Anger rose to the surface, the source of which she could not determine. But it was there, bubbling hot, as impossible to hold back as steam from a boiling pot. “I was thinking you’d be happy for me. I was thinking that after the fiasco with Derek you might be wish me well.”

“But Stephen?” Her mother sighed, as if the man were not standing in the room.

Beside her, Catherine felt him stiffen. “What’s the problem, Mother? He’s a good man, and I know it can’t be his pedigree. He comes from the same family as Derek.”

“But…” Deirdra let the thought go unfinished.

“But what?” Catherine persisted.

“I think I know where this is heading,” Stephen said, his voice quiet, his features tight. “I’m not the right Danbury, am I, Mrs. Canton?”

“It’s nothing like that.”

“Like what? What’s going on here?” Catherine asked, but she was afraid she knew. And it horrified her to think that her own mother could harbor the kind of prejudices that had already so wounded the man standing beside her.

“We’re sure you’re a fine man, Stephen. We just don’t know you well,” her father said.

“You can get to know him.” You can get to know both of us, she almost said, because in that instant she realized there was more than one stranger in the room.

Perhaps it was her pleading stare, or the fact that her mother preferred entertaining to arguing, but her parents seemed to thaw a little. Resignation, Catherine decided, would be a welcome substitute for acceptance at this point.

“I’d love some champagne,” Deirdra said. “Fetch a bottle from the cellar, would you, Russell? Felicity can get the glasses.”

She waved Catherine and Stephen toward the settee. “Come and sit.”

Catherine had barely settled onto the brocade upholstery when her mother added, “One day, you know, that settee will be yours.”

Chapter Six

“THAT went well,” Catherine said as they drove home after one of the most excruciatingly long and awkward hours of her life.

“Yeah. I’m sure they won’t go into mourning when our marriage ends.”

“Sorry about that.”

“We are what we are, Catherine.” And she knew he was talking about more than her parents.

Neither one spoke again until they arrived at the house. He parked the car in the garage and then held the back door for her.

As they passed through the kitchen, Catherine said, “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

The way he looked at her when he said it had her mouth going dry. Something simmered in his dark eyes, and the memory of their last kiss stirred her blood.

“I could fix you a sandwich.”

“A sandwich?” He smiled as if she’d told a joke. “Why not? But I’ll fix it myself. Is there anything you want?”

His question went beyond cold cuts, she was sure. She shook her head. “I’ll keep you company, if you’d like?”

“I’d like.”

She sat in the nook and watched him, the wealthy head of one of the most recognizable store chains in America, move around in the well-planned room in his stockinged feet.

When he was seated across from her, a huge sandwich and generous wedge of cake filling his plate, she said, “It looks like someone remembered your birthday.”

“Rosaria made it.”

Relief had her grinning. “I met her the other day.”

“Yes. She mentioned it.”

“She seems very nice. Does she just work for you the one day a week?”

Sandwich half way to his mouth, he paused. “Excuse me.”

“She mentioned that she does the grocery shopping for you.”

He dumped the sandwich back onto the plate. His tone angry, glacial, he said, “And you want to know what days she works for me?”

“I believe that’s what I asked.”

“Because someone who looks like her would of course be the hired help?”

“Stephen, did I miss something here? You’re suddenly angry and I have no idea why.”

“Of course you don’t. I don’t know why I expected you to. We are what we are,” he said, echoing his words from the drive home.

“If I’ve said something to offend you, please tell me so I can apologize.”

“Drop it. It’s not important.”

“It seems important to you. I’d like to know—”

“Rosaria is my aunt,” he interrupted. “You assumed she was the hired help.”

It was her turn to be angry. “Yes, I assumed. I saw a woman, wearing a uniform, putting away groceries in your kitchen. I put two and two together and came up with four.”

“Because that’s the stereotype.”

“Because no one told me differently.”

