Where the Heart Chooses (28 page)

The next morning the most ostentatious
arrangement of flowers was delivered by Carnations and Roses and
Orchids, Oh My. The note with it was even worse.
Meet me for a
little rendezvous at the Madison Arms.-R

I sent the flowers to one of the women’s
shelters I supported and slid the card into a plastic bag. I had a
little cedar box where I kept billet-doux from questionable
“admirers.” Interestingly enough, it was Mother who had advised me
of the expediency of such an action.

The next time the delivery van from the
flower shop arrived at the curb, I asked the young man to wait
while I looked up the senator’s D.C. address.

“Please take these flowers to this address.”
I removed the card—as little as I cared for Elizabeth Wexler, I saw
no need to rub her husband’s indiscretions in her face—and handed
the young man thirty dollars. “This should make up for the
inconvenience.”

“Yes, ma’am! Thank you!”

Gregor was aware of what was happening—I
could hardly keep something like this from my bodyguard—and he took
to screening my calls. However, the senator apparently realized I
wasn’t about to have an affair with him, and so the flowers
stopped.

Until this afternoon. Gregor took the
arrangement to the shelter while I put the card in the box. This
one read,
Looking forward to seeing you at the ball this
evening, my dear Portia, and I hope you’ll save a dance for
me.

Not if I had to spend the entire evening in
the ladies’ lounge.

* * * *

Allison had fronted her husband the money to
buy into a catering business, and somehow he had gotten the
contract for the reception preceding the ball. I wasn’t going to be
so snide as to ask whose palm he’d used her money to grease,
but…

I was going to wonder.

People would go up to the buffet and sample
a bite. Their faces would become blank, or twist into a grimace,
and then they would hand their plates with what was left on them to
the waiters and waitresses who circulated.

If Allison wasn’t one of my oldest, dearest
friends, I would have walked out.

Quinton approached me. “Mother? You
look…concerned.”

“I am. I don’t know whether I should inform
Allison about this debacle or if silence on the matter would be
kindest thing. I’ve never seen her so…so besotted.”

He gave me an angelic smile, which I knew
better than to accept at face value. Sure enough, “Sorry, Mother,
but better you than me. I’d hate to be the one to break Aunt
Allison’s heart.”

I tipped my head and observed him. “Which
would you prefer?”

“I’d rather know, but that’s me.”

“Yes. I think I’ll—”

“Portia!” Margaret Davis, one of the society
matrons who worked on various charities with me, hurried up to us.
“This food is such a disappointment! I know you were considering
using this caterer for the affair we’re planning for the shelter
for homeless veterans, but really, we’d be better off with At Your
Service.” She turned her gaze to my son and smiled at him. “Hello,
Quinton.”

“Mrs. Davis. You’re looking lovely.”

“Thank you. You’re looking quite handsome
yourself!”

“Thank you.” He brought her hand to his
lips. “It sounds as if the orchestra has finished tuning up, so if
you’ll excuse me, ladies? Mrs. Davis, I hope you’ll save me a
dance?” The people here knew Quinton only as the assistant to an
undersecretary at State, and so he would be expected to dance with
every woman and converse with every man.

“Of course.” She reached up and pinched his
cheek.

He turned to me. “Mother, may I have the
first foxtrot?”

“Certainly, sweetheart.” I pinched his other
cheek.

He laughed and left the reception area to
claim his first partner.

“Such a dear boy!”

Yes, he was, wasn’t he?

Meanwhile, I needed to mingle. I spoke with
women who were on the same charities as I or who would be useful
for them, and danced with their husbands, for much the same
reason.

* * * *

“So that’s Mark Vincent.” I stood next to
Quinton and watched as the tall, dark-haired man strode away. I’d
had to tip my head back to meet his eyes, which were hazel, but a
lighter shade than my son’s.

“Yes, it is.” A faint smile curled his
lips.

“The voice is different.” As were the
looks.

“He’s been called a forensic artist,”
Quinton murmured.

“You sound…proud of him.”

“Oh, er…”

If I’d known Vincent was going to be here, I
would have brought a bottle of eye drops with me. I thought of how
I’d distracted a photographer years ago. I could just as easily
distract Mark Vincent and slip a few drops into his drink—a little
payback for using me to obtain information about my son.

