Chapter Fifteen
FIFTEEN
Blake had been nervous, but by the time he was on stage giving his speech, he felt fine.
He told a few jokes, warmed up the crowd, then shared how PlantSeed had changed lives in Boston over the past year.
Charts and graphs were his forte, but they were also dry, so he juxtaposed them with images from the organization’s campaigns.
He showed the gardens being planted in public schools throughout the district.
He shared pictures and quotes from the community organizers leading the charge in their own neighborhoods.
And finally, he showed Andrew’s video, which was uplifting and inspirational without being maudlin.
He stepped off the stage to applause. Candace gave closing remarks, wrapping up by the time Blake reached the bar.
As the band struck up a jazzy tune, tables emptied to dance and grab drinks. Blake stepped off to the side as a hand slipped into the crook of his elbow. “Hey, you.”
Maggie held his arm, giving him a beaming grin that made him feel dizzy. “Hey yourself.” He sipped his drink with a smile. “A celebratory booze for getting through it.”
“You were wonderful up there.” She shifted to stand in front of him, her expression warm and open. “What are you drinking?”
“Whiskey Coke.” He offered her the glass, and she took a sip. “I’d offer to get you one, but the line is a mile long now. We can share, though.”
“That’s OK.” She handed it back. “You deserve your own.”
“You really thought I was good?” He hated how insecure that made him sound, but the question was out before he could second-guess it.
“Of course. If you were shit, I’d change the subject.”
That startled a laugh out of him, which seemed to please her. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. He was pretty sure he’d said it before, but he wanted to make sure.
“I know.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m glad to be here.”
Blake finished his drink as the band ended one song and started another, something slower, and Maggie’s gaze drifted to the dance floor, where many people were already pairing up. Blake’s mind had apparently totally disconnected from his brain, because before he knew it, he asked her to dance.
“We probably should, right?” She nodded, her lips set in a line.
“Keeping up appearances.” She turned to go, but Blake took her arm and pulled her back up against him, startling a gasp out of her.
Her eyes widened, lips falling open at the rough contact.
Blake hadn’t intended to pull her that hard, but the way she was looking at him …
maybe Maggie St. Claire liked some manhandling.
She looked into his eyes, lips parted like she was waiting for him to kiss her. Which he was not going to do here, in front of the entire donor base of his organization.
“I don’t want to dance with you out of obligation. I’m not keeping up appearances.” He released her arm to put his hand on her hip instead. “I asked you to dance because you look incredible, and I can’t imagine going the whole rest of this night without taking you in my arms.”
Maggie’s mouth fell all the way open, a blush rising on her cheeks. He loved being able to make her blush.
She nodded. “Yes, I want to dance with you.”
Blake led her to the floor and drew her close: one hand holding hers, one against her lower back, fingers splayed over the soft skin. He didn’t know the song, but he knew how to move to it, intuiting the rhythm and guiding her with the gentle confidence that all came back to him after a few steps.
“Figures you actually know how to dance.” She said the words into his ear, her breath brushing hot over the skin. “Is there anything you’re bad at?”
“Many things.” Blake smiled. “But I took Ballroom as an elective in college, so this isn’t one of them.” He spun her, guiding her easily into the move before pulling her back. She returned breathless, eyes shining.
“You’re showing off.”
“I am.” He stepped in, closing whatever distance remained between them until she was pressed flush against him.
This technically wasn’t ballroom anymore, without the stiff arms and requisite distance between them, but he didn’t care.
For now, her body aligned perfectly with his, and his palm pressed against a gorgeous stretch of soft, soft skin exactly where her back curved in, and she moved like she could anticipate his every move.
They were blurring all kinds of boundaries tonight by pretending to be a couple, and now with their bodies this close together, Blake could imagine muddying the definitions between them even more.
The song ended, and they stepped apart and joined in applauding for the band. Maggie’s eyes were dark and flirtatious and dangerous, and Blake wanted to get lost in them forever.
“Mr. Peabody! Oh, Blaaaaaaaake!”
They looked over to see a small, elderly woman moving toward them with surprising speed.
Blake flicked through his mental database.
