No Weddings (17 page)

How the hell do you do that? My playbook was only written in go-big-or-go-home language.

In the end, Mom overruled us wild ones, siding with Kristen and Kendall. Mom was on the charity committee, and her reputation was on the line.

So instead of a string quartet, we hired a three-piece jazz ensemble to shake things up. And rather than holding the event inside the bland ballroom, we braved the cold March nights with plenty of those artsy, column heat lamps.

And a healthy dose of denial.

Because the philanthropic set never wore a coat over an evening gown. Well, unless it was an inherited fur. But that was considered tacky, unless you were coming or going from a Rolls or a Bentley.

Thousands of white lights snaked up the trunks and branches of the evergreen trees in the garden. Colorful lanterns swayed in the wind. In the pond next to the walkway, dozens of lily pads held tea light candles, making the black water sparkle.

Hannah stood by my side in a shadowed alcove, admiring all the decorations. “You look really handsome tonight.”

“I’m in a tux.” I tugged at the choking collar. Only for my mom.

She laughed. “You say that as if it’s in argument to my compliment.”

“It is,” I grumbled. I glanced down at her. “Now,
you
look amazing. Watching you move in that dress is the only thing keeping me sane.” Though I spoke the words, I forced my gaze outward to the horizon line of party guests. I was a mere mortal man, and Hannah had turned into a goddess.

“Oh, you mean this old thing?” she teased, stalking forward into my line of sight, showing me the backless silver silk as it fell in a “V” just below her waist. There was nothing on underneath, which I noticed every time she turned her back to me.

I growled low as she turned slowly. “Be careful, Hannah. A man can only take so much.”

A wicked smile appeared on her angelic face. The temptress had returned.

She dropped her hands to her hips. Beautiful didn’t even begin to cover it. Dark waves of hair framed her face, swept down on one side below her shoulder. Those hazel eyes had become dark, glistening in the shadows.

A smirk lit up her face. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” I stepped forward and brushed my hands over hers, where they were still propped on her hips, then slid mine over her ass. Proprietary, I know. But I laid claim just the same. She didn’t stop me.

Her eyes simply flared wide. She bit her lower lip, then slowly released it.

I stared long and hard at the luscious lip that I wanted to bite, suck on, taste in long, slow licks until she surrendered to more. My gaze rose upward to meet her eyes. Dilated. For me.

“All I see is a potato sack, about to be shredded.”

A slow smile curved her lips. “You mean, you think I’m sexy.”

“Devastatingly so.”

“Cade! Hannah!” Kristen’s voice sounded close.

Two seconds away from being caught in each other’s arms, I couldn’t break the hold. I moved my hand up from her ass just in time for Kristen to nearly run us over.

“We need you two! The cake is being wheeled out!” Kristen gripped my forearm, yanking me away.

I grabbed Hannah’s hand, and she held it as we hurried behind a frantic Kristen. When I gave Hannah a conspiratorial glance, she winked. We’d escaped discovery by the skin of our teeth, and Kristen was so busy micromanaging the event, she’d failed to see the bigger behind-the-scenes picture. Which was just fine with me. Kristen could lead, staying all business through the night from beginning to end. I would play my part when needed, an arrangement that suited both of our natures.

The cake was rolled out onto the patio. Without any theme to go off of, Hannah had only wanted to know the charity.

And in the end, the subject was a serious one. My rowdy, rule-breaking tendencies aside, I had no desire to make light of the cause this event was raising money for.

Victims of human trafficking.

So how do you make that edgy? It already is.

No music would ease such a heavy topic. No cake ever could.

But tonight was about coming together for a common cause. Any celebration was in raising more awareness and dollars to fight the perpetrators and set the victims free.

Shocking or not, there were people in this world who had obscene amounts of wealth, more money than they would ever know what to do with. And although the benefit dinners spent lavish amounts of money on food, drink, and cake, plus the jewels and clothing on its attendees, all the window dressing at the events were mere pennies compared to the billions of dollars represented among the hundreds of guests who mingled around us.

