Kitabı oku: «The Ashtons: Paige, Grant & Trace», sayfa 2

“No.”

He chuckled in her ear. “Is that a maybe?”

“No.”

He lowered his head and brought his lips so close to her cheek that she could feel the warmth of his breath. “Is that an ‘I’ll think about it and let you know, Matt’?”

The desire to turn toward his mouth, to close that centimeter of space and taste his lips nearly knocked her over.

“I’ll think about it and let you know, Matt.”

“I knew you’d come around.”

He did? The only thing Matt Camberlane exuded more than sex appeal was raw confidence. And that, Paige realized as she inhaled the masculine, musky scent of him, was precisely what made her shake.

Paige Ashton had virtually disappeared from his side when their dance ended. He’d seen her gliding about the massive reception hall, quietly giving instructions, signaling waiters and assistants to change the lighting, adjust the sound system, bus the tables, refresh the glasses. She had effectively managed to stay out of the limelight, and much too far away from him.

He found ways to linger as the event wound down to a conclusion well after midnight. While he waited, he’d plunked down a check for ten grand made out to Candlelighters of Northern California, and had another glass of wine with Walker and his fiancée, Tamra, but neither made any mention of his cousin or the bid for a date with her. When the crowd thinned to almost nothing, the wait staff started yanking tablecloths and stacking chairs.

Still, he waited. Something told him she’d be back. As always, drawn to music, he shot the breeze with the lead singer as the band packed up. Matt purposely didn’t mention his name—any musician would recognize it—but he did find out that the piano belonged to the Ashton Estate and that the band wouldn’t be moving it.

The wait staff seemed preoccupied and unconcerned with what was happening on the stage, so he pulled out the bench and threaded his fingers, bending them back and giving them a shake. He hadn’t played in a few weeks, but the sight of a grand piano usually stirred him. As did the sight of a fine-looking woman whom he wanted.

So, while he waited for her to appear again, he plunked out the first four measures of “Come Fly with Me.” The bass player looked up from the mess of cables he was untangling, surprised.

“Like the old stuff, eh?”

Matt just grinned. Yep, he was Sinatra reborn. Only he couldn’t sing a note. The words played in his head, on key and in Frankie’s voice, while his fingers moved as if they had a mind of their own.

He closed his eyes and saw…yellow silk. Layers of soft, touchable, golden-brown hair. Almond-shaped green eyes…or were they blue? Depended on the light. And the uncertainty in them.

He smiled, thinking of how he’d steamrolled her. But the wisp of a woman had held her own against his will. She held herself pretty nicely against his body, too. The memory of her slender legs brushing against him, of her delicate breasts pressed against his chest forced him to reposition himself on the piano bench.

It had been a good long time since Matt had pursued a woman with any enthusiasm. Before his abomination of a marriage, they pretty much fell at his feet. After Brooke he’d been so cautious he’d avoided women for anything but mindless sex. But it had been two years since his quick and fairly clean divorce from the San Francisco social climber. His bank account had rebounded nicely, but his heart hadn’t.

Not that Brooke Carlysle had broken his heart. No, she just left scars as deep as if she’d scraped it with acrylic nails, ensuring that he’d never again take that risk. He hadn’t really loved her, he thought, as he transitioned effortlessly into an old Cole Porter tune. But he’d trusted Brooke. That was worse.

Plus, she’d represented something a kid from Modesto, with an alcoholic father and a trailer-jumping mother always wanted. Respect. Credibility. Acceptance.

He opened his eyes and let his gaze drift over the elegantly appointed hall. Flanked by French doors with heavy silk draperies and sparkling marble floors, the room could easily have been the formal ballroom at any palace in the world. And this was just another room in Paige Ashton’s home.

His fingers paused momentarily on the keyboard as he finished with a flourish. His eyes still closed, he lifted his hands and let them drop on his thighs, a little disgusted that the music hadn’t soothed him and old thoughts had plagued him.

Matt Camberlane was no longer the poor kid who managed to swing a degree from Berkeley thanks to the largesse of the U.S. Army and its ROTC program. He was no longer a struggling computer nerd who left the military with discipline and muscles but not a whole lot else. His fascination with technology, combined with a bone-deep love of music had translated into wealth beyond his childhood imaginings, and a lifetime of security and comfort. Anyone who didn’t respect or accept him could screw themselves.

