Never Too Late (34 page)

was so slender she looked like an en-Vogue model!

Rage flooded through Evie’s body with the same ferocity

as excitement had earlier. That bastard! He’d been using

her, teasing her! She’d kill him.

Shooting Max’s back a fierce scowl, she took Fidelma by

the arm and bustled her down the ballroom to a table

where Cara and Olivia sat, Sasha between them, slowly

dismantling a rosebud from her floral headdress.

‘Can you believe it?’ Evie squeaked, her face aflame.

‘That bloody man was chatting us up and look who he is!

Just look!’

‘What man? Who are you talking about?’ asked Olivia,

wondering why Evie looked so distressed.

‘He’s lovely,’ crooned Fidelma, sinking heavily into a

chair and immediately grabbing a spare glass of champagne.

‘There he is.’ She pointed. ‘Max. If I was twenty

years younger,’ she added with a sigh.

Cara and Olivia followed her gesture and stared.

‘Oooh, baby, he’s a fine thing,’ said Cara, taking in the

tall, striking figure at the far end of the room. Even at

this distance, she could see he was pretty damn’ gorgeous.

Too old for her but still fine. Great body, great face.

‘What a hunk! He was chatting you up, Evie?’ she asked

incredulously.

‘Yes,’ wailed Evie. ‘And you needn’t sound so astonished,’

she added indignantly. ‘I’m not quite at the paper

bag over my head stage, you know. You just wouldn’t

believe who he is.’

A movie star visiting “Oirland” to research a role?’

suggested Olivia.

He could certainly be a movie star,’ Cara said enthusiastically.

‘He’d give George Clooney a run for his

money.’

No,’ Evie said in exasperation. ‘He was chatting me up

and never told me he was Vida’s bloody son, that’s who. Villa’s son! I bet she put him up to it for some reason,’ she added dramatically.

Both Cara and Olivia turned to look at her.

Evie,’ Olivia started, wanting to be gentle, ‘Vida would

hardly get her son to chat you up on the off chance it’d

benefit her.’

Cara, who wasn’t as sensitive as Olivia, put it differently.

‘Evie, will you stop with the conspiracy theories. You’re

worse than Oliver Stone. Exactly how would it help Vida

to make her son flirt with you?’

‘To … to … embarrass me by forcing me to flirt back!’

said Evie fiercely, thinking of how she’d responded to

Max’s dalliance. She’d fluttered her eyelashes, simpered

like a bloody schoolgirl. She’d even touched his knee. How

awful. What must he think of her? Well, she knew what

she thought of him. He was just a dirty double crosser to

make her fancy him. And she did fancy him, she realised,

feeling as deflated as a party balloon.

‘Have a glass of champagne,’ suggested Olivia kindly,

seeing Evie’s sad little face.

Defiantly, she took the proffered glass and downed half

of it in one go, gasping and hiccuping as the bubbles

exploded on to the back of her throat.

‘Evie,’ said an awestruck Cara who’d never seen her

normally sedate sister whack back a drink like that before.

‘What did he do to you?’

Eyes narrowed, Evie snarled: ‘It’s not what he did to me, it’s what I’m going to do to him when I’m talking to him!

I’ll rip off his …’

Her discussion on which part of Max Stewart’s anatomy

she wanted to divest him of first was cut short by the best

man calling for order.

Boiling with rage, Evie had to watch Max sitting at the

table close to the bridal party reserved for Vida’s guests.

To her embarrassment, he caught her looking at him. His

tanned face lit up with a big ‘Where did you get to?’ smile.

Evie flashed him a killer stare, perfected after years of

enduring builders’ wolf whistles, and whipped her head

around as if her tablemates had just said something

thrilling, which was unlikely given who she was sitting

beside.

She was stuck between Olivia’s father, Leslie, who was

already reeking of booze, and Aunt Al, because there

weren’t enough men at their table for the traditional ratio.

Bloody Max, she raged inwardly. How dare he? She

hoped he wasn’t looking at her. She was sure he was,

convinced of it. Well, he could look all he wanted. She

wasn’t even going to glance in his direction again, never

mind actually talk to him. He could forget it.

