Cinderella After Midnight. Lilian Darcy
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I wasn’t,” Cat answered. “You’ve gotta help me blend in, Sis. That’s your role. Pixie did a brilliant job with this dress, and that was hers.”
Cat’s sixty-two-year-old cousin Priscilla Treloar, known to everyone as Pixie, could sew like a dream. She had been the wardrobe mistress for a well-known national ballet company for more than thirty years until her health slowed her down and she’d had to give up work. She had insisted that the perfection of Cat’s dress was one of the key elements in the success of this evening’s plan, and Cat suspected she was right.
She fingered one of the dress’s narrow diamanté shoulder straps. Apart from the straps and a matching diamanté edging around the bodice, the gown was plain black, and depended for its glamorous effect on the figure-hugging simplicity and perfect fit of its cut and line.
Beneath the full black skirt, the occasional peeks of layered silver lining were tantalizing. If you didn’t look very closely, the imitation silk could have easily passed for a designer original. There were more than a few of those here tonight.
“My job is to be Lady Catrina, and I’ve got the aristocratic accent down perfectly thanks to half a lifetime of watching British sitcoms,” Cat continued, her confidence rebounding a little. “I can do this. I know it. All you have to do is tell me which table Councillor Wainwright is sitting at, and I’ll zero in. This whole thing is too important for us to mess it up by treating it like a game, Jilly. We can’t have Cousin Pixie lose her home.”
The warmth in the way she used her mother’s cousin’s lifelong nickname betrayed the love Catrina and her two stepsisters felt for Pixie, even though Pixie was not a blood relation to Jill and Suzanne.
Jill had come back down to earth at Cat’s words.
“I’m sorry. You’re right,” she said, then switched her tone suddenly as a pair of new arrivals at the Mirabeau on Ice ball came past. “And I can particularly recommend the Mirabeau sparkling white….”
“Why, thank you.” Graciously, Cat took a glass, as prompted, gripped the stem in her fingers and left her pinky aristocratically curled.
“He’s at the corner table on the far side of the champagne fountain,” Jill said, as soon as she was able to speak safely. “With a group of several other people.”
“I’d better get on over to him, then.”
“Yeah, because he’s not known for staying out late, according to our dossier.” Jill grinned. Despite Cat’s lecture, the word dossier had rolled off her tongue as if she said it every day. Then she looked guilty and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Cattie.”
This time Catrina waved it aside. “Just wish me luck, okay?”
“Oh, huge luck, Lady Catrina. Huge! This is equally important to all of us.”
“And you’d probably best not speak to me for the rest of the evening, unless you have to.”
“Gotcha. See you later, then.”
Jill swished over to a nearby table to offer her drinks tray as more designer-clad guests trickled in. Cat was left with a tingle inside and a glow on her cheeks that she recognized as the effect of adrenaline. It wasn’t nerves anymore but a buzz of exhilaration and confidence.
I’m going to be good at this. I’m going to convince Councillor Wainwright to vote against the proposed rezoning at the council meeting in August, and he won’t have a clue this was planned.
She walked around the rink, using the carpet laid on top of the ice. She had to think herself into the role of Lady Catrina Willoughby-Brown, jet-setting member of the British aristocracy, and skates were a complication she didn’t need tonight, since she wasn’t the talented skater that Jill was.
The Madison County Ice Rink looked incredible tonight, a far cry from its usual mundane self. In the center of the rink was an enormous, flowing champagne fountain and some towering ice sculptures based on the works of famous artists—Rodin, Michelangelo, Moore.
Next came a specially erected polished and sprung wooden dance floor in the shape of a large O. A wide outer ring of ice accommodated the on-ice staff and any of the guests brave enough to put on skates. Finally, edging the rink were lantern-lit tables set on carpet.
The surrounding bleachers had been removed for the night to make room for platforms set with two more tiers of gorgeously decorated tables. The rink’s floor-to-ceiling windows were frosted over with lacy patterns, and the walls were draped in black fabric.
Overhead there were chandeliers, mirror-balls and spotlights, all in the colors of Mirabeau wines, which ranged from pale straw gold through soft rose to a dark crimson. On a large dais at one end there was a band playing lively dance music.
Catrina shut all of this out, however, focused on her quest.
Yes, there was Wainwright, as Jill had said. Councillor Earl P. Wainwright, to be precise. He was seated with a group of six others, four of them men, at one of the best tables on the ice. Cat had her strategy mapped out in advance and she didn’t hesitate.
First she waved to an imaginary acquaintance two tables farther on, then allowed her attention to be caught by the man sitting just to Earl Wainwright’s left, as if in sudden recognition. Changing course abruptly, she bore down deliberately upon the total stranger. She had her brimming glass of Mirabeau sparkling wine in hand and a glittering smile plastered in place.
But then, unexpectedly, the stranger’s eyes met hers for just a moment. Her hand jerked a little, and she spilled several drops of wine. He was already watching her, which she hadn’t planned for. It almost shattered her focus. His strong body was draped lazily in its seat, and there was a tiny smile on his face, just tickling the corners of his mouth. For some reason she felt confused and self-conscious and…
Don’t think about him, she coached herself quickly. He’s not remotely important. He’s part of your strategy for the first minute of this, that’s all.
“Alasdair!” she trilled at him in her round-mouthed regal accent. She didn’t let those dangerous blue eyes of his catch and hold her now. Instead, her gaze darted between a thick hairline, firm lips and a strong chin. “Fancy seeing you here! How marvelous! How absolutely marvelous!”
“Uhh…yeah,” answered Patrick Callahan, CEO of Callahan Systems Software and reluctant guest at the ball tonight. “Marvelous.”
He watched with appreciation and some alarm as a very shapely behind, clad in rustling black, slid smoothly into the empty seat beside him.
He’d had half an eye on the woman as she approached. Maybe a little more than half an eye, if he was honest. He was caught at this table by two or three people who might prove to be valuable clients for Callahan Systems in the future, and he was trying extremely hard not to be bored.
Trying hard, also, to understand why he found the prospect of the evening ahead such a chore. Most people would have looked forward to it.
Mirabeau was a California wine company that had hit on a novel marketing strategy. In several large cities across the United States, Mirabeau on Ice balls were taking place tonight. The buzz of publicity was deafening. By invitation only, the guest list for each ball was made up of an intriguing mix of the wealthy, the influential, the famous and the notorious.
Patrick wasn’t quite sure how Callahan Systems had earned its pair of tickets. Having one of its founding partners, i.e., Patrick himself, named last year as Philadelphia’s Most Eligible Bachelor by a well-known local magazine had probably helped. The fact that he’d briefly dated, in quick succession, both the Wentworth Hotels heiress and the stunningly glamorous ex-wife of a senator couldn’t have hurt, either.
He would have turned the invitation down if his brother Tom hadn’t reminded him of the networking opportunities. But he’d flatly refused to bring a date. He wasn’t involved with anyone at the moment. He was never involved with anyone for very long. And the idea of creating expectations in some casual female acquaintance by inviting her