He played the opening of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”

A sweet, clear voice sang the first line. With a start, he opened his eyes and saw…yellow.

For a moment they just looked at each other. He expected her to sing the next line, but she didn’t and his fingers stilled. The air damn near popped between them.

“The workers are here to break down the stage,” she finally said.

“Then that’ll have to be my last number.” He stood and gathered his jacket from where he’d flung it over the piano. “You have a very pretty voice.”

She smiled but didn’t say anything as she started back down the side stairs of the stage. He followed her until she slowed her step and he nearly bumped into her.

Turning, she shot him a serious look. “The party’s over, Mr. Camberlane.”

Actually, it hadn’t started. “I need to know what time you want me to pick you up tomorrow.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I am so sorry for the misunderstanding. I hope you’ll let me arrange for a refund of your donation.”

It was the little hitch in her voice that got him. He held up a hand in surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of taking a refund,” he said. “It’s a great cause and I’m happy to donate. And the apology is mine to offer.”

He slipped into his jacket, noting the slackness of her jaw and the slight surprise in her expression at his sudden change of heart. Or was that disappointment?

“It was a great party,” he added. “Every detail was—” The flash of insight was so brilliant, it should have blinded him. Why the hell didn’t he think of it sooner? “In fact, I was so impressed, I’d like to reserve the estate for Halloween.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you booked?”

She shook her head slowly and frowned. “Not that I know of—but what’s happening on Halloween?”

“Symphonics has picked the date to launch our new software product, the VoiceBox, that turns any computer into a karaoke machine. I just met with the product-development team last night and the last of the bugs has been worked out. We need a venue for about four hundred computer retailers, media and industry types and at least fifty of my employees for the VoiceBox launch party.” He glanced around the room. “This place would be perfect.”

“Halloween is less than four weeks away.” She folded her arms and pursed her lips in doubt. “We usually plan events that large many, many months in advance.”

“The computer industry moves at lightning speed. I have to get this product out and into stores for Christmas. And before any competitor gets wind of it.”

“I don’t know…”

“My Marketing department is excellent, but I would personally oversee the entire event.” And the event planner. “We could meet, say, tomorrow night? At the French Laundry at seven.”

The hint of a smile danced in those blue…no, no, they were definitely green eyes. “A business meeting at one of the finest restaurants in California?”

“Hey, that’s my style. Bring a contract and ideas.” He buttoned the single button on his jacket and grinned at her. “Strictly business.”

Her defiant shoulders unlocked just enough to tell him he’d won. “Okay. My sister will be doubly pleased that we made the numbers tonight and I nailed a new account.”

“Happy to accommodate your career aspirations. Should I pick you up here?”

She shook her head quickly. “Not for a meeting. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

Okay, a point to the lady for keeping it businesslike. “See you tomorrow, then.”

He took one step backward, even though everything in him wanted to go in the other direction and plant a victory kiss on her appealing mouth. But that would definitely negate the “strictly business” promise he’d just made.

A promise he had no intention of keeping.

Chapter Two

Matt Camberlane either had to have been planning this dinner for months or his name carried so much weight that he managed to obtain what few mortals can: reservations at the French Laundry.

That thought was momentarily lost as Paige drove up Highway 29 toward the restaurant in Yountville, because she passed the rolling hills of Louret Vineyards. She glanced toward the entrance of the estate that her four half siblings called home. She hadn’t seen any of them since she’d had lunch with Mercedes last month—one of her recent efforts to close the rift that only seemed to grow wider since their father’s horrible murder last May.

Mercedes had been kind but preoccupied. And she hadn’t been able to convince Paige that Mercedes’s brother, Eli, would back off on his quest to have Spencer Ashton’s will reversed.

As always Paige could see both sides of the Ashton family’s ever-complicated story. Her father had basically ensured this kind of turmoil by turning his back on his four children by Caroline Lattimer, and only acknowledging the family he’d created with Paige’s mother. He’d done it in life, by ignoring Cole, Eli, Mercedes and Jillian, and he’d done it in death by leaving them out of his will. But Paige refused to believe her father was the god-awful man everyone made him out to be; as his youngest child, she was determined to see her father in a positive light.

