Kitabı oku: «The Ashtons: Paige, Grant & Trace»
A family rocked by sinful secrets, broughttogether by untameable passions
THE ASHTONS:PAIGE, GRANT& TRACE
Three of your favourite authors bring
you the final three romances following
the scandalous Ashton dynasty
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MILLS & BOONSPOTLIGHT™
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June 2010
The Ashtons:Paige, Grant & Trace
Featuring
The Highest Bidder by Roxanne St Claire Savour the Seduction by Laura Wright Name Your Price by Barbara McCauley
The Sheikh’s Dilemma
Featuring
A Bed of Sand by Laura Wright Sheikh Surrender by Jacqueline Diamond The Sheikh Who Loved Me by Loreth Anne White
The Ashtons:
Paige, Grant
& Trace
Roxanne St Claire
Laura Wright
Barbara McCauley
MILLS & BOON
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The Highest
Bidder
By
Roxanne St Claire
Roxanne St Claire began writing romance fiction in 1999 after nearly two decades as a public relations and marketing executive. Retiring from business to pursue a lifelong dream of writing romance is one of the most rewarding accomplishments in her life. The others are her happy marriage to a real-life hero and the daily joys of raising two young children. Roxanne writes mainstream romantic suspense, contemporary romance and women’s fiction. Her work has received numerous awards, including the prestigious Heart to Heart Award, the Golden Opportunity Award and the Gateway Award. An active member of the Romance Writers of America, Roxanne lives in Florida and currently writes—and raises children—full time. She loves to hear from readers through e-mail at roxannestc@aol.com and snail mail at PO Box 372909, Satellite Beach, FL 32937, USA. Visit her website at www.roxannestclaire.com.
This one’s for the Space Coast Authors of Romance…the
brightest stars in my writing world!
Prologue
Spencer Ashton studied the inviting sway of the woman’s hips as she sashayed across his spacious office and out the door, ending the interview but starting the mating dance.
His choice was made. This one was young, eager and ambitious enough to request a fancy title—“administrative assistant.” With an amused snort, he spun his chair around to the fog-tipped view of San Francisco eighteen floors below.
A little ambition in a secretary was good, he thought wryly. Then they understand just what they have to give in order to get. Too much ambition, on the other hand, and they cease to be satisfied with promises and pay raises, and the demands get stronger…and turn into ultimatums.
At the thought, the image of his wife appeared in his head. Lilah Jensen had been the perfect secretary—smart and sexy. A breath of fresh air after all those years married to the mouse, Caroline Lattimer. And now, seventeen years and three children later, Lilah was still smart enough to keep her mouth shut and look the other way when she had to. She had the status she craved as Lilah Ashton, and he had the freedom he required. Shrewd woman, Lilah. Always was.
This new secretary would be good. She’d flipped her hair and wet her lips enough times to let him know she’d do whatever he asked. He inhaled a satisfied breath, puffing up his chest with a deep breath and liking the way his still-toned muscles stretched the fabric of his custom-made shirt. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, about half his age. With a grin, he patted his hard-muscled stomach. Spencer Ashton still had it all. Good looks, a hard body and more money than God.
His quick laugh at that thought was interrupted by a tap on his door.
“What is it?” he called out, gruffly enough to communicate his distaste at any intrusion that he didn’t plan. Whoever it was should be stopped by his secretary and buzzed in through her.
The door inched open and the woman he’d just interviewed gave him a wary look. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Ashton. Just one more thing.”
Damn, she hadn’t even started yet. He swallowed the reprimand and flashed an easy smile. “You’re no bother…” Donna? Debbie? He couldn’t remember.
“I was just in the reception area and, uh, I noticed your secretary, well, she sort of packed up her bag and left.”
The little bitch. She’d figured out that the string of women he’d been interviewing were her potential replacements, before he had a chance to give her enough severance pay to guarantee silence. He cursed his thoughtless mistake.
His gaze swept over the brunette in front of him, making no effort to hide his admiration. “Then I hope you can start tomorrow.”
She did the hair toss again, and her eyes sparkled. She might as well have rubbed her crotch. The message was the same.
“I can start right now, Mr. Ashton,” she replied in a low voice.
