Free Dangerous Ladies by Christina Dodd Page B

her way across the floor toward them.
    Gwynne and Stan turned away as Brandi approached. Gwynne tried to stop, but Stan tugged her toward the buffet table, and she gave Brandi a helpless wave and followed.
    Brandi had Roberto on her mind, so when Gwynne looked back with pity in her eyes, Brandi didn’t know what to think. Pity? For the woman about to spend the night with Roberto Bartolini? With a dismissive shrug, Brandi said, “Uncle Charles, I’m going to take my leave. I know I was going to stay, but the move . . . I have so much to do before Monday. . . .” She tried to arrange her expression to weariness, and not show the guests, and certainly not Uncle Charles, that she’d just experienced the kiss of a lifetime. When she thought of it, of Roberto, she wanted to put her hand over heart to feel it race and know, at last, that she was alive.
    To her surprise, Uncle Charles didn’t object. “I’ll walk you to the foyer.”
    She was so relieved, she didn’t notice the somber cast to his eyes. She got her things from the checkroom, and as he helped her into her coat, he said, “I was just talking to Stan Durant. You know he works at University Hospital.”
    “Yes.” She buttoned her coat and wished Roberto were departing with her. Of course, they couldn’t leave together, but it felt odd going to an assignation by herself.
    “Stan says there are rumors flying around the hospital that your fiancé . . . that Alan . . .”
    Uncle Charles had succeeded in capturing Brandi’s attention.
    “. . . married some female in a Las Vegas wedding.”
    Busted! Busted, and now Uncle Charles was going to figure out why she was leaving, too. She probably had guilt written all over her face. “I . . . I didn’t want to tell you. . . .”
    “Dear, dear girl.” He straightened her collar. “You were so brave to come here tonight when your heart is breaking.”
    “Breaking. Yes.” Maybe guilt looked like suffering. Certainly she
didn’t feel as if her heart were breaking. More like she couldn’t wait to make love with Roberto Bartolini.
    “I’ll let you go without another word”—Uncle Charles took her hand—“but promise you’ll come to me if I can do anything to mend your grief.”
    “If I think of something, you’ll be the first to know.” Or not. Uncle Charles would never find out how she mended her grief; on that she was determined.
    “Let me bring my car around for you.”
    “No!” She swallowed. “I mean, I’ve made arrangements for a car. But thank you; you’ve been very kind.”
    He held her in place and looked into her eyes. “Promise you won’t be like your mother and let one bad apple spoil the whole crop. That lovely woman should have remarried years ago, and she won’t take a chance and trust another man.”
    He was comparing her situation to her mother’s. It was inevitable, she supposed, but how she hated it! “I won’t. Good night, Uncle Charles.” She kissed his papery cheek and picked up her bag.
    “Your car’s waiting, Miss Michaels.” Jerry opened the door.
    A blast of frigid wind took her breath away. She gasped, then hurried out. A long black limousine stood at the bottom of the steps. The driver stood holding the door. He must be freezing. As she slid in, he tipped his hat, then shut the door and hurried around the car.
    A dim overhead light illuminated the interior of black leather and polished wood. The clean, new-car smell intoxicated her. She sank back and let the seat heater thaw her bones.
    “I’m Newby, miss. I’ll have you to the hotel in about a half hour.” The driver had a British accent, and just like in the movies, he wore a billed cap. “Can I get anything for you before we start? A drink? Something to read? A phone or computer? We have satellite connection if you’d like to check your e-mail or surf the Net.”
    She was impressed. Of course she was impressed. “No, thank you, I’m going to sit back and enjoy myself.”

    “During the drive, if you