Chapter 9

"Are you planning on clobbering one of the guests with this tray?"

The waiter turned beet red. "No."

"And you're not hiding any drugs on it?"

"No, of course not."

"Great. Then make sure you hold it low enough for people to see what they might want to eat!"

"Of course, Miss."

Emma felt she was explaining the rules for crossing the street to a bunch of elementary school kids: look left and right before you take a step. She adjusted the neckline of her dress as she headed over to the tables, where the final decorative touches were added.

She was wearing heels in honor of the occasion. Not even three inches, but even that was a tall order for her. She had borrowed a little black dress from her sister, which covered just enough of her so she didn't feel uncomfortable. Emma knew that her physique wasn't exactly the slimmest, most breathtaking, most beautiful out there, but she also knew she would never starve herself to change that. She had tried and ruled out the sports angle, too.

"Could you reduce the number of those cardboard bowling balls?" Emma asked one of the decorators. "I know the theme is bowling, but we are in a bowling alley. I think everybody gets it without those dummies." The man nodded and collected a few of the cardboard displays.

It was exactly seven o'clock, and the gala was set to start at seven, but Emma knew from experience that the first guests would probably show up in about half an hour. There was time to go through her checklist once again.

She pulled a piece of paper from her purse and looked at the list.

Catering. Check.

Decoration. Check.

DJ. Check.

Incompetent waiters. Check.

Adjust neckline. Check.

All that was left to do was handing the guest list to the bouncers, and establishing the intoxication level above which people would be turned away at the door, even if they were on that list.

***

Luke hated tuxedos. Not because the bow tie felt uncomfortable, but simply because he felt like a penguin escaped from the zoo. He also felt he sweated words underneath all that fabric than he'd ever done during a game.

He got out of the car and glanced at his watch. It was almost eight p.m. One hour late; enough to make Wes nervous, but still appear decent.

He pulled the ticket from his wallet, but the bouncer recognized him from afar. "Hey, Luke. Showing your face here? I thought those charity things weren't your style."

"They're not. But sometimes you've got to do things you don't want to do – at least that's what my mother used to say."

The tall man nodded. "And mothers are always right."

"Yes, they sure are."

Except when they told you it was high time to think about getting married and having kids. He nodded at the bouncer again, and then jumped into the fray.

Luke couldn't remember the last time he'd seen so many women who were obviously not wearing any underwear. But then he remembered having been to Wes' engagement party two weeks ago. It seemed that underwear wasn't currently en vogue.

Fortunately he was taller than most of these women – despite their six-inch heels – and thus quickly discovered his agent in the crowd.

He approached him from behind and slapped his friend on the shoulder. "Looking for me?"

Wesley and the pretty Latina on his arm both turned around.

"Hey, Michelle," Luke greeted Wes' fiancée and kissed her on the cheek, "have your feet gotten cold yet?"

"Hey," Wes complained, "try hitting on somebody else's bride!"

"My feet are still pretty warm," Michelle reassured her husband-to-be with a smile. "What about yours?"

Wesley kissed her tenderly. "They couldn't get any hotter."

"That's good to hear."

Luke shook his head. "Really, man. Why aren't you two in the papers all the time? You're so much cuter than I am."

Michelle laughed. "Well, but we're also more boring."

"I am boring! It's just that nobody ever believes that."

"Stop crying about the press. I swear I'm going to write US Weekly and tell them that you were crying over Titanic."

"Tears of laughter, dude."

Wesley snorted. "Sure. You asked me for a tissue …"

"Wes." Michelle slapped her fiancé on the shoulder.

"But it's true. He's a crybaby!"

"Your intended is right, Michelle." Luke shrugged his shoulders. "I'm a real pussy. A damn photogenic, good-looking, successful pussy. Wes has known that since college – but I've always been clever enough to hide it from the women. I'm also handsome enough to make it irrelevant how many times I sit crying in the shower. It's different with your soon-to-be husband. He's got to be brave and strong, to make up for his looks. God has really dealt him a loser hand."

