"You two make such a beautiful couple," a stunning brunette cooed. "Your wedding is bound to be the biggest social event of the year. Have you set a date yet?"
Sydney murmured a "thank you" and a "not yet" as the other woman clasped Sydney's hand and elevated it so light from the chandelier bounced off the three-carat diamond solitaire. Wow. Really? Squelching the spurt of irritation, she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, saying nothing. Still … if the other woman snatched out a jeweler's loupe, all bets were off.
"How beautiful," the blonde murmured, her expression warm, but the ice in her eyes matched the hardness of the gem weighing down Sydney's finger. "You're so fortunate." While stated in a sugary, butter-won't-melt-in-your-mouth voice, the barb possessed razor-sharp teeth.
"Yes, we are fortunate to add Tyler to our family," Sydney's father, Jason Blake, boasted with a broad grin. Hurt, embarrassment, and a weary resentment swarmed over her skin and swirled in her chest like an aggravated hive of bees. They were lucky. Not, "Yes, Tyler is indeed fortunate to have my daughter for his wife," as other proud fathers would've bragged. God, after so many years, she should be accustomed to his casual dismissal of her. Yet even at twenty-five years old, she hadn't managed to develop that Teflon skin required to deflect the offhand barbs and comments that were part and parcel of possessing a vagina in the Blake household.
But, really, what did she have to complain about? Her fiancé was the only son of real estate mogul Wes Reinhold, and heir to the Reinhold financial empire. Her father was ecstatic Sydney had finally done something to prove herself worthy of the Blake name.
"Where is the happy groom-to-be?" the blonde asked, her greedy gaze scanning the crowded ballroom.
"He's graciously volunteered to participate in the auction tonight. Already supporting the family," Charlene Blake, Sydney's mother, explained. Every year, proceeds from the Rhodonite Society's annual Masquerade Bachelor Auction benefited the Blake family's literacy foundation. Tyler's inclusion in the popular auction was just another tick in the Tyler's-the-perfect-son-in-law column.
"Oh, how sweet," the blonde purred.
Yes. Sweet. Of course, the mistress of ceremonies had already pulled Sydney aside and provided her with Tyler's number to ensure Sydney would win his company for the evening.
According to her mother, there was altruism and then there was stupidity. And apparently, trusting her fiancé with a woman like the hungry, flinty-eyed blonde for the length of an evening weighed on the unforgivable side of foolishness.
"If you'll excuse us, we need to go to our table," Sydney said, glancing toward the stage and the subtle flickering of the lights. Thank God. Her nice-nasty limit was fast approaching critical mass.
Murmuring a final good night, she headed to the table reserved for her family. Skirting a cluster of people, she plucked a champagne flute off the tray of a passing waiter. Common sense advised the sparkling wine wouldn't beat back her encroaching headache, but it would make persevering through this evening a hell of a lot easier. The constant ingratiation, the dagger-wrapped-in-silk comments, the ever careful treading of shark-infested social waters-her mother was a gold medalist swimmer. But Sydney?
Too little patience, too thin skin, and too short a bullshit meter made her dead weight in the society maven pool.
Much to Charlene Blake's disappointment.
Glancing down at her slim, simple gold watch, she noted the time-nine fifteen p.m. The doors of the youth center would have been bolted fifteen minutes ago for the lock-in.
She smiled.
Yolanda and Melinda Evans, the no-nonsense sisters who ran the Maya Angelou Girls' Youth Center in Brighton, would have their hands full tonight and tomorrow morning with the twenty twelve- to fourteen-year-old girls expected to attend the sleepover. A heavy bank of wistfulness rolled through her. She should be there with the sisters and the teens. She'd been just as excited about the lock-in as the children who were her heart, her passion. They accepted and loved her unconditionally. They didn't see Sydney, the pampered socialite daughter of Jason Blake. They didn't see an unlimited bank account, an entrance into Boston society, or a wormhole into her father's good graces … or business deals. The girls at the center saw her. Sydney, who helped with their homework and offered them a listening ear and nonjudgmental heart. Sydney, who wasn't afraid to get sweaty in a game of kickball or join an impromptu Just Dance 4 competition. Sydney, who told them how beautiful they were and believed every one of them was destined for greatness.
