by July Hall
Sandra wondered how long ago Eleanor Magister had died. Bradley had never mentioned her, so maybe it had happened a long time ago. And they’d had no children—Sandra would definitely have heard about cousins from Bradley. Didn’t Mr. Magister ever get lonely?
Then he glanced up and met her eyes. Suddenly, Sandra was back in the bedroom in her underwear, exposed with no warning, while he looked at her as if she was the only thing on earth. Nobody had ever looked at her like that before. She heard his breath catch.
She immediately looked down into her coffee, took a steadying sip, and then whispered to Bradley, “Where’s the nearest bathroom?”
Bradley’s eyes were slightly unfocused. “Through the doors, down the hall, on the left,” he slurred. “You feeling okay, babe?”
“Yes, of course.” She rose to her feet, looking anywhere but at Mr. Magister, and caught Stephen’s eye. He pointed up to the ceiling and mouthed, Another one up the stairs.
Sandra managed a smile, and fled. She just needed a minute. She’d spent all night feeling like the rug had been snatched out from beneath her, and every time she righted herself, something tipped her over again. Someone. And she needed a minute to get away from his eyes, before she decided to spend the rest of the evening looking right back into them while thinking about his hands and his wonky nose and God knew what else.
Problem was, she felt him watching her even as she left the room. His eyes never left her. She didn’t have to look back to know that.
Pulse pounding, head spinning, Sandra wondered what he saw.
CHAPTER FIVE
He could breathe more freely when the girl was out of sight. How doubly maddening, then, that his first impulse was to follow her.
Then—what? Lure her into a darkened corner? Invite her upstairs to see the view from his suite? Mortified, Charles admitted to himself that he would like to do exactly that.
Pitiful. Humiliating, especially when he remembered telling Stephen that he needed no one. Had that only been a few days ago? And the girl had to be twenty years his junior. Moreover, she was Bradley’s girl to begin with—and Bradley, disappointment though he was, was the closest thing Charles had to a son and heir.
Charles looked up at the ceiling while the conversation ebbed and flowed around the table without him. He’d managed to talk business all the way through the last two courses, remembering details of hedge fund performances, oil futures, company buyouts. Now, completely out of material, he teetered on the edge of defeat. There was only one round left, in which everyone would adjourn to the living room and gather before the fireplace for brandy or sherry. He could make it that long.
“Charles,” Stephen said. Charles started and turned to see his brother looking at him with a raised eyebrow. A quick glance around the table told him that nobody else seemed to have noticed his distraction, but his cheeks heated nevertheless.
“Hmm?” he said, raising his coffee cup to his lips before realizing he’d drunk it all.
Stephen nodded down toward the end of the table, where Rosalie was rising to her feet and urging the guests to head for the living room. “Why don’t we nip out and get that book?”
“What book?” Stephen blinked, and Charles came back to himself. “Oh, the Churchill. Yes. Let’s go.”
As they climbed the stairs toward the library, Stephen said sotto voce, “So what do you think of Bradley’s girlfriend?”
Bradley’s, Charles reminded himself. Then they rounded the corner and entered the hallway with the three bedrooms, and all he could remember was storming into the second one, where—
A glorious tumble of red hair over her shoulders. Creamy skin, breasts cupped by satin and lace, slender hips, the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.
And her rosy lips pursed into an “o” of shock. She’d been horrified by his intrusion. It was the only genuine reaction he’d managed to coax out of her all night. Since then, she’d maintained her composure as if it had never happened, and had spent the rest of her evening casually knocking the wind out of him every time she looked into his eyes.
“Charles, what’s wrong with you?”
Charles twitched, glancing down at Stephen as they reached the library. His brother’s brow was creased with confusion. “Nothing,” he said, pushing the French doors open, vaguely wondering if a half-naked Sandra Dane would be awaiting him. No such luck: only the books and the leather furniture.