Michelle laughed and shook her head. "Why has none of those woman attended to you yet?" she asked, her voice sounding almost reproachful. "There are so many things wrong with you, only a woman could set them straight. Not to mention your boundless ego."

"Set me straight?" Luke pretended to be taken aback. "Michelle, nobody can set me straight anymore."

She gave him a knowing smile and took Wes' hand in hers. "There is nothing that the right person couldn't change."

Luke wasn't convinced, but this wasn't the time or place to disagree with Michelle. There was actually never a good time or place to disagree with a woman, because it always ended in disaster. He had experienced that far too often.

Wes turned to his fiancée, curious to hear more. "Change? What do you think you changed about me?"

"Nothing, honey. You are perfect, and you always were."

Luke really wanted to hear Wes' answer, but he had just spied his father. He was looking in his direction, a pretty, tall, black haired woman on his arm.

Luke was not a person who avoided a confrontation – as long as it was physical. He was stumped however when it came to emotional confrontations.

"All right, guys, I'm going to make a round and take care of the photo for the press. I'll see you later." He nodded at the distracted couple and disappeared in the opposite direction from where he had seen his father.

***

Emma drummed her fingers on the bar, and then against her glass of water. She never drank alcohol when she was working, even though she frequently wished she had a glass of wine.

She looked around and concluded with relief that everything was going according to plan. The music was groovy, enough people were enjoying themselves with bowling, and everyone was drinking, chatting and laughing. She hadn't spied Luke yet, but it wasn't as if she was on the lookout for him.

That was so many people, she could hardly focus on a specific person. In a way, the women all looked alike. Tall, tan, and thin enough to hide behind an umbrella. She estimated that at least two thirds of them had been featured in a gossip magazine, but unfortunately Emma had no idea who was who. This morning she had googled celebrities, stars, and starlets, but the number of hits had been so overwhelming that she had quickly given up again. She herself didn't mind being ignorant about gossip and celebrities. The boss however, whom she had met a few days ago, had asked her to take care of the A-list people, chat them up and give them a glass of champagne on the house, to help seduce them into donating a little more for the bone cancer project. Of course Emma understood the principle. A lot of companies did the same thing to impart whatever it was they had to sell. But how was she supposed to focus her attention on the right people if she didn't know who the right people were?

She needed help. There was no other way. She needed someone who was familiar with this crowd …

"You don't look very happy," her thoughts were suddenly interrupted.

Puzzled, she looked up and turned towards the unfamiliar voice. A man had stepped up to the bar next to her. Because of his impressive muscles, he was almost twice her width.

She smiled a little perplexedly. "Is it so obvious?"

"Only for an attentive observer." He raised his hand and gestured for the barkeeper to give him a beer. "Where are you from? I like your accent."

Emma gave him a plaintive look. "So I also have a noticeable accent? It's getting worse and worse."

The muscleman laughed. "No, it's not bad at all, and it's only a slight inflection. I think it sounds cute."

Emma sighed. "Thanks for the effort, but I don't believe you." She blew against a strand of hair that had fallen into her face. "But since you're asking: I'm from Germany, and I'm responsible for this event tonight. So if there's anything that isn't to your liking …" She pointed at herself. "Then you know who to complain to."

"Okay. But no, I haven't noticed anything I would complain about. The whole thing looks like a grand success to me."

"Thank you very much."

"So what is your problem then? Maybe I can help you?"

The offer took Emma by surprise. She smiled. "Maybe you really can," she said, lowering her voice a little. "As I said, I'm from Germany, and I detest gossip magazines."

The muscleman took his beer and leaned his back against the bar. "I'm afraid I can't help you with that. I don't even see why it's a problem."

Emma laughed. "No. My problem is that I don't know anybody in here, or rather, I don't recognize anybody. I'm supposed to schmooze celebrities, so they're inclined to donate more, but how do I know who the celebrities are?" She looked around, already slightly desperate. "Like, right here, around us: Who's famous?"

"Well," he grinned. "I'm famous."

