A Cowboy in Manhattan(61)
He let that image swim around his brain. It was preposterous, of course, but he couldn’t help liking it.
“Enjoying the party?” Elizabeth asked, standing by his side.
“Very much,” said Reed, telling the truth. He’d met a lot of interesting people, many from New York City, but a surprising number from other parts of the country. All seemed well-traveled, and some had visited Colorado.
Reed took advantage of the opportunity. “I heard Katrina had trouble with a ballet shoe.”
“Terrible luck that,” said Elizabeth. “I’m glad she’s healed so fast. It was a bizarre accident, but we’re not taking any chances.”
“How so?” Reed prompted, determined to catalog whatever information he could gather.
“We’ve changed the standards, shortened the wear period.”
“Katrina told me she had a dozen pairs of ballet shoes.” Reed would love to get his hands on the others. If Katrina was right, and there was no way to know which pair she’d choose on any given night, then Foster might have sabotaged more than one.
“We replaced them all.”
Destroyed the evidence. “And whose idea was that?”
“A board recommendation. Overkill in my opinion, but I suppose it’s a PR move if you need one. You don’t have a drink.”
“I’m pacing myself.”
She linked an arm with his. “An admirable quality.”
He glanced down to where her fingertips trailed flirtatiously along his bicep. “You know you don’t mean that.”
Her laughter tinkled. “Sorry. Ingrained habit.” She disentangled her arm. “You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”
“You catching flies tonight?”
“Liberty Ballet doesn’t survive without donations. No offense to your gender, Reed. But men are more likely to pull out their checkbook for a vivacious woman.”
“Do you ever get tired of doing that?”
“Of course not.”
“Liar.”
She shrugged. “It’s my job.” Then she pointed with her champagne glass. “See that man over there, white hair, glasses, laughing?”
“I see him.”
“He donated a substantial sum last year. His business manager called today to say they’ll have to cut that in half. My job tonight is to change his mind.”
“Good luck with that,” Reed offered.
“Thanks.”
“I could probably intimidate him for you.”
Elizabeth’s laughter tinkled again. “That would certainly be a change in tactics.”
“Can’t flirt with him though,” Reed noted.
She looked him up and down. “There is one wealthy widow here tonight, Mrs. Darwin Rosamine—”
“Not a chance,” said Reed.
Elizabeth shrugged. “You look very sexy in a tux. Seems a shame to waste it.”
“What about Foster?” Reed put in. He’d spotted the man a couple of times, and he was waiting for an opportunity to confront him.
“Quentin? I don’t think we should send Quentin to flirt with Mrs. Rosamine.”
“I meant his donation.”
“He donates every year.”
“A lot?”
“One of our top donors.”
“Would you be willing to give me a number?”
Elizabeth drew back, her expression changing from animated to thoughtful as she considered Reed. “That would be unethical.”
He returned her level gaze. “And?”
“And I could get in a lot of trouble for revealing that kind of information.”
Reed waited, but she didn’t cave. He had to admire that. “Hypothetically speaking, a ballpark number, what would you consider to be a top donor to Liberty Ballet?”
Elizabeth’s even, white teeth came down on her bottom lip, and she smiled as she shook her head. “Hypothetically speaking, I consider a top donor to be in the range of two hundred to three hundred thousand a year.”
Reed nodded. “That’s a lot of money.”
She took a sip of her champagne. “I can smile through almost anything for that kind of money.”
“Are you saying you have problems with Quentin?”
“Nothing serious.” She glanced from side to side and lowered her voice. “The biggest problem I have with him is that he’s boring. He’s way too fond of the sound of his own voice, and tends to corner me at parties.”