“Er, good,” Stephen said. “It just seemed—anyway, Bradley’s girlfriend? What do you think?”
“I don’t think much about her at all. I hardly know her.” He realized, as he headed for the appropriate shelf, that he’d never actually made it into the library earlier this evening. Hopefully the book was here. “Ah—what about you?”
“She’s got potential,” Stephen said, sounding cautious. Charles refused to look at him as he scanned the shelf. “At least, it’s a good first impression. She hardly spoke at dinner, but I’d argue that’s a point in her favor. Do you suppose there’s a brain in there?”
Surely there must be. She’d looked at him with frightening intelligence all night, making him wonder how much she saw, and she had listened attentively to the dinner conversation. And before that, of course, their little introduction-that-wasn’t, when she’d spoken to him in slow, small words as if he was an idiot.
“Hard to say,” Charles said, his eyes finally lighting on The World Crisis.
“She held up well enough during your questions about redecorating this place.” Book in hand, Charles turned to see Stephen looking around the library. “What was that about, by the way? Are you really considering it? I wouldn’t blame you.”
“Of course not,” Charles said, more harshly than he’d intended, as he offered Stephen the book. “It was merely a line of inquiry. Here you are.”
“A first edition,” Stephen said, opening the book and carefully flipping through the pristine pages. “Where’d you find this gem?”
“Private auction. Would you like to borrow it?”
“If you don’t mind. I’ll read it with kid gloves.” Stephen squinted at the print. “And a magnifying glass. I must be getting old.”
Stephen was forty-four, a year younger than Charles himself. Not so long ago, Charles had thought him foolish for getting involved with someone ten years younger. Now who was the bigger fool?
He opened his mouth to tell Stephen where to shove his magnifying glass when he heard a door open and close down the hallway. He and Stephen looked up to see Sandra Dane emerging from the bathroom. She glanced toward the library, saw them through the open doors, and froze in place.
“Ah,” Stephen said, smiling at her. “You found it.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes. Thanks. The downstairs one was occupied.” With a tight smile, she turned toward the stairs.
“Wait a moment,” Charles heard himself say. She paused. Stephen gave him a curious look. “Why don’t you come in here so we can talk?”
Stephen hummed and nodded. He probably thought it was time for the job interview.
It was, Charles told himself. That’s all this was. He needed to interview the girl Bradley had chosen, see how suitable she was for the family. This moment simply happened to be convenient.
Miss Dane hovered a little bit in the hallway before making up her mind and walking toward them. Her silver dress caught the dim light of the hallway lamps. It was a lovely dress, modestly cut, perfectly appropriate. She’d pulled her hair back into a neat ponytail that not a strand escaped. She appeared lithe, graceful, and poised.
Damn it, everything about her was trying to persuade him that he’d been hallucinating earlier. Surely the siren from the bedroom could not also be this untouchable creature.
But he had touched her. Her hand had been soft and smooth. It had lit his entire body up like a fucking firework display, and he had no memory of how the rest of the conversation had gone.
Miss Dane stepped through the doors into the library, and yet again Charles was faced wit
h the shine of her bottom lip and the color of her eyes.
“Do you want me to stay, or should I leave you to it?” Stephen muttered, and Charles could only manage to clap him on the shoulder and nod at the doors. Stephen smiled at Miss Dane as he left and said, “I’ll just get back to Craig. We’ll see you in a few minutes.” And he had the presence of mind to leave the doors open, which…was for the best.
When Stephen was out of hearing range, Miss Dane said, “I’m sorry.”
Charles blinked, tried to gather himself, and said, “You couldn’t have known Eleanor decorated the house.” God, what an awkward moment. And it hadn’t even served as the dash of cold water it should have been. “Pay it no mind. Have a seat.”
She didn’t sit down, but she did bite her lip, looking uncomfortable. “I meant about the lamp. I’m sorry I broke it. I’m not usually clumsy.”
