Chapter 11 - The Greenwich Gala
The Greenwich Country Club was a sprawling estate of white clapboard, manicured boxwoods, and white-columned porticos overlooking Long Island Sound.
When Caleb’s Maybach pulled up to the red carpet, a flurry of local press photographers raised their cameras, flashbulbs popping like lightning storms against the night sky.
I instinctively stiffened, paralyzed by the sudden blinding lights.
Caleb noticed instantly. Without a word, he wrapped his arm firmly around my waist, pulling me tight against his side as we stepped out of the vehicle.
“Look at me,” he whispered softly, his voice cutting through the noise of the flashing cameras and shouting reporters. “Just look at me, Marisol. Let them take their pictures.”
I looked up into his dark, anchoring eyes. The flashing lights faded into a blur. I focused entirely on the solid warmth of his hand on my waist, the crisp fabric of his tuxedo, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palm.
We walked up the red carpet together like royalty.
Inside the grand ballroom, draped in white silk and flickering candlelight, the elite of Connecticut society parted like the Red Sea for Caleb Blackwell.
Mayors, state senators, and real-estate magnates rushed forward to shake his hand and offer obsequious smiles. But the moment their eyes drifted to the woman on his arm—a woman nobody recognized, wearing a Greenwich-stopping midnight-blue velvet gown—the whispers began.
“Who is that?”
“I thought he was engaged to Celeste Vale.”
“Didn't you hear? The wedding was called off. Something about a ruined cake and a sudden departure.”
“She’s gorgeous... where did he find her?”
Caleb ignored them all. He led me straight to the head table, where the mayor of Greenwich and his wife were waiting with champagne flutes.
“Caleb, my boy!” the mayor boomed, shaking his hand vigorously. “And you must be... forgive me, I didn't catch the name.”
“This is Marisol Reyes,” Caleb said smoothly, his hand resting securely at the small of my back. “My chief of staff, and my date for the evening.”
A few polite eyebrows rose around the table at the words chief of staff, but the mayor recovered quickly, offering a charming smile. “A pleasure, Miss Reyes. Caleb is a lucky man to have such talented staff.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mayor,” I replied smoothly, channeling every ounce of my hotel-management training. “Mr. Blackwell is certainly a demanding employer, but the perks are exceptional.”
Caleb let out a low, rich chuckle beside me, his thumb brushing lightly against the silk of my dress.
We survived the obligatory rounds of hand-shaking, small talk about municipal zoning laws, and fake champagne toasts. But as the evening progressed and the string quartet began to play a slow waltz across the polished wooden dance floor, Caleb turned to me.
“Dance with me,” he said, not asking, just extending his hand.
“Mr. Blackwell, I don't dance at charity galas,” I protested weakly.
“You’re not an employee tonight, Marisol,” he reminded me softly. “You’re my date.”
Before I could object further, he pulled me out onto the center of the dance floor.
His hand slid securely around my waist, his other hand clasping mine. As we began to move in time with the music, I found myself effortlessly falling into step with his rhythm. Caleb was surprisingly graceful for a man who spent his life ordering hits and running syndicates.
“You look like you belong here,” Caleb murmured, his dark eyes locked onto mine as we spun beneath the chandeliers.
“I belong wherever I choose to stand,” I countered softly.
“Is that so?” A dangerous, lopsided smile touched his lips. “And where do you choose to stand, Marisol?”
May you like
I looked up into his stormy gray eyes, feeling the intoxicating pull of his presence drawing me in deeper than I had ever intended to go.
“Right here,” I whispered.