Kristen approached the podium near the doors of the veranda, but stopped short and waved her hand, beckoning Hannah to follow her up there. I squeezed Hannah’s hand, then released it.

She glanced up at me with bright eyes, brows raised, as she puffed a lungful of air through pursed lips. “Wish me luck.”

I smiled. “You don’t need luck. These people are here in support. You’re already fabulous.”

She grinned, one of those heart-stopping flashes of pure happiness. Then she disappeared through the guests.

I spread my stance wider, crossing my arms over my chest as I watched the crowd that gathered from my vantage point on the side. In silence, I dared anyone in attendance to act up. Although no one paid me any direct attention, I pushed a powerful “play nice” vibe out there anyway.

The podium stood only twenty feet away, but the patio stretched wide, and guests slowly pushed their way forward as the music stopped and additional lights came on under the eaves. Everyone seemed well behaved. Kendall had become point man for Caroline Evans, a notorious drinker and troublemaker at these refined events. Kristen was in charge of Mr. and Mrs. Fulsom, whose marriage had been on the rocks and whose public fights had been escalating, but the Fulsoms were actually on the far edge, holding hands.

Kristen adjusted the microphone. “Thank you for coming here tonight to bring awareness and support to a very worthy cause. I would like to introduce the coordinator of this event and the chair of The Unity Foundation charity committee, my mother, Victoria Michaelson.”

You heard right.

No “K” name on the mother hen of our flock.

I scanned the crowd once more, and then watched respectfully as my graceful mother approached the podium. Like all of us, she was dark haired and light eyed, but when she moved, the woman held an incomparable regal grace.

Victoria Georgette Michaelson had grown up in a wealthy family that spanned generations. It was Dad, Garrett Michaelson, who’d come from a marginal family of new money, earning his way and reputation into the accepting fold of higher society.

However, the four of us had grown up in a family that didn’t give one single fuck about the money or the society. Mom didn’t. Dad sure as hell didn’t. And we kids had all been raised to value money, but none of the excesses and vices that inevitably came with it.

Why were we even here then? Because there was a fine line between buying into the mechanism and using its methods to the best advantage.

With this level of wealth came power and responsibility. The money, if well managed, grew exponentially. And because we didn’t believe in squandering, we needed the ideal conduit to have that money flow where it was needed the most—which meant mingling with the social elite, networking on golf courses, and an occasional tennis match.

Them. Not me. I did
not
play tennis.

But I got the idea. I’d swing a club every now and then for a good cause. And I’d put on a tux when the situation warranted. Not that I ever enjoyed it, but it’s what we Michaelsons did for the greater good.

My mother addressed the crowd. “Hello, everyone. Thank you all for coming tonight with generous hearts and open pocketbooks. This cause has become one near and dear to us and affects adults and children worldwide. I’m talking about human trafficking. Don’t think it’s not happening in your neighborhood, because it is.”

Murmurs and gasps rippled through the crowd at Mom’s strategic pause—the woman delivered a speech with flair.

“Remember when one of our own—Felicity Williams—ran away from home as a teenager? Luckily, the police found her in time, but she’d been abducted within twelve hours of wandering the streets by some very bad men. A ring of predators are waiting for the right opportunity to ‘help’ innocent children who are temporarily lost and looking for anyone to believe in them.
Our children
.

“And for all of you who have housekeepers and gardeners from other countries, imagine if they’d never made it to your home. Many struggling immigrants hand over thousands of dollars on the promise of a better life, only to be whisked away into slave labor under the threat of harm to them or their loved ones, money stolen, promises broken.

“And the Super Bowl we had a few weeks ago? It is the largest event worldwide for human trafficking, with criminal rings flying girls in from around the world to service clientele willing to pay, thereby creating demand. Human trafficking is a horrific tragedy, and we need to use our money and influence to stop it. The Unity Foundation is a parent foundation, funneling income down to underlying charities doing hard work on the ground where their efforts are needed the most, helping to capture perpetrators and to rescue and rehabilitate victims. A list of charities supported with all funds collected by The Unity Foundation is on the billboard on the easel beside me. The event tonight is only the first of many to bring attention to the cause and to help gain your involvement. I hope you join us with your generosity.”

