Trial By Seduction

Glenna sat quietly at a table with Purcell Jennings. Comfortable together, they didn’t speak. His intense silence told her that his photographer’s eye was already framing, lighting, capturing the essence of the scene before him.

And what a scene it was! In honor of the legendary moonbird, the ballroom had been renovated entirely in shades of white. The walls were covered with creamon-ecru flocked paper; the white ash planks of the dance floor were polished to a starry gloss. A luxurious bouquet of miniature Snow Bride roses adorned each table, and overhead huge chandeliers dripped hundreds of crystal teardrops.

The invitations had requested that the guests wear white, too, and as the women swirled by, Glenna could see how the Moonlight Ballroom got its name. The shades of ivory, cream, vanilla and pearl were like moonbeams dancing on silvered water.

Glenna was impressed—in fact, she had to make an effort not to be downright enchanted. Connelly money had managed to re-create a level of splendor that hadn’t been seen for nearly a century. There must be, she thought, a lot of Connelly money.

“You should be dancing.”

Glenna turned toward Purcell, surprised. As his Parkinson’s progressed, it was getting harder for him to talk, and ordinarily he confined himself to articulating only the essentials. Film, please. Or Less light. Surely he didn’t intend to waste his breath trying to persuade her to dance. He knew it was futile.

“Should I? Why?” She put her hand over his, aware of how little padding covered his long, elegant bones. “I’m enjoying myself here with you. And I suspect that all this pageantry is more beautiful viewed from the outside anyway.”

Purcell shook his head. “Not more beautiful,” he said slowly. “Safer. You always think outside is... safer.”

“Nonsense.” She felt herself flushing. One drawback to Purcell’s condition was that he didn’t waste any time beating around the bush. He stared at her with a piercing gray gaze that shamed her. “Well, maybe,” she modified, pleating the corner of her napkin pointlessly. “But what’s wrong with keeping a cautious distance? What you call cowardice seems like common sense to me.”

Purcell’s thick white eyebrows drew together. “Bah!” His hand twitched irritably, but he didn’t take it away. “Pure twaddle. You need to get to know these people if we’re going to get any decent pictures. Feel, Glenna. Feel what this family, this hotel, are all about.”

“I know, I know.” Glenna smiled, trying not to notice the twinge of conscience that stung her. Purcell approached all his shoots that way—feeting the atmosphere first, then trying to capture it on film.

And for once his dictates dovetailed with her own private agenda. She wanted to get to know the Connellys, maybe even ask a few subtle questions. Perhaps, before the photos were finished and their bags were packed, she might even learn which of the three young men had lured Cindy out on that fateful night.

She’d already met Philip here tonight. He might be a good place to start. He had always been the sweetest Connelly, somehow less intimidating than Mark’s roguish audacity or Edgerton’s handsome grandeur. Tonight he seemed to be hitting the champagne bar pretty hard. Even better, she thought. Champagne loosened tongues quite nicely.

“You know,” she said, hoping to distract Purcell, “we really should have brought our equipment. You could have taken some wonderful photographs here tonight.”

Purcell studied the room. “Too damn much white,” he pronounced finally. “Only thing worth shooting is the food.”

Glenna’s gaze shifted to the huge buffet table that dominated one corner of the large room. He was right. The rich red of the strawberry pyramid, the golden brown of the stuffed Cornish hens, the bursting suns of tangerine tarts and orange scones... It made such dramatic visual contrasts with all the elegant moonbeam people.

That woman, for instance, with her multilayered choker of pearls and her elaborately coiffed blond curls, was dangling a blood red strawberry between two fingers, pressing it laughingly against the lips of a man who...

Who looked like...

Who was Mark Connelly. Glenna’s stomach tightened as Mark slowly parted his lips and closed his teeth over the berry. Pale pink juices trickled down the woman’s fingers.

With another coy laugh, she held them up for Mark’s inspection, obviously inviting him to lick them clean. Glenna made a low, reproachful sound—this woman, though beautifully groomed, was clearly old enough to be his mother. Lick her fingers? Surely not.

Smiling comfortably, Mark circled the woman’s wrist with his thumb and forefinger and lowered it. With his other hand, he whisked a handkerchief from his pocket and gently swabbed at the wet fingers. The woman pursed her lips in a mock pout, but she didn’t look terribly disappointed. She looked besotted.

Glenna turned away. She grimaced at Purcell, who had been watching the tableau, too. “Ugh,” she said. “What a display.”

To her surprise, Purcell was smiling. “Why shouldn’t they flirt?” He tilted his head. “A beautiful woman. A handsome man. Soft moon, sweet music, flowing wine—”

“She’s twice his age,” Glenna broke in irritably. “I’m not a prude, but surely a woman of fifty—”

“Sex has no age,” Purcell said firmly. “And you are a prude, my dear. Just a little. You work at it.”

