Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (80 page)

“Holly, you know I hate that place. It takes forever to get an appointment and then you have to spend the whole day there waiting around for him to get to you. How difficult can this be, really? I’ll just put it up and then you can do the back with my curling iron.”

“All right, but don’t blame me if I singe off your lovely auburn tresses.”

“That’s a chance I’ll have to take. Did you bring the gold circlet to go with my dress?”

“I have everything you asked me for. Now sit in this chair and let me get started. Good Lord, you have more hair than any three people I know.”

 
Holly gathered the heavy mass in her hands and began to brush it.

Angela peered at herself in the mirror. “Can you see these circles under my eyes?” she asked Holly. “I look like a raccoon.”

“You do not. Sit still and be quiet. This is going to require some concentration.”

Angela settled back and let her friend get to work.

* * * *

Two hours later Angela was ready. She surveyed herself in the cheval mirror and added the final touch of the gold fillet to her hair. The gown draped gracefully to her waist, then to the floor, leaving her arms and neck bare. The bracelets on her upper arms matched the ones on her wrists, and the earrings glittered in the dimly lit bedroom. She lifted her hem to examine the effect of the
peau de soie
sandals, and was satisfied. She had copied Cassandra to the best of her twentieth century ability.

“You look great,” Holly affirmed, tying her bonnet ribbon in a bow under her chin. “That hairdo is a smash if I do say so myself. If I fail the bar exam, I can always become a beautician.”

Angela glanced at the clock. “I’d better get out there. I’m sure there are a million things Josie wants me to do.”

Holly snatched up the small knit drawstring purse that completed her costume. “I’ll come and help. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s go.”

Devlin was waiting for them in the living room. He had changed to his slate gray corduroy slacks, and they were complemented by a pearl gray knit sweater he had magically produced. His black hair, neatly combed, gleamed with a rich luster under the soft lighting. His hooded eyes moved over Angela slowly and then returned to her face. He didn’t even glance at Holly.

But Holly was aware of his presence. “Just look at him,” she said softly to Angela. “How can you bear to have him around all the damn time, living here with you? I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off him.”

“I’ve been known to have that problem,” Angela responded with a note of irony.

Devlin moved forward, his eyes locked with Angela’s. Holly took her cue to exit.

“I’ll go find Josie,” she said hastily, and fled.

Devlin stopped and confronted Angela, his hands in his pockets.

“Who are you?” he said.

“Cassandra,” she replied.

He nodded. “And Cronin?”

“The Greek god Apollo.”

“Her lover,” Devlin answered, sneering. “Typecasting?”

Angela’s temper flared. “You know something?” she said in clipped tones. “I don’t understand you. What is this resentment of Philip? You act as if he were poaching on your territory.” She dropped her eyes. “It’s not as though you didn’t have your chance.”

Devlin’s expression hardened but he said nothing.

Angela knew that look. “Oh. I see. No talk, no talk. You really should have a sign printed and hang it around your neck. Then you’d never have to communicate with anybody.”

Devlin walked to the bar next to the fireplace and poured himself a stiff scotch, neat. Angela watched as he bolted it.

“That’s it,” she said nastily. “Get drunk.”

Devlin slammed the glass down so hard she jumped. He surveyed Angela with cold and distant eyes.

“For someone who looks like the dancer on top of a music box,” he said slowly, “you can have a pretty mean mouth at times.” He walked past her into the hall and down to his room.

Angela drifted unsteadily into the dining room and pulled the French doors closed behind her. She put one hand out to the cherry banquette, leaning on it heavily, and turned her head from the sight of the decoratively arranged mounds of food displayed everywhere on the Queen Anne table. The Waterford chandelier overhead washed her pale face with slanting rays of crystalline light. She covered her mouth with her free hand and bowed her head.

Holly found her in the same position a few minutes later.

“Angela, what are you doing hiding in here?” Holly demanded. “The guests will be arriving any minute.” She moved and took a closer look at Angela’s face. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I just had another scene with Brett.” Angela blinked her eyes, glistening with unshed tears, and tilted her head back to keep them from running and streaking her mascara. “We’re at each other’s throats and I can’t take it anymore. I’m calling Harold Simmons tomorrow and asking him to replace Devlin with someone else.”

Holly’s small face showed concern. “Oh, Angela, I’m sorry.”

Angela gestured vaguely. “He won’t let his guard down for one minute, and I’m so frustrated that I’m sniping at him constantly. It’s awful, Holly, and I have to stop it.”

“But the way you feel about him . . .” Holly began.

Angela laughed ruefully, sniffing. “The way I feel about him is not going to change whether he’s here or not. But it has finally dawned on me that you can’t make a man love you just because you want him to love you. I’ve tried everything. I’ve humiliated myself so badly and so often, it’s embarrassing for me to think about it. Nothing has worked, and the situation has degenerated to the point where we can’t stand to be in the same room with each other. He has to go. I can’t think what else to do.”

Holly reached out and gripped Angela’s shoulder with a steadying hand. “All right, all right, take it easy. You have to pull yourself together now. You’ll have a house full of people here in a half hour. You can deal with this later, once the party is over and everyone’s gone.”

Angela nodded, wiping under her eyes carefully with a forefinger to check for smudged eye makeup. Her finger came away clean.

She straightened. “Do I look all right?” she asked.

“You look fine,” Holly said firmly. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The doorbell rang as they left the dining room and Angela got ready to charm her guests.

