Читать книгу: «Cinderella After Midnight»

Chapter One

“I have located the target, Number One.”

The deep-toned, disembodied words floated through the air like a silk scarf on a breeze. The hiss of skate blades across freshly resurfaced ice punctuated the sentence. An elegantly clad skater made a graceful turn, swished past Catrina Brown once more and said in a tone of even deeper significance, “Repeat, Number One, I have located the target.”

Catrina, who was feeling nervous, lost patience.

“Jill Brown!” she hissed quickly, “Will you quit treating this like a spy movie and just tell me where he is? There’s no one within five yards of us right now. Who’ll hear above the music? And if by some miracle someone did hear, don’t you think ‘I have located the target’ sounds just a teensy bit more suspicious coming from a waitress, than ‘Would you care for a drink, ma’am?”’

Jill’s face fell. “Oh…I was enjoying that,” she said.

A neat flick of her hips scraped her blades sideways into the ice and brought her to a halt beside Cat. She balanced a tray of sparkling drinks in fluted glasses expertly in one hand.

“Well, I wasn’t,” Cat answered. “You’ve gotta help me blend in, Sis. That’s your role. Pixie did a brilliant job with this dress, and that was hers.”

Cat’s sixty-two-year-old cousin Priscilla Treloar, known to everyone as Pixie, could sew like a dream. She had been the wardrobe mistress for a well-known national ballet company for more than thirty years until her health slowed her down and she’d had to give up work. She had insisted that the perfection of Cat’s dress was one of the key elements in the success of this evening’s plan, and Cat suspected she was right.

She fingered one of the dress’s narrow diamanté shoulder straps. Apart from the straps and a matching diamanté edging around the bodice, the gown was plain black, and depended for its glamorous effect on the figure-hugging simplicity and perfect fit of its cut and line.

Beneath the full black skirt, the occasional peeks of layered silver lining were tantalizing. If you didn’t look very closely, the imitation silk could have easily passed for a designer original. There were more than a few of those here tonight.

“My job is to be Lady Catrina, and I’ve got the aristocratic accent down perfectly thanks to half a lifetime of watching British sitcoms,” Cat continued, her confidence rebounding a little. “I can do this. I know it. All you have to do is tell me which table Councillor Wainwright is sitting at, and I’ll zero in. This whole thing is too important for us to mess it up by treating it like a game, Jilly. We can’t have Cousin Pixie lose her home.”

The warmth in the way she used her mother’s cousin’s lifelong nickname betrayed the love Catrina and her two stepsisters felt for Pixie, even though Pixie was not a blood relation to Jill and Suzanne.

Jill had come back down to earth at Cat’s words.

“I’m sorry. You’re right,” she said, then switched her tone suddenly as a pair of new arrivals at the Mirabeau on Ice ball came past. “And I can particularly recommend the Mirabeau sparkling white….”

“Why, thank you.” Graciously, Cat took a glass, as prompted, gripped the stem in her fingers and left her pinky aristocratically curled.

“He’s at the corner table on the far side of the champagne fountain,” Jill said, as soon as she was able to speak safely. “With a group of several other people.”

“I’d better get on over to him, then.”

“Yeah, because he’s not known for staying out late, according to our dossier.” Jill grinned. Despite Cat’s lecture, the word dossier had rolled off her tongue as if she said it every day. Then she looked guilty and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Cattie.”

This time Catrina waved it aside. “Just wish me luck, okay?”

“Oh, huge luck, Lady Catrina. Huge! This is equally important to all of us.”

“And you’d probably best not speak to me for the rest of the evening, unless you have to.”

“Gotcha. See you later, then.”

Jill swished over to a nearby table to offer her drinks tray as more designer-clad guests trickled in. Cat was left with a tingle inside and a glow on her cheeks that she recognized as the effect of adrenaline. It wasn’t nerves anymore but a buzz of exhilaration and confidence.

I’m going to be good at this. I’m going to convince Councillor Wainwright to vote against the proposed rezoning at the council meeting in August, and he won’t have a clue this was planned.