Well, not really his youngest child, she corrected herself. Not since baby Jack had come into the picture, the surprise “love child” of Spencer and his last mistress. She made a mental note to make a visit to Louret next week, both to finally meet little Jack and try another pass at fence mending.

Just outside of town she turned onto Washington Street and saw the rustic two-story stone structure built as a French steam laundry in the late 1800s. But in that unassuming building, and in the lush gardens surrounding it, about sixty people a night were treated to the finest gourmet dinners served anywhere. And no one—well, practically no one—could get reservations without waiting at least two months.

Obviously Matt Camberlane wasn’t “no one.”

That wild, warm feeling she’d experienced last night spread through her again at the thought of him. She smoothed the skirt of the simple blue suit she’d chosen, as if that could wipe away the effect he had on her. On the passenger seat rested a leather binder containing an Ashton Estate Winery event contract, typed and ready for his signature. Strictly business.

But, oh, his attention had been far from professional last night. That man did things to her body and brain that they certainly didn’t teach her in business school. Not that she took him seriously. Not for a minute. He must have some other reason for flirting with her.

She simply wasn’t the kind of woman men played with. She was attractive enough, but Paige knew she lacked the vivaciousness and charm that appealed to most men. When she looked in the mirror, she saw serious hazel eyes that seemed a little too big for her small features, and plain brown hair that had none of the sassiness of the bottle blondes and redheads who’d paraded across that stage seeking a bid.

She shook her head at the thought of the bid that she got from Matt Camberlane. Men like Matt Camberlane—big, gorgeous, successful, self-assured, intriguing men—usually looked right through the Paige Ashtons of the world.

So what was that magic buzzing between them last night?

Pulling into the back parking lot, she found a spot next to a sleek silver sports car, grabbed the binder and a small handbag and climbed out.

Instantly her senses were assaulted by the rich smell of Napa’s earth and the heady scents of fresh rosemary and mint. Herb gardens tumbled around the ancient building, a riot of lavender and green. A cool autumn breeze lifted her hair as she paused to drink in the beauty of the recently harvested hillsides, bathed in streaks of gold and ginger as the sun dipped into the western slopes.

Taking a deep breath for confidence, she rounded the restaurant to a tiny front patio darkened by a vine-covered overhang. There, her senses were assaulted again. By Matt.

And all her determination to treat this meeting as strictly business melted into a pool of liquid heat that spread from her chest, through her tummy and straight down to the most feminine part of her.

He stood facing away from her, his attention focused on the glorious scenery. He wore an off-white shirt that stretched nicely across his broad back, tucked into elegant dark trousers. A sports jacket hung next to him, over the stone wall that enclosed the porch, his expression impassive. The setting sun cast a warm glow on his dark-brown hair that grazed his collar, adding a golden luster to the ends.

Paige’s hands literally itched to touch that hair. To run her fingers through the length of it, then over the solid muscles of his shoulders, his chest. Down, down…

She swallowed against the erotic image that took hold of her brain.

Strictly business, Paige Ashton. She cleared her throat. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

At her question, he turned and flashed that wicked smile as his gaze swept over her appreciatively. “It certainly is.”

Oh, she’d walked right into that one.

He lifted his sports coat without taking his attention from her. “You have a habit of sneaking up on me.” He slipped into the jacket, denying her a view of his broad shoulders but taking on a different, more sophisticated look.

“I’m quiet, in case you haven’t noticed.”

His gaze slid over her face again, dipping down to her throat and chest, making her wonder if she should have worn something buttoned higher instead of a V-neck shell. “I notice everything,” he said softly. “For instance, I notice you came armed with a briefcase.”

She shifted the thin portfolio from one hand to the other. “The contract,” she told him. “I promised my sister Megan I’d nail down the Halloween event.”

He guided her toward the entrance. “Walker tells me Megan is happily married and pregnant, and delighted to let you step into her shoes at the estate.”

“She’s happy and pregnant, yes,” Paige agreed, “but hasn’t exactly handed over the event-planning reins entirely to me. The auction was my first solo act.”

“Really? I’d call it an astounding success.”

She glanced up at him. “Thanks to one especially generous bidder.”