He felt himself respond. “Good.”
“As a matter of fact,” she took a few more steps into the room and held out a thin white envelope. “While I was out there, a messenger delivered this for you. It says personal and confidential, so I didn’t open it.”
He nodded and absently took the envelope, his attention still on the generous rise of her breasts she’d thoughtfully revealed by removing her jacket. “Thank you.”
“I’ll just get settled at the desk,” she added with a smile. “And thank you.”
She turned to leave, offering him that nice backside view again. “Just a second…” Dorie? Damn, what was her name?
“Yes, sir?”
“You may have to work a little late tonight.” He gave her an appropriately innocent look. “Just to learn some of the Ashton-Lattimer policies and procedures.”
“No problem, Mr. Ashton.”
He dropped the letter on the vast, empty surface of his desk and picked up his phone to call Lilah to let her know he’d be staying in his city apartment tonight and not driving home as he’d planned.
As he dialed the private line to his estate winery in Napa, his gaze fell on the envelope. On the front, his name was typed, with no return address.
While the phone rang in his ear, he sliced the envelope with his finger and swore as the paper cut a quarter-inch slash in his skin. He’d have to train…whatever the hell her name was…to open everything for him.
“Ashton Estate.”
He recognized the voice of his housekeeper, Irena, and didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Give me Lilah.”
“Of course, Mr. Ashton. One moment, please.”
As he waited for his wife, he sucked the drop of blood from his finger and pulled out a folded sheet of paper from the envelope. When he opened it, a yellowed newspaper clipping fluttered onto the desk. What the hell was this?
Like the envelope, the note was typed. One paragraph. No date. No signature.
An unholy tendril of apprehension snaked through him as he read the first sentence, the cut finger still in his mouth.
“Bigamy is against the law.”
He swallowed and tasted the bitterness of his own blood as he read:
Enclosed is the obituary of one Sally Barnett Ashton. Unfortunately, this newspaper seems to be in error. In the third paragraph it states that Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton was divorced from her husband, Spencer Ashton, at the time of her death. In fact, Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton was never divorced. Careful research reveals no divorce documents to be found in Crawley, Nebraska, or San Francisco, California. According to the laws of both states, that means her husband couldn’t remarry as long as Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton remained alive. If he did, such a union would be illegal, and any results of that union would be null and void. Wouldn’t the second Mrs. Ashton be interested to learn that her marriage—and the subsequent divorce settlement—was not legal?
The taste in his mouth turned metallic, as white-hot anger shot through his veins.
He picked up the clipping and stared at the obituary of the woman he’d been forced to marry thirty years ago. His gaze dropped to the handwritten note in the newspaper margin.
“It’d be a damn shame for anyone to find out about this.”
His fists balled as tightly as the knot in his gut. No one would blackmail Spencer Ashton. No one would dare. He’d kill them with his bare hands first.
“Hello, darling.” Lilah trilled in his ear. “Sorry to keep you holding. Don’t tell me you’re not coming home.”
Disgust and something frighteningly close to fear strained his chest. “Of course I am.” He glanced at his closed office door and thought of the new secretary. There’d be plenty of time for that. He needed to think tonight. “I’m leaving here around six.”
“Wonderful, darling. Then you haven’t forgotten it’s Paige’s birthday. The party is Saturday, but your baby is ten today.”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten.”
He hung up without another word and grabbed the letter again, watching in horror as a single drop of his blood spread a scarlet stain on the paper. Swearing, he tore the sheet in half again and again until he had dozens of pieces in his hand. Then he stuffed them all into the trash.
Chapter One
“And the lady is…sold! To the gentleman at table four!”
The auctioneer’s gavel smacked the podium and the 450 guests in the Ashton Estate Winery reception hall erupted in a chorus of cheers and boos. The bidding for a date with the blond Napa Valley socialite, also known as bachelorette number seventeen, had been fast and furious.
She had a name—the auctioneer had even said it—but Paige Ashton’s mind worked better with numbers than names. And now that number seventeen was bought and paid for, there were only three women left before dessert and dancing could commence. Then Paige was done.
