Have Gown, Will Wed Page 7

  “You’re not a humble person.” He took a sip of his wine.

  Rosalind’s face screwed up. “I guess I shouldn’t have asked.”

  Tapping his palate with his tongue, Xavier shook his head. “That’s not a bad thing. You’re extremely confident and self-aware. You don’t demure, you redistribute. It’s an astounding quality in someone of your age, to realize when you’re in a situation where the best course of action might be to take someone else’s advice.”

  “We’ll see about that when I taste whatever it is you ordered for me,” Rosalind joked.

  Xavier chuckled in turn. “This is one of North Beach’s best. I assure you, you’ll love it.”

  She’d just see about that. She had astoundingly particular tastes when it came to food. “And what’s with all this, ‘someone of your age’ …as though we’re that different.”

  “On the contrary, I have a whole five years on you,” Xavier informed her.

  She tipped her wine at him. “Funny, I would have put you a few years more than thirty-six.”

  In kind, Xavier saluted her with his drink.

  They chatted several minutes about both of their careers. Rosalind explained how she grew up in a nearby coastal town famous for its hippies and their horticulture. Xavier said he had arrived to the West Coast after university and taken up a job with an existing firm. After several years, he had built up a reputation and proven track record that made going into business for himself seem the most logical thing.

  “It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy where I was,” he explained as the wait staff cleared the appetizers and wheeled out their entrees. “I just knew I’d never have the kind of control over the career I wanted unless I was doing my own thing. I wanted something that was mine.”

  “I understand completely,” Rosalind returned. “That’s why I founded BetaHouse. Only, where you work with people, my work mostly involves allowing others not to.”

  Two steaming dishes appeared on the table before them, leaving Rosalind surprised. Not only had Xavier ordered them both the same item, but despite what she thought a thorough background in Italian dining, she found the offering misplaced.

  “Are these… kebabs?”

  It certainly looked more like something from the Persian café two blocks from her loft than anything one would find in Rome.

  “Spendini,” Xavier answered. He used his fork to coax the morsels of shrimp, beef, and pork from the spit.

  “Aren’t kebabs Persian?”

  “So the Persians claim. As do the Greeks, the Turks, the Arabs … As the case may be, kebabs came to Italy via Venetian merchants conducting trade with the Ottoman Empire.” His knife sliced a roasted potato flecked with rosemary.

  Rosalind speared a liberated shrimp from her plate. “Still, I usually don’t care for too much meat. So you’re also a food historian?”

  “When something grabs my attention, I find myself wanting to know everything about it.” His eyes lingered on the morsel she held out at length for visual examination. “Try it. If you don’t like it, you can spit it out.” He gave her a wink.

  Pulling the shrimp to her mouth, she parted her lips and bit. An explosion of olive oil, rosemary, thyme, and oregano jolted her taste buds to life. As she chewed, her eyes drifted closed, wanting to concentrate on the taste. The saltiness of the sea drawn from the shrimp mixed with the lemon’s tartness and a hint of sweetness from what she didn’t know. An aroma hit her senses in short order, bringing to mind a trip to Tuscany taken when she was a sophomore at Stanford. She felt a drop of liquid chasing over her chin, and opened her eyes only when she felt the scratch of stiff linen.

  Rosalind’s gaze landed on Xavier, who was looking at her with concern, amusement, and something else she couldn’t quite grasp.

  His voice sounded raspy as he said, “I’m guessing you like it.”

  “I’ll just say that, if you did want to continue acting out the scene from the movie, I don’t think I’d be faking it.” She chewed enough to swallow, then met his gaze straight on. “Why don’t you bring women here any more, Mr. Hommes?”

  “Because I realized that I didn’t want an endless string of meaningless women. I wanted… want only one who would mean everything.”

  “And you haven’t found her yet?”

  He shook his head and raised his glass. “Here’s to hoping we both find what we’re looking for.”

  Black & White

  “I feel like Bruce Wayne should be arriving any moment.”

