brontë sisters, he was probably well educated and would be interesting to talk to.
“I’m chaperoning while Logan has to do the rounds,” Cade said. “Brontë didn’t look as if she was enjoying the stock market conversation, so I was put in charge of her rescue.”
“Wise choice,” Griffin agreed. “So you quoted Plutarch. Are you a big fan of his work?”
“Actually, I don’t know that I am. While I enjoyed his Parallel Lives,” she said, tilting her head to study Griffin’s expression, “I find them rather biased toward his own particular philosophy, which is ironic considering that he castigated Herodotus for doing the same in his works.”
Cade chuckled. “And this is the part where both of you lose me. I think I’m off to get a refill while you two discuss dead Greek guys. Would you like more wine, Brontë?”
“Please,” she told him with a smile. “That would be lovely.”
Griffin stepped closer to her as Cade moved away. “So how did Logan end up with a woman who quotes philosophy? You’ll forgive me if I say that most women he dates don’t seem the type to be able to read anything beyond a fashion magazine, much less ancient history.”
“Well,” she began, smiling at Griffin. “We got stuck in an elevator together in a hurricane.”
***
The party continued on throughout the night, and Brontë caught occasional glimpses of Logan, but every time he paused to speak to her or pull her close for a stolen moment, someone else would appear and steal him away from her. Brontë took it all with good humor. It was fascinating to see just how many people wanted to talk to Logan and seemed to hang on his every word. It wasn’t his party, but he was the star of it.
Cade had courteously remained at her side throughout the night, chatting with her and making her comfortable, introducing her to people. She suspected that Logan had had a conversation with him in advance of the party itself to ensure that she was taken care of when he couldn’t be at her side, but she didn’t mind. Cade was charming, and he shielded her from uncomfortable questions. Griffin had turned out to be extremely pleasant and knowledgeable, too, and she had a standing invite to attend a philosophy salon he was holding at a local college.
She’d even met playboy Reese for a brief moment. He’d approached with a seductive look on his face, kissed her hand, and then backed off when Cade introduced her as Logan’s date. He’d given her a reluctant grin, as if to say “next time,” and moved on to a group of supermodels.
Cade excused himself to meet up with an old friend, and Brontë took the opportunity to escape out onto the balcony. Her head was swimming from all the wine she’d drunk, and she’d eaten very little due to nerves. Fresh air helped, though, and she leaned against the railing of the near-empty balcony breathing in the night air. At the far end of the balcony, a smoker finished his cigarette and returned to the party. Brontë remained, though, staring down at the view with something akin to wonder. Definitely not Kansas City. New York seemed to be a magical place. There was something about it that thrilled her. It was a place where things happened, and she liked that.
“Well, hello there,” a sweet, almost musical voice said at her shoulder.
Brontë turned and smiled faintly at the woman standing before her. She didn’t look familiar. She was gorgeous, though. Long, pale blond hair rippling in the night breeze, a thick fringe of bangs over her forehead. Her body was sheathed in a tight white bandage dress, and she towered over Brontë in platform sandals. She looked like a beautiful, cold ice queen.
She gave Brontë an assessing up-and-down glance. “I was wondering if I’d get a chance to talk to you. They’re keeping you well guarded, aren’t they?”
Brontë smiled politely. “What do you mean, well guarded?”