"Better, but not completely out of the nausea stage."
"Well, hello there, buddy," Matt's sudden greeting pulled Paige's attention to the entryway.
A wild tuft of red hair, chubby cheeks and bright green—Ashton green—eyes stared at the three of them.
Paige's heart clutched as she stared right back, mesmerized by the sweet face and the expression of pure innocence on his face. Baby Jack.
Her little brother.
"Come on in, honey," Jillian encouraged him. "Where'd Aunt Anna go to?"
He pointed in the general direction of the door. "Bwawy."
"She's in the library?" Jillian stood and took his hand to walk him into the living room. "It's all right. Come and meet some special people."
Matt reached out for an easy high-five. "Hey, little dude. How's it goin'?"
But Paige was ridiculously paralyzed, her heart suddenly thumping wildly in her chest. She'd never dreamed meeting any man under three feet tall could do this to her, but Jack Sheridan was her brother. Her blood. Her father's child.
And all she wanted to do, she realized with a shock, was scoop him up into her arms and cover his dear little face with wet, warm kisses.
"This is Paige and Matt," Jillian said as she urged him closer. "Can you say hello?"
His smile was pure charm. Oh God, Paige thought with a silent gasp. He's Spencer. At least when her father wanted to turn on the charm, that was the smile the recipient got. Charm had been her father's most effective weapon.
Jack gave her a shaky wave, but held his hand up in front of Matt. "Again! Again!" He smacked Matt's hand several times, then let out a cascade of childish giggles.
Without a moment's hesitation, Paige reached out both arms. "Can I have a hug, Jack?"
"Hug," he repeated, then glanced to Jillian, obviously a little unsure of the strange arms beseeching him.
"You can give Paige a hug," Jillian said, tapping his back to send him in Paige's direction. "She's your—"
For a moment the room was silent, and Jillian froze, obviously unsure of how to describe their odd relationship to a two-year-old.
"My Pay!" Jack exclaimed, an approximation of Paige's name.
"Yes!" Paige chuckled at the sound, her eyes filling with moisture. "I'm your Paige. Now can I have a hug?"
He toddled to her and tentatively entered the arms she held out. Paige folded him to her chest, inhaling his sweet little-boy smell and dropping a kiss on the red curls.
"Hello, Jack," she whispered against the lump that formed in her throat. "I hope we'll be great friends."
The child pulled back to look at her, his grass-green eyes wide and wary. Paige searched his face, seeing the earliest signs of some powerful family traits even in his baby face. But it was his eyes that nearly did her in.
No one could look at this child and wonder whose blood ran in his veins. He was an Ashton, a living, breathing reminder of the sins of her father.
And yet he was also her brother.
His little mouth tipped up in a shy smile. "Pay?"
She couldn't help laughing a little. "You can call me Pay, honey." She pulled him closer and planted another kiss on his head, lifting her gaze to meet Matt's as she did.
And it suddenly dawned on her that the game she was trying to play with Matt—the game of seduction and sex—was no different from the one that had caused this child. Of course, there was no adultery involved. But still.
There was no commitment, either.
Could she live with that?
As the morning moved into early afternoon, an ever-changing cast of characters continually transformed the atmosphere of the room. Paige didn't have an opportunity to consider the troubling questions that ricocheted through her head when she looked at Matt, nor did she have time to analyze all the dynamics of the various personalities at play.
She'd save that—and her uncertainties about Matt—to mull over later.
Shortly after Jack made his appearance, Anna Sheridan had come in search of him. A petite, well-dressed woman in her midthirties, Paige immediately noticed how protective she was of her nephew. Just the fact that she'd sought refuge for Spencer Ashton's child in the home of his former wife showed a woman who would face anything to shield her child—or, in this case, her nephew.
And when Caroline Sheppard had entered the room a little while later, the ambiance had taken yet another change. Paige felt her back go ramrod straight and her jaw clench as she stood to greet her father's former wife.
Would Caroline be icy, neutral or warm? Within minutes Paige knew. With a twinge of envy and admiration, she realized that Caroline Lattimer Ashton Sheppard was the real deal.
From the moment she'd arrived, holding the hand of a pigtailed, brown-eyed imp named Rachel who did little more than gaze at Jillian with unadulterated adoration, Caroline made them welcome.
With just her occasional touch, her easy smile, her obvious contentment with her life, Caroline managed to convey that she had no regrets for how her life had turned out. And, even more, their conversation led Paige to believe that she didn't blame anyone but Spencer for the trauma and drama inflicted on both families.
They enjoyed a leisurely and delicious lunch, served on the lanai that overlooked the rustic carriage house and stables and the gently sloping acres of some of the most sensational Pinot Noir, Merlot, Cab and Petite Verdot grapes in Napa Valley.
