I was brimming with jealousy, sick with it. over the worst person I could have picked to be jealous of. I couldn't believe it. Stupid, I told myself angrily, stupid, stupid. But knowing that didn't seem to make things any better.

For the rest of the day I made violent resolutions and promises to myself. I tried to drive thoughts of Gage out of my mind by dwelling on the subject of Hardy, the love of my life, who had meant more to me than Gage Travis ever would...Hardy, who was sexy, charming, unreserved, as opposed to Gage, the arrogant, annoying ass**le.

But even thinking about Hardy didn't work. So I concentrated on fanning the flames of Churchill's temper by mentioning Gage and the Citation at every possible opportunity. I hoped Churchill would descend on his oldest son like a plague of Egypt.

To my disappointment. Churchill's temper vanished after they talked on the phone. "New development in the works with Dawnelle," Churchill reported complacently. I wouldn't have believed it possible, but my mood plummeted further. That could mean only one thing—Gage was asking her to move in with him. Maybe he was even proposing to her.

After working all day and helping Carrington practice her soccer moves outside, I was exhausted. More than that, I was depressed. I was never going to find anyone. I was going to spend the rest of my life sleeping single in a double bed until I was a cranky old woman who did nothing but water the plants, talk about the neighbors, and take care of her ten cats.

I soaked in a long bath, which Carrington had garnished with Barbie bath suds that smelled like bubble gum. Afterward I dragged myself to bed and lay there with my eyes open.

The next day I woke up in a sullen simmer, as if sleep had catalyzed my depression into a general state of pissed-offedness. Churchill raised his brows as I informed him that I didn't feel like running up and down the stairs all day, so I'd appreciate it if he would consolidate his requests into one list. Among the various items was a note to call a newly opened restaurant and make reservations for eight. "One of my friends made a big investment in the place," Churchill told me. "I'm taking the family to eat there tonight. Make sure you and Carrington put on something nice."

"Carrington and I aren't going."

"Yes you are." He counted the guests on his fingers. "It's going to be you two girls, Gretchen, Jack and his girlfriend, Vivian and me, and Gage."

So Gage would be back from New York by tonight. My insides felt as if they'd been coated with lead.

"What about Dawnelle?" I asked curtly. "Is she coming?"

"I don't know. Better make it a party of nine. Just in case."

If Dawnelle was there...if the two of them were engaged...I was pretty sure I couldn't get through the evening.

"It's going to be a party of seven," I said. "Carrington and I aren't family, so we're not

going."

"Yes you are," Churchill said flatly.

"It's a school night. Carrington can't stay out late."

"Make reservations for an early dinner, then."

"You're asking too much," I snapped.

"What the hell am I paying you for. Liberty?" Churchill asked without rancor.

"You're paying me to work for you, not to have dinner with the family."

He met my gaze without blinking. "I aim to talk about work during dinner. Bring your notepad."

CHAPTER 20

I had seldom dreaded anything the way I did that dinner. I fretted about it all day. By five o'clock my stomach felt like it was filled with cement, and I was sure I wasn't going to be able to eat anything.

Pride, however, compelled me to pull out my best dress, a red wool knit with long sleeves and a vee neck that exposed a hint of cle**age. It clung lightly from chest to h*ps and fell in a gently flared skirt. I spent at least forty-five minutes flat ironing my hair until it was perfectly straight. A careful application of smoky-gray eyeshadow, a slick of sparkly neutral lip gloss, and I was ready to go. Despite my moroseness, I knew I'd never looked better in my life.

I went to my sister's room and discovered the door was locked. "Carrington," I called. "It's six o'clock. Time to go. Come out of there."

Her voice was muffled. "I need another few minutes."

"Carrington, hurry," I said with a touch of exasperation. "Let me in there and I'll help you—"

"I can do it by myself."

"I want you downstairs in the family room, in five minutes."

"Okay!"

Sighing heavily, I went to the elevator. Usually I took the stairs, but not when I was wearing three-inch heels. The house was strangely quiet except for the staccato of my metallic slides across marble flooring, clicks softening on hardwood, disappearing in the pile of wool carpeting.

The family room was empty, a fire winking and snapping in the fireplace. Perplexed, I went to the wet bar and sorted through decanters and bottles. I figured since I wasn't driving, and Churchill was forcing me to go out with the family, he owed me a drink. I poured some cola into a glass, added a shot of Zaya rum, and stirred it with my forefinger. As I took a medicinal gulp, the cold liquid slid down my throat with a sparkling bum. Maybe I'd added a little too much Zaya.

It was my misfortune to turn and catch sight of Gage entering the room while I was still in mid-swallow. I struggled for a second to keep from spewing the drink. After managing to force it down, I started to cough violently, setting aside the glass.