Читать книгу The Tycoon's Desire - Anna DePalo - Страница 15

Connor faced the mirror and attempted once again to work his tuxedo tie into a knot.

For the past week, he and Allison had avoided each other as much as it was possible to while still living under the same roof. That had not been as hard to accomplish as it might otherwise have been, since she’d been working late all week. As a result, he’d been able to catch up on things at the office and schedule some evening meetings.

Yet, the tension between them continued to mount, despite—or maybe because of—the fact he was back to sleeping in the bedroom down the hall from hers. He was still furious with her, but he was also suffering from a serious bout of sexual frustration.

They were like two tigers circling each other in the cage. And, unfortunately, their days of circling were about to come to an end.

Tonight was the Cortland Ball, and even he knew it was the biggest and oldest charity ball of the Boston social season.

Usually he avoided such events like the plague. His company was well-known enough that he didn’t have to hobnob with the rich and snooty. Business came to him.

But the Whittaker Foundation was one of the major sponsors of the Cortland Ball this year, so Allison had to attend. And if Allison had to attend, he had to attend.

Even if they were barely on speaking terms. Even if his damned bow tie was choking him, he thought irritably, running his finger around inside the collar of his shirt now that he had worked his tie into a perfect if slightly too-tight knot. He left his bedroom and headed downstairs.

The one perk to attending this shindig was that Hugh Kendall, the indicted business executive Allison was prosecuting, would be there. It would be a first-class opportunity to study one of the prime suspects in the threats against Allison.

When Connor got downstairs to the front hall, he checked his cell-phone messages again and resigned himself to waiting for Allison to come down the stairs.

Ten minutes later, a small sound alerted him to her presence moments before he glanced up. When he did, the sight of her stole his breath away.

She was wrapped in a strapless, sky-blue sheath that hugged all the right curves. The style of her hair, piled high on her head—thanks to the work of the stylist who had come to the door earlier—further accentuated her elegant décolletage.

As she came down the stairs, the deep slit in her gown parted like a curtain to reveal shapely legs and feet shod in silver, high-heeled pumps. She clutched a small silver purse in one hand and jewels glittered at her ears and wrist.

Diamonds, he noted with the modicum of his brain not given over to carnal lust. Yet her neck was bare.

If they’d been married, he thought, and preparing for tonight, he’d have given her diamonds to adorn her neck, too. He’d have trailed kisses along her neck, across her collarbone, and down to the cleavage revealed by the heart-shaped neckline of her gown. Eexactly, he realized, as her ensemble was designed to encourage him—or more precisely, any red-blooded male—to do.

She looked every inch the princess that he often taunted her as being. Except, instead of conjuring the mockery he often made a pretense of exhibiting, he felt every fiber within him tense with elemental attraction.

As she neared the last step, he mentally shook himself and held out his hand to her.

Her eyes flashed fire, but she let him assist her the rest of the way. And while the expression on her face said she was still displeased with him, her heightened color also said she was not immune to the physical attraction between them either.

He’d been pleased when she’d told him that she didn’t have an escort for tonight. If she’d had one, he had a hunch he’d have wanted to rip the guy apart.

She arched a brow. “Looked your fill?” she asked tartly, her chin coming up.

“For that I’d have to peel you out of that gown,” he parried, knowing his words would rile her.

“Then you’ll be looking for a very long time,” she said frostily, opening the door to the hall closet and retrieving a wrap. “And if your eyelids are liable to be glued open all night, I hope you’re bringing along some eye drops.”

“Why don’t you carry a bottle of the stuff for me?” he asked lazily. “Then when I’m afflicted—as I inevitably will be because I intend to watch you all evening, princess—you can come minister to me.”

She closed the closet door with a thud, wrap in hand. “The only way I’ll be ministering to you is with a swift kick in the—”

“Tut-tut,” he interrupted, now thoroughly enjoying himself. “This is a charity ball, remember? And isn’t charity supposed to begin at home?”

“Here’s a news flash for you, Rafferty, in case the message hasn’t gotten through to that iron-plated ego of yours,” she said, yanking open the front door and then stopping abruptly without going out. “I haven’t exactly been feeling charitable toward you lately.”

When they arrived at the Riverton Ballroom, where the gala was being held, Connor noted Allison lost no time in breaking away from him in order to mingle with the other guests during the predinner cocktail hour. She seemed to know most of the people there and socialized easily.

