Читать книгу Heartless - Diana Palmer - Страница 6

TWO DAYS LATER, GRACIE WAS back in her flower beds. This time she’d pruned back some aggressive wandering vines that had exploded with growth after the passage of Hurricane Fay when it made landfall. The rains had been torrential. Now everything was overgrown because of the bountiful rain. After months of drought, it was wonderful to see green things again.

It was Friday and she was hosting an important party for Jason this evening. It was business. He hated parties, but he was wheeling and dealing again, hoping to add a new and imaginative software company from California to his roster of acquisitions. The two owners were in their twenties and crazy about soccer, so Jason had invited members of the Brazilian and American soccer teams to this gathering. It was like him to know the deepest desires of his prey and cater to them, when he wanted something.

She wondered absently if he was single-minded and determined like that with women he wanted. It hurt to think about that.

She didn’t dare think of Jason in any sexual way. It would only lead to heartache. Her mother had warned her about it, and she herself had seen the result from the time she was very little. Her father could only achieve satisfaction by hurting his wife, savaging her. The blood on her nightclothes testified again and again to the brutality of ardent men. Gracie’s entire childhood had been a nightmare of fear for her mother, and for herself. As a child, she’d prayed that her mother wouldn’t die, leaving her at her father’s mercy. God alone knew what the man might do to Gracie, although he’d never molested her. It was his temper she feared, especially when he drank. He drank a lot. He was violent when he drank.

She shivered, hearing her mother’s sobs as the memories washed over her. She remembered comforting the older woman just before her father’s death, helping to bathe away the blood and treat the cuts and bruises. Men would be sweet and attentive and tender until they got you into bed, her mother lectured. Then, behind closed doors, the truth was revealed. What was in movies and on television and in books was all lies. This was the reality—blood and tears. Graciela must remember and never allow herself to be lured into marriage. She must remain chaste and safe.

Gracie heard a car screech its tires on the road nearby and she grimaced as her mind returned to the present. Some poor driver had almost wrecked. She knew how that felt. She wasn’t the best driver in the world, either. Jason worried when she got behind the wheel of a car because she’d had so many mishaps. It wasn’t really that she was a poor driver. Physical trauma from years ago had caused minor glitches in her brain. She would compensate for the injury, a doctor had assured her gently, because she was highly intelligent. But that wasn’t much comfort, when most of the world saw her as a flighty, clumsy airhead. Poor Gracie Pendleton, one woman had commented to a friend, was the dodo bird of local society.

She laughed bitterly, recalling the remark she’d overheard at an afternoon tea only a couple of weeks ago. The comment had obviously been made by someone who didn’t know her. She knew that if Jason had been privy to that cruel remark he would have made that woman sorry she’d ever opened her mouth. He was fiercely protective of the people he cared about. Her earliest glimpse into his chivalry occurred shortly after Gracie’s mother died. Her strangely ungrieving stepfather, Myron, had rushed into marriage to Beverly Barnes, a woman who had a young daughter in foster care. Jason had rescued Gloryanne Barnes from a dangerous situation, taking a young Gracie along to comfort the other girl, who was four months younger. If it hadn’t been for Jason’s involvement, she and Gloryanne probably wouldn’t have bonded so effortlessly.

Jason, she thought as she struggled to cut back the thick vines, was an enigma. She’d lived with him for twelve years and she still felt as if she knew nothing about him. Myron Pendleton had died the year after Beverly Barnes, his third wife, passed away from a stroke. By then, Gracie and Glory were sixteen. Jason had assumed responsibility for both girls, and took great care of them while they finished high school. In fact, he’d spoiled them rotten. He was still doing it. Gloryanne’s Christmas present the year before had been a racing-green Jaguar XK. Gracie’s had been a meteorite, a fabulously expensive one sold at public auction from an estate. Gracie was crazy about fossils and meteorites. She had quite a collection. She had no great affection for jewels, and she hated furs. But she loved rocks. Jason indulged her.

He even indulged her mania for Christmas decorations, which she started putting out even before Thanksgiving. Jason had never asked why she was so obsessed with Christmas. She hoped he never would.

