performed her part in their prescripted little drama without a flaw. Lyle’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she stepped back.
“I’ll keep this for you until we can put it in the safe at home.” Lyle took the box from her and restored it to his pocket. Maggy knew that she would see the brooch again only when he wanted her to wear it to impress someone. Lyle kept the jewelry he bought for her under lock and key, and that, Maggy knew, was to keep her as dependent on him as possible. Not that he really feared she would try to leave him—after all, he still had David as the ultimate trump card—but just in case.
Maggy, still smiling though her facial muscles ached at the effort, cut the magnificent, five-tiered chocolate cake, and held out the first piece to Lyle so that he could eat from her hand, just as a bride might feed her new husbandcake at their wedding reception. This was an old ritual at her birthday party, one that Lyle insisted she follow every year. The hypocrisy of it used to sicken her, but lately she had grown beyond even being sickened by what her life had become.
If hypocrisy had only been the worst of her troubles, she would have borne it gladly.
Lyle ate his cake, fed her a piece, and the pianist launched into the opening bars of “Blue Skies.” She barely had time to wipe her mouth with a napkin before Lyle grabbed her hand and ran with her down the pair of steps to the dance floor, where he swung her into his arms for their ritual dance. Lyle was a wonderful dancer, exhibitionistic in that as in everything else, twirling her around so that her full skirt swirled, dipping her and twirling her again. One hand resting on his shoulder and the other on his waist, a smile pinned to her face, Maggy played her part in the charade just as she did every year. When they finished, the guests applauded.
“Have a good time, folks. The buffet’s open and the dance floor’s hot,” Lyle yelled. Then the ritual was over. Lyle dropped her hand as they ascended the steps. Maggy paused to accept compliments on Lyle’s dancing from one of the couples who were already moving onto the dance floor. Most of the guests had descended upon the buffet in a chattering throng, she saw as the couple moved away at last and she was free to glance around. Waiters were dishing up shrimp Creole and beef Wellington and all the trimmings, and slicing and serving the cake. Lyle was huddled with James Brean and a little group of businessmen in the far corner of the room. Lyle always had some deal or another in the works. Rich though he was, he was tireless in his pursuit of more money. Relieved to be freed of his presence, temporarily at least, and completely devoid of appetite, Maggy glanced longingly toward the door. She needed to get outside, get a breath of fresh air, and decide what was best to do.
What could she do?
A tall man in an expensive-looking navy suit planted himself squarely in front of her, blocking her escape. Nick. She knew who it was even before her eyes traveled up over his broad, white-shirted chest and elegant foulard tie past the linebacker’s shoulders to his toughly handsome face. His expression was grave as he met her gaze, though there was the merest hint of a twinkle in his eyes that told her he knew she was less than pleased to be cornered by him.
Unable to control the impulse, Maggy swiftly glanced past him to see if Lyle was watching them. He was still far away in the corner of the room, for which she was thankful. His back was turned to them as he talked with his friends.
“C hampagne?” Nick asked, holding up a crystal flute half full of the golden liquid. An identical crystal flute was in his other hand, and he swirled its contents idly as he waited for her response.
“Please,” Maggy said in a low, tense voice, ignoring the proffered glass, her eyes just touching Nick’s before darting away toward Lyle again, “just leave.”
He downed the champagne in his glass in a gulp—Lyle
“I’ll keep this for you until we can put it in the safe at home.” Lyle took the box from her and restored it to his pocket. Maggy knew that she would see the brooch again only when he wanted her to wear it to impress someone. Lyle kept the jewelry he bought for her under lock and key, and that, Maggy knew, was to keep her as dependent on him as possible. Not that he really feared she would try to leave him—after all, he still had David as the ultimate trump card—but just in case.
Maggy, still smiling though her facial muscles ached at the effort, cut the magnificent, five-tiered chocolate cake, and held out the first piece to Lyle so that he could eat from her hand, just as a bride might feed her new husbandcake at their wedding reception. This was an old ritual at her birthday party, one that Lyle insisted she follow every year. The hypocrisy of it used to sicken her, but lately she had grown beyond even being sickened by what her life had become.
If hypocrisy had only been the worst of her troubles, she would have borne it gladly.
Lyle ate his cake, fed her a piece, and the pianist launched into the opening bars of “Blue Skies.” She barely had time to wipe her mouth with a napkin before Lyle grabbed her hand and ran with her down the pair of steps to the dance floor, where he swung her into his arms for their ritual dance. Lyle was a wonderful dancer, exhibitionistic in that as in everything else, twirling her around so that her full skirt swirled, dipping her and twirling her again. One hand resting on his shoulder and the other on his waist, a smile pinned to her face, Maggy played her part in the charade just as she did every year. When they finished, the guests applauded.
“Have a good time, folks. The buffet’s open and the dance floor’s hot,” Lyle yelled. Then the ritual was over. Lyle dropped her hand as they ascended the steps. Maggy paused to accept compliments on Lyle’s dancing from one of the couples who were already moving onto the dance floor. Most of the guests had descended upon the buffet in a chattering throng, she saw as the couple moved away at last and she was free to glance around. Waiters were dishing up shrimp Creole and beef Wellington and all the trimmings, and slicing and serving the cake. Lyle was huddled with James Brean and a little group of businessmen in the far corner of the room. Lyle always had some deal or another in the works. Rich though he was, he was tireless in his pursuit of more money. Relieved to be freed of his presence, temporarily at least, and completely devoid of appetite, Maggy glanced longingly toward the door. She needed to get outside, get a breath of fresh air, and decide what was best to do.
What could she do?
A tall man in an expensive-looking navy suit planted himself squarely in front of her, blocking her escape. Nick. She knew who it was even before her eyes traveled up over his broad, white-shirted chest and elegant foulard tie past the linebacker’s shoulders to his toughly handsome face. His expression was grave as he met her gaze, though there was the merest hint of a twinkle in his eyes that told her he knew she was less than pleased to be cornered by him.
Unable to control the impulse, Maggy swiftly glanced past him to see if Lyle was watching them. He was still far away in the corner of the room, for which she was thankful. His back was turned to them as he talked with his friends.
“C hampagne?” Nick asked, holding up a crystal flute half full of the golden liquid. An identical crystal flute was in his other hand, and he swirled its contents idly as he waited for her response.
“Please,” Maggy said in a low, tense voice, ignoring the proffered glass, her eyes just touching Nick’s before darting away toward Lyle again, “just leave.”
He downed the champagne in his glass in a gulp—Lyle
Similar Books