It wouldn’t have been lethal, of course. It
would simply have left him in dire need of a restroom.

“
I suppose I should thank you for not
shooting my son.”

He looked around quickly, but I’d already
made sure there was no one within earshot. “You mean at the
warehouse last summer? Why would I want to shoot him?” He grinned
easily. “He’s a good man, even if he is a spook.”

“
I still appreciate it. I’m rather fond of
him.”

“
Yeah? Well, it would be a
waste.”

I regarded my son thoughtfully. “Quinton,
are you involved with Mark Vincent?”

“Of course I’m not involved with him,
Mother! He’s WBIS. I’m CIA.” However, his gaze lingered on
Vincent.

A slim man slightly taller than me strolled
up to us. “Portia, how good to see you.”

“James! Quinton, this is James
Sumner-Sumner. James, have you met my son, Quinton?”

“No, but I’d recognize him as Nigel Mann’s
son. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Sir.”

“Please, call me James. Portia, may I have
this dance?”

“I’d like nothing better.”

“Enjoy, Mother.”

* * * *

James walked with me off the dance floor
after an enjoyable merengue. “Dancing is thirsty work. May I fetch
you a drink, dear lady?”

I smiled at him. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“You prefer Manhattans, if I recall
correctly.”

“Yes. How kind of you to remember.”

His eyes twinkled. “As if I could forget!”
He brought my hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across the back
of it. “You and Nigel were both so kind to a young attaché who had
just landed his first position on this side of the Pond.”

And he had been so surprised, although he’d
tried very hard to conceal it. After all, Mr. Freeze and his ice
queen of a wife were the least likely of any to come to the rescue
of a young man who’d gotten into what could have proved to be
serious trouble. If those photos of him in the company of a very
naked, very male companion had been made public, he would have lost
his position and not only been sent home in disgrace, but could
have been imprisoned as well. So while Nigel hustled them back into
their clothes and on their way, I distracted the photographer,
managing to liberate the roll of film in the process.

I patted James’s hand, and he strutted off
toward the bar. He was such a sweet man, and he and his “companion”
had been together for more than thirty years.

That was when Nigel and I still thought we
had the rest of our lives to spend together.

In a manner of speaking, we had, I supposed.
It just wasn’t as long as we’d expected.

Abruptly, I was hailed.

“Portia Mann! Such a sad look for such a
lovely lady! What can I do to cheer you up?” It was Senator Wexler,
and for a moment I was tempted to spit out a curse. His attentions
were bordering on harassment. If none of the men I’d met over the
years had tempted me, why would this odious worm think
otherwise?

“Senator. I assure you I’m not in the least
sad.” I hoped the chill tone would clue him in to the fact that I
wasn’t interested in having a conversation with him, but he ignored
it.

“I’m so enchanted to see you here tonight!”
He reached for my hand and squeezed it, his grip moist and just
short of painful.

I retrieved my hand. Would it help if I took
out a restraining order? The public embarrassment might be what was
needed to make him realize I had no intention of letting him touch
me, let alone take me to bed.

“Are you…uh…here with someone?” He scowled
and glared around the room.

“Yes, my son accompanied me.”

His displeased scowl was quickly replaced
with a patently false smile. “I declare, little lady, I find it
amazing that you have a grown son. Nigel must have snatched you
right out of the cradle!”

“It’s hardly kind of you to make fun of my
height, Senator.” I detested the familiar way he spoke my husband’s
name, as if they had been the closest of friends. Nigel would have
cut down this man with a cool look and colder words.

“What? I don’t follow you.”

What was the point in trying to explain?
“Never mind. I understand your committee is tied up on the Hill.
Shouldn’t you be there as well?”

“Duty, fair lady, strictly duty. I dislike
these affairs. Always filled with foreigners.”

“Nevertheless, I am surprised to see you
here.”

“Oh, but surely…The message I included with
your flowers…By the way, did you enjoy them?”

“I sent them to a shelter. I was sure they’d
be more appreciated there.”

