The Highest Bidder

by Roxanne St Claire

  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 glanced up at him. "Thanks to one especially generous bidder."

  He just winked at her, that secret, sexy wink that curled her toes. Then an older maitre d' greeted Matt with a huge smile and an air of familiarity. "Good evening, Mr. Camberlane. Your table is ready." Somehow it sounded like it was just that—his table.

  In a moment they were seated at an intimate table for two next to a window. "His" table was not exactly the strictly business setting she'd hoped for, leaving her to wonder just how often he dined here with women. One look at him answered that question. Often.

  She tamped down the thought and listened to Matt exchange pleasantries with the maitre d' about a new sommelier, a wine expert he'd brought over from France.

  As soon as they were alone, he focused on her, the intensity of his silver-gray gaze nearly taking her breath away. "I would have introduced you," he said. "But I didn't want to put you in the awkward position of discussing the wine list."

  She knew exactly what he was talking about. "They don't serve Ashton wine here."

  Ashton wine was good—great in some years, especially under her older brother Trace's fine management—but the exclusive restaurant leaned more toward the impossibly expensive and elite wines. Like Louret.

  "It wouldn't make me uncomfortable to discuss their cellar," she assured him. "No doubt it will come up when the new sommelier makes his recommendations." She gave him a direct, serious look. "Regardless of the less-than-stellar media coverage my family has received, I remain proud of the name."

  He nodded in agreement. "As you should be. You can't take the blame for the troubles your father inflicted on the family."

  "My father's murder inflicted the trouble," she corrected. "My half brothers and sisters have simply fanned the fire and made things worse. Although," she lifted one shoulder in a shrug, "I understand their position."

  "That's sisterly of you."

  "Family is…" Taking her napkin and smoothing it on her lap, she met his gaze again, purposely not finishing the thought. "How much has Walker told you?"

  "Walker has always been very candid about your family. He told me when we first met as roommates in Berkeley the whole story of how his uncle Spencer arranged to take him and Charlotte and raise them as your siblings."

  "And no doubt he told you that my father told Walker his mother was dead, and not living on a Sioux reservation."

  "Yes," Matt nodded. "Like I said, he's never hidden anything from me. But—" he gave a rueful smile "—he's b
een a little preoccupied since Tamra came into the picture and they began establishing the Sioux scholarship program. So what I know of the recent drama I've read in the papers or heard, if you'll forgive the awful pun, through the grapevine."

  She laughed softly. "Grapevines are for wine, not gossip."

  The waiter, who also seemed to know Matt well, stopped by to light the candle and exchange pleasantries but didn't even discuss the menu. Dinner at the Laundry was a lengthy, multi-coursed affair dictated by the whims and moods of the world-famous chef.

  A long, intimate affair. By candlelight. With wine.

  Paige automatically reached for her leather binder when the waiter left. "I haven't drawn up a specific theme for your event, yet—"

  In one smooth move, he flipped the portfolio closed, making the candle flicker with the puff of air from the sudden movement. "That can wait."

  Paige gave him a sharp look. "We have business to discuss."

  "I'm sorry. You're absolutely right." He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a silver pen. "Give it to me to sign and then we'll be done."

  She hesitated and leaned back, the folder against her chest. "You're too savvy a businessman to sign just anything without reading it first."

  "All that contract should say is that Symphonies, Inc. has reserved the reception hall of Ashton Estate for an event on October 31."

  Paige had to admit it really didn't contain too much more detail. "There's a lot of fine print," she said, knowing by the look in his eyes that didn't matter. Once they were done discussing business, this dinner went back to date status. For some reason that thought sent a tremor of trepidation straight through her.

  She could handle Matt Camberlane on a business level—after all, she'd graduated from business school with honors, the youngest in her class. But as a date?

  He reached over and gently wrested the portfolio from her hand. "We'll go over the fine print and details next week," he announced. "We can meet in my office on Monday."

  He opened the portfolio, shuffled through the pages and scribbled his name on the last one. With a satisfied smile, he handed the whole package back to her. "Now you can relax."

  Yeah, right. "I am relaxed." She set the folder against the leg of her chair with an air of resignation. Well, he paid for a date.

  He leaned forward, as though he'd like to eliminate the space and table between them. "I would imagine everyone in your family has strong opinions and volatile emotions where your father's will and death are concerned. I'm intrigued by your levelheaded view of the situation."

  His demeanor said he was intrigued by more than that, but she played along and answered the question. "I believe there are two sides to every story. My half brothers and sisters are understandably crushed that my father had…" She tried to think of a less vicious word than abandoned to describe what her father had done to the four children he had with Caroline Lattimer, but couldn't. There was no word other for it. "They—especially the oldest, Eli—are simply determined to get what they think is rightfully theirs." And since the estate had been in the Lattimer family long before Spencer had renamed it Ashton and kept it in his divorce from Caroline, Paige couldn't help but understand Eli's position.

  "Any progress on the murder investigation? The media seems to be reporting nothing."

  Paige closed her eyes for a moment, then blew out a slow breath as the image of her father, shot point-blank in his own office, darkened her mind. "Not really. At the moment, the police are honing in on some blackmail threats my father had received and a numbered bank account that he'd mysteriously kept well stocked."

  His eyes softened a bit at the crack in her voice. "I got the impression that most of the Ashtons were…" he paused and tilted his head as he obviously searched for his own euphemism. "Not that distraught over your father's death."