Thanksgiving was three months away, but Gracie already had garlands of holly and fir ordered, along with three new Christmas trees and a box of new ornaments. She looked forward to the times when Jason left his beloved ranch and came to San Antonio on business. That was when he lived up to the image of a Fortune 500 tycoon and had Gracie hostess society parties for him, to which they invited Hollywood A-listers and sports stars with whom Jason’s prospective colleagues could mingle. It often gave him the advantage, his association with the fabled few. Any number of people in the arts and sports were flattered by Jason’s friendship. Not only was he dynamic, but he was rich beyond the dreams of avarice and he wasn’t stingy with his wealth. Single women mobbed him.

When he wasn’t rubbing elbows with the other Fortune 500, he was wearing jeans and boots, chaps and a big Stetson hat, working cattle with his cowboys. Even there he was generous, looking out for his men if they needed help.

Since he was an introvert who didn’t mix well with others, he didn’t seem the sort of man who had a big heart or even a kind disposition. But there was much more to this man than anyone imagined. He had a business degree from Harvard, but he didn’t advertise it. His annual income could have funded the annual budget for two or three small impoverished nations. He didn’t live like a multimillionaire. He left the socializing to Gracie, but she had as little love for it as he did. She spent her time doing charity work and finding projects to help people. Jason didn’t know it, but she had a good reason for providing funding for women’s shelters and soup kitchens and community charities.

People wondered why a sister and brother spent all their time together, she knew. But she and Jason weren’t married, and apparently neither of them would ever be. Gracie wanted nothing to do with any physical relationship. Jason had girlfriends, but he was never serious enough to consider marriage. He didn’t bring women home. But then, he was considerate about what he called Gracie’s medieval attitude toward modern relationships. She didn’t sleep around. She didn’t like men—or women—who did. Jason bowed to her prejudices. But she knew that didn’t stop him from doing what he liked out of her sphere of influence. He was a man, after all.

She grimaced as she noted a new spot of dirt on her spotless but aging white embroidered sweatshirt. She was wearing disreputable jeans with it, relics from a weekend she’d spent on the ranch with Jason while he taught a foreign dignitary how to ride. Gracie was deputized to teach his wife. He was amused at her patience and her skill on a horse. She also knew he appreciated her lack of vanity. She wore her long, pale blond hair in a perpetual bun or pigtails. Her soft gray eyes dominated her oval face with its exquisite complexion that never needed makeup to enhance it. Her lips were a full, soft bow, naturally pink. She didn’t even bother with lipstick unless she and Jason were going to some really posh bash, like the opera or symphony or ballet. They had similar tastes in music and theater, and they agreed even on politics and religion. They had enough in common to make an uncommon match. But she and Jason were like brother and sister, she reminded herself firmly, even if they weren’t related.

The rosebush she was pruning looked lopsided, and it dredged on feelings of her own inadequacy. She wondered sometimes why her mother had gone to such pains to make sure Gracie’s personal history was kept secret even from her new stepfather and stepbrother. But she hadn’t questioned Cynthia’s resolve. Perhaps her mother had been afraid of Myron Pendleton’s attitude if he knew the truth about the beautiful woman he’d met behind the counter at the men’s suit warehouse. It was easier—and safer—to lie and tell him that her husband had died in a forward infantry unit in Operation Desert Storm, and that Graciela Marsh was her stepchild, not her real daughter. This elaborate ruse had been concocted to ensure that Cynthia and her daughter could escape from the grinding poverty in which they lived. But the pretense hadn’t carried over to the bedroom. Cynthia had sobbed in Gracie’s arms the morning of the day she died, confessing that she hadn’t been able to let Myron touch her since their marriage. Myron had been furious and hurt, but Cynthia couldn’t get past her own history with marriage. She said she couldn’t go on living a lie. And later that day, she’d died in an apparent car accident. Gracie knew it wasn’t an accident. But she couldn’t say so without explaining why. That wasn’t possible.

Gracie swept back a loose strand of blond hair with the back of her hand and only then noticed that it was covered with dirt. She laughed softly as she imagined what she must look like by now.

