“Oh, you know how Liz is,” Mrs. Hampton said, patting Bridget’s hand as she pulled her along. “Come, now, there’s someone else I want you to meet. This one is in the art supply business. Now, promise me you won’t talk shop all night.”
“Promise,” Bridget said. Lord, could this get any worse? She wished brazen Liz would just walk right up to Eric Statler and introduce herself. Then Bridget could consider the night a success and go home.
“Here we are. Bridget Van Zandt, meet Fred Santoro.”
“How do you do, Mr.—”
The pudgy, fiftyish man shook her hand while his gaze focused firmly on her cleavage. “Nice to meet you, honey. Say, that’s some dress. Really displays the goods to perfection, know what I mean?”
Yikes! She was afraid she did. She looked helplessly for Mrs. Hampton, who had immediately disappeared.
“You married, little lady?”
Oh, barfola. Little lady? “Um, well—”
He upped the wattage of his leer. “Ah, I see. No ring. You must be one of these liberated gals, don’t want to be tied down with a kitchen and kids. Yeah, I understand.” He winked, then took her arm and tried to lead her away. At such close proximity, she could smell overindulgence on his breath. “Do you like Cadillacs?”
Bridget dug in her heels. “Let me go.”
“What’s the matter, honey?” he asked, genuinely befuddled. Maybe this approach usually worked for him, but she couldn’t imagine how.
“Listen, Mr. Santoro, I’m not your honey and I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He looked skeptical.
Feeling panicked, she resorted to a lie. “There’s my husband, that’s him, right over there.” She pointed to a complete stranger who stood out from the crowd, and not just because of his clothing. He was tall. And gorgeous. And a bit out of place in this fancy gilt ballroom with his outdoorsy good looks. She could picture him riding a horse or chopping wood or paddling a kayak.
He watched her, amused for some reason.
Her mouth went dry. My, my, why hadn’t Mrs. Hampton introduced her to him?
Mr. Santoro immediately released her. “Oh, um, sorry, there, now, didn’t mean to step on any toes.” He literally backed away, ducking his head, holding his hands out as if beseeching forgiveness before disappearing behind an ice sculpture.
“I see you’ve made another conquest.”
Bridget nearly jumped out of her high heels. The man—the fictitious husband—had materialized at her side, and he was looking at her through intriguing gray eyes with a mixture of amusement and disapproval. Surely he hadn’t been standing close enough a few moments ago to hear her fib to Mr. Santoro.
“I, um, apologize for pointing at you,” she said, stumbling on every word. “But that man was…I told him you were my, er, husband just to get rid of him. I hope I didn’t embarrass you.”
He shrugged. “As long as you don’t hold me to it.”
She looked at him quizzically. “Well, of course not.”
“Did you have a nice chat with my brother? Sorry I didn’t stick around after the introductions.”
“Who?” Bridget asked, even more confused. And then it hit her. This man, this gorgeous man with the steely eyes and the rebellious wardrobe, thought she was Liz. Her social-butterfly sister must have already gotten to him. And, Bridget thought, judging from the way he’d been sparring with her, Liz had probably done something to provoke him.
She was about to explain about her twin when he asked, “Exactly how many glasses of champagne have you had?”
She drew herself up. “None. I can’t drink alcohol because I’m…well, I’m pregnant.” There, she’d admitted it. She wasn’t planning to keep it a secret, after all, and in another three months or so she wouldn’t be able to, anyway.
His teasing smile fell away. “Congratulations. I guess that means I’ll have to stop flirting with you. If I don’t want your husband to deck me, that is.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” she said as matter-of-factly as she dared. “I’m not married.”
“Well, the baby’s father, then,” he said, frowning.
“I wouldn’t even know who that is. You see, I was art—”
“No need for explanations.” The look he gave her was suddenly cold, uncompromising. And definitely disapproving.
“But it’s not what you think. You see—”
He actually backed away from her. “Really. Enough said.”
“Will you let me finish?”
He waited for her to go on, but his expression was so implacable she suddenly couldn’t imagine what possessed her to confide anything to him.
“Oh, never mind,” she finally said in a much cooler tone. “I guess this isn’t the time or place to defend a lifestyle choice. But I might caution you not to make snap judgments. ‘Enough said’ is a convenient way of cutting off what you think you don’t want to hear.” She turned away, tears burning at the back of her eyes.
“Wait. You never told me what you thought of my brother.”
Bridget, longing to flee this train wreck of a conversation, paused. A sneaking suspicion occurred to her.
“Your brother…?”
“Eric,” he supplied, a tad impatiently.
Bridget just nodded. If she tried to explain now about Liz, things would only get more confusing. “Nice guy,” she said, then made good her escape.
NICE GUY?
Nick watched her retreat with mixed feeling. Earlier he’d decided she wasn’t his type, only to reconsider a few moments ago. Just now she’d seemed funny and vulnerable and altogether his type, and he’d been questioning his sanity in dismissing her before. He’d been crazy to introduce her to Eric! Then she’d blithely announced she was pregnant, sans husband, and he’d had to revise his opinion yet again.
Her announcement had truly surprised him. Didn’t anybody get married and have families in a normal way these days? He didn’t like to think of himself as a judgmental kind of person, but he supposed he was. Not about everything. But the irresponsible conception of children hit a nerve. His unmarried mother hadn’t meant to get pregnant with him, but she had. And he’d endured the consequences, both before and after her marriage to his stepfather, Eric Statler, Jr.
If Ms. Van Zandt—he still couldn’t remember her first name—was so careless about bringing another life into the world, that was her choice. Still, part of him wished he hadn’t alienated her. Even now he felt a tremendous urge to scour the ballroom until he found her again and apologize—for what, he didn’t know.
SO, BRIDGET THOUGHT when she was safely away from the self-superior lout, she’d been talking to Eric Statler’s brother and hadn’t even realized it. Apparently Liz hadn’t been as slow-witted. She’d finagled an introduction to Eric.
Good for her! Mission accomplished. Now all Bridget wanted was to get out of this stuffy ballroom and kick off her heels. First, however, she had to locate Liz and find out how the meeting went.
She looked all over but couldn’t find her twin. How was it that a woman as flamboyant and noticeable as Liz could manage to become invisible?
She checked the ladies’ room. No Liz. Nor could she be found at the bar, or at the long tables where items for the upcoming auction were displayed.
She trolled the ballroom one more time and suddenly found herself only