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Glenna sat quietly at a table with Purcell Jennings. Comfortable together, they didn’t speak. His intense silence told her that his photographer’s eye was already framing, lighting, capturing the essence of the scene before him.
And what a scene it was! In honor of the legendary moonbird, the ballroom had been renovated entirely in shades of white. The walls were covered with creamon-ecru flocked paper; the white ash planks of the dance floor were polished to a starry gloss. A luxurious bouquet of miniature Snow Bride roses adorned each table, and overhead huge chandeliers dripped hundreds of crystal teardrops.
The invitations had requested that the guests wear white, too, and as the women swirled by, Glenna could see how the Moonlight Ballroom got its name. The shades of ivory, cream, vanilla and pearl were like moonbeams dancing on silvered water.
Glenna was impressed—in fact, she had to make an effort not to be downright enchanted. Connelly money had managed to re-create a level of splendor that hadn’t been seen for nearly a century. There must be, she thought, a lot of Connelly money.
“You should be dancing.”
Glenna turned toward Purcell, surprised. As his Parkinson’s progressed, it was getting harder for him to talk, and ordinarily he confined himself to articulating only the essentials. Film, please. Or Less light. Surely he didn’t intend to waste his breath trying to persuade her to dance. He knew it was futile.
“Should I? Why?” She put her hand over his, aware of how little padding covered his long, elegant bones. “I’m enjoying myself here with you. And I suspect that all this pageantry is more beautiful viewed from the outside anyway.”
Purcell shook his head. “Not more beautiful,” he said slowly. “Safer. You always think outside is... safer.”
“Nonsense.” She felt herself flushing. One drawback to Purcell’s condition was that he didn’t waste any time beating around the bush. He stared at her with a piercing gray gaze that shamed her. “Well, maybe,” she modified, pleating the corner of her napkin pointlessly. “But what’s wrong with keeping a cautious distance? What you call cowardice seems like common sense to me.”
Purcell’s thick white eyebrows drew together. “Bah!” His hand twitched irritably, but he didn’t take it away. “Pure twaddle. You need to get to know these people if we’re going to get any decent pictures. Feel, Glenna. Feel what this family, this hotel, are all about.”
“I know, I know.” Glenna smiled, trying not to notice the twinge of conscience that stung her. Purcell approached all his shoots that way—feeting the atmosphere first, then trying to capture it on film.
And for once his dictates dovetailed with her own private agenda. She wanted to get to know the Connellys, maybe even ask a few subtle questions. Perhaps, before the photos were finished and their bags were packed, she might even learn which of the three young men had lured Cindy out on that fateful night.
She’d already met Philip here tonight. He might be a good place to start. He had always been the sweetest Connelly, somehow less intimidating than Mark’s roguish audacity or Edgerton’s handsome grandeur. Tonight he seemed to be hitting the champagne bar pretty hard. Even better, she thought. Champagne loosened tongues quite nicely.
“You know,” she said, hoping to distract Purcell, “we really should have brought our equipment. You could have taken some wonderful photographs here tonight.”
Purcell studied the room. “Too damn much white,” he pronounced finally. “Only thing worth shooting is the food.”
Glenna’s gaze shifted to the huge buffet table that dominated one corner of the large room. He was right. The rich red of the strawberry pyramid, the golden brown of the stuffed Cornish hens, the bursting suns of tangerine tarts and orange scones... It made such dramatic visual contrasts with all the elegant moonbeam people.
That woman, for instance, with her multilayered choker of pearls and her elaborately coiffed blond curls, was dangling a blood red strawberry between two fingers, pressing it laughingly against the lips of a man who...
Who looked like...
Who was Mark Connelly. Glenna’s stomach tightened as Mark slowly parted his lips and closed his teeth over the berry. Pale pink juices trickled down the woman’s fingers.
With another coy laugh, she held them up for Mark’s inspection, obviously inviting him to lick them clean. Glenna made a low, reproachful sound—this woman, though beautifully groomed, was clearly old enough to be his mother. Lick her fingers? Surely not.
Smiling comfortably, Mark circled the woman’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger and lowered it. With his other hand, he whisked a handkerchief from his pocket and gently swabbed at the wet fingers. The woman pursed her lips in a mock pout, but she didn’t look terribly disappointed. She looked besotted.
Glenna turned away. She grimaced at Purcell, who had been watching the tableau, too. “Ugh,” she said. “What a display.”
