silver, beehive hairdo, then inspected Eleanor with sharp eyes. “Eleanor Hernandez? I’ve never heard of you.”
With an easy smile, Eleanor responded, “There’s no reason you should have.”
To Garek’s surprise, she continued, conversing pleasantly with the older woman. After just a few minutes, Ethel was telling “Ellie” about her three sons—all of them ungrateful slobs—her daughter—a constant source of disappointment—and her ten grandchildren—all amazingly beautiful, intelligent and talented. When Ethel revealed that the oldest showed a remarkable talent for art, Ellie mentioned her gallery experience and talked about ways to encourage the child.
“Although talent is often inherited, it must be nurtured,” she said seriously. “Are you or your husband creative?”
Ethel nodded. “I’ve always liked art. And George plays the violin.”
Ellie turned to George, a smile lighting her face. “You do? My father also played. What did you think of the soloist?”
“I thought his improvisation was weak. It lacked passion.”
“Oh, no! The passion was there. It was just very restrained—very subtle.”
“Subtle?” A spark lit up George’s normally glazed blue eyes and his nasal twang grew more pronounced. “Nonexistent, I thought…”
Perhaps it was just a fluke, Garek thought as he listened to George happily dissecting the performances of the whole orchestra, that Ellie had managed to charm the most difficult couple in Chicago.
But the same thing happened with the Branwells, the biggest snobs west of the Mississippi, and again with the Mitchells, a couple whose doomsday conversation would scare even the most determined optimist.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he said in a neutral tone of voice when they were alone for a moment.
“Yes, I am.”
“You certainly handled the Palermos well. I’ve seen veteran society hostesses tottering off in a daze after an encounter with them.”
“Oh?” She rearranged her shawl over her arms. “I found them very interesting.”
“Interesting?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief from his tone. “George and Ethel Palermo?”
She tilted her chin a little. “Yes—why not? George is virtually an expert on the symphony, and Ethel had a lot of interesting insights on her family.”
“And the Branwells and the Mitchells? Did you find them interesting, as well?”
She nodded, then looked at someone behind him. He turned to see Jack Phillips, an old business acquaintance, approaching—along with a tall, thin blonde dressed in black satin.
“Garek, darling!” Amber Bellair cooed. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages!”
Garek shrugged and performed the introductions.
Amber looked Ellie up and down dismissively, then turned back to Garek. “Why don’t you ever call me anymore? I’ve been terribly lonely.”
“You told me you never wanted to see my face again.”
“Darling…I was joking. You can always call me.” She drew a French-manicured fingernail down his chest. “Anytime.”
“Sorry, Amber, that won’t be possible.” From the corner of his eye, Garek watched Eleanor smile at something Jack said to her. “I’m very busy.”
“Busy with Ms. Hernandez, I suppose.”
He turned his gaze back to Amber’s narrow, aristocratic features. “I’m sponsoring an art foundation through the gallery where she works,” he said evenly. “Our relationship is purely professional.”
Her mouth curled in a sneer for the blink of an eye, then disappeared, leaving her face smooth and blank. “I understand.”
What she understood was questionable, but the bell sounded, cutting off their conversation. The crowd started moving toward the theater doors.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Jack.” Ellie’s warm smile faded only slightly when she turned to Amber. “And you, too, Ms. Bellair.”
Amber waved her hand carelessly, barely glancing away from Garek. “Darling, when you get tired of…working so hard, give me a call.”
She strolled off, and Garek escorted Eleanor toward the theater doors.
“Ms. Bellair is a good friend of yours?” Ellie’s voice was almost as cool as Amber’s had been.
“Not exactly.” He tried to increase their pace, but the crowd made it impossible. “We dated for a while.”
“But you broke up?”
“She was getting a little too…serious.”
“I understand,” she said, in much the same tone as Amber had a few minutes ago. He looked at her sharply.
Her expression was bland. “You don’t want to give up being Chicago’s Most Eligible Bachelor.”
He flinched as she said the stupid title out loud. “Hardly,” he snapped.
She made a slight choking noise. She didn’t smile, but her eyes gave her away, and he scowled. “It’s not funny,” he told her.
“No, of course not,” she agreed, coughing.
“That idiotic newspaper article has caused me more grief than you can possibly imagine.” He stepped back to allow her to precede him into the row.
She didn’t move, the laughter in her gaze gone. In its place glimmered a different emotion, a softness…sympathy?
She