“For God’s sake, don’t tell me you’re clearing even more ground to plant more flowers?” came a deep, amused voice from behind her. “I thought you finished this job the day we went to the sale barn.”

She turned, looking up into dark eyes under a jutting brow. He wasn’t smiling; he rarely did. But his eyes smiled in that lean, tanned, rugged face.

“That was making room to plant bulbs this fall. I’m pruning back these rose bushes right now,” she replied jovially.

He looked at the bushes that overlapped in the small space and grimaced. “You planted roses on top of roses, honey. You need to transplant some of them.”

She sighed. “Well, I ran out of room and I had leftover bushes this spring. It all sort of grew together and the rain made it worse. I guess I could dig up another plot,” she murmured to herself, looking around for new unbroken ground.

“Gracie,” he said patiently, “our guests start arriving in two hours.”

“Two hours?” She stared at him blankly. “Oh. Right! I hadn’t forgotten,” she lied.

He sat down on the wide stone balustrade that led down from the front steps. He was wearing dress slacks and boots with a white turtleneck sweater and a blue blazer. He looked expensive and elegant, a far cry from the ragged-looking working cowboy he’d appeared at the cattle auction two days before.

“Yes, you had forgotten,” he corrected, shaking his head. He drew in a breath and looked around at the lush, formal landscape. “I hate this place,” he muttered.

“You always did,” she replied. “It’s not the ranch.”

“What can I say?” He shrugged. “I like cattle. I hate high society.”

“Too bad you were born in the lap of it,” she laughed.

He studied her covertly. She was pretty, in a shy sort of way. Gracie wasn’t really outgoing, any more than he was. But she could organize a party better than anyone he knew. She was a gracious hostess, a tireless worker for her charities, and she dressed up beautifully. In an emergency, there wasn’t anybody with a cooler head. He admired her. And not only for her social skills. His black eyes lingered just a few seconds too long on the swell of her firm breasts under the sweatshirt before he averted them.

“We’ve had a politically incorrect observation from the state attorney general.”

“Simon Hart?” she asked. “What sort?”

“My cousin thinks we spend too much time together,” he replied easily. “He says one or the other of us should get married and start producing children.”

She stared at him quietly. “I don’t want to get married.”

He frowned. “Why don’t you want to marry?”

She averted her eyes. “I just don’t.”

“Simon’s happily married,” he pointed out. “He and Tira have two sons.”

Her voice tautened. “More power to them. I just don’t want to get married.”

“You’re twenty-six,” he remarked quietly. “You don’t date anyone. I can’t remember the last time you had a boyfriend. At that, you only had one steady one, for the four years you were in college in Jacobsville getting your history degree. And he turned out to be gay.” There was an odd edge to his comment.

Gracie recalled that Jason had been actively hostile to the young man. That was surprising, because he was the most tolerant man she knew on controversial social issues. He was a churchgoer, like Gracie, and he said that the founder of their religion wouldn’t have turned his back on anyone, regardless of their social classification. He couldn’t be jealous…?

“Billy was comfortable to be with,” she replied after a minute.

“Yes, but I assume he wasn’t given to torrid make-out sessions on our couch.”

She flushed and glared up at him. “I don’t have torrid make-out sessions with anyone.”

“I noticed,” he said curtly. “Simon noticed, too.”

“It’s none of Simon’s business how we live,” she said defensively. She hesitated. “Is it?”

“Of course not,” he snapped. “But he does have a point, Gracie. Neither of us is getting any younger.”

“Especially not you,” she teased. “You’ll be thirty-five your next birthday.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You just get better-looking, Jason,” she said affectionately. “You’ll never be old to me.”

He held her eyes for a few seconds and smiled. “Thanks.”

She cocked her head at him. “Maybe you should get married,” she said, wondering why it hurt to say it. “I mean, who’ll inherit all this when you die?”

He drew in a long breath and looked out over the yard. “I’ve been thinking about that, too.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Have you…thought about anyone? Any prospective brides?” she asked, sitting back on her heels.

He shook his head.

“There was that lawyer you dated, that friend of Glory’s,” she said.

“She wanted a doctorate in law and I could get her a grant,” he said with barely disguised contempt.

“Then there was the politician that Simon introduced you to.”

