Man In Control. Diana Palmer
her with a market for her designs.”
“I think she’ll try,” he said conservatively. “Eat breakfast,” he said. “You can’t go all day without food.”
“I don’t have time,” she repeated, starting on another batch of canapés. “Unless you want to sacrifice yourself in a bowl of dough?” she offered, extending the bowl with a mischievous smile.
His green eyes twinkled affectionately in spite of himself. “No, thanks.”
“I didn’t think so.”
He watched her work while he ate, nebulous thoughts racing through his mind. Jodie was so much a part of his life that he never felt discomfort when they were together. He had a hard time with strangers. He appeared to be stoic and aloof, but in fact he was an introvert who didn’t quite know how to mix with people who weren’t in law enforcement. Like Jodie herself, he considered. She was almost painfully shy around people she didn’t know—and tonight, she was going to be thrown in headfirst with a crowd she probably wouldn’t even like.
Kirry’s friends were social climbers, high society. Alexander himself wasn’t comfortable with them, and Jodie certainly wouldn’t be. They were into expensive cars, European vacations, diamonds, investments, and they traveled in circles that included some of the most famous people alive, from movie stars to Formula 1 race car drivers, to financial geniuses, playwrights and authors. They classified their friends by wealth and status, not by character. In their world, right and wrong didn’t even exist.
“You’re not going to like this crowd,” he said aloud.
She glanced at him. “I’ll be in the kitchen most of the time,” she said easily, “or helping serve.”
He looked outraged. “You’re a guest, not the kitchen help!”
“Don’t be absurd,” she murmured absently, “I haven’t even got the right clothes to wear to Kirry’s sort of party. I’d be an embarrassment.”
He set his coffee cup down with muted force. “Then why the hell did you come in the first place?” he asked.
“Margie asked me to,” she said simply.
He got up and went out without another word. Jodie was going to regret this visit. He was sorry Margie had insisted that she come.
The party was in full swing. Alexander had picked up Kirry at the airport and lugged her suitcases up to the second guest room, down the hall from Jodie’s. Kirry, blond and svelte and from a wealthy background was like the Cobbs, old money and family ties. She looked at Jodie without seeing her, and talked only to Margie and Alexander during lunch. Fortunately there were plenty of other people there who didn’t mind talking to Jodie, especially an elderly couple apparently rolling in wealth to judge by the diamonds the matron was decked out in.
After lunch, Kirry had Alexander drive her into town and Jodie silently excused herself and escaped to the kitchen.
She had a nice little black dress, off the rack at a local department store, and high heels to match, which she wore to the party. But it was hidden under the big apron she wore most of the evening, heating and arranging canapés and washing dishes and crystal glasses in between uses.
It was almost ten o’clock before she was able to join Margie and her friends. But by then, Margie was hanging on to Kirry like a bat, with Alexander nearby, and Jodie couldn’t get near her.
She stood in a corner by herself, wishing that Derek hadn’t run from this weekend, so that she’d at least have someone to talk to. But that wasn’t happening. She started talking to the elderly matron she’d sat beside at lunch, but another couple joined them and mentioned their week in Paris, and a mutual friend, and Jodie was out of her depth. She moved to another circle, but they were discussing annuities and investments, and she knew nothing to contribute to that discussion, either.
Alexander noticed, seething, that she was alone most of the evening. He started to get up, but Kirry moved closer and clung to his sleeve while Margie talked about her latest collection and offered to show it to Kirry in the morning. Kirry was very possessive. They weren’t involved, as he’d been with other women. Perhaps that was why she was reluctant to let him move away. She hated the very thought of any other woman looking at him. That possessiveness was wearing thin. She was beautiful and she carried herself well, but she had an attitude he didn’t like, and she was positively rude to any of his colleagues that spoke to him when they were together. Not that she had any idea what Alexander actually did for a living. He was independently wealthy and people in his and Margie’s circle of friends assumed that the ranch was his full-time occupation. He’d taught Jodie and Margie never to mention that he worked in Drug Enforcement. They could say that he dabbled in security work, if they liked, but nothing more. When he’d started out with the DEA, he’d done a lot of undercover work. It wasn’t politic to let people know that.
Jodie, meanwhile, had discovered champagne. She’d never let herself drink at any of the Cobb parties in the past, but she was feeling particularly isolated tonight, and it was painful. She liked the bubbles, the fragrance of flowers that clung to the exquisite beverage and the delicious taste. So she had three glasses, one after the other, and pretty soon she didn’t mind at all that Margie and Alexander’s guests were treating her like a barmaid who’d tried to insert herself into their exalted circles.
She noticed that she’d had too much to drink when she walked toward a doorway and ran headfirst into the door facing. She began to giggle softly. Her hair was coming down from its high coiffure, but she didn’t care. She took out the circular comb that had held it in place and shook her head, letting the thick, waving wealth of hair fall to her shoulders.
The action caught the eye of a man nearby, a bored race car driver who’d been dragged to this hick party by his wife. He sized up Jodie, and despite the dress that did absolutely nothing for her, he was intrigued.
He moved close, leaning against the door facing she’d hit so unexpectedly.
“Hurt yourself?” he asked in a pleasant deep drawl, faintly accented.
Jodie looked up at the newcomer curiously and managed a lopsided grin. He was a dish, with curly black hair and dancing black eyes, an olive complexion and the body of an athlete.
“Only my hard head,” she replied with a chuckle. “Who are you?”
“Francisco,” he replied lazily. He lifted his glass to her in a toast. “You’re the first person tonight who even asked.” He leaned down so that he was eye to eye with her. “I’m a foreigner, you see.”
“Are you, really?”
He was enchanted. He laughed, and it wasn’t a polite social laugh at all. “I’m from Madrid,” he said. “Didn’t you notice my accent?”
“I don’t speak any foreign languages,” she confessed sadly, sipping what was left of her champagne. “I don’t understand high finance or read popular novels or know any movie stars, and I’ve never been on a holiday abroad. So I thought I’d go sit in the kitchen.”
He laughed again. “May I join you, then?” he asked.
She looked pointedly at his left hand. There was no ring.
He took a ring out of his slacks pocket and dangled it in front of her. “We don’t advertise our commitment at parties. My wife likes it that way. That’s my wife,” he added with pure disdain, nodding toward a blond woman in a skintight red dress that looked sprayed on. She was leaning against a very handsome blond man.
“She’s beautiful,” she remarked.
“She’s anybody’s,” he returned coldly. “The man she’s stalking is a rising motion picture star. He’s poor. She’s rich. She’s financing his career in return for the occasional loan of his body.”
Her eyes almost popped out of her eyelids.
He shook his head. “You’re