She walked around the rink, using the carpet laid on top of the ice. She had to think herself into the role of Lady Catrina Willoughby-Brown, jet-setting member of the British aristocracy, and skates were a complication she didn’t need tonight, since she wasn’t the talented skater that Jill was.

The Madison County Ice Rink looked incredible tonight, a far cry from its usual mundane self. In the center of the rink was an enormous, flowing champagne fountain and some towering ice sculptures based on the works of famous artists—Rodin, Michelangelo, Moore.

Next came a specially erected polished and sprung wooden dance floor in the shape of a large O. A wide outer ring of ice accommodated the on-ice staff and any of the guests brave enough to put on skates. Finally, edging the rink were lantern-lit tables set on carpet.

The surrounding bleachers had been removed for the night to make room for platforms set with two more tiers of gorgeously decorated tables. The rink’s floor-to-ceiling windows were frosted over with lacy patterns, and the walls were draped in black fabric.

Overhead there were chandeliers, mirror-balls and spotlights, all in the colors of Mirabeau wines, which ranged from pale straw gold through soft rose to a dark crimson. On a large dais at one end there was a band playing lively dance music.

Catrina shut all of this out, however, focused on her quest.

Yes, there was Wainwright, as Jill had said. Councillor Earl P. Wainwright, to be precise. He was seated with a group of six others, four of them men, at one of the best tables on the ice. Cat had her strategy mapped out in advance and she didn’t hesitate.

First she waved to an imaginary acquaintance two tables farther on, then allowed her attention to be caught by the man sitting just to Earl Wainwright’s left, as if in sudden recognition. Changing course abruptly, she bore down deliberately upon the total stranger. She had her brimming glass of Mirabeau sparkling wine in hand and a glittering smile plastered in place.

But then, unexpectedly, the stranger’s eyes met hers for just a moment. Her hand jerked a little, and she spilled several drops of wine. He was already watching her, which she hadn’t planned for. It almost shattered her focus. His strong body was draped lazily in its seat, and there was a tiny smile on his face, just tickling the corners of his mouth. For some reason she felt confused and self-conscious and…

Don’t think about him, she coached herself quickly. He’s not remotely important. He’s part of your strategy for the first minute of this, that’s all.

“Alasdair!” she trilled at him in her round-mouthed regal accent. She didn’t let those dangerous blue eyes of his catch and hold her now. Instead, her gaze darted between a thick hairline, firm lips and a strong chin. “Fancy seeing you here! How marvelous! How absolutely marvelous!”

“Uhh…yeah,” answered Patrick Callahan, CEO of Callahan Systems Software and reluctant guest at the ball tonight. “Marvelous.”

He watched with appreciation and some alarm as a very shapely behind, clad in rustling black, slid smoothly into the empty seat beside him.

He’d had half an eye on the woman as she approached. Maybe a little more than half an eye, if he was honest. He was caught at this table by two or three people who might prove to be valuable clients for Callahan Systems in the future, and he was trying extremely hard not to be bored.

Trying hard, also, to understand why he found the prospect of the evening ahead such a chore. Most people would have looked forward to it.

Mirabeau was a California wine company that had hit on a novel marketing strategy. In several large cities across the United States, Mirabeau on Ice balls were taking place tonight. The buzz of publicity was deafening. By invitation only, the guest list for each ball was made up of an intriguing mix of the wealthy, the influential, the famous and the notorious.

Patrick wasn’t quite sure how Callahan Systems had earned its pair of tickets. Having one of its founding partners, i.e., Patrick himself, named last year as Philadelphia’s Most Eligible Bachelor by a well-known local magazine had probably helped. The fact that he’d briefly dated, in quick succession, both the Wentworth Hotels heiress and the stunningly glamorous ex-wife of a senator couldn’t have hurt, either.