She gave him a shocked look. "Oh no. Really?" Her eyes widened and she placed a hand on her chest. "God, I'm so sorry."

"No problem." The muscleman held out his hand, and she shook it.

"Dexter O'Connor. Second baseman for the Delphies."

Good grief! Yet another baseball player! Emma had already met about thirty of those this evening. Was everyone in this bowling alley a baseball player? Well, since this was a Delphies gala event, it was definitely possible.

Emma blushed. "Oh, okay. Nice to meet you. I'm Emma Sander, and I know nothing about baseball. I can tell a baseball from a football, but only because someone showed me pictures."

Dexter laughed out loud. It was a pleasant, rumbling sound, like the friendly growl of a large animal. "That's more than most women can say."

"Well, I've got to know at least something, if I'm already at a loss as to who exactly is part of the team for whom I'm organizing this event." She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and took another sip of her water.

"Don't beat yourself up," Dexter reassured her. "We're a big team, and there are so many people who'd call themselves celebrities, it's easy to lose track. Especially if you didn't grow up here. Give me a second; I'll help you with the big shots."

Emma breathed a sigh of relief. "You're saving my ass! Really."

She gave him a grateful look.

"No big deal. Alright, let's see." He leaned down towards her, and his bow tie was now at the same level as her eyes.

"Do you see the blonde woman at two o'clock? The one in the green dress?"

Emma nodded and squinted to get a better view of the tall blonde. "Yes. Who is she?"

"A singer and an actress. Famous and very popular with people. Influential, too, and she rakes in money like other people drink water."

"Alright." She waved a waiter over and asked him to bring the woman a glass of champagne on the house, and ask her whether she'd found everything to her satisfaction.

"Who else?"

"The brunette in the red dress and the leather boots: TV host with her own late night show. And the guy next to her is her husband, also known as the Steve Jobs of cable TV. He owns several stations."

Emma nodded again, and again dispatched a waiter. They repeated the same procedure several more times. She and Dexter made a round through the venue, she distributed champagne and greeted a few of the guests in person. Her standing was clearly enhanced by Dexter's presence; she'd never imagined she could come across as commanding and eminent, but it seemed that she did. He was obviously more famous than Emma had assumed at first. Everyone seemed to know him and like him, which wasn't surprising, for he was one of the nicest people she had met since arriving in the States.

They had circled the entire bowling alley at least one and a half times, when Dexter pointed in another direction again. "And the man who's approaching us now is Luke Carter, one of my teammates."

Emma turned her head and bit her lip. "Yes, I've already … met him."

"Really?" Dexter seemed surprised and gave her an inquisitive look, but fortunately she had no time for further explanation. Luke stood before them. In a way the two men looked quite similar. Both wore a tuxedo and both looked somehow too large for the place. Plus they both acted like magnets for the gazes of nearly all the women in the room, a fact that Emma had already registered when she'd started her reconnaissance mission with Dexter at her side.

The main difference was that Luke's hair was brown and Dexter's was dark blonde.

"You came," Luke stated. He turned to Dexter and added: "And you've already met my date?"

Emma choked on her water. "Excuse me? Your date? Since when am I your date?"

He grinned and focused his gaze on her again. "My date, yes."

Emma shot him an incredulous look. "I think I would know if I had agreed to be your date, but I don't recall doing that."

Why did these testosterone-driven maniacs always feel the urge to mark their territory? The fact that she had slept with him once, and over a year ago, didn't give him the right …

Curious, Dexter looked back and forth between Luke and Emma. "You seem to be more than casual acquaintances," he concluded, amusement rife in his voice.

Emma shook her head. "No, we're not! We're actually one level below that. More like a grocery store encounter."

Luke raised a skeptical eyebrow. "A grocery store encounter?"

"Yeah, you know. People who fought over a head of lettuce once, and then went their separate ways – because the other person was a real lettuce head."

Dexter's grin widened. "I like you, Emma."

"Wait a minute, dude. You like her? How come you know her at all?"