  Rosalind sipped at her champagne, so far the only good thing she’d encountered since arriving to the Firemen’s Charity Ball.

  “Tell me about it,” Kamakshi added, overlooking the crowd of swirling black suits and pale ballroom dresses. “I used to think these sort of things were made up by Hollywood. They’re even less impressive in real life. I wonder what else Hollywood is lying to us about.”

  “Next thing, you’ll be telling me people don’t really fall in love in a nice, sequential pattern set against a quirky situation with a bit of comedy relief on the side,” Rosalind added.

  No one would ever guess, based on the current landscape, that San Francisco’s inhabitants were known for their bold fashion choices. Averaging out all the designer labels, the shade of the night fell into the gray spectrum. Only the music held any color; at the far end of the converted fire house, a big band blared out interchanges of swing and old standards. At random intervals, men donning tuxes and women in varying degrees of sparkles and shock stood in small groups, milling. To the casual observer, they engaged in nothing more than idle chatter, soaking in the decorations, or savoring the spreads of haute cuisine that looked almost as expensive and as well dressed up as they were. Rosalind understood, however, that as much money and influence flew back and forth in these conversations as did words, whether in the form of insider stock tips or pitched investment opportunities. Collectively, the funding secured, offered, begged, or borrowed this night could fund the government of Guam for several years.

  So not her type of thing. Oh, she enjoyed making money. Correction: earning money, but she didn’t embrace the art of financial contortionism like some sort of high-stakes fantasy league so many of her fellow upper tax bracketeers did. Money was secondary in her career and focus. Little she aspired to, after providing for her necessities, was motivated primarily by the likelihood of riches.

  Though she admitted, it was a convenient consequence.

  Rosalind turned back to her friend with an appreciative eye. “At least you look great. I so wish I could pull off a red sari. Well, a red anything. But with my bisque skin, every time I put it on, I look like I’m impersonating a candy cane. Damn it, I wish I was ethnic.”

  “You are: you’re female.” Kamakshi laid a hand on Rosalind’s shoulder. “Seriously, stop it. You look fabulous. Not everyone can pull off yellow and not look like either Big Bird or a dandelion. You look… elegant.”

  “Ladies.”

  They turned to find Prashant, dressed in his black sherwani with gold embroidery that made him the perfect match to Kamakshi’s more traditional Indian garb. He bore a prideful smile and more importantly, bite-sized chocolates.

  “Kamakshi, have I told you yet how much I approve of your choice of a fiancé?” Rosalind quipped as she pinched a truffle between two fingers. “Any man whom comes bearing sweets when we only sent him to put our coats away is okay by me.”

  Kamakshi giggled as she handed off the second drink she’d been holding. “I knew you would love him.”

  Prashant leaned in toward Kamakshi. “I knew you would love me.”

  At least their kissing was brief and by modern standards, chaste. Prashant scarcely made contact with Kamakshi’s lips with his own before he pulled back. The gravity that lingered between them as he retreated, however, signaled clearly that the brevity wasn’t due to lack of want.

 
“So, not the most exciting party ever, but still beats sitting at home and doing balance sheets,” he remarked as he turned back to the crowd. “And the food looks good. Thank you again, Rosalind, for inviting us.”

  “Thank you for suffering through it with me,” Rosalind returned. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be at this shindig either if it wasn’t being thrown by one of my most loyal and early investors. I guess this is how I pay him back: three, thousand dollar tickets to his charity event.” She held up the glass of champagne for closer inspection. “Don’t you think they’d raise a whole lot more money for the Fireman’s Union if they served up some PBR rather than this stuff, though?”

  Prashant bobbed his head. “My mother always said these sort of parties were a bad excuse to support a good cause with a great number of eyes.”

  “Brings chocolates, and has a mom who has her head on right. You keep impressing.”

  Kamakshi sipped her cranberry mocktail. “May your potential husband prove to be as good as mine.”

  Rosalind pulled the flute to her lips once more. “From your mouth to God’s ear.”

  Prashant turned a vacant expression to his fiancée. “What’s that?”

