“If everybody minded their own business,”
said the Duchess in a hoarse growl,
“the world would go round a deal faster than it does.”
Lewis Carroll,
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
There aren’t a lot of pity parties for beautiful young women with eight-figure trust funds. Then again, there aren’t a lot of people who have lived the life of a young woman with an eight-figure trust fund, not a lot of people qualified to know what life could be like inside a well-cushioned bubble.
Which is probably why Shelby Taite really didn’t give a good damn what anybody else thought. She was miserable, it was her own misery, and everybody else could just shut up about it and let her get on with her own life.
Sure, like that was going to happen.
Case in point. Shelby stood in the large drawing room of the Philadelphia Main Line Taite Mansion at the moment, being read a lecture by her dear, and only, brother on the duties and responsibilities of being a Taite. It was June, it was hot, and she was dressed in a cotton, Peter Pan collared shirtwaist and sensible, if expensive, white pumps.
She owned a dozen pair of shorts, but they were all tennis shorts, to be worn only on the courts. A halter top, cut-off jean shorts and a pair of strap sandals were, to her social strata, completely beneath her. But not beyond her imagination.
Every naturally blond hair on her head was in place, sleekly falling to just above her shoulders. The style was classic Grace Kelly, as were her features, as was her lineage. Pedigreed, that’s what Shelby Taite was. Thoroughbred, all the way down to her slim ankles.
But her wardrobe, her appearance, were just a part of what it meant to be a Taite. There was more. So much more.
Taites didn’t go to war; they went to school. They didn’t protest against wars while they were in school. Taites did not set trends, or follow them. No Taite ever spent so much as an hour in jail. Or at a rock concert. Or walking the streets. Or, God forbid, in politics. They had television sets, but the station was always turned to PBS.
Taites were well mannered, well behaved. Well educated, well groomed. Their wedding pictures were reproduced in the best magazines. Their children attended private schools. Their friends were found among their peers, of which there weren’t a whacking great lot.
The men followed their fathers into the family business, the daughters married well, and the mothers planned charity balls and croquet tournaments.
Not a lot of giggles, being a Taite.
“Are you listening to me, Shelby? I hesitate pointing this out, and don’t wish to be cruel, but I don’t think you’re listening to me.”
Shelby turned away from the window overlooking the boring, well-groomed gardens outside the Taite mansion and smiled at her brother. “Of course I’m listening, Somerton,” she told him as she ran a hand through her hair, recklessly daring to shove a heavy lock of it behind her right ear. “The limousine will be here at seven, and for just once in my life you’d appreciate it if I would please be downstairs on time so that everyone else isn’t kept waiting. After all, who on earth could ever want to miss so much as a moment of the evening?”
Somerton Taite cleared his throat nervously, not quite looking at his sister. “Don’t be like that, Shelby. Is it really too much to ask that you be prompt? To hope that you’d make the least effort to enjoy yourself?”
Shelby sighed, shook her head. “No, Somerton, it’s not. I’m sorry. It’s just so asinine, that’s all.” Taites were allowed to be vulgar, but only articulately vulgar. Something could be asinine, for instance. It could not be a pile of bullsh—. Well, whatever.
Shelby took a discreet breath, then continued. “How many charity balls can one be expected to attend, Somerton? Is there a quota somewhere? When have we saved enough whales, or trees—or is it homeless Dalmatians this week? And wouldn’t it be more cost effective to cancel the orchestra and florist and caterer, and simply send a check?”
Somerton didn’t have an answer to her questions. And why should he? They were Taites. They were fourth generation Main Line Philadelphia. They attended charity balls. Why? Because they always had, they always would, into infinity.
Older than Shelby by four years, and shorter by three inches, Somerton Taite was slight, blond, esthetically handsome, rather fragile looking with his wet-combed blond hair and rather weak blue eyes. He was the sort of man who wore suits, never sports coats, and even his tennis whites dared never to wrinkle. He did not, Shelby believed, sweat. As a Taite, perspiration was simply not allowed.
And now Somerton was pouting. He did pouting quite well as he pursed his lips, twisted them about a bit, then sat on one of the Sheraton sofas with his legs primly crossed at the knee, his arms folded and just sort of plopped in his lap, his dimpled chin rather high, nearly wobbling.
He’d broken one Taite rule himself, Somerton had, an unspoken one, but a rule nonetheless. And, especially considering how timid Somerton believed himself to be, it had been a doozy of a transgression. The sort that would have had whole generations of Taites spinning in their marble mausoleum if they hadn’t already been so stiff and rigid before death that spinning couldn’t possibly be an option now.
He and Jeremy, his “very good companion,” were fortunate that being gay was “in” this Season. And Somerton could overlook Shelby’s small rebellions because Shelby had accepted Jeremy without a blink. He did not pursue the why of her acceptance, whether it stemmed from some hidden liberal, democratic failing or if she just didn’t care one way or the other what her brother did. The latter thought depressed him, so he neatly shoved it out of his mind.
Shelby sensed her brother’s nervousness and smiled at him, hoping he’d believe his eyes and not look too deeply into hers.