She hugged her clipboard and beamed from the side of the stage. They were just shy of the magic number of $20,000, to be raised for the Candlelighters of Northern California. God bless the brave ladies willing to parade on that stage, willing to let men shout out dollar amounts they’d pay for a date.
Not only was it a wonderful cause, the annual Candlelighters Bachelorette Auction was a smashing event, and she’d coordinated every detail for the “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” jungle theme right down to rainforest-inspired centerpieces. It had been a breeze after the balancing act she’d been performing with her family the past few months.
Still, she’d been a little nervous about executing this event—her first on her own since she’d returned home to the winery to help her sister handle the massive functions held at the world-famous estate. Megan would be proud, if she weren’t in the throes of morning sickness. Paige planned to debrief her sister on the success the next day, and they’d share a welcome reprieve from discussing their father’s murder and the various leads the police were following to find the person who shot Spencer Ashton.
“Tiffany Valencia is gone.”
The words, whispered to Paige by one of the auction aides, tickled her ear and raised a hair on the back of her neck.
“Gone? Number eighteen is gone?” It didn’t take her lightning-speed brain to solve this problem. “Get nineteen.”
The aide, a young intern for the auction company, shook her head. “No can do. That one just left with Ashley Bleeker for a smoke.”
“Bleeker? That means eighteen, nineteen and twenty are gone?”
“We have to take a break.”
“No break,” Paige insisted. That would ruin the rhythm of the event and, worse, stop the bidding. The event would ultimately be judged by how much money was raised. “Where the heck is eighteen—er, Tiffany?”
“I think she met a guy and took off with him,” the aide said apologetically.
Paige rolled her eyes. “He’s supposed to pay for that privilege.”
The aide shrugged and looked up at the stage where the auctioneer was peering at them. “You better tell George. He’s not good at ad-libbing. He needs someone to auction off.”
Paige didn’t waste a moment thinking about what needed to be done. “Get the band in place, we’re almost done with the auction portion. Let me talk to George and see if he can keep things moving until we find her.” She gave the aide her clipboard and took a deep breath, her palms suddenly too damp to risk smoothing her silk skirt.
How did these girls do it? Just going onstage to chat with the auctioneer raised her heart rate.
The room quieted a little as she stepped into the spotlights that flooded the stage. Someone whistled from the back.
Good heavens. They thought she was the next bachelorette. Paige threw an apologetic smile into the crowd and shook her head, but the lights blinded her. She could only make out a few faces in the very front, one of them her cousin Walker, looking both surprised and amused.
“Well, here’s a shocker!” The auctioneer further hushed the crowd with his booming voice. “Paige Ashton is bachelorette number eighteen.”
Blood drained from her head and rushed to her pounding heart. “No, no, I’m not.” Her denial was too soft to be heard over the rowdy response. She’d done her job and made sure the Ashton wine flowed freely. Now she had a roomful of inebriated men who’d have applauded any female at this point.
“I don’t have a fact sheet on Paige,” the auctioneer admitted, his commanding voice hardly needing a microphone. “But I know firsthand that she’s a delight to work with. She’s—how old, Paige?”
“Twenty-two!” She recognized Walker’s voice, and one more glance at her cousin revealed his fairly evil grin. He leaned over to say something to another man, missing the dirty look Paige directed at their table.
“How much do we hear for this twenty-two-year-old beauty with a well-known last name and an angel’s face?”
Death. Death would be preferable to the lights burning her cheeks—or was that just one massive blush that threatened to explode every blood vessel in her face?
“Five hundred!”
Oh, dear God. They were bidding. She held up a hand to stop them, but the auctioneer grabbed it, spinning her in a Fred Astaire-like move. “Just five hundred? Look at this beautiful young lady. Svelte, sweet and smart as a whip.”
“Six-fifty!”
“I hear six-fifty for the honey with honey hair, do I hear six seventy-five, six seventy-five…”
Paige felt her legs weaken. Please God, make this end. “This is a mistake, George,” she whispered to the auctioneer, her voice hoarse and low. “I’m not number—”
“Seven hundred!”
“That’s more like it,” George bellowed into the microphone. “I hear seven hundred, seven hundred, do I hear seven-fifty?”
