Rosie's stomach turned soft and gooey in half a second flat. But then she remembered that Cameron had not shared his fears about his father's health with Meg. It was more likely he'd been fishing and the timing had been coincidental.
Then again, maybe not. Maybe the timing was everything. She stared into her champagne. Maybe everything in his life was backwards this week because of the situation with his dad.
An older couple who smelled of talcum powder and diamonds came wafting past, and Meg said just the right things to have them smiling and on their way.
'You make it look so easy-the schmoozing,' Rosie commented, her voice a tad breathless.
Meg sighed. 'I sing rock songs in my head, imagine them all wearing suspenders and fish nets and carry a flask wherever I go.'
She tapped her bag, which clunked with a metallic sound, patted Rosie on the arm, winked and boogied back into the crowd, air-kissing along the way until she found Tabitha, and then together they danced like they were at a rave.
But Rosie had the distinct feeling that Meg Kelly was no more the ditzy socialite she appeared to be than Cameron Kelly had been the carefree, lackadaisical golden boy she'd once thought he was. Or the dark, hard character she'd thought he'd turned into.
'What the hell is wrong with my brother, leaving you all alone in this crowd of vultures?'
Rosie turned to find Dylan Kelly leaning over her shoulder. She would have recognised him anywhere; he graced the social pages more than the rest of them combined. Fair, dashing, roguish, he grabbed her last hors d'oeuvre and popped it in his mouth.
'There is nothing wrong with your brother,' she said, snatching her near-empty champagne away lest he went for that too.
He grinned at her with his mouth full. 'Meg was right-soft and gooey. The both of you.'
'Sorry to disappoint,' she said. 'I don't have a gooey bone in my body.'
He leant against the side of the column, close enough for her to smell his aftershave. It was nice, but it was not Cameron. Just the thought of Cameron's clean, linen scent made her gooey, gooey, gooey.
'And what do you know of my brother's body?' Dylan asked.
'Are you absolutely certain the two of you are related?' she asked. 'Because I just can't see it.'
Dylan's laughter rang in her ears, and she wondered how Adele, Meg and Dylan would be in a room together. Add Tabitha, and it would be such a riot she'd be able to charge admission.
Her chest expanded expectantly at the thought that, if things continued to go well, her friendship circle could triple overnight. And all because Cameron had chosen to include her.
The second she had the chance, Rosie sought him out. To her eyes he stood out like a lantern on a foggy night. His dinner jacket was open, his left hand in his trouser pocket, his right hand lifting and falling as he told a story which held the group enthralled. Though his eyes never once touched on his father, who stood quietly to the side focussed completely on his youngest son, she knew Cameron knew he was there.
Dylan was mistaken; Cameron hadn't left her alone. She hadn't been rendered invisible once her work was done. She'd kept herself away, giving him the space she knew he needed.
Right?
Cameron's mind wandered, and not for the first time. Only once his gaze found Rosalind, and he knew she was being entertained-that she was smiling, happy and in safe hands-could he begin to relax.
Right now she was being entertained by Dylan, a guy he'd never been stupid enough to leave alone with a date even without the added benefit of trust issues. But seeing his brother with Rosalind …
Nothing.
It wasn't ambivalence he was feeling. Quite the opposite. He knew Rosalind was with him even when she wasn't with him. His trust in her was absolute. And, in a night filled with extraordinary moments, that was one of the more unexpected.
Dylan leant in close to her to point out something on the ceiling. The guy took the opportunity to place a hand on her waist, feigning a need for balance.
And in the blink of an eye Rosalind had hold of the offending hand, bending his fingers back ninety degrees, and his brother was begging for mercy.
Cameron's first thought was, that's my girl.
That was the moment he felt his father slide in beside him.
'Nice girl,' Quinn said-the first words that had been spoken directly to him by the man in years. He couldn't have been less surprised.
'Nice doesn't even begin to cover it,' Cameron said, turning to look his father in the eye.
He looked older. Thinner. In person there was the same air of gravitas and power about him that there had always been. But he couldn't deny he'd seen what he'd seen, felt what he'd felt. There was no point in putting it off any longer.
'You're sick, aren't you, Dad?' His voice was dry. Emotionless. He had no idea how, as the words burned the inside of his throat as he said them.
'Wherever did you get that idea?' Quinn asked, smiling for his audience of hundreds.
'Dad,' Cameron pressed. 'Come on. This is me you're talking to-the one person on the planet who knows better than to fall for your line of bull. So tell me what's wrong?'
Quinn blinked at him as though not only seeing him for the first time in a decade and a half, but really seeing him for the first time.
'Nothing major. Just a couple of minor heart-attacks.'
Knowing had been one thing, having that thing confirmed was a whole other level of hell. Somehow he managed to keep his cool. 'How minor?'
'Minor enough I was able to call for Dr Carmichael myself when I felt them coming on. He brought me round both times without the need for anything so gauche as an ambulance. Just as well; those drivers would have sold some trumped up version of events to some shoddy paper within the hour.'
'So you've had no treatment apart from Dr Carmichael?'
'Not necessary.'
Cameron took a breath. 'Dr Carmichael is ten years older than you, and barely strong enough to hold a syringe, much less resuscitate a man your size.'
'Proving I was fine.'
'He has no other job but keeping you well. The guy wouldn't tell you it was serious for fear you'd fire him!'
'Which I damn well would. The man has no idea what a health scare would do to KInG. You, on the other hand, are smart enough to figure it out. So I trust you'll keep your concerns to yourself.'
Cameron scoffed. 'I've heard those words before.'
His father's face turned red, the kind of red that went with high blood pressure and too many whiskeys over too many years. Cameron's fingers stretched out to touch his arm, to stay him, to make sure he was okay-but Quinn jerked away as though one show of vulnerability would be enough to let the crowd in on the truth.
'Son,' he barked, 'It's not your secret to tell.'
'Well, then, that's a pity, because I've recently discovered the healing quality of letting secrets go.'
'Think of your mother,' Quinn warned.
Cameron got so close to his father he could count the red lines in the man's eyes. For that reason alone he kept his voice as calm as he could as he said, 'You're the one who needs to think of my mother a hell of a lot more than you ever do. I don't give a flying fig about the business, or the press, but I do care about the family. They may think you're a god, but I know that you are just a man. And I'm not keeping this secret-not from them-because if something happened to you and they didn't see it coming they'd never forgive you. So I'm back. Today's a new day for the Kelly clan.'
'Cameron?'
Rosalind's soft voice was enough to bring him off his high horse and back down to earth.
'Cameron?' she said again. 'I'm so sorry to interrupt, but Meg was looking for you. She needs you for a reason I can't mention in front of the birthday boy.'
Her hand clamped down on his forearm, gently but insistently. His vision cleared enough to tell him they had an audience. She'd just saved him from telling everyone in the room what even the family did not yet know.
Her other hand slid around his back, sliding along the beltline of his trousers, slow, warm, supportive. Vanilla essence, purely feminine warmth. Rosalind.
'Quinn,' she said, 'Happy birthday. And can I steal him away?'
His father nodded, then looked back to him, the slightest flicker of sadness damping his sharp, blue eyes before it disappeared behind the usual wall of invulnerability. But it was something. It was regret. It was a beginning.
'Happy birthday, Dad,' he said, leaning in to give his father a quick kiss on the cheek before turning and walking away.
'Oh God!' Rosalind whispered. 'I so apologise if that was the exact wrong moment, but you looked like you were about to bop him one. I thought you might need a distraction.'