Suddenly he was back in the bedroom, with a smashed lamp at this girl’s delicate bare feet. He blinked to make the vision disappear. “Accidents happen,” he managed. “You weren’t hurt, were you?” He had seen no cuts or abrasions on her perfect limbs, but he also hadn’t dared look too closely.
“Oh, no. I avoided the glass. I—I hope you’ll let me replace the lamp.”
That helped snap him back to reality. He rolled his eyes. “No, you don’t. It’s expensive. Save your money and consider ballet lessons.” He nodded at a leather armchair by the fireplace. “And have a seat.”
She raised her chin, set her jaw, and sat down, crossing her legs. As she did, her skirt rode up. Because he had become some sort of addled slave to his hormones, Charles glanced at her knees before he could stop himself.
Her right knee had a line of bruises across it. “You said you weren’t hurt,” he blurted.
“Huh?” She frowned and looked down at her knee. “Oh. That’s, um, nothing.”
He approached her seat, looking down at the small, round, purpling marks against the pale skin of her knee. “Are those—?” The penny dropped. “Fingerprints. Bradley.”
She immediately tugged her skirt down enough to hide the bruises—and her knees—from his gaze. Then she cleared her throat. “He got a little anxious when I started talking during dinner, which apparently I wasn’t supposed to do.” The look she gave him was appropriately severe. “What was up with that? Why did you ask Bradley those questions, and not me? You wouldn’t even look at me.”
Because I couldn’t bear to look at you. He held his tongue and scowled down at her. She unflinchingly met his eyes. He found himself unable to return the compliment. Instead, his gaze traveled to her hair, pulled back so tightly from her face, then down to her throat, and then over her clavicle, her bared shoulders, her arms.
She had the porcelain skin of a natural redhead. She probably freckled in the summer. The fine hair on her arms would turn gold in sunlight. Skin like this…if he trailed his fingertips over it, skin like this would go pink beneath his touch. He would mark her with blushes. Everyone would see the effect he had on her.
Except, he realized, he was having no effect at all. Though she had to be uncomfortable, she wasn’t blushing. She hadn’t even blushed when he’d burst in on her in the bedroom. Instead, Sandra Dane was looking up at him with her mouth firmly set and her eyes narrowed.
He stepped back, cursing himself. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d grieved for ten years, mourned the love of his life, and within a few hours a pretty face and a nice set of tits undid him?
Control. He sat down in the leather armchair opposite her own, crossed his legs, and sounded quite calm when he said, “You want me to ask you the questions? Fine. That’s what we’re here for.”
Looking unimpressed, she said, “Shoot.”
Oh, no, that’s not how this was going to go. “I wonder,” he said, “if you really understand the position you’re in.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have no children. Nor does Stephen.” Charles tilted his head to the side, pleased to see a little crease form between her eyebrows. “That makes Bradley the sole heir to one of the largest fortunes in the world. He will shoulder enormous responsibility. We have certain expectations of any woman who allies herself with him.”
Yes, this was better. This was familiar territory. He could retreat into the safety of the family interests and remind himself of what was really important.
Miss Dane gulped, finally looking unsettled. Better and better. “What if he doesn’t want that responsibility?” she asked. Charles snorted. “No, seriously, doesn’t that matter to you? I mean—do you know him at all?”
“I think I know my own nephew,” Charles said coldly.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Did you know he loves to cook? On our second date, he took me out to a French restaurant, and then took me back to his place and whipped up a dessert that was better than anything we’d had all night. He said he’d love to have his own restaurant. Did you know that?”
Disgusted, Charles said, “He came into his trust fund four years ago. I’ve seen what he does with it, and it isn’t buying restaurants. He certainly could if he chose.”
For the first time, he saw doubt cloud her eyes. “He says the company keeps him busy.”
“Oh my God,” Charles muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. So Bradley had fooled his girlfriend the way he fooled his mother, Stephen, and everyone but Charles. Unsurprising, but disappointing. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what he says. What about you? Is work important to you?”
