Chapter 2—Simon #2
Tate reaches the blonde woman and puts a hand against her lower back. My attraction dies so abruptly I almost laugh from relief.
There. Problem solved.
Charla is sleeping with a married man.
That’s disappointing rather than surprising, and it should be enough to cure whatever temporary defect has been affecting my judgment for the last ten minutes.
Then Tate bends and kisses her cheek.
She turns toward him and says something. Whatever it is makes him smile before he answers, and she rolls her eyes at him.
Tate’s hand stays on her back.
I stop feeling relieved.
Noah has been watching them too. “That’s interesting.”
I glance at him. “You saw that?”
“I’m trying not to stare at the same people you’re staring at, but you’re making it difficult.”
“Tate’s married.” I look back at the couple.
“I know.” Noah’s humor has faded.
I search my memory for a name. “To whom?”
Noah turns slowly toward me. “You can’t possibly be asking me that.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re Simon Nichols.” He stares at me as if I’ve failed an exam. “You know the ownership structure of companies you considered buying fifteen years ago, but you don’t know who Tate Meade married?”
“I didn’t consider buying his wife.”
Noah chokes on his drink.
I rub a hand over my mouth as soon as I hear myself. “That came out wrong.”
“No.” He coughs once, then grins. “Don’t fix it. I want to keep it exactly as it is.”
“Who did he marry?”
“A Kaffey.” Noah looks back toward them.
“Charla?”
“No.”
The answer comes from behind us.
Eleanor Caldwell is seventy-four, owns the ballroom we’re standing in, and has never encountered a private conversation she couldn’t improve by joining. She looks from me to Noah before following our attention across the room. “Christa.”
I glance at Noah.
He shrugs because apparently neither of us knows anything useful.
Eleanor smiles at our confusion. “Christa Kaffey. Well, Christa Meade now.”
I look across the ballroom again. Tate’s hand remains at the woman’s back while she listens to an older man beside him.
My brain needs several seconds to reorganize the information. “Charla has a sister?”
Eleanor laughs. “Surely you knew that?”
“No.”
Noah catches up before I do. “A twin?”
“Identical.” Eleanor looks toward Christa with obvious affection. “I haven’t seen her at one of these things in ages. She avoids them whenever she can.”
I stare across the room.
Christa.
Not Charla.
A twin.
An identical twin.
Relief hits so hard I have to suppress a laugh.
I’m not attracted to Cholera. There’s nothing neurologically wrong with me. The universe has returned to a recognizable arrangement.
Then Tate bends close to Christa’s ear, says something, and walks toward a group near the terrace. Christa watches her husband leave.
My relief lasts approximately four seconds.
Noah catches the change in my expression. “Ah.”
I refuse to look at him. “What?”
“You’ve realized the second problem.”
“There is no second problem.”
Noah gestures subtly toward Christa. “She’s married.”
I glare at him. “I can see that.”
“To Tate.”
“I can also see him.”
Eleanor’s interest in our conversation is becoming dangerous. “Do you know Christa?”
“No,” I say quickly.
Noah speaks at nearly the same time, his grin returning. “Not yet.”
I turn on him.
He drinks his scotch with exaggerated innocence.
Eleanor looks delighted. “You’d like her.”
“I don’t believe I asked.” I give her the look that usually convinces board members to abandon a line of discussion.
It has no effect on Eleanor. “No, but your mother isn’t here, so someone should interfere with your life.” She gives me an affectionate pat on the forearm.
I laugh despite myself. “She’ll be touched you’ve volunteered.”
“I’m sure she will.” Eleanor glances toward the antique Christa examined earlier. “She’s the one who told me not to let anyone move that escritoire until the loose veneer on the right side is stabilized.”
That gets my attention. “She knows antiques?”
Eleanor looks personally offended. “Christa is a conservator.”
“Of furniture?”
“Furniture and decorative arts.” Eleanor gives me a more approving look now that I’ve shown proper interest. “Very good, apparently. The Wexler Museum used her on the Beaumont collection last year.”
I know the collection. More importantly, I know the Wexler doesn’t allow enthusiastic amateurs anywhere near it. I glance toward the escritoire. “What happened to that one?”
“The auction house sent it over this afternoon. Christa spotted the damage almost immediately.” Eleanor shakes her head. “She says it’s repairable but moving it again before stabilizing the veneer could make it worse.”
Across the ballroom, Christa is speaking to a server. She smiles when he hands her water instead of champagne.
I don’t know why I notice that. Unfortunately, I notice everything about her. That’s going to be inconvenient.
Eleanor touches my arm again. “I’ll introduce you.”