Throughout a beautiful meal, Aunt Al whipped out

her cigarettes every time she’d finished a course, oblivious

to a stony-faced Evie who hated smoke blowing in

her face. To make matters worse, Al loved jokes, the

dirtier the better, and could relate filthy ones from her

collection of joke books for hours on end. Stephen

MacKenzie, sitting bootfaced across the table, wasn’t

impressed as Al stage-whispered rude limericks to her

neighbour, Rosie. On the plus side, at least Leslie de Were

was sitting quietly beside Evie, mainly because he was

pickled from all the brandy and ports he’d consumed to

cope with his hangover.

Everyone, apart from Stephen, appeared to be having a

great time, Evie realised gloomily. Everyone except her.

Cara was chatting animatedly with Fidelma and Aunt

Elizabeth. Sybil de Were was listening in to Aunt Al’s jokes

in between picking at her food.

Even Olivia looked happier than she usually did when

Stephen was in one of his moods. Her beautiful face was

serene, as if she wasn’t aware that her husband was

glowering across the table at her volcanically. Evie wondered

why her friend looked so unconcerned. Normally

the very thought of Stephen in a temper gave Olivia

palpitations but today, even though he looked as if he was

about to go into orbit with temper, she was chatting

happily to Fidelma in between cuddling Sasha, who’d left

her place beside Vida to talk to her mother.

Olivia must have got high on the champagne, Evie

decided. Those bubbles really gave you a buzz. What a pity

she had been wasting her time with horrible Max drinking

Evie took a cautious glance in Max’s direction. He

wasn’t even looking at her, she realised crossly. His body

was angled towards his neighbour, a very attractive forty

something woman with a striking Cleopatra haircut and

sloe eyes to match. She was obviously his latest conquest.

Evie hated him at that moment. How could he have flirted

with her like that? How could she have let herself down by

responding?

Cleopatra said something funny and Max laughed, a rich

happy sound that made Evie narrow her eyes with jealousy.

Not that long ago, she’d been making him laugh. He’d

seemed enthralled by everything she’d said, gazing at her

as though she were the most fascinating creature on earth.

And now he was giving Ms Ancient Egypt the same

treatment. Cow. Evie’d bet a tenner she dyed her hair. And that heavy eyeliner was very aging. Up close, she probably looked like she’d spent a month in a kiln.

Vaguely satisfied at the thought that her rival was

nothing more than a dried-up prune with a good wig, Evie

sat back in her seat and pretended to enjoy herself. It was

no use. She wasn’t interested in Al’s jokes and Leslie had

nothing to say for himself, apart from ‘Red, please, fill my

glass up’ every time a waiter cruised by with wine bottles.

The speeches began and, turning in her seat to face the

top table, Evie found she was in a perfect position to spy

on Max and his current squeeze. She didn’t hear a word of

the speeches, even when her father’s best man slipped up

and said, ‘I’d really like to spank the matron of honour …

sorry! Thank the maid of honour.’

The room erupted into salacious laughter.

‘What?’ asked Evie, bewildered. ‘What happened?’

‘Fellow wants to spank the matron of honour,’ Leslie de Were informed her with glee. ‘Wouldn’t mind meself. Bloody fine-looking woman, that.’

By the time her father started to make his speech, Evie had decided that the only way to get back at Max was to flirt outrageously with some of the other guests. Some

devastatingly handsome single man who’d make Max pea

green with envy.

The only question was, with whom? Devastatingly handsome

single men were thin on the ground under normal

circumstances and after a quick recce of the room, Evie

couldn’t immediately spot anyone who’d fit the bill. Apart

from Max, her father was the best-looking man around.

Stephen was certainly good-looking but even if he hadn’t

been married to Olivia, he’d have been out of the question

too on the basis that he was a grumpy sod currently

looking as if he was undergoing painful colonic irrigation

under the tablecloth.