To her surprise, Purcell was smiling. “Why shouldn’t they flirt?” He tilted his head. “A beautiful woman. A handsome man. Soft moon, sweet music, flowing wine—”
“She’s twice his age,” Glenna broke in irritably. “I’m not a prude, but surely a woman of fifty—”
“Sex has no age,” Purcell said firmly. “And you are a prude, my dear. Just a little. You work at it.”
Stung, Glenna tossed her napkin on the table, leaning forward to argue the point, but at that moment a shadow fell across her plate. She looked up, startled, and found Mark Connelly standing just behind her chair. He had brought his strawberry-stained friend with him.
“Hello,” he said pleasantly. “I’d begun to wonder if you had stood us up. I’m glad you didn’t. I’d like you to meet Maggie Levenger.” He smiled right into her eyes. “The senator’s wife.”
The senator’s wife. Of course. Glenna summoned up polite murmurs as the introductions were made, noticing with surprise that Purcell stood to welcome the newcomer, something he rarely did anymore.
Up close, Maggie Levenger looked even older, maybe nearer to sixty, but her eyes were bright and intelligent, her smile generous. Her voice was brassy, a touch too loud, but it was full of self-deprecating humor, and Glenna suddenly regretted her earlier hasty condemnation.
“Mr. Jennings, I know your work well. I adore you.” Without ceremony, Maggie deposited herself in the chair closest to Purcell, leaving the chair by Glenna free for Mark.
Still smiling, he raised one brow—his only acknowledgment that he needed her permission to sit. She nodded reluctantly, reminding herself that his attentions fitted into her agenda nicely. Get to know the Connellys, maybe even ask a few subtle questions....
But frankly, Mark didn’t seem nearly as safe a place to start as Philip would have been. She couldn’t imagine being quite subtle enough to fool Mark. And besides, he was physically too...powerful. He seemed to send out electromagnetic signals, inviting women to dash themselves against him like ships against the shoals.
As if unaware of all that, he settled comfortably in the chair, draining his drink, something clear and on the rocks. His open gaze studied her without subterfuge.
“I really am glad you came,” he said, his tone low and somehow intimate. “You look radiant tonight. Like...starlight.”
Toying with her fork, Glenna shot him a look of half-cloaked cynicism. Were his genes automatically programmed to spew compliments when greeting any female? Besides, it was obviously a massive overstatement. In her simple, white-beaded sheath with its demure jacket, she knew that she couldn’t hold a candle to the glamorous guests in their frothing laces, their clinging satins, their cascades of pearls and diamonds.
“Surely you mean moonlight.” She met his gaze directly, to show him without delay that she was not in the market for a flirtation. It would take more than free-flowing flattery to get past her defenses. “After all, that’s the general idea, isn’t it? Moonlight Ballroom, moonbird...”
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, treating her comment as if it had been quite serious. “No, in your case, I think the effect really is more like starlight. Just a little sharper, brighter than moonbeams, you know. A shade less mellow.” He smiled. “But also a shade more exciting.”
She stared at him, momentarily at a loss. “Well,” she said finally, “I’ve washed off most of the sand since you saw me last. That’s undoubtedly an improvement over this morning.”
He let his gaze run slowly across her collarbone, down her arms. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “A dusting of sand can give a woman a rather primitive appeal, don’t you think? Earthy. Abandoned. Sensual.”
She shifted on her seat, wishing he didn’t have such an uncanny knack for getting under her skin.
“On the contrary. It’s dirty. Gritty. Uncomfortable.” She punctuated her words by tapping her fork against the tablecloth. “I much prefer to be clean, brushed and pulled together.”
“In control.” He raised that eyebrow again, and she was struck anew by the brilliance of his green eyes. They were more dramatic than ever in this room full of colorless moonlight, like two emeralds blazing in a bed of seed pearls. “You like control, don’t you? You need it.”
“Of course I do.” Her voice was slightly thin. “Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you?”
He considered. “In its place, I suppose I do. I definitely enjoy control over my finances. And my enemies.” He paused. “But I place a higher value on freedom. I’ve always believed that a little judiciously placed abandon makes life worth living.”
Her smile felt brittle. “Judiciously placed abandon? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms? Is there such a thing?”
“Of course there is,” he said, leaning back. “Here’s a good example. You’ve decided not to dance with me.” He raised a hand to quiet her confused denial. “Yes, you have. I could see it in your eyes when I sat down. You froze up like the Snow Queen. And why? Perhaps because you’re afraid to get that close to me. You’re afraid you’d lose a little control, maybe melt that icy casing just a little.”
“Good heavens.” Her voice nearly trembled.
