Breach of Honor by Naomi Porter

8 Miranda

CLAIRE AND I sipped espresso and nibbled on croissants and fruit. The two executive assistants, Liesl and Veronica, were again present as was Mr. St. James. They didn’t talk much. I suspected they were there for other aspects of the gala to which I was not privy to.

As for Mr. St. James, he seemed to be an observer and not as extroverted as William. Perhaps in his youth they were similar, and he’d mellowed with age.

“We appreciate your time this morning,” Claire said, “with Thanksgiving Thursday. I wasn’t sure if your office closed for the week. Many do.”

“I’m sure my partners would have liked closing for the week. Unfortunately, we simply couldn’t. We have a wedding this weekend and three more before Christmas.”

Claire smiled, intrigued so I continued.

“The wedding industry doesn’t slowdown in Southern California ever. Even so, I’m kind of a workaholic,” I whispered.

“No shame in that, right, dear?”

“Absolutely! Your dedication and hard work will take you far,” Mr. St. James said.

“Along with her talent.” Claire quieted. I wondered where her thoughts had wandered as she gazed at the harvest arrangement on the table. It was a beautiful arrangement of calla lilies, orange and red roses, burgundy dahlias, and fern.

“Well, I must go. It was a pleasure.” Mr. St. James nodded at me and kissed Claire lightly on the cheek. He was handsome like William. I guessed not quite sixty. He wouldn’t lack interested women if he were available, wearing that black tailored suit and a striking red silk tie with black dots. Up close, I noticed the herringbone print in his white shirt—impressive and easily two hundred dollars.

These were the kind of clients that would help my business grow… explode. The St. James name in my portfolio would be all the advertising I’d need after the gala in February.

“Don’t forget to call Paul… the club this weekend with Natasha,” Claire reminded him.

“Consider it done.” He raised a hand as he exited the conference room.

“Do you play tennis?” Claire asked.

“Not since high school.”

A slight arch of her brow put me on edge. Did I just lose a couple of points? Was she measuring me up? Up to what? William’s wife?

A fog of tension drifted into the room. My stomach coiled into a ball of nerves at the memory of William interrupting the meeting last week, looking gorgeous and happy. It put a dreadful ache in my chest.

Married. I’d made myself sick over the weekend wondering if I’d have to face him today. Fear had swallowed me whole, worrying he might be angry with me for canceling dinner.

Not that he had a choice in the matter. I would never be the other woman.

Claire cleared her throat, glancing my way. It was more than a little awkward. Did her secretary tell her about the call? And dinner with her married son?

Was she going to confront me now that her husband had left?

“Let’s begin,” Claire announced. Sweet relief. “I spoke to Eva last night,” she whispered, head down and pulling up the documents on her iPad I’d emailed last night. I held my breath waiting for her to continue. Eva was her personal assistant, whom I hadn’t met in person, only spoke to on the phone. “You look to be feeling better.”

Speechless, I flicked my gaze at the assistants. They appeared oblivious on their phones.

“I am,” I replied, my tone light as if nothing scandalous almost happened with her son.

The conference room’s air thickened, and the temperature rose as my stomach percolated like a geyser—the first sign I may be bolting to the bathroom at any moment.

“I’m glad to hear it. Eva told me you called to cancel dinner with Mr. St. James.” She placed her hand gently on mine. Every muscle in my body turned to stone.

“Oh?”

“Will is never referred to as Mr. St. James. He’s just Will St. James.” She patted my hand.

Rapidly, I tried to decipher her words, but my overheated body must have melted my brain. “He… he doesn’t go by Mr. St. James?” I felt like I was missing something pertinent, but I was so flustered I could hardly think.

“No, dear. It would be better to call Will directly from now on.” A knowing wink shot my way. “We don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

The wrong idea? Oh, God, I might faint.

“I need some water. Excuse me.” I quickly stood and went to the buffet table adjacent to where we were seated. My damn hands wouldn’t stop trembling. She knew about the call, which meant Eva had told her about our dinner date.

Was she okay with it? I didn’t claim to understand wealthy people's intricate dealings, but were affairs an everyday occurrence? The way Claire patted my hand, was it a silent approval? It felt comforting, gentle. No. Her consent didn’t matter to me. I would not be the other woman.

A breeze passed over me as I sipped the soothing ice water.

“Sorry I’m late. My London call ran longer than planned.” William blew through the door.

I froze, unable to turn around. He wasn’t listed on the agenda. In and out, I slowly breathed to regain my composure. Shit.

“No worries, we haven’t begun yet,” Claire replied.

I sipped more water, willing myself not to throw up or cry with each swallow.

“Morning.” His breath grazed my cheek as his hand passed in front of me to grab a croissant, then another. The sleeve of his designer blazer left a trail of goose bumps on my arm as his cologne teased my nose.

I stepped back, turning on my heel and returning to my seat.

Hold it together. Hold it together. You can do this. You can do this.

