Beauty and the Bachelor(2)

"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.