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 Symphonies, 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?"
"Symphonies 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."<
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"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.
* * *
Two
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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.
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