A Lion After My Own Heart (2 page)

I read on: a cocktail dress can suffice, but keep the colors rich. Black, jewel tones, chic metallics, etc. But what about the murderous weather? I scan down, and read more advice: invest in a faux-fur coat, or a classic overcoat. A chic shawl is good, and a cashmere wrap is even better.

I sigh. My poor, poor checking account. Reaching over, I grab my date. "C'mere, Mr. Road. You've got some sweet consoling to do."

I dig a spoon in deep, and then look at my phone, where Mr. Alexander Adams smiles his smoldering smile up at me. Ah, well. At least it's for a good cause. And who knows? Maybe he'll fall wildly and irrevocably in love with me, and we'll ride off into the sunset on a white stallion.

Yeah, right. I snort, grab the remote control, and head over to the sofa and the TV.

Chapter 2

I step out of the cab feeling like a total impostor. Who is this glamorous girl staring back at me from the hotel window? My hair is done up to the nines in this French twist with curls, arranged by the fabulous Miss Curie from the Paris Salon downtown. I'm wearing an amazing overcoat that makes me feel like Ingrid Bergman from Casablanca, tied off at the waist, which I am going to definitely return for a full refund first thing tomorrow morning. My pumps gleam, black as sin, but my legs are already nearly frozen from the biting, Arctic-like cold.

I stare at my reflection, ignoring the crowds, the music coming from the hotel's double doors, everything, and have to give myself a grudging nod. I clean up pretty good. If you get me off the couch, replace my ice cream with a clutch, and spend $120 on hair and make-up, I don't look
too
shabby.

I give myself a saucy wink, then dig my phone out of my purse. 8:01 p.m. Look at that. I'm right on time, too. Feeling buoyed by a nervous confidence, I stride right to the front door of the Hotel Chevalier, where the Deering Estate is hosting the event. Amidst the small crowd gathered outside (everybody looking fabulous and wealthy) I spot Erin, her brown hair cut like Jennifer Aniston's, looking athletic and panther-like in a burgundy wrap that reveals her shoulders.

"Myra!" She steps forward and kisses me in that delicately precise way that women do when they're both wearing fabulous make-up. "You look - wow." She takes a step back so as to get a really good look at me. "You look ravishing."

"Thanks!" I feel like doing a little spin to show off, but somehow control myself. "You look great too! Run any marathons lately?" Erin's a huge fitness buff, and when she's not canoodling with Boston's political heavyweights, she's lifting heavy weights and running ridiculous distances for no good reason. The only way you'd get me to run a marathon is if you chased me with a very sharp knife.

"I've got a triathlon next month." She takes me by the arm and leads me inside, into the marble-floored lobby where voices echo and light gleams off crystal chandeliers and expensive jewelry.

"You are not going to go swimming in February." I stare at her. "I forbid it."

Erin grins. "It's not so bad. Just a quick dip."

"Erin. You'll -" I try to imagine the absolute worst thing that could happen. "Your ovaries will freeze!"

"My ovaries? Myra!" Erin lets out a bark of surprised laughter. "You're a riot. Now come on. I've managed to snag you a table in the corner. It's the best I could do. You didn't even tell me why it was so imperative you attend. I'm guessing it's got something to do with the sinfully attractive Mr. Adams?"

"I - why - yes." I smile at her. "I may or may not be doing a story on him. Are you two friends?"

We stop at the coat check, and I pocket my ticket as I hand over my overcoat. Suddenly nervous, I smooth down my bronze cocktail dress, one shoulder bared to the world. Erin gives me an approving nod, and together we enter the ballroom where we're immediately greeted by a waiter with a tray of champagne flutes. I snag one expertly, as does Erin, who steers me by the elbow to one side.

"There. Do you see him? The center of attention, of course, close to the stage. To the left of the microphone stand."

I rise onto my tiptoes to peer over the crowd, and there is Alexander Adams in the flesh. Be still, my wildly palpitating heart. He looks like he just stepped out of
The Great Gatsby,
wearing a tux like he was born in one, fresh and crisp and just perfect on his body. His smile melts my journalistic integrity away, and his golden hair is a little darker than the photographs represented - I can imagine him with perfect yellow hair as a child that has darkened just a little as he's aged.