Cynthia? Yes, Cynthia Harriman, who owned a sports team.
Darn it, he couldn’t remember what sports team, but he remembered being surprised that she owned it in America.
Maybe polo, or rugby? Something like that.
She was a widow, a generous donor, and a definite flirt for her age, but harmless.
They met Cynthia at the edge of the dance floor.
“Blake, I was very impressed by your presentation up there.” Beaming, she took one of his hands in both of hers.
She wore violet lace gloves that went all the way up to her elbows, matching her (quite stylish) dress of the same color.
“I thought, I must come over and give this young man my appreciation. How wonderful to be able to support this cause.”
“We’re honored by your support, Mrs. Harriman,” Blake answered, smiling.
“Oh, dear, you know it’s Cynthia.” She squeezed his hand. “You two look lovely out there dancing. I used to dance like that with my Friedrich, god rest his soul.”
Blake glanced at Maggie over Cynthia’s shoulder. Maggie seemed to read his mind and nodded with an indulgent smile on her face. “Cynthia, would you like to join me for this dance?” he asked.
Cynthia gasped. “My goodness, you flatter me. I couldn’t intrude on you two young lovers.”
“No, I was just going to get a drink.” Maggie stepped back and waved the two of them away. “Enjoy, please.”
Cynthia was all smiles as she let Blake lead her into a dance.
She started chatting immediately, complimenting the presentation and the organization as well, moving seamlessly into a story about her first days of supporting nonprofits in Boston, and Blake was able to listen without having to speak much at all.
Over Cynthia’s shoulder, he spotted Maggie watching them from the sidelines with a smile.
But as he watched, Arnold Chauvel approached her, murmured something, and her smile disappeared.
When he held out his hand for a dance, Maggie took it, and Chauvel led her out to the other side of the floor.
Maggie would rather eat glass than dance with Arnold Chauvel, but she needed to keep the peace this evening, both for herself and for Blake.
Chauvel moved effortlessly, like he too had been taught how to dance, guiding her with the firm confidence of someone who was accustomed to getting what he wanted.
Funny how different that felt from Blake’s confidence.
“I have a bone to pick with you.” He didn’t even lead in with small talk.
“About what?”
“About that travesty of an article you sent me.” He looked past her, in the direction where they were dancing, not meeting her eyes. “Do you honestly think I’d pay you thousands of dollars and save your family from financial ruin for a milquetoast piece of bullshit like that? I’m offended.”
Maggie’s head spun. “What do you mean? I did what you asked.”
“Anyone could’ve written that article. There’s no information about him that you couldn’t find out in five minutes with a web browser.” He leveled her with an intense stare. “Did you even talk with him?”
“Of course. You wanted me to learn about him. Obviously, I went to the source.”
Chauvel’s smile was thin, no teeth showing this time. “I’d thought you were better than this, but it turns out you’re just another weak-willed woman.”
Maggie tightened her grip on his hand. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, you’d hardly be the first one to get taken in by him.” He gave an undignified snort. “Why do you think I wanted you to write this piece in the first place? I’ve seen this happen to other women. Suddenly they’re under his thrall. But I thought you’d have more sense.”
Maggie’s senses prickled. Some of the pieces didn’t fit together.
Clearly, this was a personal grudge. Chauvel had claimed it was on behalf of his friend, but Chauvel didn’t seem to do anything for selfless reasons, which meant he was personally affected.
What could the Pimpernel have done to hurt a man like Chauvel?
Wounded his pride, perhaps. “She wasn’t your friend, was she?
The one who was with the Pimpernel.” Maggie looked at him in time to see a muscle in his jaw twitch.
Might as well take a stab at her new theory. “She was your girlfriend.”
His hand tightened briefly on her mid-back, then eased, like he was forcing himself to relax. “My fiancée. She ended our relationship over him.”
“Over him.” Maggie’s mind spun. The Pimpernel had told her he’d never hurt anyone, as far as she knew, and she believed him.
Or at least, she’d believed him at the time.
Had he been sleeping with a woman who was engaged to someone else?
He said sex was rarely involved. Rarely, not never.
He didn’t seem like the sort of guy to enable cheating, but again, how well did she really know him?