Читать книгу A Holiday Prayer - Debra Kastner - Страница 9

Father, I cannot see tomorrow, Father, I find it hard to pray, Father, feeling these tears of sorrow, Carry this weight…Show me the way. Open up my eyes, Open up my ears, Open up my heart. Father, hear my prayer.

—Heartfelt

An ocean of masked party-goers washed toward the Brown Palace Hotel, their laughter echoing in the cold evening air. Maddie closed her eyes, trying to recall the feeling of gurgling laughter caught in her chest, bubbling up into her throat.

Her heart felt void of any emotion but a sense of apprehension at being in the public eye, of being recognized as the Wealthy Widow, as the newspapers had dubbed her.

Country-bred bumpkin was more like it, party clothes or no party clothes.

She stared in awe at the majestic exterior of the historic Brown Palace Hotel, a landmark sandwiched between office buildings in the heart of downtown Denver.

God help me. She sent up a silent prayer. This isn’t going to work without your intervention. She reached inside herself, searching for a snippet of peace that would make this night easier, but found nothing. Nothing. She was little more than an empty shell.

It had taken her years to adjust to being a suburban housewife on the outskirts of a big city, used as she was to her small hometown in eastern Colorado. No way would she ever fit in among an ostentatious crowd of silver-lined philanthropists. Even with a mask she was bound to give away her small-town roots.

Happily-ever-after storybook endings didn’t exist. She was hard proof of that. Perhaps her sparkling Cinderella satin gown and glass slippers were more appropriate than she’d imagined. That irony crowned her, just as sure as the faux-diamond tiara she wore.

She wasn’t looking for Prince Charming. She’d already had her one true love. Memories would have to be enough to bolster her through the remainder of life.

She ought to turn right around and go home where she belonged. She glanced back at the street, but the taxicab that had dropped her off in front of the hotel had long since vanished.

Maddie decided to walk back to 16th Street, where she could catch a bus back to her own neighborhood. She didn’t really want to be alone in a crowd. Alone at home was easier to handle. She was still too used to having Peter by her side. Single was not her style.

And maybe it never would be.

She was looking at her see-through, plastic “glass” pumps, and didn’t see the crowd approaching her until it was too late. A festive jumble of costumed people whirled her into their midst and, seeing she was also incognito, whisked her along with them into the hotel.

She fought to be released, but an older woman with a dozen glittering rings on one hand looped her arm through Maddie’s, giving her little choice but to follow the others into the dark, panel-floored atrium. She sighed. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she quoted to herself.

“Exactly, dear,” said the old woman with the rings, who stood at Maddie’s side. Maddie had forgot that she wasn’t alone, or she certainly wouldn’t have spoken aloud. The gray-haired woman put a hand to Maddie’s back and gave her a gentle nudge in the direction of the music. “Might as well take a peek, dear heart, since you’ve come this far.”

The voice was filled with such authority that Maddie swiveled to catch her expression, but the woman was already tottering toward a group of friends, waving her arms enthusiastically at a big, black bear.

She could see the second floor of the hotel through broad arches, and again felt a quiver of dismay at finding herself among a class of people who would frequent such a place. She felt like a church mouse in a grand cathedral.

Courage, Maddie, she mentally coaxed herself. These people put their pants on the same way you do. Get a grip on it.

She wandered tentatively into the ballroom, which had been transformed into a winter wonderland. Billowy cotton clouds hung from the ceiling, sequins glittering from their depths, and many-faceted paper snowflakes graced the walls. Pillar-like lamps wrapped with festive, pungent pine boughs surrounded the dance floor, giving the room a candlelit kind of glow. A twelve-piece orchestra played a lively Chopin waltz in one corner of the ballroom. Already, couples were whirling around the dance floor in time to the music.

The effect was magical, and Maddie experienced the temporary, giddy feeling that she’d been transported to another time and place. Was this how Cinderella felt when she walked into the prince’s palace? She took a deep breath and smoothed down the satiny folds of her opaque silver gown. Cinderella. Would it hurt to pretend? Just a little? And just this once?

Just for tonight, she promised herself. She was in a mask, after all, and had her hair and face made up. No one would recognize her. If the night went well, she might not even recognize herself.

Groups of chattering people mingled around the perimeter of the hall, while others sat at tables before plates mounded with food from the buffet in the next room. Everyone she saw was lavishly costumed— from a portly lion and his chair-wielding lion-tamer wife to Santa and Mrs. Claus.

What if one of the masked men in the room was Neil March? The unspoken question hit her with such sudden force that she nearly reeled. Her stomach tightened as she fought the nausea she felt every time she saw or heard his name.