* * * *

Philip was the first on the scene, looking like a museum statue in his white knee length tunic with a wreath of leaves in his hair. After him came the rest, all attired in clever and expensive costumes, each more imaginative than the last. Philip had invited everyone whose attention he wanted to engage, and the brownstone was soon filled with politicians and elected officials, businessmen and local dignitaries. They milled about the house, drinks in hand, sampling tidbits from the trays Josie and Angela offered, admiring the furniture and artwork displayed for their benefit. Philip basked in the attention, the gracious host, filling glasses and laughing heartily at jokes.

Angela found that once things got under way she could distract herself with her hostessing duties and not think about Devlin. She chatted easily with those people she knew, checking frequently on the supply of food and liquor as she and Holly made sure everyone got what they wanted. A couple of hours had passed before she looked up to see Devlin talking with Congressman Hathaway’s date, a Southern belle with a pronounced Georgia drawl. She was dressed, not surprisingly, as Scarlett O’Hara, Margaret Mitchell’s heroine. She hung on Devlin’s arm as he spoke, laughing into his face and batting her eyelashes at him. What is he saying? Angela thought angrily. I haven’t gotten that much conversation out of him in a week.

Holly joined her, catching the direction of her glance.

“I see our Georgia peach has snared her quarry,” Holly said sarcastically.

Angela looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Holly answered, “that she took one look at Devlin and confided to me that she prefers the ‘dark, broodin’ type’ because they are so ‘interestin’. That is a direct quote.”

“What about Jerry Hathaway?” Angela asked, referring to Scarlett’s date, who appeared to be a rather portly, balding version of Rhett Butler.

“I think Scarlett has found more attractive game,” Holly responded, biting into a tiny square of spinach quiche. “And who can blame her? Given the choice, which one would you pick?” She raised her eyebrows at the overage Rhett, who was putting away hors d’oeuvres with alarming speed.

“When did he show up, anyway?” Angela asked, nodding in Devlin’s direction. “I thought he had decided to give this little soiree a miss.”

“He surfaced while you were in the kitchen with Josie. Katie Scarlett’s been wrapped around him like a boa constrictor ever since.”

“Look at him grinning at her,” Angela said between gritted teeth.

“He does have an adorable smile,” Holly offered.

“That’s the first I’ve seen of it in a long while,” Angela replied grimly.

“Oh-oh, he’s spotted you,” Holly said quickly. “Here he comes. Keep your cool.” Holly ambled off in the other direction.

Angela watched Devlin excuse himself from the brunette and walk over to her side. He took a slice of brie from the tray she was holding and popped it into his mouth.

“Nice party,” he said. “Everybody here is embalmed.”

Angela choked on her sip of ginger ale. In the tension of the past weeks she had almost forgotten his sense of humor, which, like fine wine, was rare and very dry. She swallowed her laughter and replied, “Most of the people Philip deals with are considerably older than we are.”

“I’ll say,” he responded looking around at the group as if taking inventory of a retirement home.

“Of course,” Angela added, “there are a few exceptions. Your friend, for example.”

Devlin let that pass. “Speaking of friends,” Devlin said, “where are yours?”

“Holly’s here,” Angela replied uncomfortably.

“She’s the only one, and she’s here to help,” Devlin stated. “Can’t you invite your own friends to a party at your house?”

“This party is for Philip. He made up the guest list.”

“Obviously. They’re all as dull as he is.”

“Oh, really? Scarlett looks like she would liven up any group. Where did she go? Back to Tara, I hope?”

“She went to powder her nose.”

“And here she is, fresh from the old plantation,” Angela observed, as the subject of their conversation threaded her way back toward Devlin. Angela simpered and fluttered an imaginary fan at Devlin.

“Y’all have yourself a rip-roarin’ time, y’heah?” she drawled in an exaggerated Southern accent, then curtsied dramatically. She didn’t see Devlin’s delighted grin as she walked away.

Josie intercepted her at the door of the kitchen. “How’s the food holding out?” Josie asked.

“It seems to be okay. I’m going to send Philip downstairs for more champagne, though. These people drink like Prohibition was about to be reinstated tomorrow.”

Her statement was punctuated by the sound of Philip’s raucous laughter from the next room.

“He sure is having a fine time,” Josie said tightly.

Angela sighed. “Well, I’m glad he’s happy with the way it turned out. It’s more than I can say.”

“Some problem with the party?” Josie asked innocently. She knew what the problem was.

“No, no, everybody showed and everybody’s getting drunk. That seems to be the standard for success with Philip’s crowd.”

“Then what?”

Angela shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. It seems like a lot of fuss for a bunch of people I have nothing in common with, I guess.”

“Marry Philip and you can look forward to a lifetime of the same,” Josie said darkly.

“You do know how to cheer me up,” Angela replied, and shoved her empty tray onto the counter. She threw Josie a dirty look and left.

Josie smiled to herself and began to hum under her breath.

* * * *
 

Holly and Angela took refuge in the pantry when the dancing began. Philip had hired a three piece band, and the music drifted in through the open door as Holly removed her shoes and flexed her toes.

“That’s better,” she said. “I’m relieved to see that I still have some feeling in my feet.”

“Thanks so much for helping me,” Angela said. “Philip wanted me to hire some extra people to come in, but I wasn’t comfortable bringing strangers into the house under the current circumstances.”

Holly waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Don’t give it a thought. I would have been home by myself with the Uniform Commercial Code, and this beats the UCC any day.” Holly glanced up at Angela, and then looked away. “Are you sure that everybody here is safe?”

Angela shrugged. “Philip knows all of them, including the musicians. I doubt if one of his old pals is going to turn out to be an assassin.”

“Devlin must not have been happy about this party, nevertheless.”

“Devlin isn’t happy about anything these days.”

“I saw you talking to him after I left. There were no apparent fireworks.”