“And it never occurred to you that I would have family?” His voice rose and he said something in Spanish that she decided was not at all pleasant. “I do. A family that looks a hell of a lot more like me than I look like the Danburys. It is because of them that I know how to speak my mother’s language, even though my grandparents forbade me from doing so in their home. That only made me all the more determined to become fluent, which I was by the time I was thirteen.”

“Did you see them regularly, then?”

“I saw my maternal grandmother every day. When the Danburys wouldn’t allow her to visit me she offered to clean their house. She hired in as their maid so that she could be near me.”

His voice shook with emotion—anger, and something else that caused Catherine’s heart to ache for the little boy who had been denied so much.

“It’s because of mi abuelita that I have pictures of my mother. My grandparents would not allow a single snapshot of her to be displayed. They were ashamed of her, ashamed that their Harvard-educated son had married a Puerto Rican maid who spoke broken English.”

“Oh, Stephen. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” She reached across the table to touch his hand. But he pulled away.

“Now you do.”

The silence stretched, before she asked in a quiet voice, “Do they know about me? I know Rosaria does, but do the others?”

“I’ve told them about our arrangement, yes.”

“Oh.” He’d told them about their arrangement. She could only wonder what they must think of her.

“Will I meet them?”

“No. I see no point in that. You talk a good game when it comes to acceptance and equality, but the first time you run across a brown-skinned woman in a kitchen you automatically assume she’s there because someone has paid her to tidy up. You disappoint me, Catherine. I didn’t think you were so much like your mother.”

Stephen said the words, and in his anger he meant the words, but then he watched her face pale and he wished he could snatch them back.

She scooted off the bench seat, eyes overly bright. Her voice was a shaky whisper when she said, “I’m sorry.”

And then she was gone.

Stephen’s appetite fled as well, taking with it all his anger. Now he just felt like a heel. Catherine had had a stressful and not entirely pleasant day, and he’d just made it worse. He tossed his uneaten sandwich down the garbage disposal, along with the cake, and turned off the kitchen light. The house was quiet, and even though for the first time since he’d bought it six years earlier someone else was sharing it with him, it still felt empty.

And he still felt alone.

The rest of the week passed much as Stephen had expected it would. He and Catherine rarely saw one another, and yet they each managed to evade or else lie convincingly to the handful of persistent tabloid reporters who dogged their steps, hoping for confirmation of rumors of a Vegas wedding. An Oscar-winning star’s brush with the law thinned the ranks of the vultures, but the speculation continued. Celebrity Spyglass featured the couple inside, along with a reprint of the photograph that had been taken of them aboard his sailboat in July and then been run prominently in the tabloid the following week, with the headline: Is this why the wedding is off? This time the headline asked, Are they or aren’t they?

Even he wasn’t sure he had an answer to that one.

At home each night, the only evidence that Stephen shared his house with someone else was a small sliver of light from beneath Catherine’s tightly closed bedroom door. She closeted herself inside before he arrived home and, to his surprise, was gone each morning before he left at seven.

Saturday morning, however, she was seated in the breakfast nook, enjoying a cup of coffee, when he walked into the room. An empty bowl sat on the table and she was reading the newspaper. Two things struck him immediately. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and she was dressed in pajamas. She didn’t need eyeliner and blusher to make her lovely. Those blue eyes needed no enhancing and neither did those high cheekbones. As for her clothing, he decided she could wear burlap and belt it with twine and still look classy enough to have tea with the Queen.

They had hardly spoken since the last time they’d been together in the kitchen, and his conscience nipped him hard. He owed her an apology.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning.”

“I made coffee.”

“Smells good.”

“And tastes all right, too,” she said, taking a sip. “I’m done with the paper.” She folded up the Tribune and scooted it to the other side of the table.

He couldn’t stand another minute of this polite, trite conversation.

“About Tuesday night. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”

“It’s forgotten.” She waved one delicate-looking hand. The cheap band on her ring finger somehow managed to catch and reflect the light. He’d have to do something about that, he decided.