“She wants to run for the senate and I have money,” he scoffed.

“Jason, not every woman wants something financial from you,” she pointed out. “You’re not bad-looking and you have a big heart. It’s just that you scare people.”

“I don’t scare you,” he said.

She laughed. “You used to.”

“Yes, when you first moved in with us,” he recalled affectionately. “I lured you out of your room with Lindt chocolates, one at a time. It took months. You always looked at me as if you expected horns and a tail to start growing out of me.”

“It wasn’t personal,” she chided. “Besides,” she added with a wicked grin, “after I got to know you, I got used to the horns.”

He made a face at her. But his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You didn’t go out with a boy at all until I made an issue of it in your senior year of high school. You were asked to the prom, but you didn’t want to go. I insisted. I thought you were unnecessarily shy.”

“So I went with the first boy who asked me,” she reminded him venomously.

He grimaced. “Well, he seemed nice.”

“Did he, really?”

His dark eyes glittered. “I understand that his new front teeth look almost natural.”

She shivered even with the memory. Violence still upset her. But the boy had been drunk and insistent. He’d left bruises all over her in a futile attempt to disrobe her. Gracie had to call Jason on her cell phone. She’d locked herself in the boy’s car and he’d been crashing rocks into the passenger window trying to force her to open the door. Before he could break in, Jason skidded to a stop in front of the car and got out. Even now, so many years later, Gracie could still see the sudden fear on the boy’s face when he saw the furious tall man approaching him. Jason was elegant, and usually even-tempered, but he could move like a striking cobra when he was angry. The boy had been tall, too, and muscular—a football star. But he hadn’t lasted ten seconds with Jason. Those big fists had put him down in a heartbeat. The confrontation had made Gracie sick. Jason had saved her, though. And it wasn’t the only time he’d stepped between Gracie and trouble. There was a saying on the Rocking Spur ranch, that any cowboy who wanted a quick trip to the emergency room only had to say something unsavory about or to Gracie in front of Jason.

After he’d rescued her, that long-ago night, he’d driven her home in a tense silence. But when they got home and he realized how frightened she was, even of him, he calmed down at once and became her affectionate stepbrother.

Now, he was as familiar to her as the flower garden she was working in. But there was still that distance between them. Especially since he’d been spending even less time at the San Antonio mansion. He had a way of looking at her lately that was disturbing. He went broody sometimes, too, as if his life was disappointing him.

While she was thinking, she nipped the last overlapping limb of a rosebush away from the fall chrysanthemums, which were just starting to branch out. She smoothed over them with her hand, smiling, considering how beautiful they would be in a few months, all gold and bright as the cold weather moved in. Her bulbs would need to be dug and separated, but that could wait for cooler weather. She’d planted some new bulbs at the ranch, too, last autumn, but Jason’s big German shepherd had dug them up and eaten them. Fuming mad, she’d told Jason that the animal was a squirrel. No self-respecting dog would eat a helpless bulb. He’d almost bent over double laughing at her outrage. But he’d replaced the bulbs and even reluctantly loaned her one of his cowboys to help her replant them; one of his oldest and ugliest cowboys, at that. He went to great lengths to put distance between her and his ranch foreman, Grange.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

She laughed self-consciously. “About Baker eating my bulbs last fall.”

He grinned. “He’s developed a taste for them. I had to put a fence around your flower bed.”

“A fence?” she wailed.

“A white picket fence,” he assured her. “Something aesthetic.”

She relaxed. “You’re nice.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I am?”

She put down the trowel and stood up, brushing at the dirt on her sweatshirt. It only smeared. “Darn,” she muttered. “It will never come out.”

“Harcourt can get anything out. She has chemicals hidden in the pantry.”

She glanced at him and laughed delightedly. “Yes, but Dilly does the laundry.”

“Dilly has chemicals, too.”

She looked down at her feet. Her sneakers were caked in mud. “I’ll never get through the house in these,” she moaned. She slipped out of them, standing in her stained socks. “Oh, darn!”

“I need to teach you how to cuss,” he mused.

“You do it well enough for both of us, and in two languages,” she pointed out. His Spanish was elegant and fluent.