He launched into the forced staccato that had enthralled the crowd all night, and someone yelled out a higher amount. The auctioneer’s drone rose in intensity as he dared and defied them to up the ante.
“Eight-fifty!”
“Nine hundred!”
Her legs would never hold. George spun her again. Twirling, Paige caught a glimpse of Walker, still talking to the other man, but the light prevented her from seeing who it was.
“Nine-fifty!” The shout came from the back of the room.
That silenced the crowd for a moment, no doubt because they neared the thousand dollar figure that usually stopped the bidding.
Her cousin laughed at something his companion said, and leaned back, momentarily blocking the blinding light and giving Paige a straight shot at the man sitting next to Walker.
“One thousand dollars!”
She heard the amount called out from the back, but her gaze locked on wolflike gray eyes that devoured her. A spray of goose bumps cascaded down her spine as they stared at each other.
“Fifteen hundred!” The bid was shouted from the far left side of the crowded room, followed immediately by another.
But the lights seemed to fade, the shouting muted, and the merciless bidding drowned out. She simply couldn’t tear her gaze from the handsome stranger who stared right back at her. Who was he? Who had Walker invited to this fund-raiser? Then he lifted his lips in a provocative half smile.
Whoever he was, he was a heartthrob.
“Two thousand!” With the blood rushing through her head, Paige barely heard the crazy bid barked from the far right side of the room.
The auctioneer roared with glee and urged the frenzy onward.
A trickle of perspiration snaked between her shoulder blades and she tried to swallow, still unable to look away from the man’s riveting gaze.
Then he winked. So subtle, so sneaky, no one else could possibly have seen his secret message. But she did. And it sent an involuntary shudder through her body.
“Ten thousand dollars.”
The auctioneer froze and looked toward the front table. “Did I hear…?”
He couldn’t. He couldn’t have said that. The wolf with gray eyes stood to an impressive height. Backlit by a spotlight and looking like a monarch making his pronouncement, his half smile widened to a predatory grin. “Ten thousand dollars for Paige Ashton.”
For a long time the room remained soundless, then the gavel slammed so hard the podium vibrated and Paige’s knees nearly buckled.
“Congratulations, sir, you’ve bought yourself one expensive evening out!”
His gaze never wavered from her. “Worth every penny.”
“What the hell did you do that for?”
Matt Camberlane grinned at Walker Ashton’s question. “I couldn’t stand to see her suffer,” he declared, his gaze skimming the stage for another glimpse of her. That had been true, but Matt knew that his lifelong competitive streak had just seized him. No way that pretty woman was going out with any of the sharks in this room. At least not with any other shark in the room.
Walker burned Matt with a threatening stare. “She’s my cousin. She wasn’t up for bid. I told you, she’s running the event.”
“Precisely why I had to rescue her.”
“She doesn’t need your kind of rescuing.”
Matt attempted a “Who me?” look that he knew didn’t work on his friend. “I just told you, I’ve sworn off the opposite sex. You may have found the holy grail of love with Tamra, but I am not meant to drink from that ultimate cup of happiness.” To underscore his point, he drained his goblet of Ashton pinot noir. As he tilted his head back, he caught a flash of butter-yellow silk behind the temporary stage and curtain. She’d get away for sure, if he didn’t get back there and stake his claim.
He heard Walker snort. “Love? You weren’t looking at her with love in your eyes, Matty boy. That was lust and I repeat—she’s my cousin. We were raised together. Paige is like a little sister to me. Plus, she’s been through hell the last couple of months.”
“Chill, Walker. I’m not interested in her. I’m merely doing a little good deed. Some charity work.” Still, he’d seen the intelligent glint in her almond-shaped eyes, and couldn’t help noticing a few enticing curves on her slender body. He was most definitely interested. “She was seriously uncomfortable, couldn’t you tell?” He stepped away from the table, determined to nab her. “It’s for a good cause, remember?”
Before Walker could respond, the auctioneer started yammering about number nineteen, and a skinny redhead slithered into the spotlights. Matt dashed between the round tables and made his way behind the velvet curtain.
He stood in the back for a moment, searching the darkened area for the woman who’d just caused havoc in his head…and a few other places, too.
“I don’t know who you are, sir, but I guess I owe you ten thousand dollars.”
