He saw the warmth recede in her eyes, knew he’d offended her in some inexplicable and mysterious way.
“Ainsley’s been a good friend to me ever since I moved to Rhode Island earlier this year,” Peyton explained in a stiffly neutral tone. “We talk about a lot of things and I’m absolutely certain she didn’t intend for you to feel slighted because she told me before she told you.”
“I don’t feel slighted. Only a little surprised, that’s all.”
“Oh, perhaps I misunderstood.”
It was clear from her tone she didn’t think so, and Matt had to wonder how his conversations with Peyton turned into these ridiculous and exaggerated attempts not to offend each other. Resulting in greater offense than if they’d either one meant to offend in the first place. “I’m sure she will tell me,” he said. “When she thinks of it.”
“Knowing Ainsley, I imagine she thinks she already told you.”
Which was almost certainly true—Ainsley went through life like a sunbeam, making the world a brighter place wherever she happened to alight, blissfully unaware of practical matters—but somehow it annoyed him that Peyton knew his sister so well. “Perhaps she does,” he answered, his voice sounding as stilted as hers.
For a moment—the space of five, maybe six heartbeats—Peyton drifted in his arms like a summer cloud, her steps perfectly matched to his, her body effortlessly responding to the slightest nuance of his lead. Matt marveled again at the graceful ease with which they danced together, wondered how the action could be so uncomplicated and their conversation so problematic.
“I met your mother and father.” The sentence came out sounding a little desperate, as if she’d searched long and hard to think of something unexceptionable to say. “They’re remarkable people.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “They are.”
“You must be so proud to be their son.”
“Yes, I am.” And that was about as far as that conversational line could go. He couldn’t very well return the compliment, as he’d met her parents and found them unremarkable except for their great fascination with their new money and status. Peyton didn’t seem to share their attitude, but then that was just an impression. Based on little more than observation and, of course, on frequent and somewhat heated exchanges of opinion about allowing her creative ideas—and she had many of them—to run full steam ahead, regardless of who or what got bulldozed along the way. Peyton demonstrated little patience for protocol and procedure, and a decided disdain for tradition. She believed fiercely—he knew this from painful experience—that raising the funding for a project was more important than coddling personalities, and she’d proved willing to butt heads with anyone who tried to derail her parade. That anyone being, lately and most often, him.
“Miranda did a great job of putting this event together,” she ventured in her next conversational gambit. “What a great idea to have it here at the pediatric center so some of Dr. Donovan’s patients could enjoy the celebration.”
“Yes,” he agreed, then deciding he could expend a little more effort, added, “Having the reception here was actually Ainsley’s inspiration. Luckily, Miranda didn’t murder her for changing her mind at the very last minute.”
The fact that he’d volunteered more than one syllable seemed to startle Peyton and she made no response. Matt felt frustrated with her and with the nagging pleasure he experienced being close to her and holding her in his arms. Since taking the reins of the Black-and-White Ball fund-raising committee, she’d caused him nothing but headaches. In his office, she found it easy to tackle his opinion that sometimes the long way around a problem was the right way. In committee meetings, she had no problem at all finding the words to challenge his position. But put the two of them together in a social setting and—wham!—nothing but uninspired sentences and stuttering attempts at conversation.
Where was the passion she waved like a red flag the very second he tried to advise or caution her? But even as the question crossed his mind, he knew. It was here, radiating between their bodies, conducting a conversation all its own, an uninvited guest who seemed intent on making a scene.
And, Matt realized suddenly, she was as aware of the underlying attraction and its accompanying tension as he was…and just as determined not to acknowledge it.
“I met Miranda’s fiancé earlier,” Peyton said in yet another attempt to pretend she was unaware of any undertones. “His older set of twins attend the same private school as my sister, Scarlett. She’s a little older than they are, I think.”
