“Vaughn, this is my father, Ross Sinclair, and his wife, Jenny.”
“The FBI agent,” Ross said, looking Vaughn over as he shook his hand. “Were you one of the guys who arrested that nineteen-year-old who was planning to plant a bomb outside Wrigley Field?” he asked, referring to a case that had recently been in all the local media.
“No, sir. That credit goes to the agents on the terrorism squad.”
“Oh.” Ross suddenly looked bored with the conversation. “What squad are you on?”
“White-collar crime.”
Ross raised an eyebrow. “Ever arrest any hedge fund managers?” he quipped, getting a chuckle from the crowd.
“Only the criminal ones.”
Ross looked at Vaughn again—seemingly still sizing him up—and then left to greet some people who’d just walked in.
Simon leaned in so only Vaughn could hear. “Yep, that went about as well as my first conversation with him. And basically every conversation thereafter. The guy’s a tough nut to crack.”
Like father, like daughter,
Vaughn thought.
A waiter stopped to offer him a glass of champagne, which he declined. But while turned in that direction, his eyes landed on someone talking in a group out on the lawn.
Sidney.
Since she wasn’t looking, Vaughn let his eyes linger for a moment. Admittedly, he didn’t know a lot about women’s fashion, but he assumed that her pink dress sported some sort of fancy designer label. And whatever she’d spent, it was worth every penny. The dress cut asymmetrically across her legs, and one ruffled sleeve draped teasingly off her right shoulder. Combined with the high heels she had on, the look was both classy and sexy as hell.
She had one hand on her hip as she chatted with a couple who appeared to be roughly her father’s age. As if sensing Vaughn’s gaze, she looked over and caught his eye.
Her eyes briefly took in his tie-less suit and open-necked shirt. Then, with a deliberately disinterested air, she turned away from him and focused once again on her conversation.
Ah . . . the cold shoulder. So that was how they were going to play this tonight. That was just fine with him.
• • •
FOR THE NEXT half hour, he did the rounds with Simon and Isabelle, making polite conversation about the wedding and entertaining the group with funny anecdotes about Simon, as was his duty as best man and older brother. Then there was a clinking of glasses as Ross Sinclair moved to the center of the terrace to make a toast. The people who’d been mingling out on the lawn gathered closer.
“Jenny and I want to thank all of you for coming tonight,” Ross began, with the confident air of a man used to speaking in front of others. “It’s wonderful that so many of you could join us on this happy occasion.” He looked over at his younger daughter and future son-in-law. “As all of you may or may not know, Isabelle and Simon began dating not too long ago. So when she brought him over for dinner last weekend, and he pulled me aside to ask for my permission to marry her, my first question was”—he cocked his head in mock confusion—“What’s your name again?”
The crowd broke out in laughter.
“Simon,” called out Simon good-naturedly.
The crowd laughed more.
“
Simon—
right,” Ross said, hamming it up. He continued when the crowd quieted. “But after getting that out of the way, my second question was to Isabelle. And that was, simply: ‘Does he make you happy?’” He smiled at his daughter. “And without hesitation, she said yes.”
He paused as the crowd
aw
-ed, and Simon and Isabelle exchanged an affectionate look.
“That was all I needed to hear.” Ross lifted his glass. “So with that, I’d like you to raise your glasses in toast to the happy couple as they continue on their journey together. To Isabelle and . . .” He trailed off, making an
oops
face as though he’d forgotten again.
“Simon,”
the crowd responded in unison, laughing.
“I’ll get it one day!”
“The FBI agent,” Ross said, looking Vaughn over as he shook his hand. “Were you one of the guys who arrested that nineteen-year-old who was planning to plant a bomb outside Wrigley Field?” he asked, referring to a case that had recently been in all the local media.
“No, sir. That credit goes to the agents on the terrorism squad.”
“Oh.” Ross suddenly looked bored with the conversation. “What squad are you on?”
“White-collar crime.”
Ross raised an eyebrow. “Ever arrest any hedge fund managers?” he quipped, getting a chuckle from the crowd.
“Only the criminal ones.”
Ross looked at Vaughn again—seemingly still sizing him up—and then left to greet some people who’d just walked in.
Simon leaned in so only Vaughn could hear. “Yep, that went about as well as my first conversation with him. And basically every conversation thereafter. The guy’s a tough nut to crack.”
Like father, like daughter,
Vaughn thought.
A waiter stopped to offer him a glass of champagne, which he declined. But while turned in that direction, his eyes landed on someone talking in a group out on the lawn.
Sidney.
Since she wasn’t looking, Vaughn let his eyes linger for a moment. Admittedly, he didn’t know a lot about women’s fashion, but he assumed that her pink dress sported some sort of fancy designer label. And whatever she’d spent, it was worth every penny. The dress cut asymmetrically across her legs, and one ruffled sleeve draped teasingly off her right shoulder. Combined with the high heels she had on, the look was both classy and sexy as hell.
She had one hand on her hip as she chatted with a couple who appeared to be roughly her father’s age. As if sensing Vaughn’s gaze, she looked over and caught his eye.
Her eyes briefly took in his tie-less suit and open-necked shirt. Then, with a deliberately disinterested air, she turned away from him and focused once again on her conversation.
Ah . . . the cold shoulder. So that was how they were going to play this tonight. That was just fine with him.
• • •
FOR THE NEXT half hour, he did the rounds with Simon and Isabelle, making polite conversation about the wedding and entertaining the group with funny anecdotes about Simon, as was his duty as best man and older brother. Then there was a clinking of glasses as Ross Sinclair moved to the center of the terrace to make a toast. The people who’d been mingling out on the lawn gathered closer.
“Jenny and I want to thank all of you for coming tonight,” Ross began, with the confident air of a man used to speaking in front of others. “It’s wonderful that so many of you could join us on this happy occasion.” He looked over at his younger daughter and future son-in-law. “As all of you may or may not know, Isabelle and Simon began dating not too long ago. So when she brought him over for dinner last weekend, and he pulled me aside to ask for my permission to marry her, my first question was”—he cocked his head in mock confusion—“What’s your name again?”
The crowd broke out in laughter.
“Simon,” called out Simon good-naturedly.
The crowd laughed more.
“
Simon—
right,” Ross said, hamming it up. He continued when the crowd quieted. “But after getting that out of the way, my second question was to Isabelle. And that was, simply: ‘Does he make you happy?’” He smiled at his daughter. “And without hesitation, she said yes.”
He paused as the crowd
aw
-ed, and Simon and Isabelle exchanged an affectionate look.
“That was all I needed to hear.” Ross lifted his glass. “So with that, I’d like you to raise your glasses in toast to the happy couple as they continue on their journey together. To Isabelle and . . .” He trailed off, making an
oops
face as though he’d forgotten again.
“Simon,”
the crowd responded in unison, laughing.
“I’ll get it one day!”
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