He would have turned the invitation down if his brother Tom hadn’t reminded him of the networking opportunities. But he’d flatly refused to bring a date. He wasn’t involved with anyone at the moment. He was never involved with anyone for very long. And the idea of creating expectations in some casual female acquaintance by inviting her tonight didn’t remotely appeal to him.

No, if Tom wanted him to network, he’d prefer to attend the ball alone.

Somehow, the role of chief schmoozer at Callahan Systems had devolved almost exclusively onto Patrick over the past couple of years, since Tom’s marriage. With their younger brother and business partner, Connor, also about to take on the yoke of wedlock in September, the situation would no doubt get even worse. For some reason, Tom refused to understand that events such as these were no longer a source of pleasure to Patrick.

Maybe that’s because you haven’t actually explained the fact to him, said an annoying little voice inside his head. Tom had no idea about the vague dissatisfaction Patrick had been feeling with his life just lately, nor the unacknowledged envy he felt for his brothers’ rewarding personal lives.

“Okay, so if you don’t take a date, you’ll be able to cruise to your heart’s content,” Tom had predicted. “I bet Abigail Wakefield will be there, and Diane Crouch, Lauren Van Shuyler…”

“Cruise? I thought I was supposed to schmooze! Anyway, Lauren doesn’t fit that category. She’s a friend.”

“Cruise, schmooze,” Tom had said, ignoring the issue of Lauren Van Shuyler. “You’re a capable man. You can do both.”

Subject closed, apparently. And now here he was, schmoozing on the outside while his inner spirit was a million miles away.

So he had welcomed the approaching lightweight distraction of this fair vision in black and diamanté at first, before he had any idea that she would stop at his table. But when their glances had connected just now, he’d felt something—a mysterious, intuitive quickening of interest. Not the sort of thing he normally admitted to, and it had spooked him.

“But I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake about who I am,” he began. Why was he reluctant to disillusion her?

Then he saw that she had realized her mistake, too.

She clapped her hands dramatically to her mouth, then let them fall again. “Oh, I am most frightfully sorry!” she gushed. “I thought you were Alasdair Corliss-Bryant, an old friend of mine from the Gloucestershire Hunt. But I can see now that of course you’re not.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Patrick answered. It was a formula response. He was aware that, on his left, local councilman Earl P. Wainwright, one of his schmoozing options for the evening, was now listening with eager attention to the new arrival. Hardly surprising. Miss England was gorgeous.

Patrick made a cool-headed assessment.

Maybe not quite as cool as he would have liked.

She was about thirty-five years too young for Wainwright, but that didn’t seem to concern the man. Untamable blond hair framed her face, and her eyes shone like brown sugar melting with butter in a hot skillet. She had long lashes, a glove-tight dress, full lips and a fabulous figure.

Of course, he’d seen it all before, Patrick quickly decided. Of course he had! He’d seen it bigger, better and sexier.

Still, he was intrigued. Not by the packaging but by the motivation. No one else had been watching her performance as she sashayed past. That it was a performance, and not at all genuine, Patrick was already quite certain. And this made him wonder about a few things.

Why, for example, had she pretended to recognize him? That recital about Alasdair Double-Barrelled-Moniker and the Whatsit-shire Hunt was too complicated. He was annoyed that she had chosen such a strategy. Overly elaborate. Unnecessary.

He frowned.

Wouldn’t it have been a lot simpler just to trip over the carpet and lunge at his knee? A woman like this surely wouldn’t begrudge a spilled glass of champagne and a dry-cleaning bill for his suit in a good cause, would she?

And why the phoney British accent? It was good. Very good. None of the vowels had slipped. Still, he was in no danger of believing it to be genuine. He’d learned in business never to take anything at face value. So…why?

He considered the issue, enjoying the fact that his mind was engaged now.

Presumably it was the Most Eligible Bachelor thing. He regretted the publicity that had given him, now. There had recently been a couple of how-to books written expressly for gold diggers. Maybe this was all written down in black-and-white in chapter four. “Capture his attention by pretending to be a card-carrying member of the British aristocracy.” Lady Catrina Willoughby-Brown was the name she’d selected for the evening, apparently.