Matt couldn’t help himself. As he realized she was fighting an unwelcome attraction to him, he began to see everything about her in a new light. The spark Ainsley had recognized, and hoped to fan into a romantic blaze, was mutual and it explained a lot. Not the least being his instant and rather keen fascination with the sensual curve of her lips and the abrupt and rather defensive tilt of her chin.
He tried a smile, and immediately the sparkle leaped back into her eyes and the sizzle streaked through him, as startling as a lightning strike. Interesting. “Do you have any brothers? More than one sister?” he asked, as much to put a little distance between himself and those thoughts as to keep up his end of the conversation.
“No, just Scarlett. Some days she makes me wish I had at least one more sibling to help keep her corralled.”
“Is ‘keeping her corralled’ your responsibility?”
Her gaze flashed up to his, flitted away. “My parents haven’t always been…accessible. They worked many long hours at the restaurant before it turned into a franchise. The restaurant chain is one of those so-called overnight success stories that took years of hard work to make happen. Taking care of Scarlett sort of naturally fell to me.”
“We have that in common then.”
“What?”
“I took care of my younger siblings, too.”
“You did?”
He didn’t think she needed to sound quite so astonished. “I did.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm? What does that mean?”
She moistened her lips, and it occurred to him she was, perhaps, a little intimidated. Which should have made him feel he had the advantage, but didn’t. “It doesn’t mean anything,” she answered, “except, maybe, that you don’t seem like the nurturing type.”
“What type do I seem like?”
Her smile flashed unexpectedly and the sizzle zapped him again. “The type who likes to…”
But whatever she planned to say faded as something across the room caught and held her attention. She couldn’t have glanced away for more than a second or two, but her tension was instantaneous and rippled from her body into his, and when her gaze returned to him, there was anger in her eyes.
“Matt,” she said, “I need your help. Please don’t ask any questions, just play along with whatever I say. Please. I wouldn’t ask you, except…”
Except he was the only hero handy. Intrigued, he nodded. “You want to see if I’m the type of guy who will help a lady in distress.”
She didn’t offer even a frown in reply, just grabbed his hand and led him around and past the other couples on the dance floor, pausing briefly when they reached the edge. “This is probably going to sound insane to you, but it’s the only way to deal with my mother. Please believe me.”
If he’d been tempted to discount the seriousness of her request, her grip on his hand would have weighted it in her favor. He’d be lucky if he could wiggle his fingers tomorrow. Something had tipped her temper into the red, and the hesitant conversationalist of a few minutes ago had vanished, replaced by this woman with an agenda.
“Mother. Daddy.” She greeted her parents in a tone delicate with respect, yet steely with impatience. “You know Matthew Danville, of course.”
Rick O’Reilly, medium height, medium weight, over-the-top personality, was quick with a handshake, quicker with a smile. “Matt, good to see you, son. Great party. Good eats. Some pretty important guests, too.” He waggled a pair
of caterpillar eyebrows. “The wife’s been trying to get up close and personal with that television-star fella. You know, the soap opera guy. Between us men, I don’t see what he’s got that we don’t, but, hey, there’s no understanding women to begin with. Know what I mean?”
“Richard, honestly…” There was nothing medium or mediocre about Connie O’Reilly. If she had ever been her husband’s counterpart, she’d since become splendidly sophisticated. Everything about her was studied and deliberate, stylish and expensive, gracious but somehow calculating. Matt couldn’t decide if she expected him to shake her hand or kiss it. “It was such a lovely wedding, Matthew. Rick and I are thrilled to have been invited.”
“We’re thrilled you could come,” he said, offering her not a handshake or a kiss on the hand, but his best the-Danville-Foundation-appreciates-your-contribution smile with a slight inclination of the head. Ainsley called the gesture his bow to the demigods who poured dollars into the work of the Foundation and expected royal treatment—at least—in return. The O’Reillys qualified on both counts. “Celebrations would be meaningless without friends like you to share in our happiness.”