Erin shakes her head slowly. "The things I could do to that man."

I gulp. "You're telling me. He's not single. He's married, isn't he? With six kids. And a beautiful wife. A model. Who's also an international human rights lawyer or something."

"Nope. He's criminally single. But not for long, I'm sure. He's got about five thousand women throwing themselves at him like waves at the base of a cliff."

I watch him, moving my head from one side to the other as people walk by, trying to keep him in sight. He's tall. Powerfully built. There's something regal about him, the kind of unassuming grace and authority that comes to those surrounded by wealth and power their whole lives. Where they don't have to flaunt it like the
nouveau riche
, but rather simple exude a calm and disarming sense of confidence that you just can't fake.

"He looks pretty athletic," I say, glancing at Erin. She's an expert.

"Amazing body. But he doesn't race or run or do anything that I can tell. I'm sure he hits the gym, but he's what we call a freak of nature. Perfect body, minimum effort. I know guys who have worked out for five, ten years, and still don't get into that kind of shape."

I turn to her. "You sound like you've seen him in a Speedo."

Erin laughs again, but she also blushes.
She likes him
, I realize. "Oh, no, not a Speedo. But I held his arm once at an event, and he's rock solid. Muscled. I managed to slip my arm around his waist at one point, and there wasn't a hint of flab. Nothing but sculpted abs and muscle." She takes a deep breath, then sighs like a schoolgirl. "I bet he can make love for hours. And not even muss his hair."

We both stand there mooning over him, and then he looks our way. Smiling politely, nodding at some comment, he simply turns to scan the crowd and our eyes lock. Mine flare wide. He doesn't look away. If anything, he just stares at me all the more intensely, as if the whole black tie event has suddenly faded away into the background. My throat constricts, my pulse races, and I feel like I'm having a heart attack. With a convulsive wrench I tear my eyes away, duck my head, and, half panicked, step behind Erin.

"Myra?" Erin turns around. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," I croak. I down my champagne in one gulp. "Maybe panicking. A little."

"Panicking?" Erin hands me her champagne in sympathy, and I take a sip of that too.

"Yes." I straighten. "Alexander looked my way."

"Hmm, I noticed." Erin glances back across the crowd, but it's closed around him and blocked him from view. "Why didn't you give him a flirtatious wink?"

"A wink?" My voice is a squeak. "I nearly peed my panties. His eyes. They were... so intense. As if for that moment there was nothing else in the world but him and me. As if he could see right into my soul!" I realize I'm just babbling. "It was too much! It was like being mugged. I wasn't ready for that kind of stare!"

Erin clucks and shakes her head. "Well, I sure wish he'd stared at me that way. I would have given him a deadly come-hither kind of wink."

I sigh. "Well, you're clearly more cool and sophisticated than I am." A waiter drifts by with a tray of canapés, and Erin and I grab a couple. "So, how do you think I can get a quote from him?"

"A quote? That would involve speaking to him. Do you feel capable of such a dangerous thing?"

I stick my tongue out at her, and then realize I'm supposed to be acting all fancy at this black tie event. "Of course. I am a consummate professional when I'm ready to be. And mildly tipsy."

"Well, first we eat our very expensive dinners. Then there's an auction, then everybody mingles. If you can last that long, you might be able to corner him."

I stare at the round tables with their expensive-looking plates, silverware, and dozens of wine glasses. Ice sculptures are starting to glisten at the center of each one. " Erin, I know I shouldn't ask, but how did you get me in here?"

Erin shrugs a muscular shoulder. "I know the event coordinator at the Deering Estate. I called in a favor, and voilà. An extra plate was set, free of charge."

"Well, free of financial charge." I know how these things work. Erin either used up an expensive favor, or now owes somebody big time.

Erin takes another champagne flute as it drifts by on a tray, and clinks my glass. "All the more reason to enjoy ourselves. I don't know who you're seated with, but I'm sure you'll do well. I'm going to head to my table. I think dinner is starting."

" Erin," I say, touching her elbow. "Thank you. For this last-second Hail Mary pass. You're the best."

