The Ashtons: Paige, Grant & Trace. Roxanne St. Claire
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.
Chapter Two
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.
Mercedes had been kind but preoccupied. And she hadn’t been able to convince Paige that Mercedes’s brother, Eli, would back off on his quest to have Spencer Ashton’s will reversed.
As always Paige could see both sides of the Ashton family’s ever-complicated story. Her father had basically ensured this kind of turmoil by turning his back on his four children by Caroline Lattimer, and only acknowledging the family he’d created with Paige’s mother. He’d done it in life, by ignoring Cole, Eli, Mercedes and Jillian, and he’d done it in death by leaving them out of his will. But Paige refused to believe her father was the god-awful man everyone made him out to be; as his youngest child, she was determined to see her father in a positive light.
Well, not really his youngest child, she corrected herself. Not since baby Jack had come into the picture, the surprise “love child” of Spencer and his last mistress. She made a mental note to make a visit to Louret next week, both to finally meet little Jack and try another pass at fence mending.
Just outside of town she turned onto Washington Street and saw the rustic two-story stone structure built as a French steam laundry in the late 1800s. But in that unassuming building, and in the lush gardens surrounding it, about sixty people a night were treated to the finest gourmet dinners served anywhere. And no one—well, practically no one—could get reservations without waiting at least two months.
Obviously Matt Camberlane wasn’t “no one.”
That wild, warm feeling she’d experienced last night spread through her again at the thought of him. She smoothed the skirt of the simple blue suit she’d chosen, as if that could wipe away the effect he had on her. On the passenger seat rested a leather binder containing an Ashton Estate Winery event contract, typed and ready for his signature. Strictly business.
But, oh, his attention had been far from professional last night. That man did things to her body and brain that they certainly didn’t teach her in business school. Not that she took him seriously. Not for a minute. He must have some other reason for flirting with her.
She simply wasn’t the kind of woman men played with. She was attractive enough, but Paige knew she lacked the vivaciousness and charm that appealed to most men. When she looked in the mirror, she saw serious hazel eyes that seemed a little too big for her small features, and plain brown hair that had none of the sassiness of the bottle blondes and redheads who’d paraded across that stage seeking a bid.
She shook her head at the thought of the bid that she got from Matt Camberlane. Men like Matt Camberlane—big, gorgeous, successful, self-assured, intriguing men—usually looked right through the Paige Ashtons of the world.
So what was that magic buzzing between them last night?
Pulling into the back parking lot, she found a spot next to a sleek silver sports car, grabbed the binder and a small handbag and climbed out.
Instantly her senses were assaulted by the rich smell of Napa’s earth and the heady scents of fresh rosemary and mint. Herb gardens tumbled around the ancient building, a riot of lavender and green. A cool autumn breeze lifted her hair as she paused to drink in the beauty of the recently harvested hillsides, bathed in streaks of gold and ginger as the sun dipped into the western slopes.
Taking a deep breath for confidence, she rounded the restaurant to a tiny front patio darkened by a vine-covered overhang. There, her senses were assaulted again. By Matt.
And all her determination to treat this meeting as strictly business melted into a pool of liquid heat that spread from her chest, through her tummy and straight down to the most feminine part of her.
He stood facing away from her, his attention focused on the glorious scenery. He wore an off-white shirt that stretched nicely across his broad back, tucked into elegant dark trousers. A sports jacket hung next to him, over the stone wall that enclosed the porch, his expression impassive. The setting sun cast a warm glow on his dark-brown hair that grazed his collar, adding a golden luster to the ends.
Paige’s hands literally itched to touch that hair. To run her fingers through the length of it, then over the solid muscles of his shoulders, his chest. Down, down…
She swallowed against the erotic image that took hold of her brain.
Strictly business, Paige Ashton. She cleared her throat. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
At her question, he turned and flashed that wicked smile as his gaze swept over her appreciatively. “It certainly is.”
Oh, she’d walked right into that one.
He lifted his sports coat without taking his attention from her. “You have a habit of sneaking up on me.” He slipped into the jacket, denying her a view of his broad shoulders but taking on a different, more sophisticated look.
“I’m quiet, in case you haven’t noticed.”
His gaze slid over her face again, dipping down to her throat and chest, making her wonder if she should have worn something buttoned higher instead of a V-neck shell. “I notice everything,” he said softly. “For instance, I notice you came armed with a briefcase.”
She shifted the thin portfolio from one hand to the other. “The contract,” she told him. “I promised my sister Megan I’d nail down the Halloween event.”
He guided her toward the entrance. “Walker tells me Megan is happily married and pregnant, and delighted to let you step into her shoes at the estate.”
“She’s happy and pregnant, yes,” Paige agreed, “but hasn’t exactly handed over the event-planning reins entirely to me. The auction was my first solo act.”
“Really? I’d call it an astounding success.”
She