He examined his options with a degree of relish. Challenge her at once? She deserved it, but for some reason he was tempted to play along with her game.

He had just decided on this second option when he made a very disconcerting discovery. Astonishingly, he, Patrick Simon Callahan, aged thirty-six, with a net worth upwards of twenty million dollars and still climbing, and a not-insignificant quantity of personal appeal as well, was not Lady Sugar-Eyes’s target at all.

“Councillor Wainwright, I’m so pleased to meet you,” she gushed, ending the round of formal introductions. Patrick hadn’t paid much attention to any of it until now. He slumped back in his seat, pushed aside by the sheer force of her determination.

“Lady Catrina, it’s an honor,” the councillor replied earnestly. “I love your country. I visit England every chance I get. In fact, you may know some friends of mine…”

“Oh, really? How marvelous!”

She was leaning past Patrick. On display was a tastefully moderate yet very alluring quantity of silky-skinned cleavage. Fixing her warm, liquid brown eyes on Councillor Wainwright, she nodded encouragement at the man’s words, denied knowledge of his old friends, and offered some no doubt fictional names of her own. Lord Peter Devries? The Honourable Amanda Fitzhubert?

For some reason, the very appealing effort that she was putting into hunting completely the wrong quarry immediately irritated Patrick up to the eyeballs. What was it that mom had drummed into him and his seven brothers as children? It had been one of the more annoying sayings of an otherwise excellent and well-beloved parent.

“If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.”

He now discovered to his horror that he agreed wholeheartedly with these prim words of mom’s. If a woman was going to be a fortune hunter, if she’d gone to all the trouble of shimmying herself into that delectable, form-fitting dress, gate-crashing this event, inventing an upper-crust identity, perfecting the accent and wangling an introduction, then she should at least be good at it. She should aim high. She should choose the right man.

Him.

Leaving aside any other considerations, such as age, physical endowments and suitability of temperament, Patrick was streets ahead of Councillor Wainwright where it really counted to a woman like this.

In the bank.

It wasn’t that Patrick himself measured his masculinity in financial terms. He didn’t come from a moneyed background, but from a good, solid family in which other values—honor, love and Christian charity—took precedence.

Occasionally he was cynical about those values, but deep down he believed in them. He’d started to realize just lately that one of the reasons he still wasn’t outrageously in love and blissfully married like his brothers Tom, Adam and Connor, was because he just couldn’t respect or love a woman to whom money and possessions and regular appearances in magazine gossip columns were the be-all and end-all.

The pity of it was that when you were widely known as a rich young gun in the world of computer commerce, you attracted such women—beautiful and sophisticated women, many of them—in droves. The fictitious Lady Catrina was clearly one of them. That was strike one against her. The fact that she was doing it all wrong was strike two.

So there was no excuse at all for what Patrick said next.

“Would you like to dance?” His abrupt question cut right across the honeyed conversation taking place between Earl Wainwright and Lady Catrina.

The latter turned to him with a frown. As well she might. His interruption had been extremely rude.

Still, Patrick was astounded to hear himself apologize. He felt his neck grow hot inside his collar. “I’m sorry. When you’ve finished your conversation, of course.”

“No, no…!” Wainwright waved a paternal hand. “Take her, my dear old chap.” Like cheap gilt, some of the fake accent and British vocabulary had rubbed off on him.

“Please, Councillor Wainwright, do finish your story,” Lady Catrina cooed.

She hadn’t even glanced at Patrick, who was now pressed hard against the back of his seat by her single-minded determination to lean across him. Her bare, lovely shoulder was turned to him, so close that he could have nuzzled it with his lips if he’d wanted to.

Not that he did, he reminded himself.

“Heavens, no, Earl! The story’s not very interesting,” said one of the women farther around the table. She was watching Lady Catrina suspiciously. “Do go and dance, you two!”

The woman was dressed magnificently in chartreuse beaded satin, and her cheeks were rosy-bright from champagne. She looked to be about fifty-five, and it suddenly clicked. For heaven’s sake, this was Darlene, Earl Wainwright’s wife!