Stung, Glenna tossed her napkin on the table, leaning forward to argue the point, but at that moment a shadow fell across her plate. She looked up, startled, and found Mark Connelly standing just behind her chair. He had brought his strawberry-stained friend with him.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly. “I’d begun to wonder if you had stood us up. I’m glad you didn’t. I’d like you to meet Maggie Levenger.” He smiled right into her eyes. “The senator’s wife.”

The senator’s wife. Of course. Glenna summoned up polite murmurs as the introductions were made, noticing with surprise that Purcell stood to welcome the newcomer, something he rarely did anymore.

Up close, Maggie Levenger looked even older, maybe nearer to sixty, but her eyes were bright and intelligent, her smile generous. Her voice was brassy, a touch too loud, but it was full of self-deprecating humor, and Glenna suddenly regretted her earlier hasty condemnation.

“Mr. Jennings, I know your work well. I adore you.” Without ceremony, Maggie deposited herself in the chair closest to Purcell, leaving the chair by Glenna free for Mark.

Still smiling, he raised one brow—his only acknowledgment that he needed her permission to sit. She nodded reluctantly, reminding herself that his attentions fitted into her agenda nicely. Get to know the Connellys, maybe even ask a few subtle questions....

But frankly, Mark didn’t seem nearly as safe a place to start as Philip would have been. She couldn’t imagine being quite subtle enough to fool Mark. And besides, he was physically too...powerful. He seemed to send out electromagnetic signals, inviting women to dash themselves against him like ships against the shoals.

As if unaware of all that, he settled comfortably in the chair, draining his drink, something clear and on the rocks. His open gaze studied her without subterfuge.

“I really am glad you came,” he said, his tone low and somehow intimate. “You look radiant tonight. Like...starlight.”

Toying with her fork, Glenna shot him a look of half-cloaked cynicism. Were his genes automatically programmed to spew compliments when greeting any female? Besides, it was obviously a massive overstatement. In her simple, white-beaded sheath with its demure jacket, she knew that she couldn’t hold a candle to the glamorous guests in their frothing laces, their clinging satins, their cascades of pearls and diamonds.

“Surely you mean moonlight.” She met his gaze directly, to show him without delay that she was not in the market for a flirtation. It would take more than free-flowing flattery to get past her defenses. “After all, that’s the general idea, isn’t it? Moonlight Ballroom, moonbird...”

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, treating her comment as if it had been quite serious. “No, in your case, I think the effect really is more like starlight. Just a little sharper, brighter than moonbeams, you know. A shade less mellow.” He smiled. “But also a shade more exciting.”

She stared at him, momentarily at a loss. “Well,” she said finally, “I’ve washed off most of the sand since you saw me last. That’s undoubtedly an improvement over this morning.”

He let his gaze run slowly across her collarbone, down her arms. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “A dusting of sand can give a woman a rather primitive appeal, don’t you think? Earthy. Abandoned. Sensual.”

She shifted on her seat, wishing he didn’t have such an uncanny knack for getting under her skin.

“On the contrary. It’s dirty. Gritty. Uncomfortable.” She punctuated her words by tapping her fork against the tablecloth. “I much prefer to be clean, brushed and pulled together.”

“In control.” He raised that eyebrow again, and she was struck anew by the brilliance of his green eyes. They were more dramatic than ever in this room full of colorless moonlight, like two emeralds blazing in a bed of seed pearls. “You like control, don’t you? You need it.”

“Of course I do.” Her voice was slightly thin. “Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you?”

He considered. “In its place, I suppose I do. I definitely enjoy control over my finances. And my enemies.” He paused. “But I place a higher value on freedom. I’ve always believed that a little judiciously placed abandon makes life worth living.”

Her smile felt brittle. “Judiciously placed abandon? Isn’t that a contradiction in terms? Is there such a thing?”

“Of course there is,” he said, leaning back. “Here’s a good example. You’ve decided not to dance with me.” He raised a hand to quiet her confused denial. “Yes, you have. I could see it in your eyes when I sat down. You froze up like the Snow Queen. And why? Perhaps because you’re afraid to get that close to me. You’re afraid you’d lose a little control, maybe melt that icy casing just a little.”

“Good heavens.” Her voice nearly trembled.

“What a preposterous—”

He didn’t seem to hear her. He simply lifted that devilish eyebrow a millimeter higher and kept talking. “But I have to ask myself—what would be wrong with that? It’s only a dance. Even if it was the steamiest dance since Salome, when the music stopped, you probably wouldn’t find yourself morally compromised, socially ruined or pregnant.” Grinning, he hoisted one long, lean leg over the other. “So you see, succumbing in this case would be a perfect example of judiciously placed abandon.”

She smiled reluctantly. And then, in spite of herself, she laughed.