The Elf and the Ice Princess (11 page)

He watched it go
with a frown, but his attention came back to her when she put a hand on his
shoulder.

“Brett, I think
any girl great enough to deserve you wouldn’t want you to be unhappy. She’d
talk about it with you, help you weigh the pros and cons and support your
decision either way. It’s not an easy one to make. But neither course is
wrong.” She squeezed his shoulder and looked away, feeling shy. “Me? I’d stay
with you if you quit. I went from this house to a studio apartment on the east
side—and I’m not talking the trendy, gentrified part—because I’d rather be poor
than take my ex’s pity money. There are a lot of things in life more important
than ‘all this.’
Most things
in life are more important.” She looked up at him
under her lashes, wondering how he took her words, ready to turn away if she’d
misread and her input was unwelcome.

His
relieved gratitude sent a glow through her. Not only was her input welcome, but
she’d made him happy, something he’d been doing for her since they’d met. It
was nice to manage the reverse. “You are something else, you know that?” he
asked.

He made her feel
like she was.

He picked up his
tea and took a drink. “I haven’t made a decision yet. And one of my clients
might kill me if I quit, so…”

The glow
shrunk. “
Actually
kill you?” He was teasing her again. Right?

Another one
of his sly smiles. “Yeah. He’s a vampire. The one that got me drunk the night
we first met? Cash Geirson’s older than he looks and surprisingly hard to say
no to. Even for an elf.” He ran a finger down her arm, and the cool touch made
her skin prickle with awareness. “Don’t look so worried. I wouldn’t work for
him if he was one of the bad guys.”

Brett had a
smile on his face, but his tone wasn’t exactly kidding. She didn’t know if she
should laugh or be afraid. “Elves and vampires. You live in a different world
than I do.” She believed him when he said he wouldn’t work for a bad person, so
whatever “vampire” meant to him couldn’t be
that
bad.

He brushed
a lock of hair away from her face then tugged it gently, watching the curl
bounce back into place. “Same world, we just see it differently. There’s a band
in the next room. Would the prettiest girl at the party dance with me?”

The glow
came roaring back. “Where is she? I’ll ask her for you.”

Two dances later
and still reeling over the discovery that her crazy elf-man was an upstanding
citizen, Carrie left Brett’s side to start her rounds of the room and gather
information for her article. The food was excellent. She reunited with some of
the nicer people she’d been acquainted with while married to Lincoln and
managed to avoid Erica. At eleven p.m., Carrie was surprised to find she was
enjoying herself.

No question in
her mind, that was because of Brett. Even when they weren’t together, she felt
better knowing he was there, her personal cheerleader. She hadn’t decided yet
if she would wake up with him tomorrow morning or not. It might still be too
soon for that. But one day she would, and it would be a very good morning. No
doubt preceded by a kickass night. The room temperature raised several degrees
just thinking about it.

A
representative from Ballet Austin gathered everyone into the main room for the
requisite big speech with the check. Carrie settled into the rear of the crowd
to take notes and lean her tired back against the wall.

After the usual
rousing recitation about arts in Austin, a thank-you for all the attendees and
a reminder that the silent auction lasted another thirty minutes, the
representative announced a special present to the Bryants for hosting this
year’s gala. “As many of you know, our artistic director is also a woodworker
of some renown, and his gift is available for everyone to view in the little
room off the library.”

Carrie felt
her first pang in two hours. That room would’ve been their nursery. So many of
her biggest dreams had been wrapped up in that space with its angled ceiling
and windows that caught the morning sun. They’d turned the walls cheery yellow
with a special paint she was allowed to work with while pregnant. She’d put her
grandmother’s rocking chair next to the bay windows, and a new bookcase right
beside it. Just two days before the miscarriage, she’d sat in the rocker as the
evening sun had lowered over the house and read the baby their first book.

As much as
it hurt to remember that evening, she was glad she’d gotten one story with him.
Or her. She’d never found out which.

She wondered
what Erica had in mind for the room, besides collecting thank-you gifts.

The announcer
pointed into the crowd. “Erica, you look lovely.”

In disgust,
Carrie headed to do more “research” on the catering, not interested in
reporting what Erica-the-radiantly-lovely had to say. The caviar was real, and
she thought partaking of more might cheer up her sudden mood swing. Her editor
had
demanded a top-notch segment on the food.

But at the dining
room doorway, she overheard the biddies chattering. Curling her lip in disgust,
she debated whether or not the caviar was worth facing them.

Then someone said
her name. “Did you see Carrie Martin all over Brett Vertanen?”

Carrie froze.

“After things
fizzled with Lincoln and she got nothing, you’d think she’d have the good
graces to stay gone. What a gold digger.”

Carrie
strode into the room, her heels clicking loudly on the marble. “Why don’t you
tell me how you really feel, Wanda.”

Wanda
straightened and had the grace to blush. “Miss Martin.” She nodded.

Carrie knew
she should drop it. She had no business caring what these cackling idiots
thought, but she couldn’t help herself. “I had no idea Brett was a lawyer. I
thought he was a Macy’s elf.”

Wanda
chortled, and her friends joined in the chicken cackle. “Macy’s elf? Carrie, if
you’re going to lie, at least come up with something reasonable.”