He just winked at her, that secret, sexy wink that curled her toes. Then an older maître d’ greeted Matt with a huge smile and an air of familiarity. “Good evening, Mr. Camberlane. Your table is ready.” Somehow it sounded like it was just that—his table.

In a moment they were seated at an intimate table for two next to a window. “His” table was not exactly the strictly business setting she’d hoped for, leaving her to wonder just how often he dined here with women. One look at him answered that question. Often.

She tamped down the thought and listened to Matt exchange pleasantries with the maître d’ about a new sommelier, a wine expert he’d brought over from France.

As soon as they were alone, he focused on her, the intensity of his silver-gray gaze nearly taking her breath away. “I would have introduced you,” he said. “But I didn’t want to put you in the awkward position of discussing the wine list.”

She knew exactly what he was talking about. “They don’t serve Ashton wine here.”

Ashton wine was good—great in some years, especially under her older brother Trace’s fine management—but the exclusive restaurant leaned more toward the impossibly expensive and elite wines. Like Louret.

“It wouldn’t make me uncomfortable to discuss their cellar,” she assured him. “No doubt it will come up when the new sommelier makes his recommendations.” She gave him a direct, serious look. “Regardless of the less-than-stellar media coverage my family has received, I remain proud of the name.”

He nodded in agreement. “As you should be. You can’t take the blame for the troubles your father inflicted on the family.”

“My father’s murder inflicted the trouble,” she corrected. “My half brothers and sisters have simply fanned the fire and made things worse. Although,” she lifted one shoulder in a shrug, “I understand their position.”

“That’s sisterly of you.”

“Family is…” Taking her napkin and smoothing it on her lap, she met his gaze again, purposely not finishing the thought. “How much has Walker told you?”

“Walker has always been very candid about your family. He told me when we first met as roommates in Berkeley the whole story of how his uncle Spencer arranged to take him and Charlotte and raise them as your siblings.”

“And no doubt he told you that my father told Walker his mother was dead, and not living on a Sioux reservation.”

“Yes,” Matt nodded. “Like I said, he’s never hidden anything from me. But—” he gave a rueful smile “—he’s been a little preoccupied since Tamra came into the picture and they began establishing the Sioux scholarship program. So what I know of the recent drama I’ve read in the papers or heard, if you’ll forgive the awful pun, through the grapevine.”

She laughed softly. “Grapevines are for wine, not gossip.”

The waiter, who also seemed to know Matt well, stopped by to light the candle and exchange pleasantries but didn’t even discuss the menu. Dinner at the Laundry was a lengthy, multicoursed affair dictated by the whims and moods of the world-famous chef.

A long, intimate affair. By candlelight. With wine.

Paige automatically reached for her leather binder when the waiter left. “I haven’t drawn up a specific theme for your event, yet—”

In one smooth move, he flipped the portfolio closed, making the candle flicker with the puff of air from the sudden movement. “That can wait.”

Paige gave him a sharp look. “We have business to discuss.”

“I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a silver pen. “Give it to me to sign and then we’ll be done.”

She hesitated and leaned back, the folder against her chest. “You’re too savvy a businessman to sign just anything without reading it first.”

“All that contract should say is that Symphonics, Inc. has reserved the reception hall of Ashton Estate for an event on October 31.”

Paige had to admit it really didn’t contain too much more detail. “There’s a lot of fine print,” she said, knowing by the look in his eyes that didn’t matter. Once they were done discussing business, this dinner went back to date status. For some reason that thought sent a tremor of trepidation straight through her.

She could handle Matt Camberlane on a business level—after all, she’d graduated from business school with honors, the youngest in her class. But as a date?

He reached over and gently wrested the portfolio from her hand. “We’ll go over the fine print and details next week,” he announced. “We can meet in my office on Monday.”

He opened the portfolio, shuffled through the pages and scribbled his name on the last one. With a satisfied smile, he handed the whole package back to her. “Now you can relax.”

Yeah, right. “I am relaxed.” She set the folder against the leg of her chair with an air of resignation. Well, he paid for a date.

He leaned forward, as though he’d like to eliminate the space and table between them. “I would imagine everyone in your family has strong opinions and volatile emotions where your father’s will and death are concerned. I’m intrigued by your levelheaded view of the situation.”

