Finding Isadora(7)

I was probably the only person in this room whose dearest desire was financial security in her old age. No doubt they’d all achieved that long ago and were on to far more lofty dreams.

What was the handsome stranger bidding on? Would he win the weekend getaway, and who would he take? Did he have a wife, gorgeous and sophisticated, or was he a play-the-field kind of guy? The latter, I hoped. It would be disgusting if a married man was flirting with me.

Not that he was flirting. All he’d done was smile. I’d probably fantasized the bedroom-eyes smolder.

I glanced over my shoulder. His back was to me now, but I knew him. Despite the ponytail. Before, seeing him from the front, I hadn’t realized how long his hair was—down to his shoulders—and that he wore it gathered back in a silver clasp.

Ponytails weren’t the norm for successful businessmen, and his was the only one I’d seen here tonight. But of course, if he was a Greek billionaire, he could afford to be unconventional.

Too bad I was a sucker for long hair on men.

He turned quickly, staring straight at me, and somehow I knew he’d felt my gaze just as I, a few minutes earlier, had sensed his. There was no logical explanation but it seemed we had a connection, an invisible lightning that arced across the room and burned when it touched. He tilted his head and stared at me, his lips curved in a knowing smile.

I should turn away, but I couldn’t. He was hypnotizing me, drawing me toward him with the intensity of his gaze. It took a physical effort to hold still.

Before I knew it, I’d flashed him a quick smile. Then I whirled, dismayed and appalled, pulse fluttering wildly at my throat. This was crazy. What was I doing? I had never, but never, flirted with a stranger. I’d never let myself be picked up in a bar, never even gone on a blind date. But now, I, Isadora Dean Wheeler, who was engaged to be married and believed firmly in fidelity, had… What?

Smiled? Good lord, it was just a smile. I was over-reacting. My heart raced like it did when I inadvertently got a dose of caffeine.

I grinned. That’s it, the panther-man was caffeine in a tux, and he’d flashed me a jolt of it across the crowded room.

The smile died as I thought of another old song my mother loved, saying it described how she and Jimmy Lee had felt when they first met: “Some Enchanted Evening” from South Pacific. That’s what it had felt like for me tonight, for a few seconds. I’d seen a stranger across a crowded room, and wanted to fly to his side.

Absurd. And this was excellent practice for when I was married. I wasn’t so naive as to believe I’d never be attracted to anyone but Richard. What I did believe was that attraction could be resisted. My parents, who shunned marriage, had what they called an open relationship and didn’t believe in monogamy, but I did. Fervently. That meant resisting temptation, and this man was pure, sinful temptation.

Jostled along by the crowd, I moved past a few more displays. Whoever had organized the silent auction had done a fabulous job of soliciting donations. There were train trips, dinners out, original art, home entertainment systems, jewelry, even two flights to Paris. Reputedly the most romantic city in the world.

Maybe the stranger was French. Did he have an accent? Accents were so sexy.

After all, if I was going to resist temptation, I might as well resist a man who had not only wealth, good looks, sex appeal, and charm, but a delicious accent to top it off. Cautiously I snuck another glance over my shoulder.

He wasn’t there.

I turned all the way around and studied the room. There was Richard, his back to me, shoulders stiff and head nodding as he spoke to someone I couldn’t see. But the stranger had disappeared. I’d never know whether he had an accent, nor discover the color of his eyes. It seemed my power of resistance wasn’t going to be put to the test after all.

I checked out a few more displays, then heard Richard’s voice from behind me. “Isadora, there you are.” His voice was formal and constricted, and he never called me Isadora. “I’d like you to meet my father.”

His father? I froze. Damn, was that the other person he’d started to tell me about earlier? I was going to kill my fiancé for not warning me his semi-estranged dad might be attending. I should have combed my hair, put on lipstick, used more hand lotion.

Oh well, Mr. DeLuca would have to take me the way I came. Lifting my chin high, I swung around.

“Oh!” It was him. The panther-man.





Chapter 2


I could see his eyes clearly now. The rich brown of … oh yes, dark chocolate truffles. Sinful and tantalizing. A couple of shades darker than Richard’s hazel ones, but with the same dark lashes and brows.

My god, my stranger across a crowded room was Richard’s father. But how could he be? He didn’t look older than his mid thirties, yet he must be … what? My brain couldn’t make the calculation.

He shook his head ruefully, apologetically, then smiled. It was forced, nothing like the sexy one he’d flashed me earlier.

Richard shoved his glasses up his nose, even though they were already perfectly positioned. “Gabe, this is Isadora. Iz, this is, uh, my father. I, uh, may not have mentioned that he’s on the Board of the Multicultural Center.”

On the Board? I shot a disbelieving look at Richard. If his father was on the Board, surely there’d been a good chance he would attend this fundraiser.

My fiancé’s guilty expression confirmed the fact, and that he’d chickened out about warning me.