Finding Isadora(6)

Not that Richard would ever really be part of this crowd. At least I hoped he wouldn’t. Sometimes he did seem a little driven in terms of upward mobility.

I could see how seductive it must be, that climb through the legal ranks, but we’d talked about our goals and agreed our two priorities were financial security and a happy family life. Solid middle-class goals. Goals my parents and his father rejected completely.

As I moved toward the door of the silent auction room, my attention caught on a man who stood talking to a couple of women. I froze in place like a cat that’s spotted a bird. A very tempting bird. A woman stumbled into me and we both murmured apologies, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the man. How could one tux-clad guy, among all the other penguins, stand out this way?

Because he wasn’t a penguin; he was a panther.

His stance was casual, one hand holding a glass of red wine, the other in a pants pocket, but there was an energy about him. A vitality and magnetism. Despite his formal clothes he didn’t look quite civilized. I thought of what happened when people tried to domesticate a wild animal. Even if the creature behaved properly, somehow its wild origins always showed through.

The man looked away from his companions and caught me staring. His expression sharpened, turned to something knowing and purely male, and he held my gaze. I felt a flush rise up my neck to my cheeks before I forced myself to look away.

Flustered, I straightened my spine and again headed for the silent auction room, ducking inside the door with relief. My heart raced and I stood still, waiting for it to slow, studying the room. Tables lined the walls, displaying auction donations. People formed a straggly line, snails crawling from one exhibit to the next. I squeezed my way in between a couple of overweight women, breathing shallowly in a futile attempt to avoid inhaling their cloying perfume. But when I tried to focus on one of the displays, my eyes still retained the man’s image.

I examined that image objectively, trying to figure out why I’d been so mesmerized. He was tallish, with broad shoulders, rangy rather than stocky. The pocketed hand had pulled his tuxedo jacket back, so I’d seen he had a slim waist and narrow hips.

Dark skin. He might be Italian or Greek, or maybe he’d just spent a lot of time in the sun this spring—skiing perhaps, or on holiday. Black hair combed back from his face showcased craggy features. He must be in his thirties, and had the kind of appeal some men acquire as they age and character lines appear.

A Greek tycoon? Suave and sophisticated, yet with an untamed edge that made him enticing. Untamed? Why did I think that? Why was my impression of a panther rather than, say, a sleek black labrador? Had it been that knowing, almost predatory gleam in his eye when he stared back at me?

An impatient throat-clearing broke into my musings. Obediently I shuffled along to the next display. I’d certainly managed to memorize the man, just from one quick—okay, lingering—look. The only thing I didn’t know was the color of his eyes. Dark, for sure. Brown? Maybe black or indigo?

I forced myself to focus on the table in front of me. This particular auction item was a huge wicker basket filled with gourmet treats like beluga caviar and black truffles. The bid was at five thousand dollars. Someone would have to pay me that much to make me eat fish eggs and fungus. How odd that tonight you could spend exorbitant sums on delicacies, and end up feeding soup to hungry souls in the Downtown Eastside.

I shuffled along to the next item, a set of ivory-colored pillow cases with hand-made lace. Impractical, but utterly romantic. The delicate border begged to be touched but I didn’t extend a finger; my skin, rough from multiple scrubbings every day, might snag the lace.

The next display featured bottles of Okanagan Valley ice wine and gourmet chocolate truffles—now this kind of truffle I’d definitely eat—which went nicely with the romantic pillow cases. And the next was for a weekend at the Empress Hotel in Victoria—a perfect setting for the pillow cases, the wine, the chocolate. And the right man.

Suddenly, the back of my neck prickled. Someone was watching me. Richard? The prickles didn’t think so, and when I turned I did it cautiously.

The panther-man. Alone now, he stood in the doorway to the silent auction room, one shoulder against the doorframe, his head cocked to the side. Staring at me. Again I felt my cheeks color. Such an idiotic, childish reaction.

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. Slowly, almost lazily. God, it was a sexy smile.

I spun away. Why was my heart pounding? So, big deal, a stranger had smiled at me.

An exotic stranger had smiled a bedroom-eyes smile at me. All right, this was a first in my life, but I knew exactly what to do. Ignore him. He obviously had me confused with a woman who belonged in a setting like this and engaged in idle flirtations, rather than an inexperienced, conventional, engaged veterinarian.

Which display had I been looking at? Oh right, the fixings for a romantic weekend with the right man. My right man was Richard. I knew that unquestioningly, but as I stared at the Empress Hotel display, I wondered why we’d never gone for a romantic weekend. We were both practical, and my budget was tight, yet there should be room for romance in our lives.

I checked the bids for the hotel weekend. Whew! A two-night stay certainly couldn’t cost that much. But of course it didn’t. That was the point to a charity auction. It gave rich people a game to play, a contest, plus a tangible reward for their generous donation. I wished I had the money to contribute myself. But my first priority was paying off my student loan. After that came the down payment on our house.