Free Christmas in Paris by Anita Hughes Page B

and now she’s a size six. I only buy wraps and purses.”
    â€œIt sounds like you have a lot of experience.” Isabel’s cheeks flushed. “Why didn’t you bring your girlfriend to help you decide?”
    â€œI don’t have a girlfriend, I don’t even own a cat. I’m sort of the prodigal son.” He moved around the display table. “Youngest child of a prominent steel family. The oldest, Brian, has an office next to my father, and the middle child, Emmy, is married to a junior senator. Tabitha disappeared to Oregon after her Smith graduation and my parents worried she’d joined a commune. But she showed up at Thanksgiving engaged to a senior executive at Microsoft.” He grinned, and Isabel noticed his eyes were the color of emeralds.
    â€œThat leaves me, doted on as a child for my blond curls and ability to run. Attended Milton Academy and had a brush with fame when I was state cross-country champion. But I realized I couldn’t make running a career and turned down acceptance to Brown. I ended up at Marlboro College in Vermont.” He looked at Isabel. “I don’t know what was worse, the endless green fields or the white cheeses. The minute I got my diploma, I moved into my parents’ pool house.” He smiled mischievously. “Other young men have John Glenn or Babe Ruth as their heroes, mine is Benjamin Braddock in The Graduate. I’m waiting for someone to tell me what my future is.”
    â€œIt’s not writing the society column at the Philadelphia Inquirer ?” Isabel tried not to laugh.
    â€œI never thought I could get tired of liver pâté or buttercream filling,” he sighed. “But it seems I have a limit.”
    â€œMy mother adores Chanel silk scarves.” Isabel picked up a teal scarf. “You can wear them during the day with a two-piece suit or at night with an evening gown.”
    â€œDone,” the man exclaimed. He studied Isabel’s diamond earrings and Tiffany locket and suddenly his eyes sparkled. “Would you come with me? The Radnor Hunt Club is the oldest foxhunting club in the country. The chef prepares a delicious grilled venison and they have a cellar of vintage French wines.”
    â€œYou want me to be your date?” Isabel exclaimed. “I don’t even know your name.”
    â€œRory Danford.” He held out his hand. “It really would help, an odd number at the dinner table can be awkward.”
    â€œDid you say the party is at the Hunt Club?” she asked.
    â€œYes, my family has been members for almost a hundred years.”
    â€œI’m Isabel Lawson and I’m already invited,” she replied, a smile flickering across her face. “Our mothers are co-chairwomen of the Ardmore garden committee.”
    *   *   *
    ISABEL STOOD IN the paneled ballroom and gazed at the ivory tablecloths set with bone-white china and yellow calla lilies. A sixteen-piece band stood in the corner and silver lights twinkled above the dance floor. She fiddled with her ruby necklace and wondered why she’d agreed to attend Peggy Danford’s party.
    Her parents received dozens of invitations and she rarely accompanied them. And she’d promised herself she wasn’t going to think about dating until she finished her trainee session at Chase. There would be plenty of time to meet men after she secured a position as junior analyst.
    â€œHere you are,” Rory said as he approached her. He wore a white dinner jacket and his blond hair touched his collar. “It’s so crowded, I couldn’t find you.”
    â€œWhat a wonderful party, all the women look beautiful.” Isabel gazed at women wearing satin evening gowns and Jackie O–style dresses.
    â€œI hadn’t noticed.” Rory studied her red cocktail dress and silver sandals, and his eyes were suddenly serious. “I’ve been standing at the bar, asking Oscar to