It was Neil March’s fault that she was here tonight. Alone.

Irrational though it might be, Maddie blamed Neil March for Peter’s death. There was so much anger, so much pain. It had to be channeled somewhere and Maddie had, whether consciously or not, transferred her negative feelings to Neil March. He was, after all, the owner of the department store and in her mind, that made him responsible.

The report by the fire department had cleared March’s of any wrong doing, but she clung stubbornly to her own suspicions. Authorities could be paid off to keep their findings a secret and if there was one thing Neil March had plenty of, it was money. Hadn’t he tried to buy her off as well?

Her stomach clenched and she scanned the room in earnest.

What if he was here? Maddie gasped fighting the waves of panic.

No. Neil March wouldn’t be here. He was a playboy, not a philanthropist. What he’d paid her at Peter’s untimely death had been nothing less than blood money. Not offered out of generosity. And definitely not offered out of compassion. Of that she was certain.

Though she knew him to be a practiced businessman, she pictured Neil as a young, arrogant preppie, complete with khaki pants and a designer polo shirt with the collar flipped up on his neck. He’d have a tennis racket slung over one arm and a gorgeous blonde on the other.

She didn’t recall seeing any preppie tennis players here tonight mingling amongst the guests.

She snorted at her own joke. It was the closest she’d come to laughing since Peter had died. The sober thought dropped the smile from her lips.

Neil March was certainly nothing to laugh about.

“Excuse me.” She flagged down a passing waiter. “Do you have water?” She realized she sounded like a dehydrated camel after days in the desert, but the waiter remained straight-faced. “Of course, madam.”

Moments later she was gulping down a glass of water, coughing and sputtering when it went down wrong. She pounded a fist against her chest to dislodge what felt like a boulder. “Maddie, you have to relax!” she muttered under her breath.

“Hey! Check it out. Now that’s a costume and a half!” a young blonde in a tennis outfit said, grabbing Maddie by the elbow.

There went her theory that there were no tennis players here tonight. The young woman was the gorgeous blonde half of her Neil March scenario, with white culottes that put the short in shorts. Bleach blond hair and a knockout tan in the dead of winter?

Intrigued, Maddie looked to where the blonde was pointing her tennis racket. Something had clearly captured her attention.

Standing in the doorway, his feet braced and hands on his hips, was the Phantom of the Opera, handsome despite the fact that the upper half of his face was masked in stark white.

She was immediately struck by his impressive bearing and thick, broad shoulders. His black cutaway tuxedo was covered with a many-caped greatcoat, fastened at the neck amid snowy-white ruffles. His presence was intense and powerful, and Maddie could see that she wasn’t the only woman inexplicably drawn to his mask and the thick black hair curling down around his collar.

He appeared to be looking for someone, his strong, thin lips turned down at the corners in just the shadow of a frown.

His gaze passed where she stood, then moved back again, as if he were taking a second look. No doubt he was, since Ms. Short-shorts was still holding on to Maddie’s elbow. She was exactly the sort of woman to make a man do a double take.

Maddie wasn’t surprised when he strode toward them. The young woman dropped her tennis racket to her side and stood with one hand on her hips, greeting the Phantom with a brilliant smile.

Oddly enough, Maddie had the peculiar sensation that he was watching her, coming for her, as if he’d picked an old friend’s face from a crowd. And it sent shivers down her spine. But of course that was nonsense. He was coming for the blonde.

With unconscious grace, he unhooked the cape and swung it around, folding it across a chair. Maddie’s heart leapt to her throat, and she nearly dropped the water glass that she held in her hand. This man was definitely not an old friend.

She would have remembered such a compelling gaze, the way his dark eyes burned through the stark whiteness of the mask…and especially that confident swagger that caught the attention of every woman he passed.

Her head spun as the man grew nearer. She was vaguely aware of the sound of her own breath heavy in her ears, the pounding of her heart in her head.

Now, he was in front of her, looking straight at her. As if he knew her. But there was no way he could recognize her through her mask. And even if he could see her face, it was improbable that he’d know her. How could he? She wasn’t part of this crowd.

Perhaps that was the problem. Did she stick out like a weed among orchids? Maybe she looked like the grungy suburban housewife that she was, as out of place as a child at a grown-up party.

He grinned then, the smile starting at his lips and emanating from his obsidian-black eyes behind the mask. His smile encompassed both Maddie and the primping blonde at her side.

So that was it. He was being polite, figuring Maddie was Ms. Short-shorts’s friend. And he was probably wondering how to get rid of her.