“No.” The answer comes out fast enough to surprise all three of us.
Eleanor raises her eyebrows.
I moderate my tone. “Thank you, but there’s no need.”
Noah studies me over his glass.
Eleanor looks disappointed but doesn’t push. “Another time, then.”
“Perhaps.” I give her enough of a smile to end the discussion.
She moves away to greet another guest.
Noah waits until she’s several feet away before turning on me. “You just refused an introduction.”
“Yes.”
“To a woman you’ve spent fifteen minutes staring at.”
“I’m aware.”
He watches me more closely. “Why?”
I look at Christa again. Tate has returned to her side. He says something without looking at her, then checks his phone while she answers. Her expression changes slightly. The smile disappears, and she glances toward the ballroom.
Tate doesn’t appear to notice, but I do.
“She’s married.” I turn my glass in my hand.
Noah’s humor fades. “I know.”
“So I don’t need an introduction.”
He looks unconvinced. “People are allowed to meet married women.”
“Of course they are.”
“You meet them every day.”
“I’ve met yours repeatedly.” I finally look at him.
Noah’s mouth curves. “Misty is going to hear about that.”
“She’ll survive.”
He studies me for another moment before his expression shifts. “You’re actually serious.”
“About not pursuing another man’s wife?” I don’t bother hiding my irritation. “Yes. It’s one of my more rigid policies.”
“I meant about her.”
I take a drink instead of answering. That’s answer enough.
Noah’s face softens into something dangerously close to sympathy.
I point at him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“Now who’s studying faces?” He smiles again, which is an improvement.
I finally make myself look away from Christa.
The ballroom is full of people I know, people I should speak to, and several people I’ve been deliberately avoiding.
I came tonight because the Caldwell Foundation is one of our larger philanthropic partners.
Eleanor personally called Misty to confirm my attendance after I declined the first invitation.
I’ve fulfilled my obligation. I should leave before I do something ridiculous, like ask Eleanor Caldwell for the professional contact information of a married woman I’ve never met. “I think I’m going home.”
Noah laughs. “Coward.”
“Married.”
“Not you.”
“Her.”
“I’m aware of how marriage works.”
I smirk. “Your children suggest you’ve grasped the fundamentals.”
He follows me toward the ballroom exit. “You’re really leaving because of her?”
“I’m leaving because I have a meeting at seven.”
Noah checks the time on his phone. “Tomorrow is Saturday.”
“I occasionally work Saturdays.”
He laughs. “You occasionally lie badly too.”
I stop near the coat check and face him. “Do you have a point?”
“No.” His grin returns. “I’m enjoying myself.”
“Go home to your sticky children.”
“I will.” Noah takes out his phone. “Right after I call my wife.”
I reach for his wrist before he can tap the screen, then think better of wrestling with a grown man at a charity dinner. “Don’t, Noah.” I give him the warning look that has failed on him since childhood.
He continues grinning, openly enjoying my predicament. “Misty deserves to know.”
“Know what?”
He pockets the phone instead of answering immediately. “That you almost fell in love with Cholera.”
The idea makes my gut churn. “I did not almost fall in love with anyone.”
“Fine.” Noah holds up one hand. “You almost developed a sudden and powerful interest in Cholera.”
“Who turned out not to be Cholera.”
“Important distinction.”
“The only distinction that matters.”
Noah laughs while my coat arrives. “Misty is going to be delighted.”
I roll my eyes. “Your marriage is becoming a problem for me.”
“Six years too late.”
I put on my coat while Noah sends whatever treacherous message he’s composing. He chuckles twice, so he’s clearly amused by himself. That makes one of us.
I don’t look back into the ballroom until I’m almost through the doors. Christa is still beside Tate. He’s talking to another man while she looks toward the antique escritoire again.
Then she turns. For one unexpected second, her gaze meets mine across the room.
I stop, physically incapable of moving.
There’s no recognition in her expression because we’ve never met. She simply looks at me, curious enough to hold the contact for a moment.
Someone moves between us before either of us reacts, breaking my paralysis so I can leave.
MISTY IS WAITING IN my office Monday morning with the expression she reserves for situations in which she already knows something I don’t want to discuss. I walk past her desk with a brief, “Good morning.”
“It certainly is.” She doesn’t even look away from her monitor, but the satisfaction in her voice makes me stop.
I turn back. “Noah talks too much.”
“My husband believes communication is essential to a healthy marriage.” Misty finally glances up, looking entirely too pleased with both herself and him. “I happen to support that philosophy.”
“Your husband is a menace.”
“Also true.” She smiles before returning to whatever is on her screen.