Читать книгу The Ashtons: Paige, Grant & Trace - Roxanne St. Claire, Barbara McCauley - Страница 10

“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?”

“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.