When they arrived at the Riverton Ballroom, where the gala was being held, Connor noted Allison lost no time in breaking away from him in order to mingle with the other guests during the predinner cocktail hour. She seemed to know most of the people there and socialized easily.
And why not? he thought. She’d grown up in this world.
Seeing her in her natural milieu underscored the differences in their backgrounds. He’d been furious when she’d thrown those differences back at him in the heat of their argument, but, if ever he was tempted to agree with her that those differences doomed a relationship between them, now would be the time.
He sipped from his wineglass and watched as Allison smiled and nodded at one of the male guests. The bland-as-a-vanilla-wafer jerk was looking at her as if she were an ornament he was planning to hang on his illustrious family tree.
Sloan, his name was, if Connor remembered the face correctly. A member of the Makepeace family, listed in the Social Register and tracing its lineage back to the Mayflower—as any good Boston Brahmin family would.
Connor’s lips twisted as he watched Sloan Makepeace lean toward Allison.
Then he caught himself. He had a job tonight and it wasn’t ogling Allison. Oh, he intended to keep his eyes on her, all right, just as he’d said, but that was only to make sure she stayed safe and stayed put.
Connor took another sip of his wine and scanned the room—just in time to catch sight of Hugh Kendall making an appearance at one of the doorways to the ballroom.
The businessman looked shorter and stockier than he had in the pictures Connor had seen of him in the papers. He was definitely balding, though, around fifty, and no more than medium height.
Connor watched as Kendall and his date—a grand dame of the Boston social scene—moved among the guests. If the news reports were right, Kendall’s decade-long marriage had ended several years ago and he had since become a popular man-about-town, squiring socialites to high-profile events.
A sycophantic prig, he thought. Allison was right. Kendall’s social standing was clearly essential to him. If the allegations of embezzlement stuck, he would be ruined. Not only would he be heading to prison, but he’d be an outcast from the upper crust.
For all his posturing, Kendall had little more than his money to gain him entry to events such as the Cortland Ball.
Connor had done some digging and he knew Kendall neither came from an old-line family nor shared old prep-school ties with the people here tonight.
According to his investigation, Kendall had grown up in an upper-middle-class family in New Hampshire and had attended public schools before graduating from college with a business degree and moving to Boston to start his ascent in the business world.
Connor glanced over at Allison and noted she’d also marked Kendall’s arrival. He knew without asking, however, that she would avoid Kendall. It would be improper for a prosecutor to be talking to a defendant in one of her cases.
On the other hand, Connor reflected, Kendall looked at ease despite the fact that nearly everyone there tonight must know he’d had the audacity to show up even though Allison, who was prosecuting his case, would be present.
Connor narrowed his eyes. If Kendall was their man, then Allison’s harasser was a cool cucumber. Exactly the type who would be hard to catch. And exactly the type he intended to watch like a hawk.
Allison glanced around the ballroom. She’d managed to shake Connor for the time being. Unfortunately, though, her parents were bearing down on her. She braced herself as they approached. “Hello, Mom.”
“Ally.” Her mother leaned in for a kiss before drawing back and looking searchingly at her face, concern etched on hers. “How are you feeling? Are you having any trouble sleeping? Because if you are—”
“Mom, I’m fine.” She’d spoken with her parents earlier in the week about the shooting incident, but she’d spared them the details, which would just have worried them needlessly.
Her parents exchanged looks. Her father was an older version of Quentin, but his dark hair was peppered with gray, giving him a distinguished look.
“You should have told us you’d received another death threat in the mail just days before the shooting,” her father said gravely.
Allison suppressed her irritation. Connor, it seemed, had been talking again. “I didn’t want to worry you and Mom unnecessarily,” she said, hoping the explanation was one they’d be satisfied with. “You were on a business trip hundreds of miles away last week. There was nothing you could do except worry even more than you’d already been doing.”
“Of course we would have worried!” her mother exclaimed.
Allison took a deep breath. “Thanks to Quentin, I have a bodyguard, remember? I’m taking precautions.”
“Connor said that you’d gone out without him when you were attacked,” her father countered.
Snitch. What else had he told her parents? All she needed in order to make her humiliation complete was for Connor to have divulged the reason she’d left the house. Aloud, she said, “Connor has been saying a lot these days.” She turned as Quentin parted from Liz, who was speaking to another woman, and strolled up to join them. “What else has Connor been saying, Quent?”
Quentin held up his hands. “Hey, he’s only trying to help.”
“I thought I was just getting a bodyguard,” she said indignantly, “but, apparently, Connor is doing double duty as a spy.”
“Now, Allison—”
“You should have warned me, Quent. If I’d known Connor was reporting everything to you and the rest of the family, I’d at least have given him something interesting to relay. You know, wild parties, dancing on tables, men swinging from the chandelier…male strippers…”
“Actually,” Quentin said dryly, “getting information out of Connor is like prying open a clam with your bare hands.”
“Oh, come on.” She cocked her head. “Are you going to deny he lost no time telling you about the shooting incident last week? Even before I had the chance to pick up the phone?”
Quentin frowned. “Only because I phoned him and demanded to know what the heck had happened the night before. I had gotten a call from the police to let me know that they were going to do everything possible to try to keep the tabloid journalists at bay about the shooting. One of the nice things about being a major donor to police charities is that the police brass remembers you when, say, your sister is involved in a shooting.” Quentin paused and gave her a meaningful look. “Naturally, I had to ask what shooting.”