He helped himself to some coffee and sat across from her. Something was on her mind. He could tell by the way she shifted in her seat. She didn’t fidget, precisely. Someone who looked like Catherine didn’t fidget. But she was ill at ease, apprehensive.

“What is it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Something’s on your mind.”

“I have a…function tonight. A ball and silent auction to raise funds for literacy. I didn’t organize it, but the committee is hoping that I…that we will be there. If you’re not free, I’ll understand. It is rather short notice.”

“Black tie?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Six.”

“I’ll be happy to escort you.”

“We’ll be the center of attention,” she said, her tone apologetic. “They’ll all be wondering about our marriage.”

Stephen had long been the subject of gossip. This would be nothing new. But he meant it when he said, “Then we’ll be sure to give them something good to talk about.”

That evening, as he stood in his foyer and watched Catherine walk down the stairs, he knew they would indeed be the talk of the town. His beautiful Ice Princess wore fiery red, an off-the shoulder sheath of curve-hugging material that reached to her ankles and shimmered with each step she took. She wore heels, the strappy kind that showed off neatly painted toenails the same color as her dress, and she’d left her hair loose.

“Encantador,” he murmured.

“What does it mean?”

“Lovely.”

“Thank you. And you look handsome. How would I say that?”

“Guapo.”

“Muy guapo,” she said, with a lift of her brows, adding the Spanish word for “very.” Full lips bowed into a smile that was as red and tempting as her dress.

The ballroom at the Sheraton Towers was already jammed with several hundred of Chicago’s wealthiest and most influential people when they arrived. Stephen recognized many people in the crowd. Some had even been frequent guests at his grandparents’ home while Stephen was growing up. But he didn’t consider any of them his friends, and the feeling was mutual. He nodded politely, as did they, and offered the standard greetings.

Catherine, however, worked the room like a veteran politician, shaking hands, air-kissing cheeks, chuckling in that reserved way of hers at every joke or even mildly humorous remark. He’d never seen this side of her at other social functions, but he should have guessed it was there. It was what made her such a good fund-raiser. She knew much of society thought her a vapid and wealthy woman who merely played at her job with the shelter, and she was smart enough to use it to her advantage, coaxing dollars from their pockets in much the same way a snake charmer coaxes a cobra from its basket.

The seating was assigned—each round, linen-covered table set with service for ten. No one was at Catherine and Stephen’s table yet except for an older couple, Enid and Oscar Dersham. Stephen recognized them as contemporaries of his grandparents, although he didn’t recall them coming to the house often, maybe just at Christmas for the annual party.

He snagged two glasses of champagne and headed in the direction of the table, content to wait there for Catherine. But he was waylaid before he could get there by a woman he had dated casually the summer before.

“I’ve heard a nasty rumor,” Cherise Langston said.

She stood much too close to him as she spoke, and had the audacity to take one of the flutes of champagne he held and sip from it. Her forward behavior was just one of the reasons he’d broken things off with her long before they could become serious.

“Hello, Cherise.”

“You’re looking as tasty as ever, Stephen. So, is it true?”

He decided to play dumb. “True?”

“The rumor about you and Catherine Canton. The tabloids are claiming the two of you are married.”

“Catherine is my wife,” he said succinctly.

Her eyes widened, filled with malice, although her tone managed to stay light. “And you told me you weren’t the marrying kind. I believe your exact words were, ‘I don’t plan to make that kind of commitment to anyone.’”

He had said that, and he’d meant it, but that had been long before he’d learned about the codicil. Long before Catherine.

“I changed my mind.”

“Are you trying to tell me you fell in love with Catherine Canton?” She laughed, a grating noise that he’d found annoying even when he’d also found her attractive. Now it was truly offensive.

“I found it hard to believe when she snagged your cousin, but then Derek likes a challenge, and he’s unencumbered by a conscience. I hear he was putting the moves on the wedding planner just minutes before their ceremony.”

When he didn’t dignify her speculation with a response, she continued. “What a waste of manhood.” She held out her glass and clinked it against his in a toast. “Call me when you need some warming up. I’m not partial to playing second fiddle, but for you I’ll make an exception. Hasta luego, sweetheart.”