  “Rosalind’s getting married.”

  “To who?”

  “The matchmaker hasn’t told her yet.”

  The ivory skin of Rosalind’s cheeks reddened. “Still don’t believe I’m serious about it, do you?”

  Kamakshi pulled back into Prashant’s side. “When have you ever been not serious? I’m just worried, is all. This works in India because the parents or someone else who’s really shown talent for making matches works it all out. I can’t stand the idea of you getting hurt if your improvised matchmaker screws up. Why can’t you just date, figure it out on your own?”

  “Given the current divorce rate in this country, I can’t possibly imagine that going the traditional route would make the end product any more of a guarantee,” Rosalind answered. “Besides, I trust my guy to do his job. He’s already proven himself more than capable.”

  “Well, then, cheers!”

  Kamakshi held up her flute, tapping it to Rosalind’s and clinking it, providing a visual reference for the definition of cliché.

  The moan of a clarinet hushed the room. The lights lowered, though the fractal beams cast out from a disco ball over the dance floor sent fingers of silver, red, and green flittering over the crowd.

  Prashant placed his glass on the nearest highboy. “Kam, my love,” he said as he held out a hand. “May I have the honor?”

  A look of concern clouded Kamakshi’s features. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  Rosalind knew Kamakshi wasn’t an experienced ballroom dancer, but she didn’t see how it could be dangerous. Perhaps Kamakshi knew something she didn’t about Prashant having two left feet.

  Prashant slid his fingers over hers leading her best friend toward the end of the room where couples swayed in adagio time. “Love, I would never let you fall.”

  “Enough charm, you silly boy. I’ve already agreed to marry you.”

  Rosalind wasn’t such a hopeless romantic that she’d dare say something as corny as “as though they were made for each other,” but even she could admit the two looked, acted, and even moved as though they’d been together for years. Kamakshi took to being in love like a duck to water. Her friend glowed with happiness.

  Had Rosalind not actually been so honestly appreciative and envious of that fact, it would have been sickening. Would she fall into love so easily as her best friend, as though falling into the ocean and surrendering to its pull? She doubted it. By nature, Rosalind Betters knew herself to be a contrarian. Besides, she was more than putting the cart before the horse on this. She didn’t even yet have candidates, let alone prospects. Hopefully, Xavier Hommes would have someone for her soon. She really wanted, perhaps needed, to feel that someone wanted her.

  A pang in the pit of her stomach tightened imperceptibly. The heretofore alien sensation had lingered since the week before when Xavier Hommes’s eyes focused on her lips as she ate. It didn’t stay in her gut, of course; it spread throughout her limbs in good time, all the way down to the tips of her tingly fingers and prickly ear lobes. Rosalind had forgotten how a handsome man could do that to a woman, how with nothing more than a coy smile or an entrancing cologne, he could disarm all her self-trained detachment, and render her so completely female. To be in a man’s arms again, to feel the press of lips to her own, to have her breath hitch the moment she knew he was going to kiss her, and kiss her again, and that she would kiss him right back...

  Her fingers danced over her lips, trailing a path down her jawline as her eyes fluttered closed, her mind’s eye conjuring a vision of an as yet faceless question mark.

  Rosalind chastised her own immaturity, how easily she let the want of something so ridiculous overtake her. She glanced left and right, seeing if anyone had noticed her moment of indiscretion. Luckily, everyone else was too wrapped up in their own conversations or had their eyes fixed on the dance floor where another couple twirled like Fred and Ginger.

  This was part of the reason she hadn’t gone out of her way to date the last few years. Distraction at this point in her career could hurt her in so many ways, the least of which was emotional. Still, she could have this, a partner, couldn’t she? So she’d just get married and get on with it… But why was the thought of getting married doing this to her? Why, without even a particular man to blame for such feelings, was she itchy and frustrated in her own skin? It wasn’t like she was heading in to a whirlwind romance; she was heading into whirlwind matrimony. Just like Kamakshi. Who was head-over-heels, deliriously happy.

