Onyx by Briskin Jacqueline;

Author:Briskin, Jacqueline;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media Romance

CHAPTER 17

Zoe strolled up and down the long platform of the Detroit depot, awed glances and zephyrs of silence trailing her.

Her beauty struck the eye like a blow.

Her luminous, finely pored skin was subtly tinged with pink, her eyes appeared yet more meltingly dark in contrast to the red-gold waves around the brim of her cloche, her full mouth was set in a beguiling pout. But it was her body that dumbfounded. Zoe’s curves and symmetries transcended the imagination and overcame the smartly waistless Nile-green ensemble she wore: the sensuality of her lush body was so great it vaguely disturbed yet ultimately delighted the beholder.

“Zoe. Zoe!”

Caryll Bridger was jogging after her in his slightly duckfooted stride. Although tabloids often grappled with the question of who was the world’s wealthiest billionaire, the Nizam of Hyderabad, the Aga Khan, the King of England, or Tom Bridger, Zoe saw Caryll not as the heir to an incalculable fortune but as a round-faced young man whose gentle gray eyes shone as he smiled at her and lifted his homburg, just another of the dozen or so automotive executives mad for her.

“Caryll,” she said irritably. This was one of the days when his transparent adoration rubbed her the wrong way. “So you’ve declared a holiday.”

“I’m here to meet them too,” he said, matching his steps to hers. Caryll, taking after the Trelinack side, was broad of bone and without height. Barefoot in their swimsuits, the two measured the same, but Zoe, dressed up and wearing her green suede high-heeled pumps, was taller than he. “Is it on for tonight?” he asked.

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“The dance,” he said. “I asked you last week, and you said you’d tell me. Remember? It’s for Mavis and Ted.” A scrubby friend from Detroit Military Academy had blossomed into a handsome swan and was carrying off a lumber heiress amid a great deal of prenuptial fanfare—much to Caryll’s jubilation. There were so few functions to which he could invite Zoe. The Bridgers never had joined the Yondotega Club, the Detroit Club, the Bloomfield Country Club, they did not mingle with the automotive ascendancy. Their social life was limited to family functions. To these Justin and Zoe were never invited. Caryll was aware that his parents had influenced and encouraged his aunts in this exclusion, yet Maud never mentioned the ban, and this atypical obliqueness threw him so uneasily off-balance that he never questioned her, never asked his Aunt Melisande if he could invite the girl he loved and the man he considered his best friend to her masterfully coordinated thés dansants or balls, never asked his stout little Aunt Yssy if he could bring them along to her noisy, congenial Open Houses. “Paul Whiteman’s in town to play for it.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, this’ll be Justin’s first night home.”

“He can come with us. He’s never tired. Zoe, Paul Whiteman! There’s another band, too.”

“Oh, who cares? Hugh’s looking forward to seeing Justin.”

“You love to dance,” Caryll persisted. “They can talk tomorrow.

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