The Highest Bidder

by Roxanne St Claire

  "I want to believe you. I'm just a little … intimidated by you." She gestured around the secluded grove. "By this."

  "An Ashton? Intimidated?" He threaded his fingers through hers. "I don't buy it for a minute."

  She eased herself closer to him. Yes, this was going to be easy. And fun. He leaned toward her, close enough to feel the electrical charges singing in the air between them.

  Unwinding his fingers from hers, he trailed a path up her arm, toward the soft flesh of her neck and throat.

  When he lightly touched the skin just under her ear, her eyelids fluttered. He grazed along the edge of her delicate jaw, then traced the outline of her lips.

  He felt her breath catch.

  "You like that," he whispered.

  She almost nodded, opening her eyes enough to capture his gaze. "I like you." The echo of his own admission was difficult for her, he could tell.

  "You're such a flirt, Paige Ashton."

  She started to laugh at that, but he leaned over and covered her mouth with his. As their lips met, her laugh stuttered into a moan that caught in her throat. As she opened to him, he tasted the delicious, tangy flavor of Greek olives on her tongue.

  He tunneled his hand into her hair, holding her head with a strong, confident grip. She kissed him back, meeting his mouth with matching passion.

  Easing her on to her back, he moved over her, so that they finally touched. Against the concave of her stomach, his arousal was impossible to hide. She sucked in a quick breath, her kiss halted momentarily.

  "Just so you know," he whispered against her mouth. "I like you more."

  She responded by resuming the kiss and lifting herself toward him, a move that sent every drop of blood in his body rushing to one place. He wanted her. His body hurt with swollen desire as he stroked her back, aching to glide his hand around and touch the delicate rise of her breast, itching to grasp her round rear end and bury himself between her legs.

  Drawing a deep breath, he forced himself to do none of those things. "I think we're done here," he said softly.

  She lifted her chin and gave him a stunned, hurt look. "We are?"

  "Here," he explained. "In the olive grove. Let's go up to my suite."

  Her eyes widened, and she tucked the corner of her lip between her teeth as the decision colored her expression. He swallowed every word of persuasion he knew. This was her choice.

  "Okay."

  Even to Paige, her simple word sounded raspy, aroused. As it should. She felt raspy and aroused. Her whole being sparked in anticipation, longing for more hot kisses, dying for his hands to engulf her entire body.

  "Okay," he repeated, sounding a teensy bit surprised and a lot delighted. Didn't he think she wanted to go to his room?

  Did he want her to say no?

  She crushed the thought, hating her insecurities when everything about him had demonstrated just the opposite.

  This wasn't a tough decision. Matt Camberlane was sexy, gorgeous, smart, and he wanted her. Her gaze dropped to the very obvious tent in his khaki pants, the sight of it both flattering and intoxicating.

  As he folded up the blanket in one quick move and scooped up the remnants of their picnic, she made a feeble attempt to help, but he was much faster.

  "I got it, sweetheart," he said, reaching for her hand to help her up. "Let's go."

  Nice to know they were both in a hurry. That this electrifying, crazy, lusty attraction was mutual. The thought sent a little shiver through her, and he pulled her under his arm, holding the blanket and basket easily in his other hand. Instantly she felt safe. Safe and warm and protected by the power that was Matt.

  In silence they climbed the stone stairs out of the grove. She barely glanced at the panorama of Rutherford Hills' rolling vineyards around them, didn't even notice the sun- and earth-toned cottages that made up the outer buildings of the luxury hotel and spa.

  Together, they slipped into a side door, dropped the basket and blanket with the concierge, and headed up a set of back stairs. He must be staying in one of the luxurious upper suites, she thought. She'd been in one when friends from Los Angeles had stayed at the famous inn. The suites were huge. Would they even make it through the spacious living room to the bedroom?

  Her heart rattled her whole chest, as he slid the key in the door, his own hands steady. Before he opened it, he froze for a moment, then tipped her face up to him with his other hand.