He chuckled. “So I do.”

“The ground is cold,” she said absently.

He stood, moved close and suddenly swung her up into his powerful arms as if she weighed nothing at all.

She gasped at the strength in those powerful arms and clung to his neck, fearful of being dropped. She’d never liked being carried, although it was agonizingly stimulating when Jason did it. She felt shaky all over, being so close to him. This time, her body betrayed its fascination with him. She felt the whisper of his coffee-scented breath on her face as he shifted her. He smelled of faint, expensive cologne and soap, and muscles rippled in his chest. The ache that had begun to consume her became almost painful. Her mind filled with unfamiliar, dangerous thoughts. She should be still, she should pull back. She was thinking it even as she suddenly nestled closer to his warm strength and buried her face in his throat. She thought he shuddered, but that was doubtful. She’d never known a man in better control of himself.

“I know, you don’t like being picked up,” he said in a husky tone. He laughed softly. “But you can’t walk on the white carpet shoeless with dirty socks, pet,” he added. He curled her even closer, so that her small, firm breasts were crushed against warm, hard muscle. “Just lie still and think of England.”

She frowned as he carried her up the steps and into the house, shifting her weight for an instant to open the front door. He kicked it shut behind them and started for the stairs that led to the second floor of the huge mansion.

“England?” she asked, diverted.

He carried her up the staircase, smiling. “Think about it.”

“England.” She’d never been to England. Had she?

He stopped at the door to her room. His black eyes pierced into hers. He was much too close. She could feel his clean breath on her face. The feel of his arms under her, his warm strength so close to her, made her feel exhilarated and breathless. She didn’t want to move. She wanted him to hold her even closer.

“Those old movies, where women sacrifice themselves for the good of their country?” he prompted, still smiling. But his eyes were taunting, wise, hinting at things that Gracie knew nothing about.

“What old movies?” she asked absently. Her mind was on how fast her heart was beating.

“Never mind,” he said heavily. He put her down abruptly, looking frustrated.

“I don’t watch old movies, Jason,” she said, trying to placate him. “We don’t have any.”

“I’ll buy some old ones,” he muttered. “Maybe some documentary ones, too.”

“Documentaries? About what?” she asked blankly.

He started to speak, thought better of it and made a thin line of his lips. “Never mind. Don’t be too long.”

“I won’t.” She hesitated. “What shall I wear?” she added, wanting to soothe him because he liked it when she asked for his advice, and he seemed angry with her for some reason.

He paused. His eyes swept down her body with a strange slowness. “Wear the gold gown I brought you from Paris,” he said softly. “It suits you.”

“Isn’t it too dressy for a cocktail party?” she wondered.

He moved back to her. He was so tall, she thought, that her head only came up to his nose. He looked down into her puzzled eyes. “No,” he replied. He touched her damaged coiffure. “And let your hair down for once. Wear it long. For me.”

He made her feel warm and jittery. That was new. His voice was deep and slow, as soft as velvet. Her lips parted in anticipation as she stared into his eyes.

He lifted her chin with his thumb and forefinger. His thumb moved suddenly, dragging across her mouth in a rough caress that made her breath catch.

His large, black eyes suddenly narrowed, and his jaw clenched as he looked down into Gracie’s stunned gray eyes. “Yes,” he said quietly, as if she’d said something aloud. He let go of her, very slowly, and went down the staircase.

She watched him go, fascinated. Her fingers lifted to her sensitized mouth and touched it lightly. Her heart was beating so fast that she thought it might try to fly out of her chest. She couldn’t quite get her breath. Jason had touched her in a new way, a different way than he’d ever touched her before. She didn’t dare think about it too deeply. Not now. She turned quickly and went into her room.

THERE WERE A LOT OF people here tonight, she thought as she came down the long, curving staircase and surveyed the throng of well-dressed guests. It didn’t take much imagination to spot the computer company partners; they were wearing suits that didn’t quite fit and they looked out of place and uncomfortable.

