He loudly snapped his fingers. “That’s right! It’s one of the uh…um…it’s on the tip of my tongue. I’ve been to Spain several times, and—”
“It’s one of the Canary Islands,” she prompted.
“Oh, Buscador de Oro, yes,” he said, nodding. “I thought you said something else. I spent a few days in Buscador de Oro last summer myself, visiting one of my clients. You probably saw me on the beach.”
“Of course,” Khela snapped.
“Work keeps me busy, Khela,” he said with a regretful shake of his head. “Managing multimillion-dollar portfolios isn’t as easy as it may seem. I have to be available to my clients at a moment’s notice. A Porsche I ordered recently is still waiting for me at my dealership because I haven’t had time to pick it up.”
The conversation was turning into a different kind of game for Khela than it was for Sheldon as she asked her next question.
“Where did you go to school?”
“I’m a Northwestern man,” he boasted. “I got accepted to Harvard and Yale, but I wanted to remain close to my family.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “You must have enjoyed going to school in Ohio.”
“Yeah, it was fun.” His eyes strayed to his watch, a Rolex, before bouncing back to Khela. “Uh, since my Porsche is still at the dealership, let’s say you and I get out of here in your ride?” He leaned in close. “Or did the Fund organizers send a limo for you?”
Khela spotted Jay. He’d moved on from Constance and was chatting up Esmé Wilhoite with the gregarious animation of a used car salesman. Esmé had to be at least fifteen years older than Jay, but she was striking with her black eyes, smooth olive skin and short black bob. Khela shuddered. Esmé was a dead ringer for Jay’s mother, who’d taught her son everything he knew about marrying for money.
Khela returned her attention to Sheldon. His forehead wrinkled in concentration, his glittering brown eyes raked over the crowd as though he were casing the joint. He glanced from the people assembled in the gallery to his program, matching faces and biographies, studying the booklet as though it were an LSAT prep book.
“See anything interesting?” Khela startled him into crunching the program in his fist.
“Just what’s right in front of me,” he responded smoothly. “Now how about us going for a little ride?”
Khela backed away from him, plainly stating, “I’ve already been taken for a ride by a man like you. See ya.”
* * *
Khela circled around Ted Williams to find Daphne, who was working her way toward Khela through the crowd.
Jay slipped away from Esmé to intercept Khela. “You should be at home working.”
“My work no longer concerns you,” she snapped. “Everything I’ve written since our divorce is off limits to you.”
“Yes, well every time you have a new book out, sales of the old ones increase. I’ve grown rather fond of cashing royalty checks.”
Khela gritted her teeth so hard the hinge of her jaw ached. In order to dissolve her marriage to Jay as expeditiously as possible, Khela had agreed to his demand for half the earnings on the books she’d written in the course of their marriage, claiming that his “support, expertise and dedication” had been integral to her success. The judge ignored the fact that Khela’s first bestseller had been written and published long before she and Jay married. In some ways, Khela’s first book was her least favorite because its success had drawn Jay into her life.
After four years of marriage, she’d gotten to know him well enough to know why he was baiting her into a fight. “The investment didn’t yield any dividends, did it?” Khela asked lightly.
“Investment? I don’t follow.”
“The ten minutes you spent trying to get Esmé to adopt you, marry you or let you impregnate her.”
“Why do you always think the worst of me, Khela?”
“Because that’s all you ever gave her, J-Fred,” Daphne interjected, coming up behind him. “The auction’s starting, Khela.”
“Always good to see you, too, Daphne,” Jay snidely retorted. “So when’s your book coming out? Oh, yeah. You don’t have a contract yet.”
“The key word is ‘yet,’ ” Khela said, hooking her arm through Daphne’s. They sauntered to the auctioneer’s white stylized podium, leaving Jay to resume his prowling.
“He’s like an opportunistic infection,” Daphne said. “He shows up wherever you are and tries to glom onto some other unsuspecting woman.”
“They’re out in force tonight.” Khela discreetly pointed to Sheldon. “He’s a prospector, too,” she said, using their private code word for male gold diggers.