  "You still have plenty of time to change your mind, Paige," he said softly. "I don't want you to feel … seduced."

  She blew out a breath and smiled. "You're the one who should feel seduced, Matt."

  His expression softened with a sexy half grin as he pushed the door open. "I love it when you flirt with me."

  They'd never make it to the bedroom. At least, not dressed. As the door closed behind them, he didn't give her a second to even scan the glorious decor of the room. He pushed her right up against the door and pinned her there with his whole, heavenly, strong body.

  His kiss was demanding and complete, his erection pressing into her stomach, making her want to hoist herself higher to get the hard ridge exactly where she wanted and needed it.

  He reached under her sweater, the heat of his hand searing the skin of her waist. He murmured her name as their teeth tapped and their legs entwined. His hand moved higher and he sucked in a ragged breath as he covered the thin material of her bra and cupped her breast.

  "You are so sexy, Paige," he whispered to her.

  The words were the sweetest elixir, like the first-pressed wine. She moaned in response, leaning into him, giving him free access to stoke the fires in her body.

  His thumb grazed her hardened nipple, swelling it like magic, sending waves of heat from her breasts down to her dampened crotch. All thoughts of decorum, all notions of propriety dissolved in her as his mouth trailed down her throat and their hips began to rock in a natural, marvelous rhythm.

  Her hands flattened against his chest, finally able to touch him, hungry to get her fill of his substantial, solid body.

  In one quick move he guided her to an oversize chaise longue near an unlit fireplace and lifted her sweater over her head, dropping it on the ground. Easing her back, he opened the front clasp of her bra and pushed it away, over her shoulders, then let it fall to the floor.

  For a moment he just looked at her bare breasts, admiration and want turning his eyes slate-gray as he levered himself above her. His lips were parted, releasing tight, quick breaths.

  Wordlessly he dropped his head and suckled one breast, the response flashing like a bolt of heat lightning in her body. Shuddering, she burrowed her fingers into his thick hair, as he teased her nipple with his tongue and then took more of her in his mouth.

  She moved on instinct, driven by some basic, primal need she barely recognized. When he lifted his head, her hands roamed his chest, yanking at the buttons of his oxford shirt, aching to feel his flesh against hers.

  With a gentle chuckle, he helped her remove his shirt, then returned to the delivery of wet, hungry kisses to her face and body. Their rhythm intensified as she rose to meet his hips and slide against his swollen manhood.

  Time and space and sanity vanished from her senses, leaving her mind blank and her body in complete control. Deep in the core of her, a knot of desire and want tightened, pulling at her, twisting her low on the inside.

  The need to have him inside her nearly made her cry out.

  Reaching down, she slid open his belt buckle, tugged at the snap of his pants and grasped the heated skin of his shaft.

  He moaned in appreciation of her touch, his eyes squeezed shut as though he simply couldn't take the pleasure. Her fingers almost encircled him, sliding up the length of him to caress the moistened tip.

  Desire coiled through her as she imagined how he would feel inside of her. She had no doubt—none—that she wanted exactly that. In the darkest recess of her mind, she was aware that a lump had formed in her throat, an emotional juggernaut th
at was rivaled only by the throbbing ache between her legs. An unfamiliar twirling, swirling sensation of need spun through her, dizzying her.

  He kissed her mouth again, as his talented fingers played with her nipples, his incredible body smothering hers.

  He felt so good. So good she wanted to scream, but that tender pain in her throat grew tighter, and she choked out a desperate breath. But it sounded more like a sob.

  Could this be happening? Could she have this kind of power over Matt? Gorgeous, brilliant Matt? She hardly knew him, but she never wanted anything so completely.

  Suddenly he stopped moving, his gaze locked on her face.

  "What's the matter?" he asked, his voice strained and rough.

  She shook her head. No, don't stop. Don't talk. Don't— Nothing," she managed.

  "You're crying." It sounded more like an accusation than an observation.

