Brothers of Paradise Series

“So I heard,” I say.

“I know Henry’s father very well,” Jack says to Faye, eyes glittering conspiratorially. “One of the finest men on the Eastern seaboard.”

One of the richest, I want to correct, not finest. But in these circles the words are usually synonymous.

Faye unleashes her winning smile. “How lovely to meet a family friend,” she says kindly. “Did you know Henry growing up?”

I shoot her a warning glance-what kind of topic is that?-but she ignores me. Jack nods, drawn in by her megawatt smile. I can’t blame the man for his weakness. I share the same one.

“Oh, yes. I’ve heard lots of stories from Michael. Met you a few times too, growing up, didn’t I?” He nods at me. “Tall, lanky, always fiddling about on the ocean. A fine boy who grew up to be a fine man.”

I refuse to look at Faye and the amusement undoubtedly on her features. “Sounds like me,” I say instead. “Jack, this is Faye Alvarez.”

Faye shakes Jack’s hand. His eyes are glittering as he takes her in-the man never met a pretty face he didn’t like.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Henry. Women like this don’t grow on trees.”

It’s meant as a compliment, and still, I feel Faye’s arm stiffen where it touches mine. I remember her cover letter-how she hated being judged only for her appearance, be it her beauty or her Hispanic features, the dark hair and olive skin.

Her face is still the picture of pleasantness.

“You’re right,” I say. “She’s an exceptionally talented architect.”

Jack’s eyebrows rise. “Is that so? How fascinating-how amazing!”

I can hear what he’s not saying. How surprising.

“Indeed.”

“Mark my words, son, hold on to her. If I’d found women with brains, I wouldn’t have had to go through so many divorces.”

He laughs at his own joke. I excuse us, moving along through the gallery and into the next. An elaborate ice sculpture rests on the middle of a table filled with hors d’oeuvres. There’s silence between us, and I’m afraid she’s offended. That this was too much.

“Come to think of it,” I say, “I was never too fond of old Uncle Jack.”

Faye chuckles, the tension released. “I can’t for the life of me imagine why.”

The next hour passes by with unbearable dullness. We discuss the weather-unusually warm for the season-and exchange summer plans with people I have no interest in meeting again. I find out that Mr. Damien Glover, who is on the board for the Opera Project, loves tennis and that his favorite opera is L’Elisir d’Amore.

“Donizetti was a master of the comedic,” I say. “Lucrezia Borgia is a given favorite.”

His eyes lit up.

But I learn nothing more of interest, and he’s soon whisked away by equally hungry minglers. And while I wanted to make a good impression, there is no getting around the fact that the jury will be judging projects based on merit-not name. I could be their favorite person in the world and it still wouldn’t matter.

Somewhere over the past hour, Faye branched out on her own, both of us working opposite areas of the room. I look for her in the crowd.

It’s not hard to spot her. The gold dress hugs every part of her, the silk clinging to her shape in a way that manages to be both tasteful and alluring. The contrast with her dark hair, waves spilling down her back, makes her easy to pick out.

She’s talking to a group of people-three or four of them-and all are listening to her. Her back is turned to me, but it’s not hard to imagine what her face looks like. Animated, enthusiastic, her effortless smile in place and dark eyes alight with intelligence, her hands moving. Interacting with people seems to come easily to her in a way it never has for me.

She’s smart as a whip and too good-looking by half.

If she wasn’t my assistant, I would ask her out. It’s an unwelcome realization, but I don’t lie, and especially not to myself.

Doesn’t matter now regardless. Her talent and work ethic are too important to me, and to the firm, not to mention to Faye herself. Whatever attraction I feel is not only unnecessary, but risky as hell. It’s mine to deal with on my own.

I take a sip of the champagne-still too acidic-and watch as she brushes her hair back. Secluded in this corner of the gallery, it’s all too easy to escape notice for a few minutes, to avoid the well-wishers and sycophants and expectations.

A familiar voice breaks my peaceful solitude. “Hello, Henry. It’s been a long time.”

Damn. I should’ve known she’d be here. Avery, who I’d ended things with months ago. Who had been upset with me when I told her I didn’t see a future for us-despite having been upfront about that from the start.

Her hair is piled up high and she has a martini glass in hand. I don’t know how she managed to get a martini in this place ridden with poor champagne, but she’d always had a knack for getting her way.

“Hello, Avery. How are you?”

She sweeps kohl-rimmed eyes over me. “Excellent. I wintered in Aspen and spent most of the spring in Costa Rica.”Property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

“How thrilling.”

“Yes,” she says coolly. “My family’s charity. You remember, I’m sure. Your memory was always flawless.”

“I do, yes.” Just like I remembered how angry she’d been after I’d corrected her-after she told me that I had strung her along-and I could remind her of all the times I’d made the casual nature of our relationship clear.

“I’m here with Oscar Lang,” she says airily. “I’ve been dating him for nearly five months now.”

The name rings a faint bell. A Wall Street-type, I think. “Congratulations.”

“He has a place in the Hamptons. We’ll probably summer there.”

“You always did enjoy it there.”

Her eyes flash, like she thinks I’m insulting her when I’m just stating a fact. I try to think back to fun conversations between us, to jokes and teasing, but I can’t remember any. Our entire relationship had been based on politeness.

“So, Henry,” she drawls, “tell me. Who’s the lucky woman in your life? Or are there several? I know you’re not the type to commit.”

Not to you. The thought comes unbidden.

“I am not-” An arm threads through mine and I look down to see Faye smiling up at me.

“There you are! I lost you, and now I’ve interrupted you. I’m sorry, Henry.” She nods a hello to Avery. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Faye.”

Avery shakes her hand, animosity clear in her cold, impassive features. “Avery.”

“A pleasure.”

“Likewise. So this is your date? Or girlfriend, even?” She turns a patronizing smile on Faye. “Be careful with this one, honey. He’s not the committing type. You might be in for a bit of heartbreak.”