feminine
vanity caused her to want to look her best in anticipation of
meeting Sheila Morrison that evening? “My gown wouldn’t hang
right,” she said finally. “I thought I’d just leave the brace off
for the evening.”
Nick came up behind her and clasped
her shoulders. “I’ll miss helping you with that contraption,” he
said as he lowered his dark head to nuzzle her ear, then released
her to finish tying his black bow tie.
She marveled that she felt little
embarrassment as the two of them went about the intimate act of
dressing—as if it were a commonplace thing they had done before
each other for years. This was like the closeness her parents
shared.
Yet for Nick she knew it meant
nothing. So, as much as she wanted to reach out and run her fingers
through the thick curls that grew over Nick’s collar, she
restrained herself. Once Nick knew he had mastered her, she was
sure he would lose interest in her.
She was even more sure when she met
Sheila Morrison two hours later.
Julie had tried to control her
nervousness when she arrived at the La Fonda Inn, to appear calm
and accustomed to the elegance that surrounded her in the grand
ballroom— from the liveried waiters in gold and purple who passed
around trays filled with glasses of bubbly champagne all the way to
the distinguished governor himself who chatted amiably with Nick
and her.
But all too soon there were other
people eager to claim Nick’s attention—the oil lobbyist’s wife, a
bleached blond who had already had too much to drink; the railroad
commissioner, wanting Nick’s support for an upcoming bill; and Juan
Rivera, a famed Mexican-American artist interested in obtaining a
commission to paint a mural on the city hall’s walls.
Watching Nick as he adroitly handled
these people, she could well understand why he drew crowds wherever
he went. Not only was he exceedingly handsome, especially that
evening in the debonair dinner clothes, but he also seemed
genuinely interested in the people and their problems.
Julie was about to revise her opinion
of her political stand on the issue of Nicholas Raffer as a
senator—until Sheila Morrison came into the room.
It was a large room, filled with well
over three hundred people, but still every person there was as
cognizant of Sheila’s entrance as if a butler had stepped forward
and announced, “Santa Fe’s Patroness of the Arts— Miss Sheila
Morrison.”
Julie stood at Nick’s side and
watched, sick at heart, as the beautiful, statuesque young woman
with a tawny mane of hair moved toward them. Her every movement was
one of sensual feline grace, magnified a hundred times over by the
sleek silver lam6 gown she wore that accented her voluptuous
curves.
Sheila took a glass from the tray the
waiter offered and came to stand at Nick’s side. “Nick, love,” she
said in a husky voice, “I’ve been wanting to meet your little
wife.”
I just bet you have, Julie thought.
She felt as if all eyes were riveted on the three of them, every
breath held in delicious suspense, waiting for the clash of the two
women over the senator.
Nick’s long lips curled in amusement.
“Sheila Morrison, my wife, Julie.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Julie
lied, her voice sounding cool, with just the right amount of
self-assurance . . . self-assurance that she did not feel as she
compared herself to the incredibly lovely woman.
Sheila turned long-lashed turquoise
eyes on Nick. “All of Santa Fe is talking about the rapidity of
your courtship, Nick.” She raised a finely arched brow at Julie.
“How ever did you two meet?”
“You might say it was by accident,”
Nick said and put an arm about Julie’s waist in the possessive
maimer of a loving husband.
She wanted to grind the stiletto heel
of her shoe into his foot. His act of the adoring husband fooled
her probably no more than it did Sheila.
Nor was she fooled when Sheila just
happened to discover she shared the same table as the newlyweds.
She
vanity caused her to want to look her best in anticipation of
meeting Sheila Morrison that evening? “My gown wouldn’t hang
right,” she said finally. “I thought I’d just leave the brace off
for the evening.”
Nick came up behind her and clasped
her shoulders. “I’ll miss helping you with that contraption,” he
said as he lowered his dark head to nuzzle her ear, then released
her to finish tying his black bow tie.
She marveled that she felt little
embarrassment as the two of them went about the intimate act of
dressing—as if it were a commonplace thing they had done before
each other for years. This was like the closeness her parents
shared.
Yet for Nick she knew it meant
nothing. So, as much as she wanted to reach out and run her fingers
through the thick curls that grew over Nick’s collar, she
restrained herself. Once Nick knew he had mastered her, she was
sure he would lose interest in her.
She was even more sure when she met
Sheila Morrison two hours later.
Julie had tried to control her
nervousness when she arrived at the La Fonda Inn, to appear calm
and accustomed to the elegance that surrounded her in the grand
ballroom— from the liveried waiters in gold and purple who passed
around trays filled with glasses of bubbly champagne all the way to
the distinguished governor himself who chatted amiably with Nick
and her.
But all too soon there were other
people eager to claim Nick’s attention—the oil lobbyist’s wife, a
bleached blond who had already had too much to drink; the railroad
commissioner, wanting Nick’s support for an upcoming bill; and Juan
Rivera, a famed Mexican-American artist interested in obtaining a
commission to paint a mural on the city hall’s walls.
Watching Nick as he adroitly handled
these people, she could well understand why he drew crowds wherever
he went. Not only was he exceedingly handsome, especially that
evening in the debonair dinner clothes, but he also seemed
genuinely interested in the people and their problems.
Julie was about to revise her opinion
of her political stand on the issue of Nicholas Raffer as a
senator—until Sheila Morrison came into the room.
It was a large room, filled with well
over three hundred people, but still every person there was as
cognizant of Sheila’s entrance as if a butler had stepped forward
and announced, “Santa Fe’s Patroness of the Arts— Miss Sheila
Morrison.”
Julie stood at Nick’s side and
watched, sick at heart, as the beautiful, statuesque young woman
with a tawny mane of hair moved toward them. Her every movement was
one of sensual feline grace, magnified a hundred times over by the
sleek silver lam6 gown she wore that accented her voluptuous
curves.
Sheila took a glass from the tray the
waiter offered and came to stand at Nick’s side. “Nick, love,” she
said in a husky voice, “I’ve been wanting to meet your little
wife.”
I just bet you have, Julie thought.
She felt as if all eyes were riveted on the three of them, every
breath held in delicious suspense, waiting for the clash of the two
women over the senator.
Nick’s long lips curled in amusement.
“Sheila Morrison, my wife, Julie.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Julie
lied, her voice sounding cool, with just the right amount of
self-assurance . . . self-assurance that she did not feel as she
compared herself to the incredibly lovely woman.
Sheila turned long-lashed turquoise
eyes on Nick. “All of Santa Fe is talking about the rapidity of
your courtship, Nick.” She raised a finely arched brow at Julie.
“How ever did you two meet?”
“You might say it was by accident,”
Nick said and put an arm about Julie’s waist in the possessive
maimer of a loving husband.
She wanted to grind the stiletto heel
of her shoe into his foot. His act of the adoring husband fooled
her probably no more than it did Sheila.
Nor was she fooled when Sheila just
happened to discover she shared the same table as the newlyweds.
She
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