And why not? he thought. She’d grown up in this world.

Seeing her in her natural milieu underscored the differences in their backgrounds. He’d been furious when she’d thrown those differences back at him in the heat of their argument, but, if ever he was tempted to agree with her that those differences doomed a relationship between them, now would be the time.

He sipped from his wineglass and watched as Allison smiled and nodded at one of the male guests. The bland-as-a-vanilla-wafer jerk was looking at her as if she were an ornament he was planning to hang on his illustrious family tree.

Sloan, his name was, if Connor remembered the face correctly. A member of the Makepeace family, listed in the Social Register and tracing its lineage back to the Mayflower—as any good Boston Brahmin family would.

Connor’s lips twisted as he watched Sloan Makepeace lean toward Allison.

Then he caught himself. He had a job tonight and it wasn’t ogling Allison. Oh, he intended to keep his eyes on her, all right, just as he’d said, but that was only to make sure she stayed safe and stayed put.

Connor took another sip of his wine and scanned the room—just in time to catch sight of Hugh Kendall making an appearance at one of the doorways to the ballroom.

The businessman looked shorter and stockier than he had in the pictures Connor had seen of him in the papers. He was definitely balding, though, around fifty, and no more than medium height.

Connor watched as Kendall and his date—a grand dame of the Boston social scene—moved among the guests. If the news reports were right, Kendall’s decade-long marriage had ended several years ago and he had since become a popular man-about-town, squiring socialites to high-profile events.

A sycophantic prig, he thought. Allison was right. Kendall’s social standing was clearly essential to him. If the allegations of embezzlement stuck, he would be ruined. Not only would he be heading to prison, but he’d be an outcast from the upper crust.

For all his posturing, Kendall had little more than his money to gain him entry to events such as the Cortland Ball.

Connor had done some digging and he knew Kendall neither came from an old-line family nor shared old prep-school ties with the people here tonight.

According to his investigation, Kendall had grown up in an upper-middle-class family in New Hampshire and had attended public schools before graduating from college with a business degree and moving to Boston to start his ascent in the business world.

Connor glanced over at Allison and noted she’d also marked Kendall’s arrival. He knew without asking, however, that she would avoid Kendall. It would be improper for a prosecutor to be talking to a defendant in one of her cases.

On the other hand, Connor reflected, Kendall looked at ease despite the fact that nearly everyone there tonight must know he’d had the audacity to show up even though Allison, who was prosecuting his case, would be present.

Connor narrowed his eyes. If Kendall was their man, then Allison’s harasser was a cool cucumber. Exactly the type who would be hard to catch. And exactly the type he intended to watch like a hawk.

Allison glanced around the ballroom. She’d managed to shake Connor for the time being. Unfortunately, though, her parents were bearing down on her. She braced herself as they approached. “Hello, Mom.”

“Ally.” Her mother leaned in for a kiss before drawing back and looking searchingly at her face, concern etched on hers. “How are you feeling? Are you having any trouble sleeping? Because if you are—”

“Mom, I’m fine.” She’d spoken with her parents earlier in the week about the shooting incident, but she’d spared them the details, which would just have worried them needlessly.

Her parents exchanged looks. Her father was an older version of Quentin, but his dark hair was peppered with gray, giving him a distinguished look.

“You should have told us you’d received another death threat in the mail just days before the shooting,” her father said gravely.

Allison suppressed her irritation. Connor, it seemed, had been talking again. “I didn’t want to worry you and Mom unnecessarily,” she said, hoping the explanation was one they’d be satisfied with. “You were on a business trip hundreds of miles away last week. There was nothing you could do except worry even more than you’d already been doing.”

“Of course we would have worried!” her mother exclaimed.

Allison took a deep breath. “Thanks to Quentin, I have a bodyguard, remember? I’m taking precautions.”

“Connor said that you’d gone out without him when you were attacked,” her father countered.

Snitch. What else had he told her parents? All she needed in order to make her humiliation complete was for Connor to have divulged the reason she’d left the house. Aloud, she said, “Connor has been saying a lot these days.” She turned as Quentin parted from Liz, who was speaking to another woman, and strolled up to join them. “What else has Connor been saying, Quent?”