Daphne shrugged. “That suit is awful. The shoes, too.”
“He’s a rookie,” Khela scoffed.
“How’d you get him?”
“Right from the get, with Buscador de Oro.”
Daphne laughed lightly. “Good ol’ gold digger island. Where did you put it this time?”
“The Canary Islands. It all went downhill from there. It was too easy to trip him up in his own lies.”
Khela abruptly halted when she spotted Carter and his well-dressed friend, the cougar in tow, taking positions near the front.
“Look at her,” Khela grumbled. “She’s four hundred years old. She probably went to kindergarten with Adam and Eve.”
“Shh.” Daphne took a firmer grip on her shiny black paddle. “The auctioneer’s a cutie, isn’t he? He was in town a few months ago, calling the Children’s Home Society auction we went to.”
Khela was far more interested in Carter, and she bobbed and weaved to keep an eye on him through the sea of bidders. Carter faced forward despite the cougar’s attempts to steal his attention from the auctioneer reading the description of the first cake.
The woman ran her hand through her hair and, holding her cocktail near her face, she leaned close to Carter and whispered in his ear. She laughed at whatever she said, touching her throat, while Carter took a subtle step closer to his friend, who appeared amused at the attention the older woman paid Carter.
He hates her, Khela thought, delighted.
The cougar deflated Khela’s happy feeling by placing her hand on Carter’s shoulder. It lingered there, possessive and knuckly, and Khela had to seriously fight her first instinct, which was to barge through the crowd and snatch out the cougar’s whiskers.
“Are you okay?” Daphne asked, peering closely at Khela. “You look like you’re turning rabid or something.”
“Look at her!” Khela whispered fiercely. “She’s all over him!”
Daphne clucked her tongue. “For God’s sake, Khela, they’re just standing there. Why are you so concern…” Her words faded.
Khela could almost see understanding washing over Daphne’s face.
“Did you have sex with him at the convention?” Daphne asked.
Their nearest neighbors looked at them with interest. Once they’d turned back to the auctioneer, Khela drew Daphne in close. “No. Not really. Well…sort of.”
Daphne’s eyes became perfect circles. “That’s why you’re avoiding him! Dammit, Khela, why didn’t you tell me? I can’t believe you kept that secret for almost two months. I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial purr. “How was it?”
“We didn’t…” Khela rubbed her forehead in exasperation. “We just messed around a little.”
“How little?” Daphne’s eyes sparkled.
“Enough for me to know that it’s better for me to stay away from him.”
“That good, huh?” Daphne smiled.
Khela’s eyes drifted shut, and for the ten-millionth time, she called up the memory of her intimate encounter with Carter. It should have weakened or dimmed from overuse, but it was almost as vivid as the moment she’d lived it. Her breath caught in her chest, she felt heat rise in her cheeks, and the warmth of yearning flooded her chest.
“Wow,” Daphne muttered. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“You’re really into him.”
“He’s cute,” Khela responded, forcing ambivalence into her voice.
“He’s more than cute,” Daphne said. “I want to lick him every time I see him.”
“Yeah, he’s nice, too.” A slight smile came to Khela’s face as she watched Carter peel the cougar’s paw from his shoulder. “And he’s funny. When we were in our suite, we got into a little bit of an argument. I said I was sorry for yelling at him, and he goes, ‘I’m sorry I’m so handsome.’ It was so adorable.”
Daphne didn’t laugh.
“I guess you had to be there,” Khela said.
“You’re falling for him.”
“No, I’m not.” The response was automatic. And not necessarily the truth.
* * *
“Carter Radcliffe is definitely two-week worthy,” Daphne grinned. “You should go for it.”
Khela harrumphed. “One weekend was enough to get me in over my head. I don’t even want to think about what would come of two—” She clutched Daphne’s arm. “My cake is up! Get ready to bid.”