"We've only just met," Emma clarified and smiled at Dexter. "And he explained to me that your home run was pure coincidence, not a matter of your incredible talent."

Luke's eyes darkened. "Did he really?"

Dexter raised his hands in defense. "I did not tell her that – even though it's true."

Emma laughed. "Right. I figured it out by myself … has anyone ever told you that the tuxedo makes you look like a penguin?" she asked cheerfully.

"No, not to my face," he replied dryly.

"Are you sure? Or maybe your inflated ego muted the words so you couldn't hear them?"

The look she gave him was pure challenge, but Luke's expression suggested that he didn't know how to react to the provocation.

Maybe she had gone a little too far this time … but he was wearing his fake smile again, and her sharp tongue had gotten the better of her. Thank God he didn't get a chance to slay her with a retort, for that was the moment Emma spied that the bread basket on the buffet was empty, and there was no waiter in sight.

"Excuse me for a moment, boys. Duty is calling." She gave them a businesslike smile and disappeared. The air was too heavy with hormones anyway. Couldn't be good for anyone's health.

***

Luke watched her totter away on her moderate heels. She was wearing a terribly boring dress. It didn't match her personality at all – at least not the one she'd revealed in bed – nor was it in any way flattering. It covered up instead of revealing. He preferred revealing.

"God, Carter, I've never seen you speechless like this." Dexter grinned. His eyes had followed Emma as well.

"I'm not speechless. I was trying to be polite."

Dexter shook his head, laughing. "She steamrollered you, and all you could do was nod in agreement."

Luke's jaw made a popping sound as he scowled at Dexter, who reacted with a shrug. "Remarkable woman," he said matter-of-factly, before taking the last sip of his beer. "Say, are you and her …?"

He nodded in the direction Emma had disappeared, not bothering to finish his sentence. It was clear what he was asking.

Luke shook his head slowly. "No. We're not."

Why was Dexter interested at all? Luke didn't like the thought that Dexter might be interested.

"Why are you asking?" He continued to look at the baseman from under knit brows.

Dex grinned. "I'm merely gathering information here. She doesn't look like your type at all anyway."

"Oh, really? What does my type look like?"

"Come on. Your type has no modesty, and in most cases, no real job either. Emma doesn't fit the bill."

"How do you know what Emma does for a living?"

He realized that he didn't know. He hadn't asked.

"Dude." Dexter patted his shoulder. "She organized this whole event. You really need to work on your attention span." He shook his head and headed for the bar again, but first he greeted the man who had just joined them. "Good evening, Mr. Carter."

"Good evening, O'Connor."

Luke's father smiled at his colleague, before the man disappeared.

Luke sighed. "I'm distracted for a moment … and boom, my father sneaks up on me …"

"You're avoiding me. And you don't answer your phone. Am I supposed to feel like one of your floozies?"

Luke stared at his father with a snort. "Well, I suppose my floozies have always been honest with me, so I doubt you're on their level right now."

Paul Carter ignored that comment. He gave Luke a pleading look. "I'd like you to finally meet Nadia. She'd really like to get to know you."

Luke closed his eyes and rubbed his face with a trembling hand. His father deserved a little goodwill. When he was a kid, he had always encouraged him, driven him to all of the games, and … oh, to hell with this shit! He wasn't that petty.

"Okay," he nodded. "I'll meet her, but please not today. Not in front of all of those journalists and guests."

"Of course," Paul agreed, visibly relieved. "That makes sense."

"Good." Luke nodded and continued to scan the room over his father's shoulder. No use pretending otherwise; he was looking for Emma. He couldn't say why, but the thought of Dexter finding her first didn't please him at all.

"Okay, Dad. I'll call you next week, yes? But right now I need to find a friend."

***

When Emma was done with the waiter who was in charge of refilling the buffet platters, she could have sworn he was close to tears.

She pitied him a little, after the fact: He couldn't be a day older than twenty-one, and he was already learning that life was hard, and you couldn't just go bumbling about. On the other hand, it was better to learn that sooner rather than later.