Quentin held up his hands. “Hey, he’s only trying to help.”

“I thought I was just getting a bodyguard,” she said indignantly, “but, apparently, Connor is doing double duty as a spy.”

“Now, Allison—”

“You should have warned me, Quent. If I’d known Connor was reporting everything to you and the rest of the family, I’d at least have given him something interesting to relay. You know, wild parties, dancing on tables, men swinging from the chandelier…male strippers…”

“Actually,” Quentin said dryly, “getting information out of Connor is like prying open a clam with your bare hands.”

“Oh, come on.” She cocked her head. “Are you going to deny he lost no time telling you about the shooting incident last week? Even before I had the chance to pick up the phone?”

Quentin frowned. “Only because I phoned him and demanded to know what the heck had happened the night before. I had gotten a call from the police to let me know that they were going to do everything possible to try to keep the tabloid journalists at bay about the shooting. One of the nice things about being a major donor to police charities is that the police brass remembers you when, say, your sister is involved in a shooting.” Quentin paused and gave her a meaningful look. “Naturally, I had to ask what shooting.”

“I was going to call you,” she said, knowing she sounded a bit defensive. The truth was she hadn’t been relishing that conversation with her brother—or any other member of her family for that matter. She knew her family well enough to know their reactions would have fallen somewhere between alarm and panic, and she hadn’t been wrong.

“After I got a call from the police,” Quentin added, “I phoned Connor.”

“Don’t you mean interrogated?” she asked, her annoyance coming through in her tone. “And why didn’t you bother to call me first?”

“Because,” Quentin said patiently, “given a choice between the two of you, I knew I’d have a better shot with hin at getting the straight story.”

She crossed her arms. “Are you saying I would have lied?”

Her brother gave her a knowing look. “Artful omission is more like it.”

Allison dropped her arms in exasperation. “Whatever.”

“And, yes, believe it or not, I did have to threaten and cajole Connor,” Quentin went on. “He initially told me to call you. I think the only reason he eventually said anything at all was that I’d already found out more or less what happened from the police.”

So maybe Connor hadn’t gone racing to her brother with the news.

“I must say, I agree with Quentin,” her mother put in. “Connor seemed very reluctant to go into much detail about the shooting when your father and I asked him about it. Frankly, I think he wanted to spare us unnecessary worry.”

“And, by the way,” her father added, “Connor is not the one who told us about the threat you’d received in the mail. That was something that the police mentioned to Quentin when they called him.”

She looked across the ballroom and her eyes met Connor’s. The look on his face said he was debating whether to walk over. She shook her head almost imperceptibly. She didn’t need his help handling her family.

She did owe him an apology though—at least for jumping to the conclusion that he’d raced to her family to blab about the shooting.

Sitting next to Connor at dinner was torture, Allison thought. Her family, fortunately, was sitting among guests at other tables. Otherwise, it would have been much harder to pretend interest in the mundane chitchat being carried on at her table.

She took another bite of her dessert. Mercifully, the guest on her left had just excused himself to say hello to people he knew at another table.

She itched to hash things out with Connor. She wanted to apologize, yes. At the same time, though, she was still piqued about the high-handed way he’d acted after the attack in the parking lot. Surely he owed her an apology as well?

She stole a look at him. He was chatting with the guest on his right, the wife of a Congressman. Connor’s slightly rough-around-the-edges quality was set off tonight by his tuxedo. The juxtaposition was incredibly sexy and, she noted sourly, apparently appreciated by the Congressman’s wife as well.

The stab of jealousy brought her up short. She was spared having to analyze the emotion, however, because Connor took that moment to turn to her.

“Dance with me?” he asked. His lips were curved upward but his tone was mocking. “I think we can survive it, don’t you?” He nodded around their table at the empty seats and the couple getting up at the other end. “Besides, it will look odd if we didn’t take at least one turn around the room.”

She nodded and let him help her rise from her seat. The dance floor might finally afford her the opportunity and privacy to get her apology over with.

When they were out on the dance floor, he drew her to him for the start of a slow song. If she’d been dispassionate, she would have said his touch felt light but firm. But, since she was far from feeling detached, his touch—from their bodies brushing to his hand at her back guiding her—was causing waves of pulsating sensation to radiate outward from the points of contact.

