“It must be,” Elizabeth said. “I asked you because Mr. Latimer requested it, but I wasn’t sure about the details.” Elizabeth glanced over at a still-bristling Cyril. “Mr. Atwater has won several major film awards, including the Academy Award last year for his documentary Bitter Secrets.”
“I’m not a child, Elizabeth. You don’t have to soothe any feathers,” Atwater said peevishly. Elizabeth’s upraised brows and amused glance at Harper seemed to say she felt differently. “So what do you think, Harper? Is it all right if I call you Harper?” Cyril asked.
“Of course.”
“Well? What do you think of letting me do the film?”
Harper shrugged dubiously. “I don’t think that’d work, to be honest.”
“Why not?” Cyril demanded.
“Because it’s not just me you’d have to get agreement from, but Ellie.”
“That’s done easily enough.”
“But she doesn’t live on the streets anymore,” Harper explained. “She’s a waitress and attends junior college part-time.”
“Thanks to your story, I’m sure that’s all true. I’m not planning on doing an actual documentary for this. It’d be done with actors and actresses, but based on the feature you did.”
Harper glanced over at Elizabeth and gave a short laugh. “This isn’t what I expected in coming here tonight.”
“What did you expect?” Elizabeth asked.
“I didn’t know what to expect. I was surprised when I got the invitation. I was under the impression Mr. Latimer was responsible for it, which confused me even more. I see now that it was you”—she glanced at Cyril—“who was behind it all.”
“Oh, Jacob was responsible for it. He suggested the whole thing to me at lunch a few days ago. I thought his idea was brilliant. But of course, everything Jacob suggests is,” Cyril said as though stating the obvious.
The waiter arrived with an empty wine goblet and a bottle on a tray.
“Is he here?” Harper asked, smiling in thanks as she took the glass. She noticed the label as the waiter poured the chardonnay: It was Latimer’s own.
“Mr. Latimer, you mean?”
Harper nodded at Elizabeth and took a sip. She blinked in pleasure at the subtle, oaky taste of the wine. Nothing but the best for Latimer.
“No, he got caught up in an emergency work situation, unfortunately,” Elizabeth said smoothly. Harper had the impression this was Elizabeth’s standard reply for queries in regard to Latimer’s presence . . . or absence, as the case likely usually was.
“Jacob hardly ever attends these things. I tell him this place is his cave”—Cyril waved his crystal highball glass at the magnificent mansion—“and he’s the hermit who inhabits it. If I didn’t come over and push my way in a few times a week, I’d never catch sight of him. He’d be just as much a legend to me as Sasquatch and our local Tahoe Tessie. I live just a house down,” he explained to Harper, pointing behind her. “I suppose if I harp too much, the hermit will toss me out on my bony butt, so I try to—” Cyril paused, his brow furrowing.
Harper instinctively turned to where he was staring. Other partygoers looked around in the direction of the house, as well. Conversation faded off until a breathless hush prevailed.
It was like a charge had ignited the evening air and an electrical current passed through them all. Or at least that’s how it felt to Harper as she watched the man from the beach saunter toward the party with easy grace, eyes trained directly on her.
• • •
“To what do we owe this honor?” Cyril boomed incredulously as the man approached their small grouping. As if on cue, the other partygoers turned back to their conversations, and the quartet began another number. Even though everyone resumed the cocktail party routine, Harper noticed several sideways, surreptitious glances in their direction. It wasn’t just women looking, either. It was clear that Latimer’s presence at the party was not only unexpected, but also exciting.
“I looked out my window and saw Harper’s hair.”
There was a burning in Harper’s chest cavity. She realized it was because she hadn’t drawn air as she watched him approach. And . . . had he really just said that about her hair?
“Jacob Latimer,” he said, extending his hand. “I don’t think I ever got the chance to actually introduce myself the other day on the beach.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said, grasping his hand. She stared up into a pair of long-lashed golden-green-brown eyes. He wore a suit, including a vest and tie, but somehow he managed to make the suit seem as casual and easy as the swim trunks she’d seen him in yesterday. Just as sexy, that much was certain. Here was a man who was supremely confident in his own skin. And why shouldn’t he be?
“It’s the color of the sunset,” he said quietly, and again, there was that small smile, almost as if he was a little embarrassed by his poetic turn of phrase, but had said it anyway. He released her hand slowly and pointed at her hair when she just stared at him stupidly. She managed to return his smile despite her discomposure, all too aware of Elizabeth and Cyril’s fascinated gazes on them.
“A sunset is one of the kinder things it’s been compared to. Ask any redhead how much they liked their hair color as a kid,” she laughed.