But while her volunteer work mentoring teens was fulfilling to her, to her parents, it didn't compare to organizing a tea, sitting on the beautification committee … or purchasing a bachelor. And when duty called-or rather, her parents' duties called-Sydney was required to answer.
The noose of family loyalty, obligations, and responsibility tightened around her throat, and she sipped from her glass, hoping to ease the rope burn.
With a sigh, she lowered to her satin-upholstered seat, her parents appearing moments later.
Applause erupted, and the level of animated conversation rose as the night's MC stepped up to the microphone once more. Somehow she doubted the enthusiasm was due to iPads in classrooms.
"Without further ado, let's bring on the bachelors!" the woman proclaimed. Moments later, a tall, slim man in an immaculate black tuxedo sauntered onto the stage. Even though a white mask hid his face from hairline to chin, he oozed confidence from every pore. Not that his self-assuredness was a surprise. Though she didn't recognize him, she assumed he was most likely very aware of his desirability to the women packed into the room-after all, a requirement of every bachelor was at least a six-figure income.
Cynicism, thy name is Sydney.
"Our first bachelor of the evening may call Boston home, but the world is his office. As a financier, he's visited the white sands of Dubai, the wild cliffs of western Ireland, and the old-world beauty of his favorite city, Rome. The three adjectives that best describe him are driven, stubborn, and wildly romantic."
Appreciative laughter rippled through the crowd. The MC smiled and continued reading off her card. "Though he's never married, the woman he falls for will be spontaneous, independent, and have a wicked sense of humor. The woman who snags him tonight will enjoy dinner on a rooftop … in Rome." She waited for the exclamations to abate to a dull roar before continuing. "Dinner will be followed by a midnight walk in one of the city's famous squares and a shopping spree the next day before flying back home. Doesn't this sound divine? Let's open the bidding at twenty thousand." She nodded, beaming as she pointed at someone on the floor. "We have twenty thousand. What about twenty-one? Twenty-one. Twenty-two?"
And so the furious bidding began. Many paddle flicks later, bachelor number one went for seventy thousand dollars to a woman old enough to be his grandmother. For his sake, please let her have bought him for her granddaughter, or even her daughter. Otherwise … Sydney shuddered.
Bachelors two and three raised thirty and forty thousand dollars, respectively-they didn't offer dinner reservations in Italy-and as number four strolled off the stage after going for a respectable fifty thousand, Sydney zoned back in.
Tyler was bachelor number five. And in case she'd somehow forgotten, her mother's tap on her thigh was a not-so-subtle reminder.
"And bachelor number five," the hostess announced seconds before Tyler emerged from the wing. He strode out to the center of the stage and paused, his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo slacks. The stance accentuated the flatness of his stomach and the width of his chest. Maybe it was the spotlight or maybe that he stood on the wide stage alone with nothing to detract from him, but his six-foot frame seemed taller somehow. Under the stark black jacket his shoulders appeared wider … more powerful.
She shifted her gaze to his masked face. Tyler Reinhold was a handsome man, with his elegant, patrician features. Yet in the year they'd been dating, he'd never incited this vulnerable flicker of heat that danced in her belly like a candle's flame. His kisses and his touch were pleasant. But the knot currently twisting her gut could not be labeled … pleasant. Uncomfortable. Confusing. Hot.
But no, not pleasant.
A sliver of panic slipped under her ribs like the pointy tip of a stiletto. No. She was comfortable with their relationship. Comfortable with camaraderie rather than passion. She glanced in the mirror every morning-she was very much aware she could never be called a stunning beauty. Very much aware her family name and connections were as much a lure as her passably pretty looks. Most union s in their circle were more merger than marriage, anyway. And she preferred the cold but companionable alliance.