Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (18 page)

Dark glints lit the jade eyes. “What if I let you be on top next time?”

“Certainly.
If
I were wearing cement boots—with a whole lot of spikes.”

“Have you ever eaten Bordeaux oysters fresh from the salt marshes on the Seudre River, Ms. O'Neill? With just a hint of lemon juice and nothing more. You'd like them. Then we'd add some hot sausages and a little pastry from Gascony. Maybe a foie gras or two and a big white Burgundy. Or perhaps a bottle of Sauternes, since that's your specialty.” His eyes narrowed, considering. “A Château Climens '71, I'd say. Big and gorgeous and magnificently well bred.” His eyes followed the curves suggested but not quite revealed by the black velvet of Cathlin's jacket. “Chilled just fractionally to give an edge, of course.”

The man was smooth, all right. And he bloody well knew his wines. He also didn't give up. “I don't eat oysters and I don't mix business with pleasure, Mr.—”

“Montserrat,” he finished smoothly. “Dominic, since we're going to be on a first name basis.”

“Not in this lifetime we aren't. Lord Ashton,” Cathlin added a moment later, remembering what Serita had told her of the man's background.

In the next room a very Oxonian voice announced that the Sauternes category was next and that this year's auctioneer would be Ms. Cathlin O'Neill of Nonesuch Wines, Philadelphia and London.

There was a ripple of applause.

“Very impressive, Ms. O'Neill.”

“Not as impressive as I'm going to be if you hold me up any longer.”

“Tell me which Sauternes I should bid on.”

She looked him over thoroughly. “A '61 Climens, I think. Pleasant but hardly exciting. Impeccable opening aroma, but a thoroughly disappointing finish.”

With that, she pushed off through the crowds already thronging the auction floor.

Dominic Montserrat's lips curved up in a hard smile. “Tough, aren't you? But let's see how a case of Château d'Yquem vintage 1792 worth two million dollars grabs you, Ms. O'Neill.”

 

“N
EXT ON OUR PROGRAM WE
have a very fine Château Climens '71. This, as you all know, is a superb sweet white Bordeaux with excellent balance, exquisite overtones and a fine finish. It would make a perfect companion to some of the chocolate trifle I had here earlier. Now who will give me fifty? No one? Come, come, Mr. Smythe-Hampton.” Cathlin made the words a sultry caress as she smiled at a tall man in an $8,000 Patek Phillipe watch.

He smiled. His pale fingers wobbled.

The man beside him muttered something and stabbed at the air.

Two minutes later the sale was closed at two thousand pounds.

Cathlin breathed an inward sigh of relief. Her feet were killing her and her shoulder itched. But there was one lot left to go.

“Our last lot tonight is a very special bottle of Château d'Yquem 1870. It is, quite simply, a legend that deserves being a legend, with marvelous texture, perfect balance, and wonderful finesse. It is also distinguished by a resolute finish. I suggest you offer it with a wedge of Grand Marnier soufflé and a bit of Vivaldi. In a Georgian drawn-stem wineglass, of course.” Her lips curved. “Except for you, Reginald.” She gestured at Mr. Smythe-Hampton, who was sweating openly now. “You can drink it out of that gold
bullion you keep in your vault. My partner Serita will no doubt be happy to help you carve it into a suitable-size container.”

Amid the laughter, the rare bottle was carefully lifted for display, to a host of muffled sighs.

“Let's be dangerous, shall we? No need for preliminaries.” Cathlin swept a curve of satin hair back off her cheek. “Do I hear, say, three hundred pounds?”

“Five hundred.”

Heads crooked. Women whispered at the unorthodox size of the bid.

And Cathlin felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.

The voice was cool and correct and utterly brash. It could belong to only one man.

Dominic Montserrat.

Cathlin made a point of not looking. “Do I hear six? Six hundred pounds?”

Mr. Smythe-Hampton nodded.

“Six hundred. Do I hear—”

“A thousand.”

Cathlin looked up and met piercing jade eyes. “Perhaps our mystery bidder has a few chunks of gold bullion of his own lying around among the Bentleys. I have a thousand,” she repeated. “Do I hear a thousand one?”

Smythe-Hampton wiggled uncomfortably and inched up one finger.

“One thousand one.”

Two rows away a well-groomed man in a Turnbull and Asser shirt raised a manicured finger.

“I have one thousand two. You'd like this one, Richard.” Cathlin smiled at the well-groomed international financier she had worked with on several occasions. “Much better than that last batch of erratic '83 Burgundies you bought.”

Richard Severance smiled tightly and raised his hand.
Cathlin's comments were dead on target, of course, so he shrugged gracefully.

“I have one thousand two. Do I hear one thousand three for this brilliant Château d'Yquem? Come now, ladies and gentlemen. One of our most famous statesmen and presidents admired this wine greatly. You do remember Thomas Jefferson, don't you? He was on the other side of that little war we fought a few years back. But really, no hard feelings. You got to keep the peerage and we got to keep the tea, even if it was at the bottom of Boston Harbor. So now, for Mr. Jefferson, do I hear—”

“Five thousand pounds.”

Cathlin swallowed. The man was mad, utterly mad.

She saw heads bend and mouths gape open. She saw bejeweled women turn clear around in their seats.

And she saw the president of the wildlife fund smiling broadly in the front row, already counting his money.

Cathlin took a breath. “Five thousand pounds. Do I hear six? Six thousand for this memorable vintage?” She waited, glancing at Mr. Smythe-Hampton, who looked flushed and sulky. He shook his head.

Cathlin's eyes swept the room. “Do I hear six?”

Richard Severance frowned and looked away.