Matt turned to find Paige behind him, barely reaching his chin, even in the strappy high heels he’d checked out while she’d been up on stage. They’d done very nice things for her legs. She stood with her shoulders locked in defiance, but her wide, sea-green eyes gave her a hint of vulnerability. She clasped a clipboard like a protective shield in front of her chest.
“Perhaps you don’t understand how this works,” he said, letting his gaze roam over her china-doll skin and settle on her slightly glossy, slightly parted lips. “I owe you ten thousand dollars. All you owe me is the pleasure of your company for an evening.”
She shook her head. “No. You’ve made a mistake. A huge mistake. I’m not up—I’m not a bachelorette.”
Disappointment squeezed his chest. “You’re not?”
“I mean, I am technically, a…a—” she stammered, and then broke into a wide smile, holding out her hand. “I’m Paige Ashton. The assistant event coordinator.”
He took the hand she offered and held it a second longer than he would a business associate. “I’m Matt Camberlane. The highest bidder.”
“Matt Camberlane? The computer guy?”
He laughed. “I guess I’ve been called worse. Yeah, I’m the computer guy, and now I’m your next date, Miss Ashton. Where would you like to go for dinner?” And breakfast, he thought with a flash of her writhing naked between the ridiculously expensive sheets of the five-star Napa resort he’d checked in to that afternoon.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Camberlane.” He saw her take a deep breath and could have sworn she shuddered with it. “I can’t.”
“Can’t?” He dipped his head closer to her and lowered his voice. “I don’t know what that word means.”
A slight flush darkened her cheeks. Damn, but she was pretty. Not an over-the-top vixen like most of the women who had been bobbing in the lights to get a better look at him. No, Paige Ashton was like hand-blown glass next to their plastic. Real and delicate and fragile.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “You’ve bid on the wrong girl. I’m the wrong—”
“On the contrary.” He placed a single finger on her lips to quiet her, a tiny bit of gloss sticking to him. “I don’t see anything wrong with you at all.”
She stepped back, out of his touch. “I’m afraid I—”
“Surely you wouldn’t deny those poor families with sick children the benefits of all your hard work for this auction.”
“I said I’ll pay for your mistake.”
He closed the space she’d made but didn’t touch her again. Even though he really wanted to. “And I’m telling you, I didn’t make a mistake.”
“Ten thousand was way, way too much,” she said.
He shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, it’s a jungle out there. Survival of the biddest.”
She started to laugh, but the voice of the auctioneer screeched from a loudspeaker beside them. “Sold to the gentleman at table eleven! And that brings our auction to a close.” “Are you just about finished here?” he asked, already imagining a moonlit stroll around the vineyard.
The speaker crackled with the next announcement, answering for her. “But the night isn’t over. If you bidders would be kind enough to open your wallets for the cashiers, you can get to know your future dates with some dancing, courtesy of White Lightning.”
The amplifier whined with a second of electronic feedback, then suddenly shut off, leaving them staring at each other in an unexpected silence.
“I have to work,” she finally said. “But, please, let me fix this. Your donation was wonderfully generous and will go a long way to helping the families of children with cancer. One of the ladies didn’t get a chance to go onstage. Number eighteen.” She glanced at her papers and ran a finger over a list along the side. “Tiffany Valencia. Lovely girl.” She looked up at him. “Gorgeous, in fact. I’ll go arrange for you to meet her. You’ll see—”
He took the clipboard from her hands and dropped it square on the wood floor with a resounding slap. “I don’t want Tiffany Valencia,” he said quietly. “I paid ten thousand dollars for Paige Ashton.”
The color drained from her cheeks as she held his gaze. “Do you always get what you want, Mr. Camberlane?”
“Always.” He added another wink to soften the next statement. “And I want you.”
The words, and the sincere, sexy way he said them, sent a crackle of sparks to every nerve ending in Paige’s body.
But something told her that this legendary self-made gazillionaire, whose image graced the San Francisco society columns with supermodels glued to his toned, athletic body, had better things to buy with his money. He’d never be interested in plain-brain Paige, as she believed the rest of her family secretly thought of her.