“What? I’m
not…” Carrie trailed off. It was useless. These women thought the worst of her,
and she couldn’t change that. Might as well enjoy it. She grabbed two
cracker-sized blini, topped them with dollops of crème fraîche and scooped as
much caviar as she could fit onto each. In gauche delight, she watched the
women’s eyes grow while she stuffed one little pancake carrying several hundred
dollars of salty fish eggs into her mouth.

The other
overflowing blini she carried out, determined to enjoy her pricey indulgence in
peace. And she’d once thought
Brett
might be a thief.

Whatever. Erica
could afford it.   

She paused
in the hallway and looked down at her dress, the one Brett the lawyer had spent
his own, well-earned fortune on. She smoothed a crease, perfecting the lines.
Brett… who’d been born in the middle of nowhere Canada then educated and worked
his way into privilege. Unlike Lincoln, it hadn’t been handed to him. Brett had
earned it.

Had she
ever underestimated anyone that badly before? He was right to be angry when she
judged him for the actions of another man.

A crowd had
formed in front of the library, and Brett was nowhere in it. So she ducked into
a side hall before anyone noticed her. This area wasn’t part of the party, but
her intimate knowledge of the house felt like justification. Right now, she
needed time away from prying eyes to enjoy the consolation of piled-high
caviar.

She didn’t
turn on the lights, leaving Erica’s sweeping curtains and fleur-de-lis rods
shadowed against the meager light seeping in from the gardens outside. Taking
tiny bites this time, she savored the delicacy as it should be savored.
Exhaustion, physical and emotional, weighed on her. She leaned against the wall
and slid to the ground, letting the wide hem of her skirt drift into a silky
pool around her.

“There you
are.”

She froze
with the blini an inch from her mouth as any good emotions left inside her
deflated and vanished.

A laugh. “Don’t
shoot the caviar like you do Dom. I know you, Carrie.”

Just what she
needed. Alone time with her ex-husband.

C
arrie looked up
guiltily to see Lincoln leaning against his office doorjamb and refrained from
stuffing the rest of the blini into her mouth. Instead she took another little
bite, but the taste was gone. What a waste.

Lincoln
stumbled a little on his exit from the doorframe and shot her a shameless
grin. “Whoa. Long party. You having a good time? Gonna give us a good
write-up?” He helped pull her to her feet, leaned forward and ate the rest of
the caviar out of her hand.

Carrie stiffened
at the touch of his lips on her fingers.

“Ready for your
tour?” His voice was low and husky in a way she remembered too well. They’d had
their problems, but at least one aspect of their relationship had stayed high
quality until the devastating end. The sultry tone made her wary.

Surely,
however, she was misinterpreting it. Even in the unstable times, Lincoln had
never cheated on her. Still didn’t mean it was a good idea to tour the house
with him after a long and emotionally draining evening when they’d both been
drinking. “I don’t know, Lincoln…”

“Come on.
I’m bored with the party.” He crooked his arm for her to take. He’d lost his
jacket somewhere along the way, but his hair maintained its gelled perfection.
He looked roguishly handsome in the half-light, just like he had when they’d
walked this hall together as man and wife. She didn’t feel the same pull toward
him, but to see the memory returned to life was nonetheless unsettling.

Oh, what the
hell. She’d decided to be adult about this, to face her past and leave the
house ready for the future. Might as well get it over with. She took his arm,
the feel of her fingers in the crook of his elbow both familiar and strange,
and he tugged her into his office.

“You never cared
for any of that society crap, did you?” he asked.

“No. Not
really.”

His personal
space hadn’t changed a bit, still decked in brown leather with mahogany
bookcases full of tomes he’d never read. The walls were still forest green.
They’d painted that color together after he’d picked it in a missed attempt to
match her eyes. It surprised her that he hadn’t changed it after the divorce.
Maybe to a color that didn’t quite match Erica’s baby blues.

“I like
that the arts are getting funding, though,” she finally answered, trying to
keep her voice light. “That’s important.”

“Really? I
think it’s stuffy.” He let her go and wobbled to a mini-bar for two tumblers.
“I know you like this.” He held up a bottle of thirty-year Speyside single
malt Scotch and smiled. “Join me? For old times? I bet you miss this. You
always appreciated the good stuff when it came to your tongue.”

Was he making an
inappropriate joke? No. She was reading more into it again. This was awkward
for both of them, but he was trying to be nice. The thought of her favorite
Scotch did indeed make her mouth water. Smiling at her bottled Achilles
heel—and at the man who shamelessly exploited it—she followed him further into
the room. “Sure.”

As she leaned a
hip against his wraparound desk, memories, good ones, came pounding back in a
strange assault. For so long she’d wanted to erase the last two years, blot them
out like he’d never left, and they could figure out a plan together. Adopt maybe?
They hadn’t even talked about that possibility. Brett had mentioned it on their
first date.

Regardless, she’d
liked herself better back then, when it was still easy to believe in people and
have faith the future would work out somehow.

Pretending would
be easy in here, his private room, where the passage of time and so many
changes hadn’t left a visual mark. This exact scene, even, had played so many
times before. They’d come back from an event, both in formal attire. He’d pour
them each a Scotch, they’d talk over the evening, laugh over the silly things
people did and then go back to their bedroom…