Cathlin brought down her silver gavel. “Sold for five thousand pounds. End of lot. End of category. Thank you for all your warm participation. I'm sure our lucky buyers will enjoy these exceptional Sauternes and that the proceeds will go to help a very good cause.”

She moved out, fast and silent, but she wasn't fast enough.

He closed in on her before she even got to the bottom of the stairs. “Go away,” she hissed. A countess in too many opals and too little silk blinked at her and sniffed.

“Now that one's a Chablis.” Dominic moved right in behind her. “An '82, I'd say. Overweight and overpriced.” He slid into step, his breath tickling the soft skin at her neck.

Cathlin tried to ignore him.

“That one's an '80.” He pointed to a man in polished loafers and a head of hair that was obviously not his own. “He's had his good moments, but now he's fading fast.”

Cathlin felt her lips curve into a reluctant smile.

“And then there's that one.” Dominic pointed to a woman in a black dress whose brevity barely qualified as decent. She looked very glossy and expensive to maintain. “Definitely a '75.”

“A keep-away vintage?”

“At all costs.”

So he really did know his wines. Cathlin studied him closer, noting the tiny lines around his mouth and eyes. From too much beach time or something else? “And what exactly are you, Mr. Montserrat?” Not that it mattered, of course.

“Oh, I'm definitely Château d'Yquem 1870, the exact lot you sold to me. I'm all marvelous texture and wonderful finesse.” His eyes burned over her face and settled on her full lips. “Especially the resolute finish. Care to try it out with me?”

“The wine?”

“Of course. Did you think I meant something else?”

Definitely. His eyes were hinting at something much more earthy. Cathlin shrugged. She'd heard all the innuendos before. At least this man did it with panache. “You're asking me to share the bottle you just bought for five thousands pounds?”

“I could always get something more expensive, if it's not enough.”

“Are you serious? Does money mean nothing to you?”

“You might be surprised.”

“I doubt it.”

He moved ahead of her, blocking her way. “I've just spent a great deal of money to secure your good opinion, Ms. O'Neill, but it looks like I'm failing. Help me a little here.” The mockery was gone from his voice. He seemed almost sincere.

As sincere as a car dealer at a convention of little old ladies, Cathlin thought sourly. “Listen closely, Lord Ashton. I can't. I won't. I'm not interested. End of lot. End of category.” The bluntness had always worked before. Somehow Cathlin found herself regretting that it would work again now.

“It's important, damn it. I need to talk to you. Now.”

This time his voice was taut. Could he possibly be serious? She looked pointedly at her watch. “You have thirty seconds.”

He glanced at the throngs around them. “I can't. Not like this.”

“Five seconds.”

“Not here, damn it.”

“Ten.”

“It's—confidential. I have a letter to show you, but it will have to be done somewhere more private.”

Cathlin shook her head, angry at herself for believing him, even for a moment. He was just like all the others, men with smooth smiles and sleazy agendas. “I see, someplace private. Back at your apartment, no doubt. Probably with our clothes off on the middle of the bed.” She stepped forward and ran her hand along his lapel. “Sorry, Lord Ashton, but I'm not impressed. You're several centuries too late with that Don Juan routine.” She smiled sweetly. “But maybe the Chablis '75 would think differently. She hasn't looked away from you once. Good night—and happy hunting.”

Cathlin felt his eyes burn into her all the way to the door.

 

H
E CURSED
.

Softly. Then not so softly.

Two men frowned at him and a woman in a backless Yves St. Laurent sheath giggled.

Dominic saw a familiar face and caught her wrist. “Serita? Come here and talk to me.”

“You found her, I see.”

“I found her all right. I have the wounds to prove it.”

“Sorry, Dominic. I'm afraid Cathlin's a little prickly these days.”

“Prickly wasn't exactly the word I had in mind,” Dominic said grimly.

“It hasn't been easy for her, you know. She's young and lovely and very honest, Dominic. That's a difficult combination for this set. It's still very much a man's world over here, you know. Half the men in this room act as if Lord Nelson still rules the seas and America is just one of our colonies.”

Dominic cocked a brow dramatically. “You mean it isn't?”

“Repulsive insect.” But her eyes were admiring. “That tan becomes you. How are you doing? Really doing?”

“A decent yield.” Dominic thought of his neat rows of vines marching over the hills of his holding in the Garonne. He was turning out his fourth vintage this year and already his vineyard, La Trouvaille, was making a solid profit from its rich, complex wines. It had been hard work, but the very best work of his life. “The sugar levels could be better, but we're working on that. So far no problem with quality, but—”

“No, I mean
you.
You inside.”

He shrugged. “I'm surviving.”

“That tells me next to nothing.”

“Maybe I like it that way.” Dominic gave her a lopsided smile that took the sting from his answer. “Tell me about her, Serita.” He said the words tightly.

“Look, Dominic, she's not one of your usual runway beauties or extrovert actresses. She's nice and she's vulnerable. Leave her alone.” Serita's voice was surprisingly hard.

“I don't plan on bodily physical harm, my dear. I have a business offer for her, that's all. But the lady seems determined not to hear it. Tell me why.”

Serita sighed. “She lost her mother young, Dominic. Then she lost her father when she was just getting to know him. He was
in security, I gather. Among other things,” Serita said. “Oh, she doesn't talk about it much. She says she's put it all behind her. But she's lying. And that's one of the reasons she doesn't care for pomp and circumstance English-style.”

Dominic laughed shortly. “So I've noticed.”

“Unfortunately,
you're
very long on both, my dear man.”

“Who me? I'm just your average working stiff.”

Serita studied his lean, chiseled face. “Not in a million years. You're too bloody handsome for comfort. You're also too arrogant.”