“Oh, Somerton, I’m sorry,” she said, sitting down beside him, putting her arm around him. “I forgot the Taite motto, didn’t I? ‘Ours is not to question why, ours is but to wine and dine.’ ” She kissed his cheek, then stood up once more. “I’ll be on time, tonight, Somerton, I promise.”
He looked up at her, arms still folded, lips still in a pout. “No, you won’t. You’ll keep us all waiting for at least a quarter hour. Uncle Alfred will amuse himself by drinking half the brandy in the house, Jeremy will fret and change his tie a half dozen times, and Parker will phone from the club, sure you’ve been kidnapped. I think you could treat your fiancé with more consideration, Shelby.”
“I know, I know,” Shelby said, ready to agree to anything Somerton had to say, just so she could leave the room. Not that she had anywhere to go except for upstairs, to her own apartments, to the bath her maid would draw for her and to the gown laid out for her on the bed. There were whole days when she believed she did nothing but dress and undress and get dressed once more.
“But don’t worry about Parker, Somerton. I’d like to think he worries because he can’t stand to be without me, even for a moment, but we both know that isn’t true. The Taite-Westbrook marriage will be just another in a long line of matrimonial mergers.”
Somerton sighed, stood, and placed his arm comfortingly around his sister. He loved her; he really did. He simply didn’t understand her anymore. “You know that’s not true, Shelby. Parker has assured me that he’s madly in love with you, and I believe him. He’s a good, upstanding man from an impeccable family, and his wife will be a fortunate woman.”
Shelby slid out from beneath her brother’s arm, surprised at her own vehemence. “Fine. You like him so much, you marry him.”
Somerton’s grin bordered on devilish. “Jeremy wouldn’t like that,” he said, then looked around the room nervously. He’d finally moved Jeremy into the house six months earlier, openly acknowledging their relationship. But that didn’t mean he’d quite gotten past the notion that his late father would show up at any moment and pummel him to death with a yachting trophy. “Perhaps we can get Uncle Alfred to marry Parker? He could use the income.”
Shelby put her arms around her brother, hugged him. “Oh, I do love you, Somerton.”
“And you’ll admit you’re being silly? You’ll admit that you and Parker will have a lovely wedding in September, and a lovely life after that? After all, you’re the one who said yes, who agreed to the marriage. Nobody is forcing you to marry the man.”
Shelby sighed. “No, of course not. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Somerton. Chalk it up to prewedding jitters, okay? I guess I just thought there should be more romance in the thing, and less china patterns.”
She gave Somerton another kiss, then went upstairs, determined to be dressed and ready to go to the charity ball before the limousine arrived. If it killed her.
Quinn Delaney leaned his tall frame against the side of the limousine, pushed back the cuff of his tuxedo, and glared at his watch. Seven-twenty.
He’d had twenty minutes to devise suitable tortures for Grady Sullivan, his partner in D & S Security. Because it was Grady’s fault that Quinn was here, playing bodyguard to the Rich and Repulsive.
This wasn’t part of their deal, damn it. Grady handled the R&R’s, and loved it, and he handled the corporate security. Quinn acted as bodyguard for businessmen, captains of industry, or at least he had until he’d completely taken over the business end of their partnership, leaving field work behind him in exchange for computer printouts. Of all the things he did do, he did not dress up in his tuxedo and spend the night watching a bunch of society morons eat, drink, and make asses of themselves.
So how in hell had Grady conned him into this gig?
Quinn frowned, his grey eyes stormy as he remembered the magazine page Grady had waved in front of his face a few hours earlier. “Look at her, Quinn, old boy. Just look at her. Miss October, Quinn. Likes poodles and raspberry ice cream, hates hypocrisy, wants to be a marine biologist while working for world peace, and her favorite color is warm flesh on black satin. Not to mention having legs that go up to her neck. And she’s mine, all mine, until her plane takes off in the morning. You can’t ask me to give this up, can you? And the Taites insist on having one of the partners. That’s you. I’ll owe you, buddy. I’ll owe you, big time.”
Quinn looked at his watch again, then at the mansion beyond the circular drive, thought about the Phillies game he was missing. He crossed his long legs and more slouched than leaned against the side of the limousine. “Yeah. Big-time.”
The sun still shone on this early June evening, but the chandeliers inside the house were already blazing, the wide windows giving him a clear view of what looked to be a living room the size of the flight deck on an aircraft carrier.
He could see three men through the windows, each of them dressed in monkey suits much like his but undoubtedly with better labels sewn in the jackets. Each of them held a glass of something stronger than the Coke which had been all he’d allowed himself earlier, as he was working tonight. If anyone could call this working.
Okay, so maybe the idle rich needed protection. Maybe they got robbed once in a while. Once in a very long while. The rich didn’t really hire D & S for security. They hired them for the prestige, so that they could say things like, “Do you mind terribly if my personal security hides behind the flowers while we’re dancing?”
And, if Grady could be believed, to help carry them home after they got themselves thoroughly sloshed at their society parties.
