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Chapter Forty-Eight
“Mr. Black,” Byron Daniels, one of the opera board members, says, shaking my hand, “we’re so glad you’re here. I’ll escort you to your table personally. Who’s this lovely lady with you?”
“Skye Manning,” I say. “Skye, this is Byron Daniels, a member of the opera board.”
Skye smiles radiantly, though her lips tremble just a touch. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“My pleasure, Ms. Manning. If you’ll follow me, please.”
Our table is the best in the house, right up front, and it’s a table for two, as opposed to the others that seat eight or ten. A chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon and a platter of berries sit waiting.
“They think we like this better than Wild Turkey,” I whisper to Skye after we’re seated.
She giggles. A server attends to us quickly, opening the bottle and pouring two flutes. He hands one to Skye and then the other to me.
I take mine and clink my glass to hers. “To control,” I say, casting my gaze down to her breasts.
I’ll be controlling her all evening via the nipple clamps.
I’m looking forward to it more than she knows.
“To control,” she echoes and takes a sip of the champagne.
It’s crisp and dry, and though I don’t drink sparkling wine often, Dom Pérignon is in its own class. The bubbles effervesce against my tongue and seem to explode as they crawl down my throat.
The room is already full of guests. I don’t attempt to speak to anyone. People seek me out, come to me, schmooze me. Takes me back to the early days of the company when I was the one doing the schmoozing. I sucked at it. Ben was the schmoozer. He still is. My brother could sell a life estate to a dying man.
Peter Reardon and Garrett Ramirez sit a few tables away from us. When Peter looks Skye’s way, I dart him a glare. He looks away quickly. My architectural planning committee hasn’t made the contract decision public yet, so Reardon and his father may think they still stand a chance.
They don’t.
&
nbsp; “Braden!” George Stanford, chair of the opera board, approaches our table.
I rise and shake his hand.
“We can’t thank you enough for your generosity,” he says.
“I’m glad to do it.” I nod to Skye. “George, meet my girlfriend, Skye Manning.”
My girlfriend. I’m not unaware of how strange the term sounds coming from a thirty-five-year-old businessman. I’m not sure I’ve ever used the word before.
George holds his hand out to a still-seated Skye. “A pleasure, Ms. Manning.”
“Please, call me Skye.”
He nods and turns back to me. “We had a great response this year. The gala is sold out. The first time that’s happened in fifteen years.”
“Interest in opera must be growing in Boston.”
“It is, especially among the younger crowd. I think young people are finally tired of the same old hip-hop and are willing to give the classics a try.”
“It’s probably also because you’ve added some contemporary opera to your season the past couple of years,” I say, smiling.
George laughs. “Yes, that was a great idea you had, Braden. Seems to have paid off handsomely.” He turns to Skye. “Tell me about yourself, Skye.”
She jerks and meets George’s gaze. I can’t help a slight smile. She wasn’t listening to our conversation. She was busy people watching. It’s what she does. A photographer thing, I’d guess.
