“Patrice doesn’t have to be right,” she muttered as she put the roses into the vase one at a time. “He’s sweet.”
Because she lived in midtown Manhattan, it didn’t take them long to reach the St. Regis on Fifth Avenue. The affair was held on the twentieth floor. The huge room was beautifully lit by crystal chandeliers and sheer, white curtains hung at the floor-to-ceiling windows.
About two hundred people sat at tables with white linen tablecloths where their names had been handwritten on tiny placards and put at their place settings. Belana and Eli were seated at a table with three other couples. Introductions were made after which Belana made polite conversation with a matronly woman with white hair who wore a vintage Chanel suit in a pale pink, pebbled fabric. Belana was fond of vintage clothing and complimented the woman on her suit.
“Oh, darling,” said the woman in a thick New York accent, “this thing has seen me through every presidency since Kennedy. I bought it when Jackie was First Lady. I so admired her style. This suit has outlasted three husbands.”
Belana smiled at the woman’s analogy. It seemed a good suit was more reliable than some men. A cynical view, but an amusing one.
“Well, it has definitely held up over the years,” Belana said.
They chatted throughout the meal which was delicious: prime rib, twice-baked potatoes, broccoli and cauliflower florets, and for dessert, New York cheesecake with fresh strawberries.
After the meal, several of the players got up and told jokes about their coach. It seemed that the fundraiser doubled as a roast. Following the roast, even though there was a band and a dance floor, everyone stood around and conversed over after-dinner drinks. The topic of conversation was invariably basketball. Belana tried her best to look interested, but she was almost relieved when her bladder started complaining and she had to excuse herself to go to the ladies’ room.
She took her time freshening up. Just before leaving the powder room, she looked into the mirror to make sure her upswept hairdo had not bowed to gravity too much over the course of the evening. She rearranged tendrils of her long auburn hair, applied more lipstick, then rejoined Eli and the others.
As she approached the group of men Eli was conversing with, she noticed the back of a man she hadn’t noticed before. He wore his suit well, and although he wasn’t as tall as some of the players, he was otherwise physically their match. There was something awfully familiar about those broad shoulders and the confident manner in which he carried himself.
When she got closer she noticed that he had a beard, one of those very short, neatly trimmed beards that amounted to little more than a few days’ growth. On some men it looked sexy, as it did on this man, or maybe it was the whole package. From this angle he was utterly masculine-looking. He had a classic profile with a strong, square-shaped jaw, high cheekbones, a rather large nose, and full lips. Plus, he had the kind of rich, dark-chocolate skin she was attracted to in a man. Belana moved around so that she could see his face, then she raised her eyes and nearly gasped out loud.
Nicolas Reed. What is he doing here? she screamed in her head. Eli put a possessive arm about her shoulders. She was grateful to have someone to lean on.
Her brain made the connection: Nicolas was a sports agent. This event had a lot of athletes in attendance. Oh, Lord, don’t let him be … she was thinking when Eli cleared his throat and said, “Belana, I’d like you to meet my agent, Nicolas Reed.” He proudly said this as if Nicolas were someone he greatly admired. “Nick, this is my date, Belana Whitaker. Belana’s a principal dancer with the New York City Repertory Dance Theatre.”
Belana tried to smile as she raised her hand to shake Nicolas’s. “Mr. Reed,” she said coolly.
“Miss Whitaker,” Nicolas said, equally coolly. Their eyes met and Belana could see he was just as shocked to see her as she was to see him. Good, she thought, at least I’m not the only one with a racing heart and sweaty palms.
In the ensuing silence, Eli tried to break the ice with, “I think ballet dancers have to be good athletes to perform the way they do.” He smiled down at Belana. “I know I couldn’t do what you do.”
“We definitely wouldn’t want to see you in a tutu,” quipped Nicolas. The other four men laughed uproariously at this, while Nick’s dark brown eyes raked over Belana in a sensual caress that made her heart beat even faster. “Really, Eli, ballet is admittedly beautiful to watch but you couldn’t refer to it as a sport, or the dancers as athletes. It’s an art form. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Whitaker?”
Belana held her irritation in check. So that was how he wanted to play it: go along with her apparent desire to pretend they didn’t know each other. It would be uncomfortable for her to have to explain their association to Eli, and he knew it. He would have his fun, though, by sending subtle digs her way.
“All I know is,” Belana said very deliberately, “that after twenty years of ballet, I’ve sustained numerous injuries, have often worked myself to exhaustion, my body drenched in sweat, and I have a chiropractor on call.”
“Sounds like an athlete to me,” said one of the gentlemen standing in their circle. Belana thought she’d heard someone say he was the team’s chiropractor. His comment elicited a chuckle or two from everyone.
“Of course she’s an athlete,” said Eli, smiling down at Belana with something like worship in his gaze. Belana groaned inwardly. That’s all she needed, having to deal with a smitten date and an angry ex simultaneously. Maybe she could find some excuse to leave, or at the very least a way to get out of Nick’s presence.
She smiled up at Eli. “Dance with me?”
The band was playing a very nice version of Norah Jones’s “Come Away with Me.”
To her surprise, Eli blushed, and ducked his head. “I’d love to dance with you, Belana, but I’m sorry to say I’ve got two left feet.”
Another of his friends laughed good-naturedly. “Big men rarely have any rhythm. Our feet are too big.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Belana said, smiling at all of them. “I’ve seen the fancy footwork you use on the court!”
She grasped Eli’s hand. “Come on, I’ll teach you.”
He was putty in her hands. He let her lead him on to the dance floor and show him how to hold her while they attempted a simple two-step. He stepped on her toes four times inside of three minutes. With each misstep he looked more embarrassed. Belana, not wanting to put him through the agony any longer, didn’t protest when he said, “We’d better stop before I injure you.”
She got up on the balls of her feet and kissed him on the cheek. “It was sweet of you to try.”
“Anything for you, Belana,” he said, smiling shyly.
Belana felt terrible as they walked back to his group of friends. She had put him through that bit of humiliation all because she hadn’t wanted to face Nick.
As if she’d conjured him up by thinking of him, Nick was suddenly standing in front of them. He glanced at her, but addressed Eli. “I’ll dance with Miss Whitaker if it’s all right with you, Eli.”
Eli looked relieved and grateful all at once. He smiled down at Belana. “If it’s okay with Belana,” he said.
Belana didn’t see how she could refuse without appearing rude. Nick was Eli’s agent and obviously his friend, too. “I’d be delighted,” she said with convincing politeness.
Nick took her by the arm and led her back on to the dance floor. The band had finished the Norah Jones number and had begun the standard, “When I Fall in Love.”
As soon as he pulled her into his arms she knew