For a second he looked furious, and I
tightened my grip on my purse. If he took a step toward me, I would
hit him over the head with it.

A young man approached, and he smoothed his
expression. “Ah, Curtin. I’ll have a Rob Roy. Portia, my dear, may
I have my aide get you a drink?”

“No, thank you. Mr. Sumner-Sumner is getting
me one.” Those waiting to be served at the bar were still three and
four deep around it, so I could expect no aid from that
quarter.

“That British fa—”

“Senator, you’ll refrain from calling my
friends names.” Oh for the days of fans, when I could have given
him a sharp rap with one.

He beetled his brows and opened his mouth,
but when he met my gaze, he apparently changed his mind about what
he’d been about to say. “Yes, of course. Simply a joke. I meant
nothing by it, I assure you.” His expression couldn’t have been
sourer if he’d bitten into a lemon.

“
Sir
!” His aide leaned close to him
and whispered furiously.

“Yes, yes. I’m capable of dealing with this.
Get my drink.”

His aide glared at him and then stalked
toward the bar.

“Now, tell me, dear lady. When will you have
dinner with me?”

Never. “I don’t see Elizabeth.” I used the
excuse of searching for his wife to see if possibly Quinton was in
the vicinity.

“She was unable to attend.” Wexler stepped
in front of me as if trying to cut me off from the rest of the
people in the room.

Mother had taught me above all else not to
be rude, but it seemed I had no choice. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Allow me to accompany you!”

“To the ladies’ lounge?”

“Oh…er…uh…Heh heh. I’ll wait here for
you.”

“You do that.” I gave him a cold smile and
walked away.
And I’ll make sure I keep the width of the ballroom
between us.

* * * *

I sat before a mirrored vanity, tucking a strand
of hair into my French twist and giving some thought as to how
comfortable Quinton had appeared to be with Mark Vincent.

Someone sank down beside me. “Portia.”

I swiveled around. “Allison? I thought you
were in Palm Springs.”

“Yes. But then I felt I should be here to
support Chance.” She looked tired, and older than I’d ever seen
her. “Oh my God, the food is awful!”

I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t
have to lie to my good friend about it.

“I don’t understand. Chance is an amazing
cook, and what he prepares for us at home is literally to die for.
How do I tell him how horrible this menu was?”

“Quinton said he’d want to know.”

“Yes, but my husband isn’t your son.” She
grimaced and opened her purse. “I need a cigarette.”

I placed my hand over hers. “Allison, you
don’t smoke, and even if you did, you couldn’t smoke in here.”

She sighed and closed her purse. “You’re
right.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No. You’ve already got your hands full with
that insufferable Senator Wexler. I don’t understand how Elizabeth
can put up with him.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

“I know.” She sighed again. “I’m the last
one to talk. Did I mention Chance’s sister is studying for her real
estate license? I can see I’ll have to throw business her way.”

“Why?”

“Would you believe because I want to make
Chance happy?”

“Is there any way I can help? Shall I have
Quinton ask his associates at State?” My friend might suspect that
Quinton worked elsewhere as well, but she wouldn’t ask and I
wouldn’t confirm.

“It’s sweet of you to offer his help. Let’s
hold off, shall we? I’d like to see if Francesca can succeed on her
own. But enough about her. I’m actually here tonight because I
wanted to surprise Chance.”

“And did you succeed?”

“He has no idea I’m here. He’s been tied up
in the kitchen.”

“Allison, what’s wrong?”

“He’s so young, and he needs to be
independent. I’m his wife, not his mother. If he can’t make a
success of this enterprise…” For a moment she was lost in thought,
and then she shook her head. “Well, I’m just going to enjoy him for
as long as I have him.”

“Perhaps you’re selling him short? You’re a
vibrant, intelligent woman—”

“Who’s old enough to be his mother.”

I continued as if she hadn’t interrupted me.
“—and you didn’t twist his arm in order to make him marry you.”

“You’re right.” That didn’t seem to cheer
her, though. “I blame that damned dimple.” Chance Dashwood was an
extremely handsome blond. His cheeks were chiseled, his jaw square,
and his chin had a dimple that made grown women want to lick it.
“What about you, Portia?”