“What a preposterous—”
He didn’t seem to hear her. He simply lifted that devilish eyebrow a millimeter higher and kept talking. “But I have to ask myself—what would be wrong with that? It’s only a dance. Even if it was the steamiest dance since Salome, when the music stopped, you probably wouldn’t find yourself morally compromised, socially ruined or pregnant.” Grinning, he hoisted one long, lean leg over the other. “So you see, succumbing in this case would be a perfect example of judiciously placed abandon.”
She smiled reluctantly. And then, in spite of herself, she laughed.
She couldn’t help it. He made it all sound so ridiculous. And, she supposed, it probably was ridiculous to be so determined to keep him at arm’s length. He was just a man. No real threat to her, not in the long run.
She knew his type—the consummate flirt who found her reserve challenging, but who, having once conquered it, would yawn and prowl off toward his next victim.
So why did the idea of dancing with him still feel so dangerous?
“Goodness,” she protested mildly, careful not to overdo it. “You make me sound rather neurotic. But believe me, I’ve never once, in the whole twelve hours I’ve known you, been afraid of you. And I’m certainly not afraid to dance with anyone.”
His eyes glittered with something like triumph. “Wonderful,” he said, taking her hand in his. “In that case...I think they’re playing our song.”
The clever devil. It had all been carefully staged, hadn’t it? Like a complicated chess game. But her urge to laugh was fading fast. His hand was so warm over hers. She could feel the rich blood pulsing in his fingertips.
“I would love to,” she said as calmly as she could. “I truly would. Except that I really must stay here with Purcell.”
Mark glanced over at the photographer, who was still lost in huddled conversation with Maggie. “Must you, Snow Queen? Looks to me as if you could take a slow boat to the North Pole and be back again before he ever noticed you were gone.”
Glenna glared at Purcell, willing him to look up. But, damn the man, he seemed to have forgotten she was alive. Maggie’s trilling laughter wafted toward her, and she sighed, abandoning hope.
She was stuck. She would have to stand up, let Mark fold his strong, warm arms around her, rest his tanned cheek against her ear, enveloping her in the mist of sensuality he exuded. If only she really were made of ice, or snow, or brittle, glittering starlight...
“All right,” she said, swallowing her nerves and smoothing her skirt. “I’ll—”
But at that moment a tiny whirlwind of organdy came swirling toward them, launching itself at Mark’s knees.
“Mark! Help!” The little girl’s voice was desperate, and she wound her fists into his dress shirt. “Daddy says I have to go to bed after this song. He won’t dance with me, but you will, won’t you?”
As Mark hesitated, the little girl twisted her head, noticing Glenna.
“Oh,” she said, managing a smile through her shine of tears. “Hi, Ms. McBride.”
Glenna smiled back. She had met Amy, Edgerton’s five-year-old daughter, earlier that afternoon out on the beach. An uninhibited, precocious child, her yellow bathing suit slipping off one shoulder, her arms poking out to accommodate puffy plastic water wings, she’d been pathetically determined to befriend “the camera lady” and had followed Glenna around for an hour.
“Tell him to dance with me, Ms. McBride. I want to dance with Mark.” Amy’s stubborn frown was ferocious, but somehow, to Glenna, irresistible.
Glenna smiled up at Mark, whose rueful, one-sided grin proved he knew he’d been foiled. Leaning over, she freshened Amy’s crumpled white organdy bow and patted her soft blond hair. “I’m sure he would be honored, wouldn’t you, Mark?” She kept her tone innocent. “In fact, he was just saying that he felt like dancing.”
To his credit, Mark gave in graciously. “That’s right, haif pint. I was.”
Amy bounced gaily. “Awesome,” she said, clapping her hands. “And then when we’re finished, will you take me up to my room, Ms. McBride? Daddy can’t leave the party, and Mamma’s sick again—she’s been sleeping since lunch.”
Glenna looked into the little girl’s expressive eyes—and, though she might have been imagining things, she believed she saw a deep longing behind the brassy audacity. What a life this child seemed to have! Building solitary sandcastles, bothering strangers on the beach. Sleeping alone in a hotel room. Daddy always busy fawning over his important guests. Mamma too frail to bother...
“Sure,” she said impulsively, not allowing herself to wonder what the Connellys would think of such an intrusion. Mark could have stepped in, prevented her involvement simply by volunteering to take the little girl upstairs himself. But he hadn’t said a word. “I’d love to.”
“All right!” Amy threw her arms around Glenna’s neck, indifferent to the crush of expensive organdy ruffles. “Now you’ll both have to tell me stories. Two stories for me!”
