Where the Heart Chooses (40 page)

“I imagine he would be much happier
canceling some of these people.”

He paused in the act of gazing
around—searching for Mark? “He said that very thing to me as we
walked in.”

“From what I’ve been able to learn, he’s
better suited to the field.”

Quinton shrugged. “WBIS policy is all field
agents are retired to a desk when they reach the age of
thirty-five.”

Odd…I’d had the impression he was older than
my son. “At any rate, he seemed very pleased with his new
home.”

“Yes, he was, and I can’t thank you enough
for being willing to help him with that.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure. He developed an
antipathy toward Ms. Dashwood that was almost as instantaneous as
mine.” In addition, I’d learned that Allison
had
given those
ruby earrings to her sister-in-law as an incentive to move out.
Allison seemed to feel it was a worthwhile trade-off.

“I can’t believe I was jealous of her,”
Quinton murmured with an abashed smile.

“Well, considering your state of mind at the
time, it wasn’t surprising. Your uncles must have been seriously
displeased when they learned Edward Holmes had a hand in driving
you to exhaustion.”

“I don’t know why I try to keep anything
from you…”

“Why do you, sweetheart?”

He pretended he hadn’t heard me. “…Gregor
always tells you everything!”

I hid my smile behind my raised champagne
flute and decided to revert to our previous topic. “Did Mark tell
you he and I pretended to be a couple?”

“Really?” Where were his thoughts? On
Holmes? On Mark? On something else? He obviously hadn’t grasped
what I’d said.

“Yes, Mark was supposed to be my boy
toy.”

“
What
!” He began choking on his
champagne. “Mark was your
what
?”

“You should have seen Francesca Dashwood’s
face when it dawned on her that I was keeping him. I haven’t had
such fun in a long time.” I set aside my flute and took a
handkerchief from the tiny purse that dangled from my wrist, then
dabbed at the spots of champagne Quinton had splattered over his
front. When that failed, I signaled to a waiter. “A glass of club
soda, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looked vaguely familiar,
but before I could puzzle out where I had seen him, Quinton broke
into chuckles.

“Mark was willing to go along with the idea
of being a gigolo?”

“Hardly that. More a high class, very
expensive escort. Oh, thank you.” I took the glass of club soda
from the waiter—where
had
I seen him before?—and dipped a
corner of my handkerchief into it.

Fortunately that seemed to do the job.

“Thank you, Mother. If you hadn’t gotten the
stains out, it would have been ruined, and this is one of my
favorite tuxes.” The happy glint in the eyes was so like his
father’s. “Mark and I are going down to Key West for a few
days.”

“Really?” A romantic getaway? He hadn’t gone
away with anyone in such a very long time, it seemed. “What a
wonderful idea!”

“Thank you.” He brought my hand to his mouth
and kissed it.

“Why? Because I want my son to be happy?” I
squeezed his hand.

Quinton opened his mouth, but whatever he
was about to say was lost when he swore under his breath.

“Portia! My dear! How lovely to see you
again!” Senator Wexler came swaggering up, as officious as ever. So
that was who Quinton had been looking for.

“Senator.”

“It must be fate, dear lady!”

No, it was karma, I was certain of it. I
must have done something very, very wrong in a past life to be so
hounded by the man. He would not accept that I was indifferent to
him.

“We’re constantly running into each other!”
Due to his machinations. He studiously ignored my son, as if
pretending he weren’t there would make it so.

Quinton had no intention of humoring the
man. “Good evening, Senator.”

“Mann. Didn’t see you there. Heh, heh, heh.
How are you, my boy? Your little escapade in Paris last spring left
no ill effects, I trust?”

“I’m quite well, Senator.” Quinton grinned
at him. In that moment he looked so much like his father that my
heart stuttered. “I must say I’m intrigued that you’re familiar
with what happened. Only three organizations were aware of that
operation, and to my knowledge, you’re not involved with any of
them.”

Wexler’s complexion turned green. “I…I…”

Oh, yes,
very
like his father!

“And how are you and the lovely Mrs.
Wexler?”

He scowled, disliking the reminder he was
married, perhaps? “She’s around here some place.” He waved his hand
in a vague gesture. “There are so many lovely ladies here tonight,
Mann. Why don’t you try and find one? I’ll be more than happy to
keep your mother company.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Senator.”

