The man clapped him on the shoulder. “Our lawyers will b
e in touch.”
Santiago stared after him in amazement. After weeks of stalled negotiations, accusations of double-dealing and an almost total lack of trust, the Canadians were suddenly willing to sell him their family company, just after spending twenty minutes talking to Belle?
He was still in shock hours later, when the appetizers and champagne were almost gone, the flowers starting to wilt and the last guests straggling out. Belle had already gone upstairs. As a pregnant woman, no one thought less of her for being tired, and they’d all said goodbye to her with fond, indulgent smiles. Santiago was amazed. How had she become so popular with so many, so fast?
Not with everyone, of course. Some of the trophy wives and girlfriends, some of the more shallow hedge fund billionaires, had indeed looked askance, and whispered behind their hands, smirking.
Everyone else had loved her.
Going to the third floor, Santiago found her in their bedroom, sitting on their bed, her shoes kicked off. His gaze swept over the curves of her breasts as she leaned over to rub her bare feet, wincing. “These shoes. Murder!”
Dropping his tuxedo jacket and tie to the floor, he sat beside her on the enormous bed. Pulling her feet into his lap, he started massaging them.
“That feels fantastic,” she murmured. Her eyes closed in pleasure as she leaned back against the pillows.
“Did you enjoy the party?” It took several moments for her to answer.
“Um. It was great.”
He stopped rubbing her feet. “How was it really?”
With a sigh, she opened her eyes.
“Fine?” she tried, and it was even less believable. He snorted.
“You really are the worst actress I’ve ever seen,” he observed. He started rubbing the arches of her feet, and she exhaled in pleasure.
“All right, it wasn’t easy. Those shoes are like instruments of death. And people kept talking about things I didn’t understand—effective altruism as related to overnight borrowing rates, for example...”
“Those aren’t at all related.”
She glared at him in irritation. “That’s exactly my point. I don’t know, and don’t care.” She yawned. “Then others started discussing the gallery show of an artist I never heard of. When I confessed as much, they were horrified and said you owned one of his paintings. Then they made me go take a look at it.”
“Which painting?”
“The—um... Mira?”
“Joan Miró?”
“Yeah. They said you’d gotten it at a steal for ten million dollars. I barely restrained myself from yelping, ‘That squiggle? I’ve seen better art done by preschoolers!’” Shaking her head, she added defensively, “And I have.”
“Very diplomatic to restrain yourself from saying so.”
“Took a lot of willpower, I’ll tell you.”
He smiled. “You were amazing tonight. Every time I glanced over at you, whomever you were talking to looked enthralled.”
She blushed shyly. “Really? You’re just being kind.”
“Excuse me, have we met?”
She smiled. “Well, I tried my best. Any time I felt nervous, I forced myself to smile and say something nice, like my mama taught me. You know, ‘Beautiful dress!’ ‘What a lovely necklace!’”
“What about the men? Did you compliment their neckties?”
She fluttered her dark eyelashes coyly. “I brought up football, or if that didn’t work, horses. You apparently know a lot of polo players. As a last resort, politics.”