She blew a strand of hair from her face and exhaled heavily.

"Very impressive. Do you have children?"

Surprised, Emma turned around and saw a woman in a yellow shift dress, with sun-kissed skin and long, dark hair that fell freely down her back. She must have been the prettiest, most artless woman she had met this evening.

"Excuse me …?" Emma asked, perplexed.

The woman smiled at her. "You just keelhauled this boy as if you've been doing it on a regular basis, so I thought you might be a seasoned mom." The beautiful woman took a plate and filled it with some potatoes. Emma stepped out of the way, so she could reach the rest of the buffet table.

"No, I'm not a mom," she explained. "But I'm responsible for this event, so I'm entitled to yell at the waiters as much as I deem necessary."

The woman in yellow looked surprised. Her lips curved into a smile. "What a coincidence! So you're Emma Sander?"

"Yes, I am. Do I know you?" Nobody here knew her name.

"Not yet, but we would have met in a few days. You're in charge of my auction next week."

She shook Emma's hand with great enthusiasm. "I'm Michelle Brighton. You'd have met me next Friday, at the latest."

Emma remembered that one of her upcoming projects was an auction. The file had been part of the assistant's pile.

"Oh, that's your auction? I'm sorry I wasn't aware, but I've only been here a week; I'm still busy staying on top of everything. But you're trying to raise money for Children's Chance, right? I'm really sorry to admit it, but I don't even know what it is you're auctioning off."

Michelle gave her a meaningful smile. "Well … women."

Emma's eyes widened, and Michelle chuckled. "Don't worry, it's not a slave auction, but we're offering dates with popular bachelorettes, and the money will be donated to Children's Chance."

"Oh, thank God then."

Michelle had filled her plate. "Yes. It was nice meeting you. I'll see you Friday, I guess?"

"Probably earlier than that. I mean, I'm scheduled to take a look at the venue on Wednesday."

"Even better." Michelle seemed genuinely pleased to meet Emma. "See you then."

She raised her hand again, before she disappeared in the crowd.

So there were actual normal people within the Philadelphia society. Emma was so thrilled by that fact that it took her a few seconds before she realized that Michelle had taken the last crackers that went with the cheese platter.

Emma stood on tiptoe to find a waiter, but couldn't find one. She sighed. She would fetch a new packet from the storeroom herself.

She took the empty tray and pushed open the door with the sign that said stockroom. She was so focused on not dropping the stainless steel tray she didn't notice that the door didn't snap shut as it was supposed to.

"Are you avoiding me?"

Emma flinched and let go of the tray, which clattered to the floor.

"Jesus, you gave me a fright!" She glared at Luke, who closed the door gently behind them. The room was windowless, and accordingly dark.

"Hey, that really isn't my fault. I didn't even try to be stealthy."

Emma merely shook her head slowly. "This room is off limits."

"I'm famous. Nothing is off limits for me."

"Oh, come on. There's a sign on the door that says, ‘staff only.' Fame doesn't equal being staff."

"I could buy a sign that says ‘staff,' would that grant me access?"

"You'd need to buy a sign that says ‘idiot.' Then maybe we could talk about it."

He grinned. "Didn't you tell me you're a Catholic? I think you're not allowed to lie and pretend that you don't like me."

Emma groaned and turned on her heel. "Do what you want," she murmured and pulled up a small stool, to get at the crackers that were stored on the top shelf.

"So are you avoiding me?" Luke repeated his question.

Emma gave him a disparaging look. It worked really well, since she was standing on a pedestal. Or a stool, but anyway. "The world revolves around you, doesn't it?"

"Well, it sure as hell doesn't revolve around Pluto."

She rolled her eyes and focused on the crackers again. She stood on tiptoe and reached for the packet, but barely touched the edge of it.

"I'm not avoiding you; I'm simply doing my job here. That's all." She slapped the shelf from below, but the packet of crackers wouldn't move.

"From my perspective, it looks as if you're doing your job everywhere I'm not," Luke stated calmly and stared up at her.