Gracie, a veteran of social gatherings, understood their confusion. It had taken her a long time to adjust to luxury cars and designer clothing and parties like this. In many ways, she was more comfortable with Jason’s cowboys than this elegant mix of professionals and big money. But she was fairly certain that she looked presentable, in the clingy gold gown that covered all of one arm and left the opposite arm and shoulder enticingly bare. It fell to her ankles, but the back drooped in a flow of silky fabric to lie just over the base of her spine, leaving the honeysmooth skin bare. Her pale blond hair swung around her shoulders in soft profusion. With the gown she wore a gold necklace of interlocking rings, with matching earrings. She looked pretty, and much younger than her real age.

She walked up to the skinny, freckle-faced redhead who seemed the dominant partner and smiled. “Do you have everything you need?” she asked him gently.

He looked down at her and flushed. “I, uh, well, I…that is…” he stammered.

His round-faced, dark-skinned partner cleared his throat. “We’re sort of out of place here,” he began.

Gracie put her arms through theirs and drew them along with her into the ballroom, where a small live band was playing, and guided them to the bar. “Nobody stands on ceremony here,” she explained pleasantly. “We’re just plain people, like everybody else.”

“Plain people with private jets and world-class soccer stars for friends,” the redheaded one murmured, looking around.

“Yes, but you’ll be in that same society one day yourselves,” she replied, smiling. “Jason says you’re both geniuses, that you’ve designed software that revolutionizes the gaming industry.”

They both stared at her. “You’re his sister,” the shorter one guessed.

“Well, his stepsister,” she said. “I’m Gracie Marsh.”

“I’m Fred Turnbill,” the round-faced one said. “He’s Jeremy Carswell. We’re Shadow Software.”

She shook hands with each of them in turn. “I’m very glad to meet you.”

“Your…stepbrother,” Fred said, nodding toward the tall, elegant man with a champagne flute in one hand, talking to a famous actor. “He’s very aggressive. We weren’t even interested in being acquired, but he just kept coming. He’s offered us creative control and executive positions and even stock bonuses.” He laughed nervously. “It’s hard to turn down a man like that.”

“I know what you mean,” she said.

“He seems very much at home here,” Fred sighed. “I guess he is, considering his financial status.”

She handed them flutes of champagne. “Listen,” she said confidentially, “he does what business requires of him. But you might have a different picture of him if you could see him throwing calves during roundup. And especially if you could see him ride.” Her gray eyes grew dreamy. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life than Jason on a running horse.”

They were both looking at her with curious expressions. “On a horse?” Fred murmured.

“Throwing calves?” Jeremy added.

She smiled, still staring at Jason. “He owns a Santa Gertrudis ranch down in Comanche Wells. When he isn’t managing acquisitions, he’s busy working cattle right alongside his men.”

“Well!” Fred exclaimed. “So he’s not just some greedy businessman trying to own the world.”

“Not on your life,” Gracie said softly. “He goes to extremes to be environmentally responsible. He won’t even use pesticides on the place.”

At that moment, Jason seemed to feel her gaze, because his head turned and black eyes lanced into hers across the width of the ballroom. Even at the distance, Gracie’s knees went weak and she seemed to stop breathing. It was the first time he’d ever looked at her like that. As if, she thought absently, he could eat her alive.

She dragged her eyes away from his with a small, nervous laugh. “He isn’t what he seems.”

Fred pursed his lips and exchanged glances with Jeremy. “That sort of puts a different complexion on things,” he said. “A man who gets out and works with his people isn’t the image we had of Mr. Pendleton. I guess we’re all victims of assumption.”

“You never assume anything with Jason,” she told them. “When God made him, He broke the mold. There isn’t another one like him in the world. When Jason gives his word, he keeps it, and he’s the most honest man I’ve ever known.”

Jeremy smiled down at her. “Well, you’ve sold us. I guess we’re about to join the corporation.”

“You’re about to join the family,” she corrected. “Jason believes in holiday bonuses and good benefit packages, and he looks out for his people.”

Jeremy lifted his glass. So did Fred. “Here’s to a prosperous future.”

Gracie raised hers, as well, and toasted them. “I’ll drink to that.”

She excused herself to go the rounds of the other guests. She noticed a few minutes later that Jason was talking to the two software executives and smiling. She chuckled. It wasn’t the first time she’d nudged a deal into completion. She was getting good at it.

