Hidden - Laura Griffin Page 0,62
Eli’s,” she suggested. “Nine o’clock?”
It wasn’t any better than his place. If he met her there, they’d probably end up at her apartment.
He wanted to see her. He’d been thinking about her all day, and just hearing her voice was turning him on.
“Jacob? It’s not a marriage proposal. I’m talking about beer and pizza.”
“I’ll be there at nine.”
“Good.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
BAILEY STEPPED INTO the courtyard, careful not to catch a heel on the cobblestones and fall flat on her face as she entered the party. A week ago, she’d never even seen Villa Paloma, and now this was her third visit to the museum in four days.
The marble Greek goddess presided over the sculpture garden, which had been transformed into a luxe party venue with cocktail tables, votive candles, and vases brimming with pink and yellow roses. Swags of delicate white lights created a festive glow, and misters offered relief from the heat as guests mingled and sipped cocktails, accompanied by classical music from a string quartet.
Tonight’s party was a fund-raiser for Austin Hands, an umbrella charity that benefited children’s causes across town. The purpose of the event was—ostensibly—to raise money for backpacks filled with school supplies for needy kids. It was also a chance for Austin’s elite to rub elbows and compare notes about their summer excursions to cooler climes.
Bailey slipped in among the thin, Botoxed women in gauzy summer cocktail dresses. At Max’s direction, Bailey was appropriately attired in her one passable outfit—a short black sheath dress she’d worn to her sister’s wedding rehearsal five years ago. When her editor had dropped this story on her, Bailey had made an SOS call to Hannah, needing advice on what to wear, and her sister had convinced her that the little black dress was “sexy” instead of boring and “classic” instead of dated. Bailey tugged at the scooped neckline. The dress was a wee bit tighter than the last time she’d worn it, and her boobs seemed to be overflowing.
She passed a long table, where a waiter stood beside rows of champagne flutes and a silver ice bucket with a bottle of Cristal. She did a double take at the label. Another waiter stopped to fill a tray with flutes, and Bailey wondered how many backpacks of school supplies could have been funded by all that champagne.
“You made it.”
She turned to see Mick, the newspaper’s veteran features photographer. Mick was in his typical jeans and cowboy boots, along with the khaki vest he always wore, as though he might have just blown in from an African photo safari. He had a Nikon around his neck and a highball glass in his hand.
“I’m jealous,” Bailey told him. “I see you missed Max’s cocktail-party-attire dictate.”
Mick grinned and slurped his drink.
“Do you know who’s in charge here?” she asked. “I need to get a quote.” Bailey surveyed the crowd, looking for someone who seemed to be a nexus of attention.
“Iva May Boone.” Mick lifted his drink and gestured toward the main villa. “She’s right over there near the sculpture of the Three Fates.”
“White dress?”
“That’s her.”
“She looks young for that name.”
“Think she’s in her forties.” He stepped closer, and Bailey caught a whiff of gin. “She’s married to Grayson Boone, who runs the Rainbow Kids Foundation and happens to be on the Board of Regents at UT.”
“Think I’ve heard his name before.”
“You have. He’s a dick. He won’t talk to you, so don’t waste your time,” Mick added. “But his wife wants publicity, so she should be good for a quote.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“No problem.” Mick tossed back the rest of his drink and put the glass on a nearby table. He looked Bailey over, and his gaze lingered on her cleavage, letting her know that it wasn’t her imagination—she really was busting out of this dress.
“Who else should I know here?” Bailey asked.
“Also, you want to talk to the gal in green over there.” He turned and nodded at a mousy-looking woman with a gray braid and a dark green dress that made her blend in with the hedges. She seemed to be hiding behind a palmetto tree as she watched the party with an anxious expression. “Dora Miller. Or maybe it’s Millner. She runs Austin Hands.”
“She looks a little shy,” Bailey said.
“She is. She wouldn’t let me take her picture, but get her going about the fund-raiser and she’ll talk to you.”
“Thanks for the tips. You seem to know everyone.”
“I’ve been to about a million of these things.”
“How long do you plan to stay?”
“Until they pass