William sat across from me. Every movement he made, I struggled to ignore. The way he blew on his coffee before sipping it made me shift in my chair. He chewed robustly, finishing both croissants before I reviewed the chosen color palette for the gala.

Silver and black were the base colors, SJI colors. Claire had yet to decide on blue or violet… or a variation of the two. I hoped she’d pick marine blue, but neither were my picks.

He cleared his throat and irritation seared my senses. I didn’t acknowledge it as I stared down at Claire’s iPad. The blur of blues and purples made me dizzy. William drummed his fingers on the table, each soft thump echoed in my ear.

I shifted in my seat again.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Claire asked, eyes on the iPad.

“No.” He rose from his seat and went to the buffet table, returning with a carafe. “Water?” Narrowed dark eyes stared down at me.

“Yes, thank you.”

He nodded, refilling my glass.

I heated up again like a damn furnace. What was he doing to me? Ignoring him didn’t seem to faze him. Or maybe it was me? The connection I’d felt in the club, in the elevator, in the car—I wanted him. A married man. Pathetic.

“Water, Mother?”

“Yes, please. I just don’t know. Blue or purple?” She directed her question toward William. He leaned between Claire and me, invading my personal space. His hip bumped into my shoulder, rattling my every nerve and turning me on more than a benign touch should.

I hated that I enjoyed it.

I sensed his displeasure with me—no, anger. Good, be done with me. I would never be his mistress. For all I knew, he probably had a few on the side—a harem perhaps. It disgusted me. He likely returned to the club with his pithy friend to find another woman to use.

The thought infuriated me. The cheating asshole. His poor wife. No woman deserved to be cheated on. Disrespected. Made a fool of.

A rage ignited in me.

Will

“I see your quandary. Both colors would be stunning. What about both?” I shrugged. What did I know about selecting colors for a party? Two colors were better than one, right? “Why pick when you can have both? The more the merrier.”

“That’s your answer? The more the merrier?” Miranda gaped, utterly shocked. “How about we pick four colors or a dozen. Why even have a color scheme when you can have all the colors of the rainbow? Because… the more the merrier!”

“I’m sorry? Was it something I said?” There may have been a slightly mocking tone in my voice. What just flew up her ass? If anyone should be angry it should be me, the poor schlep she’d stood up. “No need to get bent out of shape. It’s just a color. Damn.” I stepped back and returned the carafe to the buffet.

“Will, try to be helpful. If you can’t take this seriously, perhaps it’s best if you don’t attend the meetings,” my mother said. “I wouldn’t want this to be a source of tension between you and Miranda.”

“Between Miranda and me? There is no me and Miranda.” I hadn’t told her about dinner. Why would she say that? She peered over her shoulder at me, her assessing gaze confused.

Miranda sipped her water, shifting in her chair.

“Oh. But your dinner date? I thought you’d reschedule for another time.”

Miranda stilled in her chair. “Please, this is very awkward. Can we just get back to selecting the colors?”

I returned to my seat, needing to see her expression. Now that my mother called out the elephant in the room, it was game on. “What’s awkward is waiting in one of the finest restaurants in the city and your date never shows.”

A red flush crept up her neck.

“Why didn’t you show? I thought—”

“Eva said she was sick,” my mother interjected.

“Sick? How would she know that?”

“Because I told her.” A fiery glint sparked in Miranda’s eyes. “I didn’t have your number, so I called Eva to get a message to you that I was sick and wouldn’t be able to make it. But then I found out you had left the office with your wife and—”

“Wife?”

My mother placed her hand on Miranda’s shoulder, her patient expression giving me pause. “Mr. St. James has a wife. That’s me. Will St. James does not.”

“I…um…” Miranda played with her earring. “Please excuse me.” She practically ran out of the conference room.

“What is going on?” I stood.

“Sit down, Will.”

I gripped the back of my neck, confused as all get out. Married?

“Please, sit.” She flicked her eyes to the chair. I dropped into my seat. “Miranda is a lovely, intelligent, talented woman. I like her a lot.”

“But? I know there’s a but coming.”

“I’d be delighted with the match. Truly. However, she’s not like us.”

I furrowed my brow and opened my mouth, but Mother cut me off.

“Hear me out. There’s an innocence to Miranda; she’s trusting and has strong morals. I wouldn’t want to see her get hurt.”

“And you think I do?”

“Your track record—”

“Stop with the track record assumptions. I’m not a manwhore! And I would never hurt Miranda.”

“Not intentionally. But our lives get messy from time to time, and I don’t know if she can handle the drama. The tabloids, the lies. Maybe it’s better to not entangle her in our world.”

“Maybe she should decide for herself.” Relief washed over me as the realization hit me. It was a misunderstanding. Miranda didn’t stand me up and attempted to let me know.

“You’re right. She should decide for herself. Just be careful.”

I drummed my fingers on the table, watching the door, anxious for Miranda to return.