Kiss an Angel(2)

It wasn’t in her nature to wallow in self-pity, so she shook it off as her father came forward to brush his cool cheek against hers in ceremonial fashion. She found herself hoping for a word of affection, but she wasn’t surprised when she didn’t get it. She even managed to look unaffected as he moved away.

He drew her mysterious bridegroom toward the windows that looked down over Central Park, where they were joined by Judge Rhinsetler. The other witnesses to the ceremony were the chauffeur, who tactfully disappeared to attend to his duties, and her father’s wife Amelia, with her frosted blond hair and lockjaw drawl.

“Congratulations, dear. What a beautiful couple you and Alexander make. Don’t they look wonderful together, Max?” Without waiting for an answer, Amelia swept Daisy into her arms, enveloping both of them in a cloud of musky perfume.

Amelia acted as if she felt a genuine fondness for her husband’s bastard daughter, and even though Daisy knew her real feelings, she gave Amelia credit for trying. It couldn’t be easy to confront the living evidence of the only irresponsible thing her husband had ever done, even if he’d done it twenty-six odd years ago.

“I don’t know why you insisted on wearing that dress, dear. It might be appropriate for club-hopping, but hardly for a wedding.” Amelia’s critical gaze passed stern judgment on Daisy’s expensive metallic lace tank dress that ended in a scalloped hem a good eight inches above her knee.

“It’s almost white.”

“Gold isn’t white, dear. And it’s much too short.”

“The jacket is conservative,” Daisy pointed out, smoothing her hands along the sides of the boxy gold satin jacket that fell to the top of her thighs.

“That hardly makes up for the rest. Why couldn’t you have gone along with tradition and worn white? Or at least chosen something more sedate.”

Because this wasn’t going to be a real marriage, Daisy thought, and the more she bowed to tradition, the more she remembered that she was violating something that should be sacred. She’d even removed the gardenia Amelia had fastened in her hair only to have her stepmother stick it back in just before the ceremony.

She knew Amelia didn’t approve of her gold shoes either, which looked like a pair of Roman gladiator sandals with four-inch heels. They were brutally uncomfortable, but at least they couldn’t be confused with the traditional white satin pumps.

“Your bridegroom doesn’t look happy,” Amelia whispered. “Not that I’m surprised. Try not to say anything silly to him for at least the first hour or so, will you? You really must do something about that annoying habit of talking before you think.”

Daisy barely repressed a sigh. Amelia never said what she really thought, while Daisy almost always did, and her honesty antagonized her stepmother to no end. But Daisy wasn’t good at dissembling. Maybe because she had seen so much of it from both her parents.

She sneaked a look at her new husband and wondered how much her father had paid him to marry her. And some irreverent part of her wanted to know how the actual transaction had taken place. Cash? Check? Excuse me, Alexander Markov, but do you take American Express? As she observed her bridegroom declining a mimosa from the tray being passed by Min Soon, she tried to imagine what he was thinking.



How much longer before he could hustle the little brat out of here? Alex Markov glanced at his watch. Another five minutes should do it, he decided. He watched the servant who was passing a tray of drinks stop to fawn over her. Enjoy it, lady. It’ll be a long time before it happens again.

While Max showed the judge an antique samovar, Alex gazed at his new wife’s legs, revealed for all the world to see by that harebrained excuse for a wedding dress. They were slim and shapely, which made him wonder if the rest of her body, partially concealed by her jacket, would be as enticing. But even a siren’s body wasn’t going to compensate him for being forced into this marriage.

He remembered his last private conversation with Daisy’s father. “She’s badly educated, flighty, and irresponsible,” Max Petroff had announced. “Her mother was a terrible influence. I don’t believe Daisy knows how to do anything useful. Granted, it’s not all her fault. Lani never cut the apron strings, and she kept Daisy with her until she died. It’s a miracle Daisy wasn’t on board the boat that night it caught on fire. My daughter’ll need a stiff hand, Alex, or she’ll drive you crazy.”

Nothing Alex had seen of Daisy Devreaux so far made him doubt Max’s words. Her mother was Lani Devreaux, the British fashion model who’d been so famous thirty years earlier. In what could only have been an attraction of opposites, Lani and Max Petroff had had a love affair when he was just beginning to make his mark as a leading expert on foreign policy, and Daisy was the result.

Max made it clear to Alex in that stuffy way of his that he had offered to marry Lani when she had unexpectedly become pregnant, but Lani had refused to settle down. Nevertheless, Max insisted he’d always done his duty to his embarrassingly illegitimate daughter.

All the evidence pointed to the contrary, however. When Lani’s career had begun to fade, she’d turned into a professional party girl and house guest. And wherever Lani went, Daisy went. At least Lani had once had a career, Alex thought, but Daisy didn’t seem to have ever done anything useful with her life.

As Alex looked at his new bride more closely, he saw some resemblance to her mother. They had the same black-as-ink hair, and only indoor women could have such pale skin. Her eyes were an unusual blue, so full of color they were as purple as roadside violets. But she was much smaller than her mother—too fragile-looking for his taste—and her features weren’t nearly as bold. From what he remembered of the old photographs, Lani’s profile had been almost masculine, while Daisy’s had a blurred quality that was especially evident in that inconsequential nose and silly, soft mouth.