His demeanor said he was intrigued by more than that, but she played along and answered the question. “I believe there are two sides to every story. My half brothers and sisters are understandably crushed that my father had…” She tried to think of a less vicious word than abandoned to describe what her father had done to the four children he had with Caroline Lattimer, but couldn’t. There was no word other for it. “They—especially the oldest, Eli—are simply determined to get what they think is rightfully theirs.” And since the estate had been in the Lattimer family long before Spencer had renamed it Ashton and kept it in his divorce from Caroline, Paige couldn’t help but understand Eli’s position.

“Any progress on the murder investigation? The media seems to be reporting nothing.”

Paige closed her eyes for a moment, then blew out a slow breath as the image of her father, shot point-blank in his own office, darkened her mind. “Not really. At the moment, the police are honing in on some blackmail threats my father had received and a numbered bank account that he’d mysteriously kept well stocked.”

His eyes softened a bit at the crack in her voice. “I got the impression that most of the Ashtons were…” he paused and tilted his head as he obviously searched for his own euphemism. “Not that distraught over your father’s death.”

Most of them weren’t, she silently agreed. “He was my father,” she said simply. “Everyone deserves to be mourned.”

The sommelier approached their table, and the conversation turned to wine, and once again Matt Camberlane impressed her. Not only had he gracefully handled the issue of her last name, he knew an awful lot about wines.

“Not bad, for a computer guy,” she said with a smile once they were alone.

He laughed. “I can thank Walker. A wine expert is a good roommate to have in college. We never got drunk on anything but the good stuff.”

She seized on the chance to turn the conversation toward him. “Did you go to business school at Berkeley, as well?”

“I didn’t go to graduate school,” he said evenly. “I went into the Army.”

It was her turn to be surprised. “You did?”

“Didn’t Walker ever tell you? I was at Berkeley on an Army ROTC scholarship. I had to do my time for Uncle Sam to pay for the privilege.” She heard a note of defensiveness creep into his voice, making her heart clutch a bit.

“Walker’s only bragged that the boy wonder of Symphonics was his old college buddy. Did you like the Army?”

“I liked the discipline, the order of it. I got the opportunity to work on some amazing electronics, really cutting edge stuff. It all led me to where I am today, so I don’t complain.” He gave her a seductive smile. “By the way, I’m a wonder, but no boy.”

“You’re a flirt,” she responded, trying to ignore the tightening low in her tummy at his words and tone. “And I’m not.”

He slid a water glass to the left and closed his hand over hers, never taking his gaze off her. “That’s what I like about you, Paige Ashton.”

It was easy to believe him and very hard to ignore her body’s response.

Several hours passed as they sampled nouvelle servings of foie gras, red pepper crostini and sautéed moulard, complimented by a bottle of extraordinary Louret wine. By the time they’d finished sharing a champagne gellée dessert, Matt knew one thing for sure about Paige Ashton—besides the fact that she wasn’t a flirt:

He wanted her.

He liked her quiet spirit, her keen intelligence and the way her lower lip sort of trembled when he captured, and purposely held, her gaze. He liked her elegant table manners, her smooth ability to keep a conversation going, her enticing little cleavage when she leaned forward.

Yep. He wanted her.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he suggested as they stepped into the moon-washed patio, nearly the last of the customers to leave.

She flattened the portfolio against her chest again like thin leather armor. “Thank you, but I really have to get back to the estate.”

“It’s Saturday night, Paige.” He took her arm possessively and slid it into his elbow. “The stars are out, the moon is—” he squinted into the sky “—half-full and I have less than three thousand miles on a brand new sports car. You could be the first girl to ride in it.”

“But not the last,” she said quickly.

He feigned a wounded look. “You think I’m a cad.”

“A cad? Do people use that word anymore?”

He laughed as they reached his car. “You tell me. You’re a smart girl.”

“Smart enough to say thank you for the lovely dinner and your business. What time is our meeting on Monday?”

He considered how simple it would be to turn her in his arms, ease her against the side door of his Ferrari and pull her delicious little body into his.

The thought had its effect on him, so he did precisely the opposite and stepped away from her. No making out in a parking lot for this lady. Seducing Paige would take longer, and the place had to be perfect.