Catherine joined him at their table a few minutes later, already looking tired, though she camouflaged it well enough. She greeted the Dershams with her usual charm.

“You’re looking well. Have you met my husband yet?”

“Your husband?” Enid Dersham glanced around the room. “We thought the wedding had been…No, dear, where is he?”

Catherine’s laughter was mild and musical, taking the sting out of the awkward situation.

“He’s right here. Stephen Danbury, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Dersham?” To Stephen, she said, “The Dershams have been incredibly generous to several children’s charities, as well as avid supporters of the arts.”

The Dershams eyed Stephen, clearly puzzled, but too polite to say so.

“We knew Stephen’s grandparents. Very nice people,” Enid said.

“Yes,” Oscar chimed in, and, directing his comments to Stephen, added, “Your grandparents are sorely missed. They were true pillars of the community.”

“Our grandparents were something,” Derek said, causing all heads to turn in his direction. He stood just behind Catherine, bitterness making his eyes overly bright. “Catherine, you’re looking well for someone who just stomped on my heart.”

She didn’t buy his words for a minute. His ego might have been bruised, but his heart had never been at risk.

“This is a surprise. I don’t believe I ever had much success in talking you into coming to these functions.”

She knew he considered it easier to write a check than to suffer through an evening of small talk.

“I’m only too happy to support a good cause,” he replied smoothly, smiling for the Dershams’ benefit. To Enid, he said in a stage whisper, “She broke my heart by marrying my cousin, you know, but life goes on.”

“Office cleaned out yet?” Stephen asked. He draped an arm over the back of Catherine’s chair, the move casual and yet proprietary.

Derek pretended not to hear him, but the tic in his cheek gave away his irritation. “All’s fair in love and business. I came over here hoping to bury the hatchet.”

Stephen snorted out a laugh. “Yes, which is why I’ll be sure not to turn my back on you this evening.”

People were starting to stare, as well as straining their ears to listen. No doubt word had already gotten around the massive ballroom that both Danbury heirs were present and a confrontation was ensuing. Catherine nearly groaned. As if there wasn’t enough for the gossips to speculate on and twitter over. There would be no silencing the busybodies, but at least she could ensure the cousins were kept separate.

“Let’s dance,” she said, rising from her seat and forcing Stephen to stop glowering at Derek. “I love this song,” she added, before realizing that the number the band was presently playing was the old Nat King Cole favorite “When I Fall in Love.”

She took his hand and led him to the dance floor. The song was just ending as they turned to face one another.

Silvia Rathburn, one of the organizers of the event, rushed toward the stage.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she said as she passed Catherine and Stephen.

Silvia was a plump woman who considered pink her trademark color. She was wearing a shade just this side of shocking, and a gown whose cut was more suited to a prom-goer than a woman approaching her sixties. Catherine had worked with the woman on several projects, though, and knew her heart was far more generous than her fashion sense. At the microphone, the woman clapped her hands together as if to gain everyone’s attention.

“I want to remind everyone that bidding on the silent auction will continue until we are seated for dinner. And I have an announcement to make. Would you all raise your glasses in a toast? It seems we have something else to celebrate this evening.”

Catherine felt her mouth go dry as the woman winked at her, and she felt Stephen’s arm tighten around her waist, as if he too were bracing himself for the inevitable.

“I know none of us likes to admit we read the tabloids, but sometimes, amid the stories of alien abductions and forty-five-pound newborns, they get things right. A little birdie just told me that Catherine Canton and Derek—” She blushed, as embarrassed as they were by the unfortunate faux pas. “Excuse me. My apologies. That is, Catherine and Stephen Danbury exchanged vows last weekend. Please join me in wishing the newlyweds every happiness.”

The noise level in the room immediately rose, along with the champagne glasses. Catherine and Stephen stood alone in the middle of the large dance floor, truly the center of attention.