Patrick wanted to coach his gold-digging, pseudo-British friend, “Get real! Sheesh, woman! You can’t make a play for the man in front of his own wife!”

Perhaps Lady Catrina had realized this herself. Trying unsuccessfully to disguise her reluctance, she stood up.

“Dancing! How splendid!” she exclaimed unconvincingly. She tossed a frown back at Earl Wainwright, then apparently accepted the inevitable and took a step towards the ice.

Patrick glanced down at her spiky black heels. “Better take my arm, I think. We have to navigate that ice.”

“There are escorts for that,” she told him absently. “On skates. Here.”

She reached the edge of the carpet and was joined by a bladed male. A skate bunny took Patrick’s arm and helped him skitter across to the comparative safety of the wooden dance floor. Now he was face to face with her, and the music was slow. He took her into his arms.

Inwardly, Cat was still cursing the stranger. What had he said his name was? Patrick something. Callahan, that’s right, “Managing Director of Callahan Systems Software,” someone had said.

It wasn’t important. The only reason she’d accepted his invitation to dance was because it would have drawn too much attention if she hadn’t. She certainly didn’t want to upset innocent Mrs. Wainwright any more than absolutely necessary.

She tallied up the details of Patrick Callahan’s incredible good looks with less warmth than she’d have shown in assessing the shape and size of a Christmas tree in a wintry sale yard. Yeah, sure, he had it all. The height, the build, the hair, the shoulders, the Grecian nose and jaw, the healthy tan on his skin, the air of confidence, assurance and bone-deep entitlement.

He was the kind of man she detested, no doubt about that. An upmarket version of how Barry Grindlay must have been fifteen or twenty years ago. Barry Grindlay, the sleazy developer who was poised to bulldoze sweet, frail Cousin Pixie’s family home the moment the rezoning of lower Highgate Street went through in the middle of August. Barry Grindlay, who had no intention of paying Pixie market value for the place if he could possibly help it. Barry Grindlay, who refused to accept the fact that Pixie didn’t even want to sell in the first place.

In other words, Patrick Callahan was…had to be…arrogant and totally ruthless in his wealth and good looks. He had that sense of unquestioning entitlement written all over his face. He was the type who’d do anything for money, Cat was quite sure. And he undoubtedly believed that money could do anything for him, including pick up any woman he wanted, close any deal he wanted, buy any opinion he wanted.

In contrast to Grindlay, however, the CEO of Callahan Systems Software wasn’t important enough in Cat’s life to take the trouble of loathing. All she had to do was get this dance over and done with as smoothly as possible.

Doable. Easy.

He took her hand and held her in the middle of her back, and they began to waltz. Cat was thankful for Jill and Pixie’s dance lessons over the past couple of days. Patrick Callahan had done this before. He didn’t make the clumsy man’s mistake of trying to cover too much ground at once. They just pivoted gently in one spot, in three-four rhythm, leaving him plenty of time to gaze intently into her eyes.

Which, for some reason, he seemed keen to do.

They didn’t talk at first. Cat had to concentrate very hard in order not to start muttering, “one, two, three, one, two, three,” under her breath.

Patrick’s eyes were mesmerizing, she soon discovered. They were bluer than the reflection of a clear summer sky in a mountain lake, blue enough to put both Mel Gibson and Paul Newman into serious therapy. And there was a warm and very appealing glint of curiosity in them that drew her own gaze.

It made her want to ask, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Since she refused to express any interest in the man whatsoever, she didn’t say it. Instead, each time they circled, she craned her head to glimpse Earl Wainwright to make sure she didn’t lose track of him. It was frustrating at first.

If only I was dancing with the councillor instead…

But then Patrick eased her a little farther out onto the floor and other bodies got in the way. Cat couldn’t see Councillor Wainwright anymore. She suppressed a sigh, surrendered her impatience for the moment and hoped desperately that the dance would end soon.