Unlike some of his tongue-tangling American counterparts, Welsh-born auction caller Llewellyn Davies had a polished, cosmopolitan manner, which added to the sophistication of the event. Reading from a white index card drawn from an inner breast pocket of his tux, he said, “Next we have, uh, a cake titled simply, ‘Cake.’ Created by hot-air balloon operator Khela Halliday.” All but Khela laughed, Daphne the loudest and longest. “Ms. Halliday has prepared a double-layer, round cake with white frosting and red flowers. She hasn’t submitted an ingredient list, so you’ll have to win this lovely confection to discover what exotic flavor waits beneath its fluffy white frosting.”
“Exotic ain’t the half of it,” Daphne mumbled, earning a little shove from Khela.
Llewellyn had done his homework, calling specific patrons by name and using easy humor to goad them into higher bids. The higher the bids rose, the lower Khela’s spirits sank. She tasted bits of her own heart when the bids climbed to fourteen hundred dollars.
“Fourteen, fourteen, will I see fifteen for this masterpiece of simplicity from author Khela Halliday?” Llewellyn asked, his merry blue eyes hunting for black bidding placards.
“Fifteen,” drawled a familiar voice from the front row.
“No, he didn’t!” Khela nearly cried.
“Yes, he did,” Daphne grinned.
“Two thousand!” Khela called out in a high voice, shoving Daphne’s paddle hand into the air.
“We have a decisive two thousand dollars from the pretty lass in green,” Llewellyn said.
“He thinks I’m purty,” Daphne squealed, a blush rising to swallow her freckles.
“Twenty-one,” came the deep voice with the Southern drawl that made Khela’s heart pound a little harder.
“You can’t let him outbid you, Daphne,” Khela said. “Raise him another hundred.”
“This isn’t poker,” Daphne said, before waving her paddle and offering twenty-two hundred.
“Twenty-five hundred.” Carter’s precise pronunciation silenced the hum of low chatter in the gallery.
“I can’t go higher than that,” Daphne whispered.
“I told you I’d pay for it.” In more ways than one, it seems, Khela added to herself, knowing that the winning bidder wouldn’t exactly be getting a traditional cake. “Please, we can’t let him buy that thing.”
“You should have made a cake out of cake,” Daphne admonished. “Three thousand!” she called just before Llewellyn would have banged the gavel on Carter’s twenty-five hundred.
Llewellyn playfully growled. “The beauty in green is engaged in a spirited duel with the persistent gentlemen cowboy. I like a lady with spunk. Do I hear thirty-one hundred, anyone?”
“Thirty-five,” Carter exhaled loudly, as though bored with the game.
“He can’t afford that!” Khela whimpered. “That’s probably a month’s salary for him. We can’t let him spend it on that cake!”
“Four thousand!” Daphne said with a saucy toss of her mane for Llewellyn’s benefit.
Khela blanched at the way Llewellyn’s gaze zeroed in on Daphne with laser precision. He smiled at her, flashing deep dimples.
“Four thousand five,” Carter returned.
“Do I hear forty-six hundred?” Llewellyn seemed to ask Daphne alone. “Or shall I sell at forty-five hundred and get on with the business of having a drink with the lovely lady in green?”
“Five thousand!” Carter hollered.
“Sold!” Daphne called.
“Daphne!” Khela’s cry was drowned by the sharp crack of a gavel finalizing the sale and the ensuing laughter of the crowd. She looked on in horror as Llewellyn leaned forward and shook Carter’s hand, and Daphne fairly skipped to the podium.
“Traitor,” Khela called after her.
Carter, on tiptoe, turned to scan the audience, which began to disperse with Llewellyn and Daphne drifting side by side toward the bar. Carter’s narrowed eyes fell on Khela, and she ducked. With the grace of a bow-legged goose, she scrambled to the nearest hiding place, a work five feet long, six feet high, one foot thick and suspended from the ceiling with thin cables. The side facing Khela appeared to be painted gold, with a fuzzy texture.
A waiter garbed entirely in black glided by with sparkling flutes of blush champagne balanced on a black tray. Khela grabbed a glass, and was bringing it to her lips when Carter rounded the hanging art piece.
“I hope it’s chocolate,” he said with an unreadable smile, his voice startling her.