Around midnight, she and Jason ended up together at the drinks table. Couples were out on the floor dancing to a lazy, romantic melody.

“Care to dance?” she asked with a grin.

He shook his head.

She wasn’t really surprised. He’d danced with several other women during the evening, including an elderly woman who came to the party alone. But he never danced with Gracie these days, no matter how hard she worked at convincing him to.

She frowned. “You dance with other people.”

He glanced down at her. “I’m not dancing with you.”

She felt unsettled by the refusal. She didn’t understand why he was this way. She might be clumsy, but she did all right on the dance floor. She picked up a champagne flute and filled it.

“Don’t get your feelings hurt,” he said curtly. “I have reasons. Good ones. I just can’t discuss them.”

She moved her shoulder. “No problem,” she said, putting on her party smile.

He turned to face her, his jaw taut. His black eyes were oddly glittery as they met her wounded gray ones. “You look, but you don’t see, Gracie,” he said curtly.

She stared up at him miserably. “I don’t understand.”

He sighed. “That’s an understatement,” he said under his breath.

She sipped champagne. One of his lean, beautiful hands came up and took the flute from her fingers. He lifted it to his mouth, sipping the sparkling amber liquid from the exact spot her lips had touched, and he looked straight into her eyes while he did it.

The act was deliberate, sensual, provocative. Gracie’s lips parted on a rush of breath while he held her eyes in a bond she couldn’t break. She felt an explosion of sensation so intense that it left her speechless.

“Shocked, Gracie?” he wondered as he handed the flute back to her.

“I…don’t know.”

His fingers came up and traced a line from her flushed cheek to the corner of her lips. He stared at them intently. “You closed the account.”

“What…account?”

“The computer account. They’re in, thanks to you. I didn’t even have to introduce them to the soccer players.” His fingers trailed over her soft mouth. “Amazing, that gift you have for putting people at ease, making them feel as if they belong.”

“A gift,” she whispered, not really hearing him. What he was doing to her mouth was very erotic. She moved closer.

His head bent, so that what he was saying couldn’t be overheard. Her response to him was electrifying. He was on fire.

“Gracie,” he whispered, bending closer, “I can hear your heart beating.”

“Can…you?” Her eyes were on his firm, sensual mouth.

His lips parted as they hovered just above her own. His tall body corded at the enticement she presented, her hands going to his shirtfront and pressing there. His heart began to race. “What are you going to do if I bend an inch more, and put my mouth right over your lips?” he asked in a rough, sensual tone.

She wasn’t hearing him. She couldn’t hear anything. She could only see his mouth, filling her mind with images so sensual and sweet that her legs began to wobble under her. Her fingers contracted on his shirt. She felt thick hair and muscle under the crisp, clean fabric.

“I could bend you back over my arm and hold you so close that you couldn’t breathe unless I did,” he whispered gruffly. “Kiss you so hard that your mouth would be swollen from the intensity of it!”

She was on tiptoe, feeling the muscles clench even through the fine cloth of his dinner jacket as her small breasts pressed hard into his chest. Her mouth was lifted, pleading. She felt tight, hot, achy all over. She was trembling. She knew that he could see, and it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except that she wanted him to come closer, to kiss her until she felt on fire, until the sharp ache he was arousing was satisfied, until the backbreaking tension stopped racking her slender body…

“Jason,” she choked, tightening her grip on his shoulders.

“Hey, Jason,” came an exuberant voice from behind him, “could you explain to Ted here how that new computer software works? He wants to get in on our deal with those California techies you’re trying to assimilate.”

Jason stood erect, looking as if he’d been shot. He had to work, to control himself before he turned abruptly away from Gracie, to the businessman standing behind him, nursing a whiskey highball.

“Let’s find the inventors and get them to tell him,” Jason said, forcing a smile. “Come on.”

He didn’t look at Gracie. The businessman did, frowning at her odd expression, but he was feeling the liquor and passed off the little tête-à-tête he’d just witnessed as an aberration brought on by whiskey. Jason wasn’t likely to be kissing his stepsister in public, after all!