Evie’s gaze landed on the Higgins family, owners of the Ballymoreen butcher’s shop. They had an unfamiliar man at their table; presentable, tall and wearing a decent suit.

He didn’t appear to have anyone with him. He’d do.

Andrew Fraser’s speech was winding down. ‘Now we

have the perfect opportunity for our families to get to

know each other,’ he said with a fond look in Evie’s

direction.

He’s got some chance of that, she thought grimly. She

wouldn’t spit on Max Stewart if he was on fire, so she was

hardly likely to welcome him into the bosom of her family.

And as for Vida! She’d obviously put her son up to it.

What sort of woman would do that? A manipulative one,

that was for sure.

The speeches over, people drooped in their chairs

waiting for the next stage of the party. While musicians

began setting up in one corner of the room, Evie excused

herself.

In the loo, she stared at her tired, flushed face. How

could she have thought she looked pretty earlier? She

looked like a raddled old bag with stupid curls, worn-off

lipstick and a smudge of mascara like a Rorschach blot on

one cheek.

Leaning towards the mirror, she rubbed at it with a

finger.

‘Isn’t he a complete sweetie?’ said a voice.

Evie straightened up when she saw who’d just pushed

into the room: Cleopatra accompanied by another woman.

‘The way he looks at you … God!’ she was saying

suggestively. ‘You wouldn’t kick him out of bed for getting

toast crumbs on the sheets, would you?’

The two of them screamed with licentious laughter,

oblivious to Evie.

Quietly, she rummaged in her handbag for her lipstick, trying to watch Cleopatra but not wanting to be caught doing it.

Far from the oven-baked, wig-wearing harpy Evie had

hoped she’d be, Cleopatra was exotically attractive with

remarkably unlined skin for someone that particular shade

of mahogany. Evie had never seen anyone that tanned who

wasn’t actually Indian but the cafe au lait colour looked

good on her.

Evie revised her original guess and put the other woman

in her late-thirties instead of early-forties.

‘Since the divorce, I have been on the lookout,’ Cleopatra

was saying. ‘Max would fit the bill perfectly.’

‘Judith, you’re a howl,’ said the friend. ‘He seems

interested …’

Judith, huh? Evie swept out of the room into the

corridor and slap bang into Max.

‘Why didn’t you say who you were?’ she blurted out

accusingly.

‘Why should I have?’ he asked in bemused tones.

‘You knew who I was,’ she stressed, ‘but I had no idea

who you were.’

‘What difference would that have made?’ Max inquired.

She glared at him.

‘The thing is, Evie,’ he said, taking her arm to accompany

her back into the ballroom, ‘when I realised you were

Andrew’s daughter, I wanted you to like me for myself, not

because I was about to be your …” he paused ‘…

stepbrother.’

‘Stepbrother! You’re not my stepbrother!’ she said,

aghast.

‘Actually, I’m afraid I am,’ he pointed out mildly. ‘And

my mother is now your stepmother, although I gather

you’re not too wild about that idea either.’

Evie knew she was going pink. She was sick of her

traitorous skin giving her away like this.

‘You don’t approve of her so you don’t approve of me, is

that it?’ Max asked.

‘That’s not it,’ she said hotly. ‘I just don’t like being made

a fool of

They were at the ballroom door now. His face was

serious as he looked down at her. ‘I’d hardly consider

having a drink with you and chatting you up making a fool of you, Evie,’ he said slowly. ‘I thought we were getting on very well. I was having a lovely time.’

She could feel the beginnings of a smile on her face

when Judith’s strident tones could be heard from the

direction of the loos.

‘Max darling, have they started dancing yet?’ she called.

‘I’m aching for a whirl around the floor.’

Even Max could hear Evie’s sharp intake of breath.

‘You’re getting on even better with dear Judith, darling,’ she said sweetly. ‘She’s husband-hunting after her divorce apparently so I’ll leave you to it.’

With that she was gone, determinedly tip-tapping into

the ballroom in Olivia’s high shoes.

‘Great legs,’ said Max behind her.

Damn him, Evie fumed. Nothing fazed him.