The Ashtons: Paige, Grant & Trace. Roxanne St. ClaireЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.”