“I’ll clear my schedule for you on Monday,” he offered politely. “What time can you be in San Mateo?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“Ten it is. We’ll go up to San Francisco and have lunch afterward.”

She laughed softly. “How can you think of lunch after all that fantastic food?”

“You make me hungry,” he admitted with a teasing smile.

Her eyes darkened just enough to communicate that she got his meaning. “Matt…” She stepped back. “I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

“Then tear up that contract,” he joked.

She smiled and clutched the binder. “Not a chance. We’re going to have fun with this event. Everyone in costumes, fantastic music—”

“Costumes?” He choked a little. “I hadn’t thought of costumes.”

“It’s Halloween,” she countered. “Of course there’ll be costumes. I need to know all the details of the new product—the VoiceBox, is it? I’ll need to start thinking of a theme for the event.”

“Music. That’s the only theme I’m interested in.”

“Perfect. Come as your favorite musician. Who’s yours?”

“Sinatra.” He didn’t even hesitate. “I’m his numberone fan.”

That won him the sweetest smile. “Then you’ll come as Old Blue Eyes himself.”

He laughed at the thought. “Just don’t make me sing.”

“But you could play. I heard you last night. You’re very good.”

“Hardly. But I like the idea of musician costumes. The product is a computer karaoke, so we could have a lot of fun with that.”

“Great. I’ll work on it for Monday morning.”

He suddenly hated the idea of Sunday stretching out before him without her. “I’m staying at Auberge du Soleil, in Napa,” he said. “Let’s get together tomorrow and work on it then.”

Her eyes narrowed just enough to let him know she was thinking about it. “Another business meeting?”

“Call it whatever you want, Paige.” He couldn’t resist sliding his hands up her arms, over her narrow shoulders, letting her hair tickle his skin. He held her delicate face between his hands, his focus dropping to that lower lip he wanted so much to taste. “I happen to think business and pleasure is a great mix.”

One kiss. That was all he wanted. One quick, warm, good-night kiss.

As he leaned toward her, he felt her tense up, but as soon as their lips touched, she relaxed. He tilted his head slightly, tasting a whisper of sweet sorbet that clung to her lips.

No. One kiss was not going to be enough.

But it was all he would take now. “Tomorrow?” he asked, keeping his mouth just a breath from hers. “We’ll have a picnic in the olive grove at Auberge.”

Her little sigh of resignation warmed his lips and he fought back a grin. There was nothing Matt loved more than winning. “One stipulation, however,” he added.

She gave him a questioning look.

“Leave that binder at home. This won’t be work, I promise.”

As Paige tiptoed down the main stairs of the estate the next morning, she heard a few familiar family voices in the dining room, and caught a whiff of Irena Hunter’s incomparable eggs Benedict floating from the cavernous kitchen.

She slipped past the butler’s pantry and eyed the pot of fresh-brewed coffee tucked into the corner. After last night’s meal, coffee was all she wanted. And after a sleepless night of reliving one breathless kiss and imagining many more, she needed the caffeine.

“I didn’t hear you come in last night, honey.”

Paige winced at the sound of her mother’s voice coming from the dining room. She almost asked, “Since when did you listen for me?” but swallowed the retort. Lilah Ashton may not have been the model for motherhood, but in her own way she cared about her children.

Filling her cup, Paige simply called out a morning greeting.

“What time did you get in?” Walker’s question was pointed and direct, the way he always was.

Taking a deep breath and a sip of strong, black coffee, she made her way through the hallway into the dining area. As always the table was set with fine china, crystal and snow-white linens. For just a minute Paige longed to curl up at a cozy kitchen table, drink coffee from a chipped mug and skim the Sunday paper like normal people.

But they weren’t normal. They were Ashtons.

The thought made her smile, as she took her usual seat.

“What are you smiling about?” Tamra looked remarkably relaxed for a woman who, just three months earlier, had been rather overwhelmed by all that was Ashton when Walker had brought her home from the reservation. He’d gone to find his long-lost mother and had unexpectedly found the love of his life, as well.

Paige widened her smile for Tamra, happy that she and Walker, having built their own world away from the estate, had decided to stay for the whole weekend after the fund-raiser.