Which was neither true nor his personal opinion, but was what he said because he represented the Danville Foundation and because that’s what people like the O’Reillys wanted to hear. He’d learned early that being a liar and a gentleman was his birthright, bought and paid for with stolen gold by his ancestor, Black Dan, the pirate. So Matt lied, and he did it well, because no one ever considered that his story might not be the truth.
“That’s so sweet of you to say,” Connie replied. “We’ve been simply overwhelmed at the warm welcome we’ve received here in Newport. Especially after hearing about that famous New England aloofness all these years.”
“Aloofness-spoofness.” Rick grinned broadly. “Y’all just promote that notion to keep out the riffraff. I’ve got your Yankee number.”
“I believe you do.” Matt felt a distinct liking for the older man and his what-you-see-is-what-you-get manners. It took a tough character to build a fortune with his bare hands, and Rick O’Reilly had earned the pride he wore as if it were the Congressional Medal of Honor. Matt envied him that privilege.
“I thought I saw Scarlett talking to you,” Peyton said, her voice perfectly cordial, the grip she still had on Matt’s hand distinctly impatient. “Did she leave?”
Mother and daughter exchanged a look long on subtext and riddled with tension, but painfully civil. “Yes, she did. Covington wanted to take her for a moonlight drive.”
Peyton closed her eyes for a moment, took a slow breath. “And you gave her permission?”
“Well, of course,” Connie answered, her Southern smile skimming Peyton to settle on Matt. “Young people these days are always off on their own adventures, you know. And such a nice group of young men and women have included our Scarlett in their number. Richard and I were just talking about how easily she fits in here. But that’s Scarlett for you, never meets a stranger.”
“Did she leave in a group?” Peyton persisted. “Or just with him?”
Connie was clearly uncomfortable having this discussion in front of Matt. As, perhaps, Peyton had intended. “I trust Covington completely, Peyton. He’s a lovely boy, as I’m sure Matthew would be happy to tell you.”
Matt did not want to get in the middle of this. Not even a little.
As if sensing retreat, Peyton pressed her fingers hard into his, asking him to stay, even as she continued the visual wrestling match with her mother.
Connie didn’t yield. “You know, Matthew, I would dearly love to meet Nick Shepard. If I promise not to be so gauche as to ask for his autograph, would you, perhaps, introduce me? I understand your sister, Miranda, is engaged to his brother. Won’t that be nice, having a genuine celebrity in the family?”
A way out. A convenient segue from this family situation to less demanding company.
Matt was ready to take the opportunity offered, but suddenly, Peyton was all smiles, her voice sifting accent and assent in a slow, sweet deception. “Oh, Mother, I did not bring Matthew over here so you could steal him away from me.” Her smile shifted to him and he nearly dropped to his knees under its calculating charm. “Not after he’s just asked me to take a stroll in the garden with him. He insisted I tell you where I’d be.” Her hand slipped up his arm and settled in the crook of his elbow. “So you wouldn’t worry. Isn’t he simply the most thoughtful thing you ever laid eyes on?”
If she fluttered her eyelashes, he was out of there. But in the brief moment her gaze locked onto his, he saw only a mute appeal for him to play along. And, what the hell. This was better than the way she usually treated him. “I did suggest a moonlight stroll,” he lied, smiling down at her before he turned back to her father, man-to-man being the logical next step in this farce. “I promise I’ll bring your daughter back with roses in her cheeks,” he added, thinking that the autumn air would probably give her goose bumps as well. But then, considering that the pediatric center didn’t actually have a garden yet—it was still under construction—they wouldn’t be strolling in it long enough to feel the nip.
“See that you do.” Rick O’Reilly had already lost interest, his attention wandering to a waiter who was passing by with a tray of drinks. “You want something else to drink, Mother?”
Peyton had Matt away and out the front door before he quite knew he was on the move. “Thank you,” she said in a rush when they hit the open air. “I’m so sorry. Really, really sorry. But there wasn’t much time and I couldn’t think of a better idea. And…well, I needed you as a distraction.”
