“You didn’t need a Naked Terrace Guy,” blond, petite Lacy, a scrub nurse at Saint Madeleine’s, quipped. “You had Jack.”
“Yeah.” CeeCee blushed prettily under her freckles. “Jack is worth a thousand Naked Terrace guys.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t the least bit sexy finding a nude man on the patio.”
“Why? Did he look like Quasimodo or something equally grim?” CeeCee grinned.
“Not exactly,” Janet hedged. She usually told her best friends almost everything, but something kept her from revealing the identity of her terrace visitor.
The three of them stood clustered around the canape table. Janet kept surveying the crowd, looking to see who had arrived, but each time the front door opened, it disappointed her. The one person she had hoped to see hadn’t yet shown.
Her father.
Disappointment settled low in her belly. Why did she keep expecting more from him? After thirty years of disappointment, you would think she would learn not to get her hopes up. Determined to keep her mind off unpleasant thoughts, she delicately nibbled a shrimp wrapped in puff pastry and glanced around the room.
A string quartet played on the raised dais. People in formal attire milled around them. Waiters moved through the crowd carrying trays of champagne. A brightly colored banner hanging over the door proclaimed: Welcome to The Group, Gage & Janet.
She should have been enjoying this crowning toast to her achievements. Instead, she was anxious.
Gage stood in one corner, talking to some of the other doctors. Unlike the rest of the men who conservatively dressed in tuxedoes or dark suits, Gage stood out like a glorious gladiola in a field of ragweed. He wore an electric-blue pinstriped suit, a neon-red shirt, and wingtip shoes. He resembled either a twenties gangster or new age pimp, but if anybody could carry off the outlandish getup with style, it was Gage Gregory. Women had been bird-dogging him all evening.
As if she cared.
Now and then he would raise his head, meet her gaze, and wink as if they shared some secret. Which they did not. But what made her feel like a cat running across hot coals was that her mother was busily working the crowd on Janet’s behalf, introducing herself to every eligible bachelor in the place.
Nervously fingering the Saint Jude pin she’d reluctantly worn to please her mother, Janet scanned the room for Gracie and spotted her talking to Max Crispin, the head of radiology.
Max was chronically single, forty, bald as a bumper hitch, and stood maybe five foot six with lifts in his shoes. He was into stamp collecting, worm farming, and playing the piccolo. If Gracie tried to foist him off on her, Janet would have to disown her mother on the spot.
Gracie grabbed Max’s hand and started dragging him through the throng.
“Hide me, quick,” Janet begged her friends. “Mom’s on the warpath, and she’s got Max Crispin in tow.”
Her friends tried to form a human shield around her, but at five foot ten, Janet towered over both of them. She crouched down, ducking behind CeeCee’s shoulders.
“Eek!” Lacy said. “Max is dull as dishwater. Your mom has terrible taste in men.”
“Tell me about it. She married my father, didn’t she?” Janet mumbled and swiveled her head, searching for an escape route. She didn’t have much time. Gracie and Max were rapidly closing in.
CeeCee lifted the corner of floor-length linen cloth covering the canape table. “How about darting under here?”
Janet frowned. Undignified. And what if she got caught? How embarrassing would that be?
“Yoo-hoo, CeeCee, Lacy, have you seen Janet?” her mother called. “I’ve got someone very special for her to meet.”
That settled it. Janet dove under the table, and CeeCee dropped the cloth.
Heedless of her dress, Janet sat on the floor and drew her knees to her chest. She was a doctor, a professional, a mature adult woman, and yet her mother’s obsession with the infernal Baby Predicate had reduced her to cower under tables at swanky events.
“Why me?” she moaned softly under her breath and dropped her head to her knees.
Janet listened as Gracie and Max chatted with Lacy and CeeCee about the intricacies of worm farming.
Go away, Janet mentally willed her mother and Max from the vicinity. Leave on the horse you rode in on. Good night, Irene. So long, Sam. Ba-bye.
More voices joined Gracie, Max, CeeCee, and Lacy. It sounded like Dr. Jackson and some of her other colleagues. Apparently, everyone had gotten hungry at once and descended upon the hors d’oeuvre table.
Peachy, just peachy. She would never get out of here now.
Patent leather shoes poked underneath the table. Someone’s knee made an indention in the tablecloth. Janet edged to the opposite side, desperate to avoid being accidentally kicked and discovered.
“Has anyone seen Janet?” Gracie asked.
“I think she went outside for some fresh air,” someone said.
Someone with a deep, midnight voice.
Gage?
And he was deflecting her mother. Why? Had he seen her duck under the table? Was he trying to help her out?
Worried, Janet gnawed her bottom lip. She hated that he was trying to help her. She didn’t like being beholden to people. Not to any man, and most especially not to Gage.
He was too cheerful. Too laid-back. Too concerned about defenseless baby mockingbirds. Just too darned attractive by far. He made her feel things she’d never felt before. Troubling, distracting things.
And who needed that?
Not her.
Besides, she had to work very closely with the guy. She didn’t fancy owing him any favors.
The voices drifted off. Shoes disappeared. Janet breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps the rush on the canape table was over for the moment.
“Psst,” Janet whispered softly, hoping to get CeeCee’s attention.
No answer.
“Psst.” She tried again.
From the other side of the table, the cloth swayed.
Janet put her mouth to the edge of the tablecloth and whispered, “CeeCee, is the coast clear?”
The cloth flipped up.
A face peered down.
It wasn’t CeeCee.
“Hi.” Gage grinned. “Is this just your play fort or can anyone come in?”
“Uh…uh…” She didn’t know what to say.
Then, to Janet’s complete dismay, he plunked down