Erin gives me a genuinely warm smile. "A pleasure. See you in a few." With that she turns and heads to a table that's enviably close to the stage. My table, it turns out, is at the back, close to the door the waiters use. I find my name card and pull out my chair, smiling politely to the others who are already seated. There's an old couple dressed as if it's the 19th century, a massively hairy and angry-looking man, and a young professional couple who are clearly very much in love.

Dinner is amazing. I mean that literally. I am constantly in a state of amazement by what they serve. There are eight dishes, each new one served as the previous one is whisked away, with a variety of little portions on each. The only term I can use to describe the food is 'fusion cuisine', as Thai is mixed with Mexican, French contrasted with Japanese, and so forth. It is all, however, ridiculously delicious, and when coupled with the fabulous wines, I find it allows me to open up and engage the others in conversation.

The old couple is delightful: a Mr. and Mrs. Rosenblum, who, I quickly realize, are delighted to talk about their past and share anecdotes about their latest travels in Europe regardless of what I ask them. After a good ten minutes of listening, eyes wide, I turn the hairy man to my left and try talking to him.

I quickly change my mind. Five minutes of hearing about his research on man-and-dolphin sex in the wild are sufficiently bizarre to make me stare across at the young couple, who are sane and a pleasure to talk to. One plate follows another, and before I realize what's going on the meal is over, little shavings of sorbet are served on a bed of dark, dark chocolate cake, and then the auction begins.

That drags on forever. Tickets to events are sold, along with some paintings, followed by a number of gaudy pieces of jewelry. A sketch by Chagall, and then I can't take it anymore. I mutter something politely and stand, dropping my napkin, then move back out into the lobby.

The main part of the lobby is well lit, but there's a dark annex beyond it with armchairs and huge windows looking out into the street. It's the perfect place to steal a moment alone and prepare myself to tackle the crowds that will no doubt surround my target. I step into the shadows, and see that somebody is standing beside the grand piano, a glass of whiskey in hand, staring out into the night.

It's Alexander Adams.

I nearly trip, my heels suddenly treacherous. I windmill my arms, sway alarmingly from one side to the other, knees bent, and then in my desperation grab onto a tall fern, causing it to rustle loudly as I catch myself, just as Adams glances over.

I immediately try to strike a casual pose, and shake the fern once or twice as if correcting its posture. My poise regained, if not my dignity, I look over at Alexander as if I'm surprised to see him, and give him my most innocent smile. "Oh. Hello."

"Is everything all right?" His voice. Oh, lordy, burnt sugar with a hint of a growl to it, masculine and educated. It skips my ears and goes right to my knees. He could give me an unforgettable night just by describing the weather.

"Oh, yes." I try to sound airy and unconcerned. "I was making sure this fern was OK." Even as the words slip out of my mouth I want to die. A thousand dollar favor, an afternoon spent in a salon, clothing purchased that I'll have to return tomorrow, all of it arranged to talk to this incredible hunk of a man, and here I am blowing my only chance.

"And?" He arches an eyebrow.

I don't understand. "And?"

"The fern?" He gestures with his glass of whiskey. "How is it?"

I inhale and consider the plant critically. Reach out to brush it, give it a little shake, and then nod. "It will do, I suppose." I don't know what I'm saying. "For now. If it continues to behave."

He smiles, and I nearly swoon, the
back of my hand to my forehead
kind of sensation and all. This isn't even remotely fair. He's destroying all my defenses without even trying.

"Oh, good. I wouldn't want to have to explain unruly ferns to the press," he says. "It's not supposed to be that kind of event."

I nod gravely and step around the fern, a little closer to him. In the shadows of the annex, the black part of his tux seems to melt into gloom, while the white shirt and his blue eyes seem to almost glow. And I get a hint - just a sense – of... melancholy? What is he doing out here during his own fundraiser?

"I'm Myra Cole," I say, extending my hand.

"Alexander Adams," he says, and shakes my hand. "A pleasure to meet you." His hand is large, surprisingly callused, as if he isn't a stranger to manual labor, and warm.

"The pleasure is mine," I say. I want to ask him what he's doing out here. Why his smile is touched by sadness. But instead I raise my chin and assume my most professional attitude. "I must warn you."

His eyebrow goes back up. Oh, my. He's got a Cary Grant/George Clooney kind of elegance and sophistication. Hot without trying to be. "Warn me?" I can hear a hint of amusement in his deliriously delicious voice.