From hero to distraction in the space of a sentence. “That certainly takes the wind out of my sails,” he said. “I thought you were having a change of heart.”
“No, you didn’t.” Forehead creased, expression troubled, Peyton paced away from him, her emerald gown sashaying across the curve of her hips, rippling around her ankles. The evening dress was virtually backless, exposing an expanse of sleek, creamy skin to the cool October night, and he wondered if he should offer her his jacket.
But she seemed oblivious to the cold as she studied the parking lot, turned, and paced back to where he waited. “Where would a lovely young man with more car than sense take a gullible young girl with a propensity for trouble on Halloween night?”
“Your sister?”
“She would be the gullible young girl.”
“And Covington Locke?”
“He would be the lovely young man.”
“And you think they’ll get into trouble?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Even if it wasn’t Halloween.”
“So why did your parents let her go?”
The other eyebrow rose. This didn’t require much imagination, really. Parents who equated wealth and privilege with character and who wanted their daughter to be accepted. Two teenagers. A car. Miles of secluded beach. “Maybe they’re in a group,” he suggested, as if that would keep trouble at bay.
“I’m going after her.” Determination thrummed through the words, her nod was mere confirmation. “Tell me the top ten list of teenage hideouts,” she said. “Starting with the one you think Covington would be most likely to hit first. And then tell me how to get there.”
“We’d be here all night and halfway into tomorrow. Rhode Island has over four hundred miles of coastline, much of it easily accessible and pretty secluded at night. And that’s not even counting any number of inland places they might have gone.”
“Well, isn’t there a public curfew or something?”
This time his eyebrow lifted. “Weren’t you a teenager once?”
She sighed. “Scarlett was my curfew. She kept me from getting into who knows what kind of trouble. I’m not doing a very good job at returning the favor.”
“Maybe it’s not your job.”
“I thought you took care of your younger siblings.”
“I did. Our parents were away more than they were home.”
> “And if it was your teenage sister out there, what would you do?”
“Go after her.”
She stood there, looking out into the dark as if she could will her sister back to the party inside, rubbing her arms against the chill and daring him without words to explain why she should not do what he’d just admitted he would.
But this was different. Her parents, however foolish they might be, were very much in the picture and bore the responsibility if—and in Matt’s mind that was a fairly big if—Scarlett did choose to get into trouble. This was not Peyton’s battle, although he could tell she was at war over it. “Let’s go back inside,” he suggested because he could see she was cold and because, bottom line, this was none of his business and not his problem. “You’re cold.”
“You’re wrong, Matt.” And he knew she wasn’t referring to the temperature.
“I can see you shivering,” he said anyway.
Her gaze came back to him, calling his bluff. “I have to try. My parents are who they are, but Scarlett shouldn’t have to pay for their mistakes…or mine. She’s only fifteen. He’s twenty. I can see the danger in that equation, even if my mother chooses not to.”
“I thought he was closer to her age.”
“Well, he isn’t. And I’m not convinced he’s such a lovely young man, either. Now, if you were Covington, where would you go on a moonlight drive?”
Matt hated that he allowed Peyton to consistently back him into a corner no gentleman could gracefully get out of. “I’ll take you,” he said. “But you have to get a coat. And I can’t guarantee we’ll find them.”
She walked up to him, close enough for him to catch the scent of some exotic perfume, close enough for him to see a familiar fire in her eyes. “I wasn’t asking you to take me. All I’m asking for is a general direction.”
At that moment, he wanted to shake her only slightly less than he wanted to kiss her. He wasn’t stupid enough to do either, so he reached for her arm, felt the chill on her and the rocket flash of heat that sliced under his skin and shot like fire up through his veins. “You’ll be lost before you get anywhere near those kids,” he said a little more roughly than he intended. “I said I’d take you and I will.”
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