She moved to retrieve her clipboard, but he was too fast. He scooped it up before she’d bent her decidedly wobbly knees.
“The music is starting,” he said.
“It is?” She tore her attention from him to see the lead singer of White Lightning stepping up to the microphone. Good God, she’s lost all focus on the event. “Yes, well, I have to—I have to—”
“You have to dance with me.”
“I’m working,” she insisted.
“No. You’re dancing.” He set the clipboard on a box next to the stage.
Jeez, the man was single-minded. Could he have wanted her that much? The impossible thought made her dizzy. Or maybe it was the sensation of his powerful hand on her lower back as he guided her around the stage to the dance floor set up in the middle of the room.
Wordlessly they joined the bachelorettes and their “dates” who’d already started swaying to the first ballad. As he pulled her into his chest, she realized with a start that his heart was pounding as steadily as hers. For some reason, that sent a new and wild exhilaration tumbling through her. He tightened his grip so her breasts pressed against the steely muscles of his chest. And that…oh, boy, that sent an even wilder exhilaration through her.
She didn’t dare look up at him as he took her right hand and settled his comfortably around her waist. What did she even know about Matt Camberlane?
She knew that he’d started Symphonics, a successful company that specialized in music-oriented software. She knew he’d broken ground with the recording industry and solved some of the copyright problems that had plagued it, making millions for his efforts.
She knew he’d attended Berkeley with Walker a decade ago, but didn’t realize they were still friends.
As they caught the rhythm of the song, she sneaked a peek over his substantial shoulder to where his dark-brown hair touched the collar of his shirt, a hint of golden chestnut at the tips. Her head brushed the hard angle of his jaw and she closed her eyes for a moment, remembering how his handsome face softened when he smiled.
She also knew that Matt Camberlane was flat-out magnificent. And that Paige Ashton was way out of her league.
Even in heels, he towered over her, fitting her comfortably in the nook of his neck and chest. She had to restrain herself from running her hands along the luxurious linen of his white shirt just to feel the male hardness beneath it.
With a sigh, she realized she should stop swooning and start talking. But small talk had never been her strong suit. She was an observer. And he offered plenty to observe.
“You should be very proud of yourself,” he said into her ear.
Grateful for the chance to make conversation, she leaned back and looked up into his gun-metal-gray eyes. “I think the whole event has gone quite well, thank you.”
“I mean for getting up on that stage and helping out.”
She shook her head. “I can’t take credit for any brilliant idea. I was just trying to tell the auctioneer that one of the girls was missing.”
“Then it was my good luck.” His smile was absolutely immoral.
In fact, everything about him indicated he was not a man to be toyed with. Nor was he the kind that would toy with her. She had never attracted powerful men; perhaps her father had scared them off, or perhaps her introverted personality had bored them.
She tried to lean back, but his hand held her securely against him, somehow managing to maintain blissful contact between their chests, their stomachs, their legs.
She recognized the last verse of the song. The dance was nearly done. Relief warred with disappointment.
“I really have to make sure the dessert table is still stocked. And I have to coordinate the cashiers and I have to—”
Still holding her hand, he reached under her chin and tipped her face toward him. “Are you scared of me, Paige?”
Petrified. “What a silly question. I just feel sorry that you spent—”
“Then why are you shaking?”
She stilled her step, hoping that would help the involuntary quiver that had started in her stomach the moment their bodies touched.
A million phony explanations swirled through her head: she was cold; she was worried about details; she was sorry he’d spent all that money on her.
She certainly wasn’t going to admit that he made her shake. “Do you live in the Bay Area?”
As soon as she said it, she realized that sounded as though she cared where he lived. As though it mattered to her.
“I live in Half Moon Bay, near my office in San Mateo. But I came up to Napa for the weekend. So, we can start our date right now and go straight through until Monday, if you like.”
Heat washed over her at the thought. She liked. Oh, yes, she did.
“Or I’ll settle for dinner tomorrow night,” he said.
Why was he doing this? Men didn’t flirt with Paige Ashton. She was too aloof, too quiet and usually too smart to play this kind of game. A game she’d undoubtedly lose. She closed her eyes and let her forehead rest on his shoulder with a soft sigh.
He nestled her closer. “Is that a yes?”