Well, she’d make it easy for him. She didn’t know why Goldilocks had latched on to her in the first place, and she had no qualms about bowing out when she wasn’t wanted. She dislodged her elbow from the blonde’s grasp just as the Phantom held out his hand and gestured toward the dance floor.

Let’s move it, sweetie. He’s obviously asking you to dance, and he isn’t going to wait forever, Maddie thought uncharitably, wondering why the woman’s grip on her elbow had tightened. What was this woman’s problem? Not a tough decision, especially for one as used to society charity balls as this girl seemed to be.

She glanced to her side. The young woman stared at Maddie with a mixture of disbelief and pique, then glanced at the Phantom. She swung her astonished gaze to Maddie, and, with an unladylike snort, flounced away in a huff.

Either the woman was crazy, or a complete idiot. And the Phantom had just been jilted. She turned to the man and offered a regretful shrug and a tentative smile.

The dark-haired man combed his fingers through the curls at the back of his neck. “Well?”

Maddie cocked her head. “Well?” she repeated.

“Dance with me.”

His voice was as low and rich as she’d imagined it would be. And she had definitely imagined the words.

Dance?

His eyes lit with amusement at her hesitation.

“Weren’t you asking Goldilocks to dance?” she blurted.

“Who?” The Phantom looked genuinely perplexed.

“You know.” Maddie tipped her head in the direction the blonde had disappeared. “The tennis player.”

The Phantom chuckled. “Not a chance. She’s a little young. And definitely not my type. I was asking you to dance.”

He was asking her to dance. And the orchestra was breaking into a slow ballad even as they spoke.

She nodded and took the hand he extended.

She felt a twinge of guilt when he swept her into his arms. It felt awkward. She hadn’t danced in ages. And for so many years it had only been Peter.

Peter’s arms. Peter’s whisper.

She felt the electric heat of the Phantom’s hand on her hip and her mind clicked into gear. A wave of panic surged over her.

Oh, Lord, what have I gotten into now?

She’d come here to support Children’s Hospital, not to dance. It was too much, too fast. To be dancing in another man’s arms, feeling another man’s heartbeat against her palm. Guilt turned the screw. Was she betraying Peter’s memory?

But Peter was gone. The Phantom was here, and his light embrace was not unpleasant. Besides, it was only one dance.

While Peter couldn’t dance to save his life, the Phantom was clearly a dancer, swaying easily in time to the music. Peter had been lean and lank, but her fingers now burned with the feel of the Phantom’s thick, rippling biceps. And he was shorter than Peter had been, though still a good head taller than Maddie. She would, she thought with an uncomfortable flutter of her stomach, fit right into the crook of the man’s shoulder.

As if he read her thoughts, he smiled at her.

At last, an imperfection. She was beginning to think that he was perfect in form and face—or at least what she could see of it. But his smile was crooked and little-boy adorable.

He chuckled low in his chest and his dark eyes sparkled with mirth. He lowered his head until his warm breath tickled the sensitive skin of her neck, sending shivers of delight down her spine. “You’re staring at me.”

Maddie felt as if he’d jolted her with a white-hot bolt of electricity. With a whimper of dismay, she attempted to shrug out of his arms.

His hand on her hip tightened in response. “Don’t run,” he implored in a throaty whisper. “Please. I was only kidding.”

She grimaced and tittered nervously. “I apologize. It’s just that I…”

He lifted his hand from her hip and gently placed his forefinger over her lips. “No. You don’t have to explain. Just dance with me.”

She nodded, losing track of her thoughts in liquid black eyes reminiscent of some Native American ancestor and confirmed by his angular features and aquiline nose.

He shifted slightly, pulling her into his chest so that his hand now rested at the small of her back. It was a modest gesture, but enough for her to feel the rock-hard ripples of his shoulder under her cheek.

She inhaled deeply, then fought the sense of guilt assaulting her even as the faint spice of the Phantom’s aftershave made her nostrils tingle.

Oh God, she prayed as grief washed over her. How she missed Peter.

Deep inside her heart, the part of her that had agonized through every lonely night, mourning Peter’s death, facing the achingly empty king-size bed alone, struggling through empty days, needed to move closer into the embrace of her Phantom gentleman.

She was relieved that he wasn’t trying to make idle conversation. She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to be held. If only for a moment. To feel the brush of warm breath tickle her ear. To revel in strong arms encircling her waist.

But how could she?

She pulled back, opening the space between them. She should turn around and walk away. This instant, while she still had the strength to do so.

The Phantom’s warm hand lightly resting on her back sent shivers up her spine that had nothing to do with cold. Her spirit soared.

With a deep inner sigh, she allowed him to draw her closer. Being in his arms felt good and right. She would face her regrets tomorrow.

For tonight, she was going to dance.