  “Ms. Betters, I would say you clean up nice, but I’ve never seen you the least bit less than perfect.”

  Rosalind’s hand fluttered to her neck. When she turned, piercing silver eyes beamed at her from under a brim of black hair.

  “Mr. Hommes, you’re the last person I expected to creep up on me in the dark and scare me half to death. Most of my contractors send me their bill to do that.”

  “Sadly, my accounts receivable team has that pleasure, and they’re not here. But I do apologize.” He stepped in closer as the brass section of the band kicked up, layering the soundscape with audible fog. “How are you, Ms. Betters?”

  “Surprised and confused at the moment. What are you doing here?” she teased, bringing him to raise a corner of his mouth. “You’ve outed yourself as a stalker after all.”

  “Only to the extent required by my job, and only when on the clock,” he answered cheerily. “There’s no need for such formality at a function such as this. You can call me Xav.”

  How he managed to come off as unique and genuine, not to mention strikingly handsome, amongst a sea of normalized mendacity was beyond understanding. Yet, Xavier Hommes stood before her, a Picasso among polka dots. His appearance enlightened her to how a tuxedo was supposed to make a man look. Suave, refined, classy, gentlemanly. And yes, for lack of a better term, sexy.

  The sound stuck in her throat when she half-heartedly attempted it. Xav. Her addled brain pointed out that his nicked named sounded like someone had combined the words sex and safe. Yet, the inner disciplined business woman who had been grilled by a former employer on the pitfalls of sexual harassment reminded her of the terrible things that could happen when you mixed business and pleasure, even if that person was not technically your employee. Even more complicated if the duty of the one in question was to find you a spouse.

  “I believe in formality, so I’ll stick with mister, Mister Hommes,” she finally managed to state in a tone bordering firm and gentle. Professional. “I’m surprised because this is an invitation-only event, and then comes with a pretty hefty price tag if one accepts. Do you know Mr. Trevors?”

  “A client of mine as well, though I’ll admit I’ve never had dinner with him anywhere near Nor
th Beach,” Xavier informed her, taking a wide swath of the room under inspection. “Tip throws one hell of a party, doesn’t he?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic. Not knowing how to respond, she pulled the glass of champagne to her lips. “All for a good cause,” she muttered before tipping the flute back at a gentle angle, trying to draw the drink out as long as possible. As she found too often in life, there wasn’t enough wine.

  “Indeed. I think the purchase of wine for this party alone is responsible for the livelihood of several Sonoma County vintners and possibly, one or two in the Loire Valley.”

  Suspicion tugged at her. “And if we were to assign shares for the partaking of said wine…”

  He cocked his chin. “You think I’m drunk.”

  “On the contrary, I suspect you’re merely tipsy.”

  His fingers pinched a small space of air. “But I assure you, I’m perfectly clear-headed. I’m at my peak performance when I’m a little loose.”

  A sparkle from the disco ball caught in his right eye, drawing her gaze straight into his. She hoped she wasn’t wearing red in her cheeks now, but the heat she felt brimming beneath her skin suggested otherwise.

  “Dance with me?” He held out a hand.

  The invitation was so sudden, so out of the blue, she actually flinched. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea—”

  “Nonsense.” He didn’t wait for her to finish. Instead, he took the flute from her hands and placed it beside Prashant’s discarded glass on the highboy. “Just follow my lead, and I promise, I’ll not step on your feet too much.” He glanced down at her Dolce and Gabbana heels. “Those are steel-toed, right?”

  His joke disarmed her. She lifted the skirting of her dress slightly, giving him a better view of wiggling digits on her open-toed shoes.

  He winked as he hooked his arm under hers. “That’s okay. Mine are. We’ll be fine.”

  The counterfeit crowd clapped polite applause as the band finished out their number. A moment later, a sweet, almost symphonic melody wafted down from the risers as the music resumed. Xavier turned, pulled Rosalind close, and put his left arm across her back, letting her discover that a respectable distance between two bodies could still inspire illicit thoughts.