  Slowly she lifted a hand to her face. Her cheeks were wet—soaked, in fact. And the salty taste trickling in her mouth wasn't sweat.

  She was crying.

  She tried a quick laugh, but it came out as another sob. She wanted to curse herself, her childish, insecure self. Why was she crying?

  "You have quite an effect on me," she finally said. "I don't know why I'm crying."

  A dark expression colored his face. Gingerly he lifted his hands from her, placing them on the chaise and hoisting himself up.

  "I do," he said simply.

  The finality of his tone neutralized all the sensations zinging through her nerve endings. She reached for his arm, but he backed farther away. "C'mere, Matt."

  She sounded desperate. Who cared? She was desperate. For more of his body, his mouth, his—

  "No. We have to stop."

  "What?" She pushed herself up on two hands, her jaw opened in shock. "Why?"

  "We have to." In one move he was off her, refastening his pants, refusing her eye contact. Which hurt almost as much as his denial of body contact.

  What was going on? "Matt? What are you doing?"

  He wet his lips and ran his hand through his hair with a hand that now trembled nearly as much as her whole body, but still he didn't look at her.

  With a deep sigh, he finally perched on the side of the chaise. He lifted her sweater from the ground, turned it right side out and gently laid it on top of her, covering her bare breasts.

  All that erotic desire that had delighted her thudded to the bottom of her stomach. Of course. He didn't want her. She wasn't attractive. When you got right down to bare skin, she wasn't enough woman for him.

  "I'm really sorry, Paige. I got carried away."

  She just stared at him. "I think the carrying was two sided, Matt."

  He finally looked at her, the discomfort clearly visible on his face. Of course. He didn't know how to tell her. She just wasn't for him.

  "You deserve better than this," he said softly.

  That was a clever way of saying it.

  Without arguing she sat up and pulled the sweater over her head. She had some shreds of pride left, damn it.

  With all the regal bearing she could muster, she stood, tugged the sweater over her jeans and smoothed her hair. He watched her, a questioning expression on his face.

  "Paige." He stood next to her but didn't touch her. He was really over this, she thought bitterly. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

  Tapping her jeans pocket to be sure her car keys were still there, she looked at the door. How would she get across this endless room without letting yet another sob give away her shame and hurt?

  She would. She just would.

  "No need to apologize, Matt." There. Her voice was under her control. "And I really didn't mean to…" What? Lead him on? Beg for sex? Respond like a woman? "Flirt with you."

  Squaring her shoulders, she crossed the room and opened the door without looking back. She was all the way to her car before she realized she'd left her bra on the floor.

  Well, he could burn it for all she cared. Isn't that what happens when you play with fire?

  Sticking her key into the ignition of her car, she took one more look at the sun-drenched stone of Auberge du Soleil. Why had she cried? Was she so uncertain and pathetic that one man's attention reduced her to a weeping mess?

  No more, she swore silently. She'd gotten burned, yes. But she'd be damned if she'd let Walker or Megan or Matt Camberlane know. He could flip her underwear across the conference room table for all she cared.

  Because she would most definitely be seeing him at their scheduled meeting tomorrow. She didn't know what made him suddenly pull back from her, but he couldn't have faked his response to her.

  He wanted her. Whatever changed his mind … could be changed back.

  And this time everything would be different. She wanted him just as much, and, damn it, she was going to get him. Or at least make him miserable wondering what he'd missed.

  Matt lifted up the whisper of white lace that lay crumpled on the floor, muttering an angry, ugly curse of frustration.

  What the hell did he just do?

  He closed his eyes and brought the silky thing to his face, torturing himself with a deep breath of lavender or roses or some delicate flower. Paige. She had a floral scent all her own. And a taste and feel and sound all her own.

  And tears all her own. Damn it. The tears had annihilated him.