For a while, they danced without speaking, gliding across the dance floor to a slow and sweet song until the temptation to rest her head on his shoulder became palpable.

She gave herself a mental shake. She had things to say to him and she’d better get on with it.

Before she could say anything, however, he stirred the hair at her temple with his breath and murmured, “Silence becomes you.”

She looked up with a start and saw the mocking laughter in his eyes. She’d been practically swooning in his arms—while thinking that she had to apologize to him—and he was mocking her! She decided the apology she owed him could wait a little longer. “Humility would become you but I don’t see you exhibiting any.”

“That’s my girl.” He had the nerve to laugh outright. “I was wondering where that temper of yours had gone. You seemed as deflated as a dead balloon during dinner.”

Well, Allison thought, so much for her attempt at seeming at ease during dinner. “Quite the one for compliments tonight, aren’t you?”

“Is that what you want? Compliments?” he asked. Though his tone was still mocking, it contained a hint of seriousness.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He cocked his head, pretending to think, before clearing his throat and looking down at her. “Your eyes have the color and sparkle of aquamarines, your hair the darkness and luster of a night sky—”

“Stop.” Even knowing he was teasing, his words sent a ripple of liquid pleasure through her.

“Why?”

“Because we’re in a room full of people.” And she couldn’t take anymore.

“Ah.” His eyes gleamed. “Haven’t you ever heard that dancing is the vertical expression of a horizontal desire?”

He was telling her? She was practically going up in flames, incensed yet aroused by their banter.

“So how am I doing? Am I as good as Slade?”

“Who?”

“Preppy boy.”

She must have continued to wear a blank look, because he added impatiently, “Mr. Make-Love-Not-War.”

“That’s Makepeace,” she said, correcting him.

“Same thing.”

“And his name is Sloan, not Slade.”

“Yeah, whatever. Were Makepeace’s compliments as good?” He leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “I bet he didn’t turn you on, petunia.”

He was impossible. Forget the apology. She figured he owed her one by this point, but she was willing to consider the two of them even if it meant she could get rid of him now.

His lips turned up a notch. “The look on your face is saying you want to kick me in the shins.”

“And some other places.”

“You’re too fiery for a milksop like Makepeace.”

The song they were dancing to faded into another slow tune. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Connor cast her a disbelieving look. “Seems to me you’ve already made up your mind. Otherwise, you wouldn’t still have a thing for guys from the wrong side of the tracks.”

One guy in particular, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Especially since he seemed to be taking pleasure in baiting her. “You know,” she said, her voice dripping disdain, “I must have been crazy even to have thought I owed you an apology.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing him look taken aback for an instant. That expression was quickly replaced by one of sardonic amusement however. “I can think of many reasons why you’d owe me an apology, petunia. So why don’t you narrow it down for me and tell me what in particular spurred this fit of remorse?”

She gritted her teeth. The only remorse she was feeling at the moment was at not having clobbered him. But, instead, she said, “I got a call from Quentin on the morning after the incident in the parking lot. He seemed to know all about what had happened without my telling him.”

“So naturally you thought I was the one who called to fill him in,” he supplied.

“It was a logical assumption to have jumped to under the circumstances,” she said defensively.

He arched a brow. “Logical because I’m an untrustworthy snitch where you’re concerned, is that it?” His lips tightened. “Ever since I lied to you and went to your folks with the story of you at the biker bar when you were seventeen. It goes as far back as that, doesn’t it?”

“It wasn’t a far-fetched conclusion to jump to,” she asserted again. “Anyway, are you also going to deny suggesting to Quentin that I quit the DA’s Office because the job may have become too dangerous for me?”

“I didn’t suggest it to him. He brought it up.” He gave her a considering look, then added, “But I won’t say I disagree.”

Her temper flared. Fortunately, the song they were dancing to faded away and the band decided to take a break.

She pulled out of Connor’s hold. “Great, then the sooner we find out who’s been making the threats, the sooner my job will stop being so dangerous and the sooner you can get the heck out of my house. Frankly, it won’t be a moment too soon for my taste. On either count.”

She turned on her heel, not giving him a chance to respond, though she noted that his face had tightened with anger.

Of all the nerve. She’d been a lovesick fool to think something unique and lasting had been developing between them. Instead of giving her his respect, it was clear that to him, she’d always be a spoiled little rich girl who needed protection. His protection.