A round of applause roared. When it died down, she gestured to the side. “This evening we’ve been lucky enough to have our event thrown by a new company that my children have formed, Invitation Only. And they’ve been blessed to have a talented artist on their team whose creations are causing a stir in the media. In fact, the press is here tonight, not only to support the charities, but also to witness and share in the unveiling of the baker’s latest work of art. I would like her to say a few words. My friends, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Hannah Martin.”

Polite applause followed. The crowd always held back their approval of outsiders. They rendered judgment on their own set of rules, some biased by class beliefs, others by ego. The phenomenon was a psychoanalytical study in human behavior.

Hannah stood behind the podium, her shoulders back, head held high. If she was nervous, she hid it well. Her gaze scanned over to me and held for an instant. I smiled and nodded. She beamed a megawatt grin at me.
Oh yeah, she’s got this.

“Thank you, Victoria, and thank you all for inviting us here tonight. I can think of no greater cause than showing kindness to those souls who are lost in this world, who have been trapped against their will, who may have lost hope.

“
We
are their hope. We are one, worldwide.”

At the last words, Hannah stepped back, the lights on the crowd and podium went off. Special halogen lights beneath the eves illuminated, casting bright spotlights on the table that held the cake behind an ivory curtained wall.

Hannah stepped to the corner of the cake and pulled the curtain away.

Gasps followed.

Rainbows shot everywhere, refracted from unseen crystals. The crowd pressed in closer to get a better look.

A four-foot-tall globe rose up from the table, pure white and sparkling. This time, Hannah had run the entire idea by me before she’d begun the undertaking. She’d wanted to know my opinion. I’d thought it was brilliant. And it was, literally.

The entire world, frosted in white, spun slowly on a mechanism beneath the base. Sugar crystals formed the continents done to scale and with such detail, Rand McNally would be proud. White cream frosting painted the oceans, with tiny waves peaking in their centers. And where the globe ended at the bottom and the base began, ever-widening pedestals of white were coated in Swarovski crystals, catching the beams of light.

Hannah wound her way through the crowd toward me, but her path was lost to a crush of new fans wanting to know more about our baking prodigy. Through the sea of heads, she cast me a helpless glance.

I laughed, watching her. Unless Derek Johnson tripped on Sophie Madsen’s trailing hemline as they jockeyed for position to speak to her, Hannah would be safe. Regardless, I worked my way through the guests between Hannah and me, shaking hands and sharing in the praise of both the cake and the event.

Mrs. Hopkins, an elderly widow, pulled me down to her four-foot-ten height to whisper, “That Hannah is a stunning woman.” She pursed her lips together, tilting her head toward her topic.

I chuckled. “Yes, she is.”

My humor disappeared as Mrs. Hopkins glared at me. “You’d do well to land a beautiful, talented, and intelligent woman like that.”

Although being schooled by the upper-class entitled didn’t ever sit well with me, I forgave her the slight. Because she was absolutely right. “Yes, I would. The man who ‘lands’ Hannah Martin will be a lucky man indeed.” I winked at the old bird.

Her eyes went wide, but I left her to her thoughts as I finally wound my way behind Hannah.

A young Susan Warner, just graduating high school in a few months and allowed to attend her first adult social function by her parents, admired the cake. “It’s a work of art, Ms. Martin.”

Hannah smiled, tipping her head to the girl. “Thank you.”

A member of the press edged closer, taking several snapshots. When she dropped the camera down, letting the strap hold its weight, she pulled out a small notepad and unclipped a pen from it. “What do you call this piece?”

Hannah cocked her head. She hadn’t thought to name her pieces before the Valentine’s Day party, and when asked that night, she’d copped out and used the theme as the title: Love is a Battlefield.

She glanced at the reporter, then to me. “This one is called United Hope.”

A nod, followed by a scribble.

“Kincade Michaelson. Wherever did you find this gem?” A familiar voice, a hidden agenda.