  Most of them weren't, she silently agreed. "He was my father," she said simply. "Everyone deserves to be mourned."

  The sommelier approached their table, and the conversation turned to wine, and once again Matt Camberlane impressed her. Not only had he gracefully handled the issue of her last name, he knew an awful lot about wines.

  "Not bad, for a computer guy," she said with a smile once they were alone.

  He laughed. "I can thank Walker. A wine expert is a good roommate to have in college. We never got drunk on anything but the good stuff."

  She seized on the chance to turn the conversation toward him. "Did you go to business school at Berkeley, as well?"

  "I didn't go to graduate school," he said evenly. "I went into the Army."

  It was her turn to be surprised. "You did?"

  "Didn't Walker ever tell you? I was at Berkeley on an Army ROTC scholarship. I had to do my time for Uncle Sam to pay for the privilege." She heard a note of defensiveness creep into his voice, making her heart clutch a bit.

  "Walker's only bragged that the boy wonder of Symphonies was his old college buddy. Did you like the Army?"

  "I liked the discipline, the order of it. I got the opportunity to work on some amazing electronics, really cutting edge stuff. It all led me to where I am today, so I don't complain." He gave her a seductive smile. "By the way, I'm a wonder, but no boy."

  "You're a flirt," she responded, trying to ignore the tightening low in her tummy at his words and tone. "And I'm not."

  He slid a water glass to the left and closed his hand over hers, never taking his gaze off her. "That's what I like about you, Paige Ashton."

  It was easy to believe him and very hard to ignore her body's response.

  Several hours passed as they sampled nouvelle servings of foie gras, red pepper crostini and sautéed moulard, complimented by a bottle of extraordinary Louret wine. By the time they'd finished sharing a champagne gellee dessert, Matt knew one thing for sure about Paige Ashton—besides the fact that she wasn't a flirt:

  He wanted her.

  He liked her quiet spirit, her keen intelligence and the way her lower lip sort of trembled when he captured, and purposely held, her gaze. He liked her elegant table manners, her smooth ability to keep a conversation going, her enticing little cleavage when she leaned forward.

  Yep. He wanted her.

  "Let's go for a ride," he suggested as they stepped into the moon-washed patio, nearly the last of the customers to leave.

  She flattened the portfolio against her chest again like thin leather armor. "Thank you, but I really have to get back to the estate."

  "It's Saturday night, Paige." He took her arm possessively and slid it into his elbow. "The stars are out, the moon is—" he squinted into the sky "—half-full and I have less than three thousand miles on a brand new sports car. You could be the first girl to ride in it."

  "But not the last," she said quickly.

  He feigned a wounded look. "You think I'm a cad."

  "A cad? Do people use that word anymore?"

  He laughed as they reached his car. "You tell me. You're a smart girl."

  "Smart enough to say thank you for the lovely dinner and your business. What time is our meeting on Monday?"

  He considered how simple it would be to turn her in his arms, ease her against the side door of his Ferrari and pull her delicious little body into his.

  The thought had its effect on him, so he did precisely the opposite and stepped away from her. No making out in a parking lot for this lady. Seducing Paige would take longer, and the place had to be perfect.

  "I'll clear my schedule for you on Monday," he offered politely. "What time can you be in San Mateo?"

  "Ten o'clock."

  "Ten it is. We'll go up to San Francisco and have lunch afterward."

  She laughed softly. "How can you think of lunch after all that fantastic food?"

  "You make me hungry," he admitted with a teasing smile.

  Her eyes darkened just enough to communicate that she got his meaning. "Matt…" She stepped back. "I don't mix business and pleasure."

  "Then tear up that contract
," he joked.

  She smiled and clutched the binder. "Not a chance. We're going to have fun with this event. Everyone in costumes, fantastic music—"

  "Costumes?" He choked a little. "I hadn't thought of costumes."

  "It's Halloween," she countered. "Of course there'll be costumes. I need to know all the details of the new product—the VoiceBox, is it? I'll need to start thinking of a theme for the event."

  "Music. That's the only theme I'm interested in."

  "Perfect. Come as your favorite musician. Who's yours?"

  "Sinatra." He didn't even hesitate. "I'm his number-one fan."

  That won him the sweetest smile. "Then you'll come as Old Blue Eyes himself."

  He laughed at the thought. "Just don't make me sing."

  "But you could play. I heard you last night. You're very good."

  "Hardly. But I like the idea of musician costumes. The product is a computer karaoke, so we could have a lot of fun with that."

  "Great. I'll work on it for Monday morning."

  He suddenly hated the idea of Sunday stretching out before him without her. "I'm staying at Auberge du Soleil, in Napa," he said. "Let's get together tomorrow and work on it then."

  Her eyes narrowed just enough to let him know she was thinking about it. "Another business meeting?"

  "Call it whatever you want, Paige." He couldn't resist sliding his hands up her arms, over her narrow shoulders, letting her hair tickle his skin. He held her delicate face between his hands, his focus dropping to that lower lip he wanted so much to taste. "I happen to think business and pleasure is a great mix."

  One kiss. That was all he wanted. One quick, warm, good-night kiss.

  As he leaned toward her, he felt her tense up, but as soon as their lips touched, she relaxed. He tilted his head slightly, tasting a whisper of sweet sorbet that clung to her lips.

  No. One kiss was not going to be enough.

  But it was all he would take now. "Tomorrow?" he asked, keeping his mouth just a breath from hers. "We'll have a picnic in the olive grove at Auberge."