Khela whirled on him. “You shouldn’t have bought my cake!”
“I didn’t.”
The grin that accompanied his response should have started Khela’s alarm bells ringing.
“I bought what comes with the cake,” he said.
“I don’t follow.” She licked the rim of her glass before she sipped from it, a trick Daphne had taught her to keep from stamping the glass with her lipstick.
Carter watched the unintentionally provocative gesture with interest.
“What comes with it?” Khela asked dryly. “Ice cream?” She snickered as she sipped her champagne.
“You.”
The perfectly chilled Bollinger Grand Année Rosé left Khela in a spray of surprised indignation that dampened Carter’s shirt front and dripped onto her bodice.
“For five thousand dollars, I bought that cake along with the pleasure of having the cook serve me the first slice.” Carter pulled a program from his pocket and unfolded it to show her the detail she’d clearly overlooked.
Khela snatched the program and brought it to her face to peruse the lines she had failed to notice. She slowly raised her face to find him offering a smile and a neatly folded handkerchief. “You bought me,” she gasped.
“For cheap,” he murmured devilishly.
Chapter 6
“Yours was the kiss by which I’ve measured all others!”
—from Tender Memories by Khela Halliday
“That was a good one.” Carter began mopping up Khela’s bosom.
“I can do that.” She reached for the square of white cotton. Her fingertips brushed his, and in that instant, a discordant chime from the artwork beside them stole their attention.
“What the hell is this?” Carter muttered, squinting at it.
Inspecting the work more carefully, Khela saw that it wasn’t merely a large, blank canvas with a metallic sheen mounted in a black case. Thousands of tiny bells produced the hairy gold texture, and it was the bells that had responded when Khela touched Carter.
“Seems like you can call any ol’ thing art these days.” Carter moved closer to Khela. He dabbed at her collarbone, lifting the glistening beads of champagne. “Good thing you had your dress Scotchguarded.”
“Yeah, good thing,” Khela sighed.
He was too close, his touch too sure. He’d cut his hair since she’d last seen him; th
e whiskey blond scruff was much closer to his head. His topaz eyes were just as impish and intense, the fire in them playful and only slightly dangerous. The shape of his mouth still eluded Khela’s powers of description and, looking at it, she enjoyed phantom memories of the delights it had once given her.
She lifted her chin a bit, bringing her mouth that much closer to his as he touched his handkerchief to her left shoulder, near her neck. His nostrils flared slightly as he drew a deep breath, and then said the very thing Khela was thinking about him. “You smell so good.”
The bells aligned with Khela’s upper right arm and shoulder leaped to rigid attention, reacting as though they too felt the power of his compliment. Their microscopic clappers strained toward Khela, producing a high-pitched, tinny buzz.
“What are you wearing?” Carter asked her.
“Old Spice.”
“Me, too,” Carter smiled. “Looks like we’ve got more in common than a fondness for cake.”
“My junior year trigonometry teacher used to bathe in Old Spice,” Khela said. “We could smell him coming three floors away.” Carter’s scent was woodsy and clean, with a hint of citrusy spice. It was masculine without being overpowering. Khela filled her lungs with it. “You’re not wearing Old Spice.”
“Neither are you,” he responded. “So what is it?”
“Khela No. 1.”
He stepped closer to her, his hands still low on his hips. A large patch of bells even with their torsos sprang to tinkling life.
“Is that anything like Chanel No. 5?”
“It’s my scent,” Khela said. “There’s a boutique that’ll custom design a fragrance for you. It’s their Le Parfum Sur Mesure. It took about six months to create my fragrance. They won’t ever sell the recipe to anyone else.”
Khela’s heart rate surged painfully when Carter bowed his head and stuck his nose in the space just behind her earlobe. He took a deep, quiet sniff of her, slightly moaning as he drew back.
The motion and music of the tiny bells followed his movements, reaching a crescendo when he nearly touched Khela.
“Can you detect the rose?” she asked, a shiver in her voice.
He answered in the positive with a deep “Umm” before leaning in once more.
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