The Ashtons: Paige, Grant & Trace. Roxanne St. Claire
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 Symphonics, 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