“Excuse me, Senator?” His aide was suddenly
at his side. “The ball is about to start.”

Wexler’s eyes lit up. “Portia?” He extended
his hand.

“Sir.” His aide looked annoyed. “Mrs. Wexler
is waiting for you to dance with her.”

Wexler took my hand before I realized what
he intended, and pressed a sloppy kiss to my palm. “We must talk
more, dear lady. Later, when we’ll be undisturbed.”

The two men walked off.

“I don’t appreciate being threatened like
that.”

Quinton didn’t smile, as I’d hoped he would.
He took my handkerchief and wiped the moisture from my palm. “I
don’t imagine you’ll want to keep this.”

“No.”

“Lapin almost appeared to be angry with the
senator. Interesting.” He waved down the same waiter and dropped
the handkerchief on his tray. “Dispose of this, please?”

The waiter looked from the handkerchief to
Quinton. “Yes, sir.” He hurried off.

“I can understand why any man in his right
mind would want to spend time with you, Mother, but Wexler’s
married, and if he keeps this up, he’s going to cause talk.”

“He’s just not taking ‘no’ for an answer.
Perhaps I should simply introduce him to my right knee.”

“That might teach him not to cross my
mother.” Quinton chuckled. “They’re playing a rhumba. Shall
we?”

I put Wexler out of my mind.

* * * *

“Quinton, have you been running
interference?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Every time Senator Wexler starts his
approach, you seem to pop up like a jack-in-the-box, coming between
us. It’s becoming exhausting.”

He smiled into the bubbles of his champagne
but didn’t confirm or deny. “Have you seen Mark, Mother? I have a
club soda for him.”

“Not in the last few minutes. He’s not
drinking champagne?”

“Oh…no.” Quinton blushed.
“He’s…allergic.”

“I’ve never heard of anyone having an
allergic reaction to champagne. That’s too bad. This is a very fine
vintage.”

“It is that. Oh—” He bit off what he was
about to say. “Looks like the senator has decided he wants the next
dance. I’ll hold him off for you, if you’d like to make an
escape?”

“Thank you, sweetheart. I don’t know why the
man persists in believing if he just pushes hard enough I’ll fall
madly in love with him.” I turned and walked into a solid chest.
“Oh!”

“Sorry.” Mark was staring blandly over my
head at Wexler.

I glanced over my shoulder to find he had
come to an abrupt halt a few yards from us. One foot was still in
the air, and his mouth was working although no sound emerged.

“The music is about to start again. May I
have this dance, Mrs. Mann?”

“Thank you, Mark.”

“Quinn, take my glass.” It was a champagne
flute. My son looked at it, and then frowned at Mark. Mark raised
an eyebrow, and a slow, intimate smile lit his face. “I’ve only had
a sip.” He offered me his arm in an old-world gesture and said to
Quinton, “Why don’t you let the good senator know your mother has a
dance partner?”

The expression on Quinton’s face was
entirely too pleased, although I had no doubt that by the time he
confronted Wexler, it would have been wiped smooth.

I took Mark’s arm and let him lead me onto
the dance floor. “I was under the impression that you were allergic
to champagne.”

He was coolly studying the couples on the
floor. “Allergic? To champagne? Not a chance! Who told you
that?”

“Quinton.”

Mark looked interested. “He said that, did
he?” A hand rested on my waist, and he took my right hand in his
left. I could see he wasn’t going to answer me, and I wondered what
kind of reaction Mark Vincent did have to a glass of champagne.

The orchestra leader raised his baton, and
the woman seated behind the grand piano struck the beginning notes
of “It Had to Be You.”

I could feel the power contained in him, and
then Mark drew me into the first steps of the fox-trot.

“You dance very well,” I said.

“Thank you.” Mark Vincent gave nothing away,
not even the fact that he might have been pleased by my
compliment.

I tipped my head back and closed my eyes.
“This was our song, you know, Nigel’s and mine.”

“You met at work.”

How he’d learned of that…”My brother told us
to call it a night and get some dinner. I don’t think he realized
what that would lead to. Afterward, we went dancing, and the trio
played this song. Nigel had them play it the rest of the
evening.”