Quinn frowned again, stabbing his fingers through his too-long black hair. Give him a suicidal Libyan terrorist any day.
He pushed himself away from the back door of the limousine and nodded to the driver as the three men seemed to turn as one and head out of sight. “Heads up, Jim. I think the exodus has begun.”
A few moments later the huge front door opened and an older gentleman carefully navigated his way down the few stairs to the drive. Uncle Alfred Taite, Quinn decided, mentally running down the list Grady had given him. Tall, sixtyish, silver-haired, and still with some claim to handsomeness. The obligatory black sheep, the hanger-on, the poor relation kept on an allowance and a stout leash as long as he was willing to be the extra, unattached gentleman so necessary to society parties. A lovable wastrel right out of Central Casting. Smiling, jolly, and always half in the bag.
Quinn nodded to the man as he watched him approach, held the door open for him. He’d already recognized Uncle Alfred’s too-careful, poker-up-his-ass walk, and decided that, if part of his job description was to keep the guy from drowning in the punch bowl, it was going to be a long night.
Next to make his appearance was a tall, painfully thin man with a head full of black hair that looked like it had been cut with a hedge clippers then blown dry in a wind tunnel. He wore his tuxedo like a cadaver in a rented suit laid out for viewing. His shirt collar stood away from his skinny neck; his fat, flowing bow tie and cummerbund were both powder blue. The fellow didn’t walk. He pranced.
“Do hurry, Somerton,” the man Quinn was sure could only be Jeremy Rifkin whined as he minced along. “You know how Mrs. Peterson grimaces at late-comers. Ghastly! And are you sure, quite sure, this tie is right? I agonized, you know, but was assured color is all the rage this season.”
Still looking behind him, the man bumped into Quinn, giggled an apology, made a small O of his mouth as he patted Quinn’s muscled shoulder, and then climbed into the back of the limousine.
Quinn made a mental note to make Grady very, very sorry.
“My apologies—Mr. Delaney, isn’t it?” the man who, through the process of elimination, could only be Somerton Taite said, holding out his hand to Quinn. Had to be a relative; same poker-up-the-ass walk. Maybe it wasn’t booze, maybe it was genetic. “I made her promise, but that never means anything. Not to my sister, not when she’s forced to do what she doesn’t want to do when she doesn’t want to do it. Being tardy is her little rebellion, you understand. Oh, I’m Somerton Taite. Mr. Sullivan informed me that you’d be taking his place this evening. You shouldn’t have much to do. I’d forego a bodyguard if it were up to me, but with the jewels my sister will be wearing—well, the insurance company rather insisted.”
“Yes, sir,” Quinn answered shortly. “My partner explained everything to me. Will Miss Taite be much longer, sir?”
The slam of the front door served as his answer, and Quinn turned around to see Miss Shelby Taite walking down the stairs, still threading a length of sapphire silk through her elbows. A shawl? Were they still calling them shawls? Sounded too old-fashioned to Quinn, too matronly, especially on her.
She was a vision of money and breeding: A sweep of sleek blond hair drawn back into a severe twist, a long, narrow-hipped body wrapped breasts-to-toes in white silk. She had a choker of diamonds around her slim throat, a matching bracelet on her left wrist, a pair of sapphires the size of robin’s eggs and wrapped in diamonds in her ears. There was a diamond on her third finger, left hand, that could have choked an elephant.
She was beautiful. Stunning. Skin like warmed cream. Facial bone structure any super model would envy. A body that went on, and on, and on.
And brown eyes as lovely, and as vacant, as an empty church. But then, everyone had to have a flaw, didn’t they?
“I’m here, Somerton,” she announced wearily as her brother stood back to allow her to enter the limousine ahead of him. Her voice was rather low, faintly husky, and Quinn began to rethink his coming revenge on his partner. Looking after Miss Taite for the next five hours suddenly didn’t seem like such a chore.
“And only twenty minutes late,” her brother said, smiling at her. “My compliments, Shelby. Allow me to introduce Mr. Delaney, who will be taking Mr. Sullivan’s place this evening.”
Shelby didn’t really care. She merely glanced in Quinn’s general direction, then returned her attention to her slipping wrap, not really having registered him in her mind as being more than tall, dark, and in her way. “Drew the short straw, did you? How unfortunate for you, Mr., um, Mr. Clancy,” she said coolly in that whiskey-over-velvet voice, then ducked her head and entered the limousine, giving him a fleeting view of a jaw-dropping, silk-clad derriere.
“That’s Delaney,” Quinn corrected before Somerton Taite followed his sister and he could close the door on the whole motley crew. Who did this Taite dame think she was? People liked him, damn it. They looked into his face when they spoke to him. They remembered his name. “Whoever said it was right, Jim,” he grumbled as he took his place in the front seat, beside the driver, the glass divider between employee and employer firmly in the up position. “The rich damn well are different.”
To learn more about the author or how to purchase CAN’T TAKE MY EYES OFF OF YOU or any of her books, please visit her online at www.KaseyMichaels.com.