“Something tells me I’m going to have more fun.”
“Ahem.”
Jan and Daniel turned to see Marsha Betterman standing behind them.
“Eavesdropping on the boss, Marsha?” Jan said.
Marsha ignored the remark. “Daniel, Miss De Vere called. She said she’ll meet you at the Four Seasons at 7:00 p.m.”
“Thanks, Marsha. I’d better get going. Can’t keep hizzonor the mayor waiting.”
Jan looked at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to get going too. See you tomorrow?”
Daniel nodded, downed the rest of his drink. “I’ll be here.”
Chapter 27
Larry Sinclair’s Townhouse
JAN BANGED the brass door knocker, made in the shape of a field cannon. He looked at the mistletoe garland that drooped from the door’s lintel and frowned. I hope Larry doesn’t try to kiss me!
The man who opened the door wasn’t Larry Sinclair. He was the guy with the auburn curls and dark eyes whom Jan had met outside the Broad Street Diner.
“Well hello. We meet again. Is it fate, or coincidence?” the man said.
Jan blinked his loss for words.
“Don’t just stand there, come in. Come in!”
“Thanks,” Jan said as he stepped into a large room made small by an enormous Christmas tree. Nearby, a long mahogany trestle table bore the weight of silver platters and épergnes spilling over with every kind of food. At each end of the table, crystal punch bowls brimmed with mulled wine. The aroma of cinnamon and evergreen filled the air. From a mezzanine above the living room, a string quartet played a Bach concerto.
“I’d ask to take your coat, but you’re not wearing one—and I still don’t know your name.”
Jan smiled. “Well for starters, my name is Jan Phillips, and I’m not wearing a coat because I live just a few doors from here.”
“How convenient. My name’s Stephen Roman. I’m the official greeter and drink getter.”
The two shook hands. Roman had the firm grip of a man sure of himself. Jan looked around at the crowded room and chuckled. “Stephen, it looks like you’re in for a long night.”
“What are you drinking?” Stephen said as he guided Jan toward a bar.
“Campari over ice with a twist, if you have it.”
As if by magic, a short glass filled with the ruby liqueur appeared. Jan took a sip. He winked at Stephen and said, “Smooth, very smooth.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Stephen said coyly.
Jan just shook his head at the flirting. It was something he hadn’t done in many years. He made his way to where Larry Sinclair was holding court at the steps leading up to the mezzanine.
“Well as I live and breathe! Look everyone. It’s the all too elusive, and may I say gorgeous, Jan Phillips!”
The group of men and women, who were often referred to as “the beautiful people,” parted like the proverbial Red Sea. Larry, dressed in a vintage Elsa Schiaparelli red velvet gown, rose, reached out, and pumped Jan’s hand, holding on just a tad too long before releasing it.
Jan swept the room with a glance. “Larry, you’ve outdone yourself.” He moved in close to Larry’s ear. “Who is Stephen Roman? I mean, what’s his story?”
“Are you interested?”
“Maybe.”
“Well so am I, but alas, so is half of Philadelphia. The other half will be too, once they get a look at him.”
“I asked for his story, not his stats. Where does he come from?”
“Everyone who meets Stephen Roman asks the same question. I play dumb, but for you I’ll make an exception.” Larry took Jan by the hand and said, “Come on, then, if you really want to know.”
Jan allowed himself to be pulled along through the crowd, down a short hallway and into Larry’s library. A small fire burned in the hearth. Books on the art of warfare filled floor-to-ceiling shelves. A large bust of Napoleon Bonaparte held a place of honor near a desk of polished rosewood.
Larry dropped his public persona—that of a flippant, sarcastic queen. It was a mien he employed as armor against the scorn of less
“Ahem.”
Jan and Daniel turned to see Marsha Betterman standing behind them.
“Eavesdropping on the boss, Marsha?” Jan said.
Marsha ignored the remark. “Daniel, Miss De Vere called. She said she’ll meet you at the Four Seasons at 7:00 p.m.”
“Thanks, Marsha. I’d better get going. Can’t keep hizzonor the mayor waiting.”
Jan looked at his wristwatch. “I’ve got to get going too. See you tomorrow?”
Daniel nodded, downed the rest of his drink. “I’ll be here.”
Chapter 27
Larry Sinclair’s Townhouse
JAN BANGED the brass door knocker, made in the shape of a field cannon. He looked at the mistletoe garland that drooped from the door’s lintel and frowned. I hope Larry doesn’t try to kiss me!
The man who opened the door wasn’t Larry Sinclair. He was the guy with the auburn curls and dark eyes whom Jan had met outside the Broad Street Diner.
“Well hello. We meet again. Is it fate, or coincidence?” the man said.
Jan blinked his loss for words.
“Don’t just stand there, come in. Come in!”
“Thanks,” Jan said as he stepped into a large room made small by an enormous Christmas tree. Nearby, a long mahogany trestle table bore the weight of silver platters and épergnes spilling over with every kind of food. At each end of the table, crystal punch bowls brimmed with mulled wine. The aroma of cinnamon and evergreen filled the air. From a mezzanine above the living room, a string quartet played a Bach concerto.
“I’d ask to take your coat, but you’re not wearing one—and I still don’t know your name.”
Jan smiled. “Well for starters, my name is Jan Phillips, and I’m not wearing a coat because I live just a few doors from here.”
“How convenient. My name’s Stephen Roman. I’m the official greeter and drink getter.”
The two shook hands. Roman had the firm grip of a man sure of himself. Jan looked around at the crowded room and chuckled. “Stephen, it looks like you’re in for a long night.”
“What are you drinking?” Stephen said as he guided Jan toward a bar.
“Campari over ice with a twist, if you have it.”
As if by magic, a short glass filled with the ruby liqueur appeared. Jan took a sip. He winked at Stephen and said, “Smooth, very smooth.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Stephen said coyly.
Jan just shook his head at the flirting. It was something he hadn’t done in many years. He made his way to where Larry Sinclair was holding court at the steps leading up to the mezzanine.
“Well as I live and breathe! Look everyone. It’s the all too elusive, and may I say gorgeous, Jan Phillips!”
The group of men and women, who were often referred to as “the beautiful people,” parted like the proverbial Red Sea. Larry, dressed in a vintage Elsa Schiaparelli red velvet gown, rose, reached out, and pumped Jan’s hand, holding on just a tad too long before releasing it.
Jan swept the room with a glance. “Larry, you’ve outdone yourself.” He moved in close to Larry’s ear. “Who is Stephen Roman? I mean, what’s his story?”
“Are you interested?”
“Maybe.”
“Well so am I, but alas, so is half of Philadelphia. The other half will be too, once they get a look at him.”
“I asked for his story, not his stats. Where does he come from?”
“Everyone who meets Stephen Roman asks the same question. I play dumb, but for you I’ll make an exception.” Larry took Jan by the hand and said, “Come on, then, if you really want to know.”
Jan allowed himself to be pulled along through the crowd, down a short hallway and into Larry’s library. A small fire burned in the hearth. Books on the art of warfare filled floor-to-ceiling shelves. A large bust of Napoleon Bonaparte held a place of honor near a desk of polished rosewood.
Larry dropped his public persona—that of a flippant, sarcastic queen. It was a mien he employed as armor against the scorn of less
Similar Books