“Well, I’d say our secret is out,” Stephen said in a quiet voice. “Are you okay?”

“They’d all have found out eventually,” Catherine replied, somehow managing to keep a pleasant little smile curving her lips. The dimple winked and he admired her aplomb. And, though he rarely speculated about what others thought, he couldn’t help wondering what was crossing the minds of this roomful of Chicago’s elite.

The men would be jealous, he decided, looking at the lovely woman in his arms. The women? Envious that they didn’t have Catherine’s beauty or grace.

From the stage, Silvia continued, “The tabloids say they got married in Las Vegas, so I’m sure they didn’t have an opportunity to share a dance. I thought they could do that now.”

She motioned for the orchestra to begin playing, and the first strains of “As Time Goes By” filled the room.

Stephen couldn’t resist teasing her with a famous line from the movie that had made that song famous. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

He took her hand in his, raised it to his mouth and kissed the back of it. The women in the room sighed in unison, and Stephen told himself it had been entirely for show. She looked so lovely, a cross between Ingrid Bergman and Grace Kelly with her classical features and aloof mannerisms. As he rested his other hand on her slender waist he was suddenly grateful his grandmother had insisted on all those dance lessons he’d once considered a waste of time.

He led and she followed. She rested her cheek against his jaw and he tightened his hand around her waist, pulling her closer. Pulling them both in. The music stopped, but he didn’t release her.

“You dance beautifully,” she said.

“Three years of lessons, courtesy of my grandmother.”

“God bless her.”

He laughed softly. “I cursed her at the time, but I was just thinking the same thing.”

She glanced around. “The music has stopped.”

“So it has.” He lowered his head.

“W-what are you doing?” she whispered.

“Satisfying their curiosity.”

He’d said something similar that day in his bedroom. But that kiss hadn’t been so much satisfying as disturbing. The same thing, he realized, could be said about this one. Need speared through him, welcome and intrusive at the same time, taking as much as it gave in return. Mere attraction? He wanted to think so. That would be so much tidier and more simple than anything else. But something nagged at him.

He mulled it over for the rest of the evening. Studied it, and Catherine, as he would any vexing problem found within Danbury’s books. After all, at its core that was what this was: a business arrangement. And yet he could not honestly say his heart had ever pounded like a jackhammer when going over fourth-quarter earnings or market share data.

It was nearly midnight before they had inched their way toward the exits.

“I’ll get your wrap,” Stephen offered. “Why don’t you say goodbye to whomever you need to say goodbye to, and I’ll meet you by the coat check?”

Catherine smiled. “You read my mind. Give me ten minutes, and if I’m not there, send out a search party.”

He was barely out of earshot when Derek sidled up next to her.

“Quite the cozy portrait of marital bliss you two painted tonight.”

“Goodnight, Derek.”

She turned to leave, but he grabbed her by the elbow. His grip was firm enough that extracting herself would have caused a scene. He, of course, knew this.

“What do you want?”

“Just wanted to wish you luck.”

“Why would I require luck?”

“This is a game, isn’t it?”

She didn’t respond.

“A high-stakes game,” he added. “Even a do-gooder of your caliber is in over her head, Catherine.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, please release me.”

“Catherine, Catherine. He’s using you.”

“You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Stephen likes to play chess.”

His non sequitur threw her. “What?”

“You know—chess. The game where the object is to capture the other player’s queen. You have to think carefully before each move. In fact, you have to think several moves ahead. It’s about strategy.”

“I’m familiar with the game.”

“Ask yourself this: why did you come to the choir loft?”

“I received a note. And a good thing, I’d say.”

“Who sent the note?”

She shrugged. “I thought it was you, but obviously not. Whoever sent it, I owe him or her a debt of gratitude.”

“I’d say you’re already paying it.”

“Are you implying Stephen sent me the note?”

“Ah, now you’re catching on. He set me up, Catherine. He knew about the will’s codicil and he had to make sure I didn’t get married.”

“Even if that’s the case, did you have to fall so neatly into his trap?”

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