will find you a table. I’m sure Mr. O’Neill will be here directly. He’s quite punctual as a rule.”
She gave a grateful nod, then followed the waiter into the alcove, aware of the stares that greeted her. The room was sparsely populated, again reflecting the reality of the Sunday evening, and while she imagined there were usually quite a few female guests earlier in the weekend, tonight Miranda was the only one in sight. Of the dozen or so men, most were seated alone, in leather wing chairs, reading the newspaper or smoking a cigar. In addition to the wing chairs, there were six tables scattered around the room, each with two straightback chairs, none of which were occupied.
Edward led Miranda to a table near the bar. “What can I get for you, Miss?”
She hesitated, then pulled a credit card out of her purse. “Just seltzer with a squeeze of lime, thanks.”
“There’s no charge. And if there were, Mr. O’Neill would cover it.”
Miranda gave him a wistful smile. “I’m beginning to think I’ve been stood up, so please don’t put anything on Mr. O’Neill’s tab. It will complicate things on my end, if you get my meaning.”
“Would you like us to try and contact him?”
“I’ll do that myself in a bit, thanks.” She gestured toward a hall at the far end of the room. “Is the rest room through there?”
The waiter nodded. “Also the members card room and several private meeting rooms.”
She smiled again. “Thanks, Edward. I’ll be fine for the next few minutes or so. After that, I’ll try calling Mr. O’Neill, and if I don’t have any luck, I’ll probably just leave. If I don’t see you again-”
“You’ll see me,” he assured her. “I intend to check back often. And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll arrange for your drink.”
She loved the way he bowed before walking away, but decided she probably looked far too content for a working woman who was apparently being stood up. So she frowned toward the door, then looked at her watch again before surveying the men in the room, most of whom had stopped staring at her and had returned to their reading.
There was no Alexander Gresley in sight, which meant she needed to check out the card room. She was about to wander in that direction when one of the members came over to join her.
“You can’t possibly be alone,” the short, balding man said to her.
“I’ve been telling myself that for almost an hour,” she answered with a wistful smile. “I hope we’re right.”
“I’m Robert Combes. May I keep you company until your lucky fellow arrives?”
When she nodded, he sat down quickly, as though expecting her to change her mind.
Her drink arrived at that moment, and Combes frowned. “That won’t do. We should have champagne, don’t you agree?”
When Miranda hesitated, the waiter intervened by suggesting, “I’ll see that our finest bottle is brought up, sir, while Miss Duncan makes up her mind.”
“Brilliant as always, Edward,” Combes assured him.
Edward smiled. “I see you’re in good hands, Miss Duncan. Excuse me while I find out if Mr. O’Neill has arrived.”
“Thanks, Edward.” Miranda watched the waiter disappear from the room, then she gave Combes a smile meant to dazzle him. “I have a confession to make.”
“I’d be honored to hear it.”
“I have the most sinfully decadent urge. To watch a card game. Would you escort me? Perhaps you’ll bring me good luck.”
Her new friend practically fell over himself as he sprang to his feet and helped her scoot back her chair. Then he sheepishly offered her his arm and they strolled past the amused members and down the hallway to the cardroom. To Miranda’s dismay, there were only three additional men, and again, no Gresley.
The players ignored her, concentrating on their hands. In contrast, Combes began to show more obvious interest, resting his hand on the small of her back as though signaling to the others that he was staking a claim.
Fortunately, Miranda was used to this kind of touching. And for some reason it actually bothered her less than usual.
Because men don’t disgust you as much as they used to, she explained to herself. That’s the best part about seeing Ortega again. You’ve been blaming every man you meet for his transgressions-for daring to take your honor under false pretenses. But guess what? I think you’re over it!
Or at least, almost over it. Once she picked Gresley’s brain for information that would help her uncover the Brigadier’s identity, she could finally get her career back on track. Then life would be good. She might even find a normal guy to take her on a real date instead of an assignment for a change!
A burst of laughter emanating from one of the meeting rooms caught her attention, especially when one of the card players got up and ambled over to the half-closed door.
“What’s going on?” she asked Combes.
“Nothing,” he murmured, clearly embarrassed.
She pursed her lips, wondering if Gresley might not be in the meeting room. She had almost been ready to call it a night, letting Combes see her back to her hotel, then wrangling an invitation to return with him to the Fortuna the following evening. But maybe that wouldn’t be necessary after all.
Then she heard one of the men in the meeting room call out to a friend at the card table, “Gresley and his new girlfriend are putting on a show.”
Gresley!
Delighted, Miranda tugged at Combes’s sleeve. “Did you hear that? A show! Can we see?”
“It’s nothing a lady would enjoy, believe me,” Combes explained, scowling slightly.
She took a deep breath, wondering what to do now. Given the reference to Gresley’s “new girlfriend,” it would probably be difficult-if not impossible-for Miranda to get her mark alone long enough to make any progress. But at least she could meet him, and send a signal that she’d like to get to know him better. With any luck, he’d arrange to be there the next night without his girlfriend, and she could suggest they go somewhere to talk, hopefully his town house, where she could flirt and interrogate in the style that had been so successful for her in her career.
So she slipped her arms around Combes’s neck and murmured, “I’m not feeling like much of a lady at the moment. Indulge me, won’t you? Let’s see the show.”
His gray eyes darkened with unmistakable arousal. “Whatever you wish, my dear. I’ll indulge you, and then perhaps, you’ll return the favor.”
“Great.” Another peel of laughter told her Gresley and his girlfriend were becoming more entertaining by the second, and she was determined to find out what was going on. If nothing else, it would help her know what to do when she hooked up with him the next night. So she darted across the room ahead of Combes and sidled through the doorway into the meeting room to find a group of boisterous males, drinks and cigars in hand, watching a man who was seated. In front of the man was a scantily clad young woman, kneeling in a position that left little doubt about the nature of the “show.”
Miranda didn’t even attempt to stifle her gasp of horror as she stared at the couple. She was only dimly aware of the other onlookers, and when Combes laid a hand on her arm, she shook it off as though he were the lowest form of pest.
She wanted to look away, but her gaze was trapped by the leering expression of the man staring down at his “girlfriend.”
Alexander Gresley, forty-one years of age, twice divorced, a billionaire financier with a ruthless reputation and a supposed fondness for women. The picture in the file had perfectly captured his round face, thinning black hair, and a precisely manicured moustache. But nothing in the file could have prepared Miranda for Gresley’s depravity.
“Miranda?” Combes whispered.
The sound of her name roused her, and she noticed that the other men in the room were now looking at her rather than the X-rated display. Outraged, she sent a disgusted glare in every direction, and was about to stomp out of the room when Gresley raised his eyes and noticed her for the first time.
She wanted to spit in his direction, but settled for raising her chin in a gesture of dismissal. Then she spun on her heels and stormed back into the card room, ignoring Combes’s pleas that she wait for him. Striding down the hall and through the alcove, she burst through the double doors, announcing to the tall guard who had admitted her, “I’m leaving. Please don’t give my name or number to any of those lowlifes.”