“Yes. I love my job. I wake up every morning and I’m ready to go to work.” She leaned forward, eyes huge with earnestness. “That’s what I mean. I just think Bradley should get to do what he loves.”
Like getting into trouble? Charles wondered if Bradley had told the girl about his youthful misadventures. It had taken some trouble to get the charges dismissed, particularly when they involved cocaine or—the single occasion that had made Rosalie furious—a prostitute. Like father, like son.
Perhaps Miss Dane, wholesome as she seemed to be, could prove a good influence on him. And surely she was…attractive….enough to turn a man from other pleasures. Charles could not imagine needing drugs, hookers, or any other source of entertainment if Sandra Dane was at his disposal in her lingerie.
Instead of any of that, he said, “I’m not sure you were listening. Bradley is the sole heir to Magister Enterprises. Everything falls to him. He has no other options. The company will be his life, and someone needs to stand at his side who will help him carry on the legacy and keep him from running everything into the ground.” The memory of his own father suddenly squeezed at his heart.
“I think he’s better than you give him credit for,” Miss Dane replied, but she couldn’t quite meet his eyes when she said it.
“How touching.” Charles rose from his seat and walked over to the fireplace, flicking the switch that brought it to life. He turned back to Miss Dane, and his brain momentarily short-circuited as he watched the firelight play off her hair.
Then he managed, “Enough about Bradley. I know all about Bradley. I want to know about you.”
“Okay.” She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair. “What about me?”
Charles almost said, Everything, tell me everything. He checked himself and loosened his bow tie instead. “Dane Lumber. Did your father start the business himself?”
“Yes,” she said, in tones of obvious pride. “He and my mom. She’s the CFO.”
Charles hoped Mrs. Dane had bequeathed her gift for numbers to her daughter. “Do you have any training yourself in business?” he asked as he sat back down.
“I took a couple of courses, but Pratt keeps you pretty busy with your major. I do want to open my own firm someday. Somewhere between five and ten years down the line, when I have more experience and I’ve built up a client base.”
He nodded. Good: she had a plan, not a dream. An ambitious woman could be an asset. And it would not be impossible for her to run her own business o
n the side, so long as she understood that it would be more of a hobby than a career.
“Are you set to inherit your parents’ business?” he continued.
She looked taken aback. “I—um, part of it, I guess. I haven’t thought much about it. I have two other siblings.”
“Are you the eldest?”
“Yes.”
Charles raised his eyebrows. “Then more of your parents’ business might fall to you. Or are your other siblings more involved?”
Her eyes kept getting bigger. “We, uh, we don’t really talk about it. Our parents are still kicking, if you know what I mean.”
“Don’t let sentiment get in the way of business,” Charles said. “Life is full of surprises. If your parents want to protect their life’s work, I hope to God they’ve already come up with a plan to do so.”
“Our parents want us to be happy,” Miss Dane flashed. “They’ve never pushed the business on any of us. They’ve always said we’re free to find our own path.”
“Then I will remember not to buy shares of Dane Lumber.”
She stared at him. “Jesus.”
“I just feel it’s important we understand each other,” Charles said pleasantly.
She hugged herself as if cold, even though she sat closer to the fire than he did. “Listen,” she said. “I get that you’re not into sentiment. I do. It makes sense. But do you really believe in sacrificing everything, just for a business? Every chance of hap—”
“It isn’t ‘just’ a business. It isn’t ‘just’ anything,” Charles snapped. “Magister Enterprises is a legacy. And that is something you had better understand, if you intend to join this family.”
“If I—” Her eyes widened. Then she shook her head rapidly, as if trying to wake up. “Um. Join the family?”
“Of course. Assuming, naturally, that I give my blessing.”
“Join the…” She closed her eyes for a second. “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves here.”
Charles frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Bradley’s never said anything about mar—about joining anything. This conversation seems kind of, um, premature?”