***
By the time the dinner service was over and the ballroom opened for dancing and drinks, Mark was pretty sure he was on the verge of falling asleep standing up. It had been one thing after another after another since the call from Mr. Hill, and not all of them had been as pleasant as that discussion. But it was a little bit of a reprieve to be released from the more demanding parts of the job and allowed to circulate through the guests, checking that they were having a good time and occasionally stopping to chat with one or two.
At least, it was until he happened to glance over toward the far side of the room and find Erica standing between two well-dressed men, a glass of Champagne in one hand and a smile on her face. Mark’s jaw tightened. This was one of the things that he didn’t like about the after-dinner socializing on the weekends. There was always someone, or more than one someone, trying to get Erica’s attention, and more often than not she was happy to give it, like she didn’t realize just what they were angling for.
He edged his way closer to the little group, careful to keep out of their line of sight.
“So, Erica,” he heard one of the men say, standing entirely too close to her. “What brings you to Little Lake? You planning on touring again next summer?”
“Actually,” Erica said, “I work here. As one of the golf instructors. So this is kind of where I spend all of my time these days.”
“Oh. Well, then. I guess we’ll have to be on our best behavior.” The tall blond man gave Erica a grin that she would have to be blind not to realize was a blatant invitation, and exchanged a glance with the slimmer dark-haired man beside him. “Wouldn’t want to get in any trouble with the employees.”
Erica laughed, and took a sip from the glass of Champagne in her hands, head tipping slightly to the side. “What about you? What brings you to the country club, Arthur?”
“Oh, you know, what brings most people. Golf. Good food. A chance to watch bored rich people try to pretend like they’re having a good time.”
Mark saw both of Erica’s eyebrows lift. “Do you think they aren’t?”
“It’s hard to tell with them,” Arthur said. “They have a habit of always looking vaguely constipated, and you never know whether that’s because they actually are, or because they’re trying not to say that they find the whole situation so terribly gauche or something.”
She laughed again, and Mark resisted the urge to growl. They were just talking, he reminded himself, picking up a glass of wine from one of the trays that was circulating around the room in the hands of the wait staff. Erica wasn’t doing anything wrong, and he really should be entertaining some customers himself, but that didn’t stop the jealousy from curdling in his stomach.
“So you’re not rich yourself? Or bored?”
The man she’d called Arthur grinned. “Neither of the above. I guess you could call me fairly well
off, but some of the people around here make me look like a pauper in comparison. I’m not one of the multimillionaire, home in the Hamptons, and yacht on the bay type. And, if I’m being honest, I appreciate the aesthetic value of country clubs more than the social atmosphere. I’m mostly just here to take pictures.”
That got Mark’s attention. Apparently Erica’s, too. She leaned in a little closer. “You’re a photographer?”
Arthur nodded. “Yup. The kind that even makes a bit of money off their photography now and again. Richard just tags along because he has nowhere better to be. But he’s totally anti-social.”
His grin made the teasing obvious even to Mark, who really needed to pull himself together and go talk to some of his other guests. These two were obviously doing fine. Erica had them on the hook, thoroughly enjoying their night. He just couldn’t seem to drag himself away. Still lingering, he saw the dark look Arthur’s friend gave him which was ruined by the barest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s not so much that,” Richard said, with a conspiratorial smile for Erica that looked a lot like flirting from where Mark was standing, “as that it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise around Art.”
It was Arthur’s turn to glare. He did it much more convincingly.
Erica laughed. “So what do you come out here for, then, Richard?”
“I’m a writer,” the man answered. “I come up here for inspiration.” He shot a look at Arthur from the corner of his eye, smile widening lazily. “Art relentlessly quashes it.”
“There’s nothing to quash,” Arthur said. “I’ve seen the kind of stuff you write.”
“You see?” Richard said. “He’s a tyrant.”
Arthur gave the other man a narrow-eyed look, but Mark was more concerned with the fact that he was sliding neatly closer to Erica. Way too close, in fact, for his comfort, and he considered stepping in.
“If you think she’s going to hide you,” Arthur said. “I think you’re mistaken.”
The sidelong look he gave Erica then was definitely flirting. Mark took a step forward.
“Not at all,” Richard told Arthur. “She’s just better-looking than you are.” Another grin directed her way. “And she smells nicer.”
“Flattery,” Erica said, “will get you nowhere, you know.”
“You are,” Arthur said moving closer on her other side, “a very beautiful woman. Are you sure that flattery won’t do anything for you?”