Leandra Logan - Family - The Secret Ingredient

He was not the least bit offended. “I come by my self-control genetically. You are the odd one out, the impulsive wild mind.”

She folded her arms across her beaded bodice. “Maybe you should know better than to try and tame a wild mind.”

“Is that a threat? Hey, you aren’t seriously considering giving Kyle the brush-off, are you?”

“I haven’t decided what to do—about his services.” Her voice wobbled a little, betraying more than she intended.

Michael promptly reevaluated her. “This isn’t some kind of payback over that elopement misunderstanding is it? C’mon, he doesn’t even know you cared. And you aren’t exactly damaged goods who hid in a closet. You’ve dated a small army of men, probably broken a half-dozen hearts.”

She raised a yielding hand. “I am steady as a rock concerning him, don’t you worry.”

But she wasn’t. And she knew she looked more hurt than angry. A dangerous sign with an unfulfilled crush. “If I stretch it, I can imagine the faded bruise to your ego, but don’t try and tell me that you actually have lingering affection for Kyle.”

It didn’t seem so wrong in her imaginings. Why, she’d been indulging herself for years. But now, in light of Michael’s dismay, she felt like a vulnerable teenager again. A waiter passed by with a bottle of champagne and Grace jammed her glass into the vicinity of his scarlet cummerbund for a refill.

Michael paused until the waiter moved on. “It would be tough for Kyle to discover your secret right now, Grace. His plate is full already.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought twice before posting him in my home.”

“Okay, I should’ve considered your feelings. But he needed ready cash for living expenses. And he sure wasn’t about to take a handout—from me or anyone else. C’mon, the man wants to cook you some meals, organize your utensils. Just let him.”

“I’ll consider it, if you stop trying to second-guess me. I have Kyle firmly in perspective. I’m certainly no fool for him.”

Michael grunted to the contrary. They fell silent then, scanning the guests. “Hey, look,” Michael said moments later in a boyish guileless tone, “Mr. Wonderful is here after all.”

Grace sipped and whirled at the same time, her painted red lips lifting at the corners, her eyes lighting. She faded slightly when centering upon the man standing in the arched doorway with her father. Both were dressed in dark suits, Victor’s dark head dipped down to his pale one. Victor had an arm clamped around his shoulders, as if frightened he might somehow escape.

“You look surprised,” Michael observed. “Of course you knew I was referring to Dickie Trainor, your date.”

“He isn’t my date for tonight,” she was swift to clarify. “Mother invited him and his parents as always, because they’re old family friends.”

“But admit it, you assumed I meant Kyle.”

“Just shut up.”

“Gracie. How can you be a natural born North, the way you revel in passion, scheme the impossible? We are a practical people with perfectly useful left brains.” He gestured to his glass. “Old painful memories should hold a fizz as long as this champagne.”

Actually, Grace had spotted Dickie a full fifteen minutes ago, working the room with her father. Presently they’d paused to chat with Dickie’s parents, who were stationed near her mother. Gales of laughter rose as tall slender Ingrid related some story with an elegant flutter of hands and a nod of her blond chignon. Like Victor, Ingrid’s touch ultimately landed on Dickie, namely his lapel.

“Mother’s stroking him like a collie,” Michael observed with a chuckle.

“Wish they wouldn’t make such a fuss over Dickie,” Grace lamented.

“It’s your own fault. A few dates with the guy and they’re seeing husband material.”

“That’s way too premature.”

Michael bared his teeth. “Still, you lit the fire.”

“Yeah, a forest fire with a tiny matchbook.”

Grace sighed in resignation. It started out so casually with Dickie Trainor. She needed an escort for a leukemia fund-raiser at the Meadowlark Country Club. The sensitive artist she was dating at the time didn’t meet her parents’ club standards as he insisted upon meditating at odd moments in a high-pitched hum and limited his diet to brown rice and chopstick utensils. Henceforth, old reliable Dickie was tapped. A date for the opera followed, as did a basketball game with his law firm friends and a couple of dinners. Dickie was taking the initiative with increasing regularity. Just the same, it was still at the harmless stage.

“Look out, here comes our proud papa with his catch of the year,” Michael teased. “Got ’em hooked right under the gills.”

Grace smiled as the pair approached.

“This is the end of the line for you, young man,” Victor North announced, clapping Dickie on the back.

“Hello, Grace.” Dickie Trainor kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry I wasn’t here at the start. I was just telling your father, there was a glitch in the trial today. I had to meet with the whole legal team.”

“That Freeman case makes the newspaper every day,” Michael observed politely. “Must be pretty exciting to be on the defense team of such a high-profile extortion case.”

“Well, I’m pretty low on the totem pole at Frazer and Dupont, mostly in the background, doing fact checking in the law library.” Despite his protests, Dickie held a certain air of smugness.

“Still, makes our accounting firm look like quite the snore,” Victor said, appraising Dickie as he might a humidor of fine Cuban cigars. “Don’t you agree, Grace? You’re always looking for zip out of us. Dickie must meet your standards for zip.”

“Zippidy do dah,” she said with forced brightness.

Victor moved away soon thereafter, drawing a hapless Michael along. Dickie plucked an appetizer from a waitress toting a silver tray and devoured it. “Skipped lunch. I’m starving.”

“We’ll be eating soon,” she assured.

He shook his head with wonder as he gazed upon Victor’s retreating figure. “Your folks are treating me like royalty these days. Can’t say it isn’t flattering. I suppose it’s because I make a better impression than I used to.”

No doubt. Dickie had evolved into a polished attorney, a gorgeous specimen. It was a far cry from his brainy nerd days. Three years older than Grace and two years younger than Michael, he’d never really connected with either of them—or her folks.

The transformation had happened during his stint at Harvard Law School. The country club was abuzz when he returned full of confidence and arrogance, eager to make up for time lost as a nervous wallflower, to use his family’s wealth and social standing to his best advantage.

“You look especially beautiful tonight, Grace,” he said reverently, his eyes roving her curvy shape, set to advantage in the tight red dress.

“I’ve pulled a neat trick,” she confided. “Mother jumped to the conclusion that this gown is an original Valentino gown, but I made it myself.”

He gaped. “You just can’t resist bucking the system, can you?”

Generally speaking, Grace felt she was actually being quite cooperative with the North regime. Though her business was a strange venture in contrast with the family accounting firm, she was actually making a go of it, turning a profit. And she was giving the favored Dickie a real chance, wasn’t she? It was possible that Dickie’s conservatism might add balance to her existence in the long run. And he did seem to enjoy showing her off as his exciting bohemian find, someone a bit different than the left brain type his associates favored.

She would be the first to admit she was still confused about what she truly wanted. That left her exploring her inner self, trying to adjust her priorities without selling out to everything her parents expected.