“Both?” Glenna glanced at Mark quickly, her heart lurching in sudden nervous awareness. So that’s what his silence was all about. “Two stories?”
“Yes.” Mark rose and took Amy’s hand. “Stories from both Ms. McBride and me. I guess it’s your lucky night.” He cocked his eyebrow as he tossed Glenna a smile over his shoulder. “I think I’ll tell her the one about the Snow Queen.”
CHAPTER THREE
AN HOUR later, Amy was finally asleep.
Glenna saw right away that Amy had wanted an extra bedtime companion primarily to help delay the dreaded moment when she actually had to get in bed. First she’d insisted on touring Glenna through her entire collection of stuffed animats. Then she’d made a fuss worthy of a prima donna out of choosing a nightgown, soliciting Glenna’s female judgment on every detail.
Even after they’d tucked her in, she’d fought hard to stay awake. Mark had to improvise his way through The Snow Queen, The Snow Queen’s Revenge and Son of Snow Queen before the little girl finally gave in to the exhaustion she clearly felt.
As they tiptoed out, Glenna glanced around the room, aware that she had badly misjudged at least this one element of Amy’s life. Edgerton hadn’t selfishly transplanted his family to the Moonbird for the duration of the campaign simply to facilitate entertaining. They lived here, in a charming suite of rooms on the fifth floor of the hotel. The top floor, the one with the most commanding view of the Gulf. Of course.
“Oh, Mark, it’s you.” A quiet, thin voice came from the far side of the living room. “I didn’t know you were here.”
Glenna followed Mark’s gaze to the spot where a door had cracked open to reveal a pale, dark-haired woman standing hesitantly, holding the edge of the door with both hands as if unsure whether she should shut it or not.
“Hi, Dee,” Mark answered cheerfully, obviously not at all surprised to see her. “We just put Amy to bed.”
The woman sighed. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I was sleeping.” She fumbled briefly with the lace at her wrists, adjusting it, and then, holding her robe closed around her throat, finally ventured out into the room. “I just came out to get a glass of water. To take some pills.”
Mark introduced them, and Glenna had to swallow a murmur of amazement. This was Deanna Connelly, Edgerton’s wife? She searched her memory, trying to dredge up a picture of Deanna in the old days—but she realized she had never actually seen her.
Edgerton had only just become engaged to socialite Deanna Fitzwilliam that summer ten years ago. Moon-bird Key was abuzz with the news. What a catch she was, even for a Connelly!
Whenever Glenna saw Edgerton nuzzling the neck of a bikinied blonde, she would ask Cindy if that was the fiancée. But Cindy had always said no, of course not, Mouse. Dee the Debutante wouldn’t risk getting sand in her tiara.
The bowed head of the woman standing here now didn’t look as if it could support the weight of a crown. After the introductions, Deanna seemed to summon up a little energy, but the effort to make small talk clearly wearied her.
Glenna once again revised her assessment of Amy’s family. Deanna wasn’t just a princess complaining over a pea. She was truly frail, apparently quite sick.
After exchanging stilted pleasantries with Glenna, she looked toward Mark. “I thought you might be Edgerton,” she told him, her voice low. “But that was foolish. Of course he’s busy. So many people to talk to, so much to do.”
Mark put his arm around her shoulder. “Oh, you know Edge,” he said lightly. “He’s got to be host, chef, gardener and chief dishwasher all in one. Perfectionists are like that. He’s probably down there right now telling the guy with the piccolo how to hit high C.”
Deanna nodded, fidgeting with the lace around her wrist. She tried to smile, but when she looked up, her eyes were red. “I know he thinks I should be there,” she said, her gaze locked on Mark, “but honestly, I’m really not well enough yet. And there are so many people....”
“Edgerton understands that, Dee.” Mark’s voice was even more gentle than it had been as he kissed Amy good-night. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to try. He just wants you to rest and get better.”
“Yes,” she said, obviously clutching his reassurances like a security blanket. She patted his shirtfront gratefully. “And I think I will. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’d better just go back to bed now and rest.”
And then, with a slight smile that hauntingly hinted at the beautiful, vibrant woman she ought to be, she was gone.
Mark stood watching the door she had shut behind her, his face expressionless. Glenna couldn’t quite imagine what he was thinking. She didn’t even know what she thought herself.
“She didn’t get her pills,” she said tentatively, just in case it was important.
“She doesn’t need them.” Mark’s voice sounded slightly harsh.
The silence stretched on. “Perhaps I’d better go,” Glenna ventured finally, when it became uncomfortable. “I’ll just say good-night to Purcell and—”
“No. Wait.”