She stood on her heels again, irritated by his allegation. "You're paranoid, you know that?"

"Am I really?"

She stepped down from the stool and crossed her arms. "Yes, you are. But since you've come after me even though you're clearly not staff, you could at least get me a packet of those crackers from up there."

Luke studied Emma for a few seconds, before shrugging his shoulders and stepping on the stool. He ducked his head, so he wouldn't hit his head on the ceiling, and threw Emma another glance from up there. "Say … you're not planning on going out with Dexter, are you?"

He frowned in a way that suggested he was trying hard not to look invested in that question. "I simply mean, he's not really the best company you could find."

"Oh, really? Why not?"

"From what I've heard, he can fit ten hot dogs into his mouth all at once. That's not the right company for a lady."

"Maybe I'm into men with big mouths though. I mean, if he can fit ten hot dogs in there at once … what other skills might he have?"

Luke's gaze darkened. "I simply don't think he's the right company for you. You shouldn't even consider going out with him."

She hadn't considered it, until a few seconds ago …

"Emma …"

"For Christ's sake." Emma pointed at the crackers on the top shelf with an irritated expression. "You're acting like an ex-boyfriend who hasn't gotten over me yet."

"Bullshit. I'm simply a mildly concerned citizen who wants to keep you from ending up in the bed of a weiner."

She snorted. "You're not concerned about me; you're merely concerned that the toy you've thrown away so casually might end up in somebody else's hands after all."

"I like the way you call yourself a toy, but I don't particularly like the rest of what you said."

Really? Men!

"We barely know each other, so why are you trying to mark your territory?" Emma asked, genuinely puzzled and interested to hear the answer.

"Well." Luke raked an automatic hand through his hair, before scratching the back of his head. "Maybe I want to go out with you."

Emma uttered a laugh. "You would go out with me, just so nobody else does?"

"Or because I'd like to get to know you better."

"I still think it's the former."

"Isn't the reason irrelevant anyway?"

Emma stuck out her chin and gave him an incredulous look.

"How romantic. And of course you are right. It's completely irrelevant whether you ask me on a date because you're interested in me, or whether it's because you need to boost your ego and show the world what a stud you are. A stud no woman would replace by another. How is it even possible that you're still single? When you're so fucking loveable … it's a mystery!"

Luke frowned a little. "Was that a maybe?"

"No!" She shook her head vehemently. "I thought I made that clear yesterday: I'm not a groupie. And now stop this shit and give me my crackers."

Luke obeyed and threw her two packets.

He stepped down from the stool and brushed the dust from his shoulders. "But why don't you want to go out with me? We got along really well, didn't we?"

The room seemed very small all of a sudden. Emma crossed her arms and cleared her throat. "That was after I'd had four shots of tequila, if not more."

"Oh, bullshit. The alcohol didn't touch you. I saw that with my own eyes."

"Alcohol can influence people in a variety of ways."

"Alright. I thought we also got along really well yesterday … notwithstanding your slightly complicated character, it's actually great fun to talk to you."

She laughed and tried to ignore the fact that she could feel the heat his body gave off on her skin.

"Yesterday I was sitting in your car, worried that you might not let me get out if we didn't get along."

Luke leaned forward and whispered into her ear: "I think that you are a pretty little liar. You like me, but you're embarrassed how easily you ended up in bed with me the last time we met."

She sighed and pushed him away a little. "Okay, listen to me. I'll tell you why I don't want to go out with you: You're arrogant, you wear Armani suits, and you think that therefore you're a cut above the rest."

"Ah, no." He raised his index finger like an old-fashioned teacher. "I'm wearing Hugo Boss, just to set that straight, and it doesn't make me feel above anyone. I merely feel richer than most."

Emma looked at him with raised eyebrows. Then she slowly opened her mouth.

"A moment ago, I thought you couldn't dig a deeper hole for yourself. But you just did." She held the crackers in one hand and used the other to open the door.

"Enjoy the party. Maybe you'll find someone who can psych up your self-esteem even more."