His face, Lord his face. It was all jaw and plump lips, straight nose and mossy green eyes. His smooth forehead was framed by an artfully styled mop of light-brown hair. He looked like every clean-cut Manhattan boy she’d ever had the misfortune to come into contact with.
She took in a short breath, looking Prep-Boy straight in the eyes. “Not really. I was just wondering if Charlie Brown was missing his Christmas tree.”
She spun around and flounced toward the kitchen, barely hearing his bark of laughter as she walked away. She bit back the smile that was threatening to creep across her lips.
Tonight had just got interesting.
Her mother was standing in the middle of the kitchen with a spoon in one hand and a battery-powered walkie-talkie in the other. The kitchen wasn’t the usual well-heeled, oak and granite affair. Instead it was all stainless steel with professional grade ovens; the sort of kitchen any chef would kill for. It was hard to picture anybody using the ten-burner hob just to boil an egg.
“Hanna, sweetheart, it’s so good to see you.” Diana ran around the central island, and threw her arms around her daughter. She relaxed into her mother’s arms, screwing her eyes tightly shut as she felt the misery and stress of the past few days seeping away.
She’d missed her mom.
“It’s good to see you, too.”
“I’ve half a mind to call your father and tell him what I think of him. I can’t believe he treated you like that, the stuck up, holier than thou bast—”
“Mom, it’s fine.” Hanna flashed her mother a rueful smile. “I think my tirade was probably enough for the both of us. I just want to forget about it now.”
“Diana, darling, is there anything you need help with?” A soft voice came from the kitchen door. Hanna turned around to see a petite woman smiling at the two of them. Her heart-shaped face was framed with soft, auburn curls.
“I think we have it all under control,” Diana replied. Hanna could see her fingers crossed behind her back as she spoke. “Claire Larsen, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Hanna Vincent.”
Claire walked forward, her arms open as she greeted Hanna, pulling her in for an air kiss. “Hanna, how lovely to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from your mother. Of course, I also know your father and his wife.”
Hanna grimaced at the mention of Philip and Olivia before quickly rearranging her features. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She smiled at the lady in front of her. She was at least half a head shorter, and that was in expensively made heels.
“What a beautiful accent you have. And I love your hair. The color is so interesting.”
Usually, when someone said that something about Hanna was ‘interesting’ it turned out to be a thinly veiled insult. Olivia seemed to use the word a lot whenever Hanna was around. But the kind tone of Claire’s voice led Hanna to believe she genuinely meant what she said.
“Thank you.”
“I must introduce you to my family later. My husband, Steven, would find you fascinating. I think he’s a closet Marilyn Manson fan. And Ruby and Richard would just love you.” Claire was gushing. Hanna stepped back from her American host. She wasn’t used to being treated with such friendliness.
“Richard and Ruby?” she questioned.
“Ruby is my daughter. She’s ten years old. She’s at school at St. Nicholas.”
Hanna nodded. It figured; St. Nicholas’s was an expensive London prep school. She suspected that Ruby Larsen would turn out to be as annoyingly spoiled as Hanna’s own half-sisters.
“And Richard is my husband’s son from his first marriage. He’s in his final year at Columbia. I’ll miss him when he goes back to New York.” Claire’s smile faltered as she continued. “My own boy, Nathan, is somewhere in the Andes trying to ‘find himself.’“
“How utterly careless to lose himself somewhere so remote,” Hanna replied, causing Claire to laugh in response.
“So like your Mom.” Claire cupped her hands around Hanna’s cheeks in a surprisingly intimate move before drawing back. “Make sure you come and talk to me tonight. It will make for such a refreshing change from all those stuffed shirts.”
“I’ll bring you a sausage roll.” Hanna winked at Claire, and then turned to her own mother to ask where she was needed.
Between the friendly mother, the handsome, preppy son, and the Marilyn Manson-loving father, Hanna thought she might come to rather like this family.
RICHARD LARSEN ACCEPTED another glass of champagne from a waiter, as he weaved his way through the party crowd. It was cold to the touch, and icy beads of water ran down his fingers where he held it. Taking a sip, he quickly scanned the room for someone—anyone—interesting to talk to.
He was wearing his usual tux, with a fitted white dress shirt and black tie. The suit fit him like a glove, and the jacket clung smoothly to his wide shoulders. His pants were perfectly sized for his narrow waist. He had the physique of
someone who played a lot of sport.
Since he’d come to London, he’d been able to act like a 20-year-old man for the first time in a long while. He had worn jeans, t-shirts, and hooded sweaters without so much as an eyebrow being raised. He had visited pubs, consumed pints of beer, and flirted with pretty girls. Most of whom his mother would have deemed to be far below his social standing.