“It’s a pretty song.”

“Yes, it is.”

He began to hum quietly under his breath,
and I wondered if that was an excuse to keep from talking to me.
Well, no matter. I was dancing with a man who knew how to lead a
woman around the dance floor, and that was a pleasure.

Nigel had also known how to do that. “In the
time we had together,” I murmured, “we were very happy.”

Abruptly he said, “And you’ve remained
faithful to him, even after all this time. That’s pretty rare these
days.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him. He
seemed genuinely puzzled. “Sebrings love once, Mark. Hopefully it’s
the right person, and we have a lifetime together.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“We go on. We survive.” I thought of Bryan,
although lately he had seemed…happy.

“My old lady couldn’t remain faithful for
more than a day, if that long.”

“Are you saying you believe the ability to
be faithful is in the genes?”

“Nature versus nurture? I don’t know.” He
looked uncomfortable, and normally out of simple courtesy, I’d
change the topic, but I felt he needed to know where I stood on
this matter.

“Quinton is as much a Sebring as he is a
Mann. If you hurt him he’d grieve. I, on the other hand, would go
after you and shoot you down like a dog.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Didn’t I ask you not to call me that?”

“Yes, ma’…Mrs. Mann.” He grinned, suddenly
looking younger and not as dangerous. And how deceiving was
that?

Quinton came up behind Mark and tapped his
shoulder. “Cutting in. And I want to dance with my mother, Mark,
not with you!”

“I’m devastated.” He laughed softly. “Mrs.
Mann, it was my pleasure.”

“I enjoyed it myself, Mark.”

My son’s gaze was happy. Mark Vincent, of
all men, had put that look in his eyes.

Quinton took my hand and easily picked up
the rhythm of the dance.

* * * *

The ball was starting to wind down, and
Gregor had gone to bring the Town Car around.

I knew Quinton and Mark were still here, and
I went looking for them to say good-night.

They were in the grand foyer, and I walked
up to them in time to hear Mark say, “I’ll be right back.”

“Mark…” There was a warning in Quinton’s
tone.

“I just have to—” He saw me and cleared his
throat. “—see a man about a horse. I won’t be long.” He sauntered
off.

“Mark spotted Wexler heading for the men’s
room.” Quinton offered me his arm, chuckling, and we strolled to
the cloakroom. “I know it isn’t correct, but Wexler deserves
whatever Mark wants to throw at him.”

“I have no objection to that.”

I handed him the chit for my lynx coat, and
once he’d collected it, he held it as I slid my arms into the
sleeves.

“You look a little tired, Mother.”

I smothered my yawn. “Watching you play cat
and mouse all evening with Senator Wexler was more exhausting than
dodging the man myself.”

“Where did Mrs. Wexler disappear to? Ill
with another migraine?”

“If I were married to Richard Wexler,
I’d
suffer from migraines.” I sighed. “No, she spent most of
the night with his aide, dancing or…” I shrugged. “Peter Lapin.
What were his parents thinking?”

Quinton gave a startled choke of laughter.
He knew as well as I that “lapin” was French for rabbit.

Gregor strode through the doors, damp and
irritated. “All that oil money and you’d think these clowns would
keep their parking lots in better shape!”

“What’s wrong, Gregor?”

“We’ve got two flats, Mrs. Mann. I’ve
already called AAA, but they’re tied up for hours. And it’s
starting to rain.” He held up the umbrella in his hand.

Quinton fished his car key and the valet
parking chit from his pocket. “Here, Gregor. Take my car. I’ll find
my own way home.”

Mark had returned from whatever he’d done to
Wexler. “I’ve got my car, Quinn, and I’m going your way. I can give
you a lift.”

Gregor looked as if he were torn. On the one
hand he needed a vehicle to get us home. On the other he was
leaving Quinton to Mark’s mercies. Reluctantly, he took the key and
the chit.

I looked from Mark to my son and smiled.
“Have a nice evening, sweetheart, Mark. Gregor?”

The doorman held the door for us, and we
went out into the wet night. While one parking attendant accepted
the chit, another ran up and took the key, and we waited under the
canopy while the car was brought around.

I shivered in spite of my fur coat. Indian
summer had come to an abrupt end.