  At the sight of them, the realization of what their coupling meant to her kicked him square in the face. What was he thinking, seducing an angel? God, she could be a virgin for all he knew. And he'd treated her like any other girl who succumbed to his charm. Some easy conversation, a few quick kisses, then back to his room like another piece of—

  He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't even think of the expression in relation to this beautiful, real, precious woman. He let her undergarment fall to the chaise longue and dropped his head into his hands. A pain in his chest was just as uncomfortable as the swollen erection that hadn't yet gotten the message that playtime had ended. His blood was nowhere near settled. God only knew what was causing the hurt in his chest.

  Could that be his heart?

  He blew out another disgusted breath and got up to go to the bathroom.

  No doubt he could have handled that situation way better. But the tears. The tears just killed him.

  The only reason in heaven or hell to have a woman in his life was to have one in his bed. Women were for sexual comfort and gratification. Period. That was the lesson he learned from his miserable marriage to a woman who had used him. He'd vowed he would use them right back.

  He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, but only heard the silent promise he'd made two years ago. Never, never again would he lay out his heart like a welcome mat to have high heels dug into it.

  He flipped on the cold water tap and stuck his hands under it, hoping it would cool off his heated skin.

  Heat caused by Paige's body and mouth and incredibly sexy desire for him.

  He hadn't been lying, but she didn't believe him. He meant what he'd said. She deserved better than casual sex.

  But casual sex was the only kind he knew.

  Surely there was some worthy man, someone who would treat her like the goddess she was. Someone who would wipe her tears and not get freaked out by them. Someone who might even cry with her for how much he loved her.

  He splashed a handful of cold water on his face.

  Whoa, bud. That someone was not Matt Camberlane.

  Tomorrow morning he'd go to his office, fax a copy of the contract cancelation to Ashton Estates, then he'd hand the whole event over to someone in his Marketing Department. And then, he'd forget he'd ever met Paige Ashton. Or kissed her. Or ached for her in the most fundamental, frightening way.

  The problem was, he thought, as the water sluiced down his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth, he'd never forget her.

  But he had to. He just had to.

  * * *

  Four

  « ^ »

  She
sailed past the security guard with the claim of a meeting with Matt Camberlane. But as soon as a no-nonsense, slightly overweight administrative assistant hustled into the lobby of Symphonies, Inc., Paige knew she was about to get the brush-off.

  "I'm Eleanor Bradford, Mr. Camberlane's assistant." She held out her hand in greeting but wore a frown and backed it up with a gentle shake of her head. You don't have an appointment, her body language screamed.

  "Paige Ashton."

  Her eyes widened a bit and she leaned back in a not-so-subtle reappraisal. "Are you one of the Ashton Winery family members?"

  Fame had its privileges, Paige supposed. "Yes. Mr. Camberlane and I arranged this meeting over the weekend." She gave Eleanor her very best business-school-confident tilt of her head. "He's expecting me."

  "He is?" The woman looked unconvinced. No doubt Mr. Camberlane, multizillionaire boy wonder and world-class flirt, had his share of young women with faux appointments. Eleanor was just doing her job as gatekeeper.

  Eleanor's expression changed from confusion to understanding. "Oh, I know what happened. You didn't receive the fax I sent this morning."

  Oh, yes, she did. "The fax?" Paige worked to sound perplexed.

  "I'm afraid Mr. Camberlane had to nullify the contract he'd signed. So that would cancel your meeting today. Why don't you wait here while I go grab a copy for you?"

  Paige never changed the expression on her face as her mind whirled with options. "That's a pity." Should she demand to see him? No. She wanted the element of surprise on her side. She wanted to see his face when he wasn't expecting her. "Do you mind if I come with you and use the ladies' room, then? It was a long drive from Napa."

  Eleanor hesitated a moment, then nodded. "Of course. There's one by my desk." Indicating for Paige to follow her, she leaned closer and added, "I was sorry to hear about your father's, uh, passing."

  Paige nodded politely. "Thank you."

  "Any progress on the investigation?"

  Gossip would buy her access and maybe even time to linger near Matt's office, but she didn't relish the idea of using her father's death and the headlines about the family to get what she wanted. Especially when what she wanted was … a man.