Of course, they tasted some of those wines with lunch, and Jillian impressed them all with her in-depth knowledge and insights. They spoke the language of vintner families: harvests, bouquets, vintages and trends, the issues facing the family having been covered with Jillian and Caroline in the living room.
And just to confuse her further, Matt was the ideal guest—entertaining, interested and remarkably adept at positioning himself at her side exactly as a friend, not a boyfriend, would.
When Grant Ashton arrived, the atmosphere of the little gathering suddenly changed again and Paige knew that family business was about to go on the lunch menu.
After a round of introductions and greetings, the large and rugged man pulled out the chair closest to Anna and locked a blue-eyed gaze on Paige. "Do Cole and Eli know you're here?"
Jillian answered first. "They're too busy to come over."
That could be true, Paige told herself. Although much of the harvest had been completed by the end of September, many of the red grapes grown here would ripen this month. They could be busy in the winery. Or unwilling to break bread with the enemy.
"I was just over there," Grant said, tossing a look over his shoulder in the direction of the winery. "Not too much going on right now."
"Whatever their reason," Paige said, holding his direct gaze, "I'm grateful to be so welcome here."
Grant nodded slowly before turning to Anna, when the lines around his eyes crinkled in a warm smile. "Where's Jack?"
"I just put him down for a nap in the guest room," she told him, her return look just as fond. "But it required a promise that you'd wake him up the minute you got home."
Home? Did Grant Ashton, the down-to-earth farmer from Nebraska who'd stormed into California demanding to know his real father, consider Louret Vineyards home? Did Anna?
They weren't living at the house but staying in the cottage and carriage house on the property. Yet they did seem rather settled.
"I'll get him when he calls," Grant promised, shaking his head to decline an offer of wine that Jillian made. Again he directed his attention to Paige. "Any news on the investigation?"
No tiptoeing for this big man.
"Nothing concrete," she said. "The detectives are trying to trail some evidence of blackmail."
He snorted a little and threw a glance at Anna. "Probably a lot of opportunity for that in the old man's past."
Paige swallowed as an uncomfortable silence fell over the lanai. "Yes," she finally said, looking down at her lap. "I'm sure there is."
"Hey," Grant's voice pulled her gaze back up to his. "Whatever
he was, it sure isn't something his kids need to take the blame for."
For a moment she couldn't speak. Here was yet another half brother touching her heart. For one wild, insane moment, Paige wondered what it could be like if all these families—all these smart, talented, ambitious and dynamic offspring of one man—could actually live in some semblance of peace.
Was that too much to ask?
Paige gave him a smile of genuine warmth. "I appreciate that, Grant."
With a barely noticeable sigh, Caroline stood and excused herself, and suddenly the impromptu lunch party came to an end. As Paige pushed her chair back, she reached down to pick up her handbag and happened to take a quick glance under the table.
In that flash of a second, she could have sworn she saw Anna's tiny hand enclosed in the much bigger one of Grant Ashton.
* * *
Seven
« ^ »
"I don't want to go home."
Matt gave Paige a questioning look as he pulled onto the main road and exited The Vines. "Okay. Where do you want to go?"
Your house. Your arms. Your bed. "I just don't feel like facing my family. They'll expect a full accounting on the day."
That was the truth. She didn't really want to go to his house—oh, yes she did—but the thought of returning to the estate to be interrogated by her mother and Trace was utterly unappealing. And no doubt Megan would want a postmortem.
He tapped the breaks and studied her for a moment, the rumble of the Ferrari engine vibrating the whole car. "I don't expect you can put that debriefing off for too long."
No, she couldn't. And what would she tell them?
That Caroline was a genuine lady who was not at all interested in unearthing the misery of her first marriage by contesting the will or the illegal divorce settlement. That Eli and Cole hadn't changed their adamant stance and wouldn't back down. That Jillian was a fair thinker who not only accepted the olive branch of peace but offered one of her own. That Anna Sheridan was a lovely woman—certainly Grant thought so—and that their adorable baby brother was a mirror image of their father who would be a constant reminder of Spencer's lack of morals.
Yes, she would tell them all that. Later. Tomorrow.
But she didn't want to leave the company of Matt Camberlane. Nor did she want to be alone to question the tightness or wrongness of their obvious attraction. She didn't want to shake his hand and say, "Goodbye, thank you, we'll be in touch."
But she didn't want to be the same morals-free, pleasure-seeking, risk-taking person that her father was, either.
"It's the curse of the fair-minded person," she mused aloud.
"Excuse me?" He pulled onto the main highway, headed south toward the estate.
"I can always see both sides of an argument. It's like living hell, sometimes," she admitted with a laugh. "There are two sides to every story, at least two ways to consider something. I can see both, which makes me feel horribly wishy-washy at times."
"Or balanced," he offered with a quick smile.
One thing she didn't feel when he smiled at her that way—balanced. She felt woefully unbalanced.
"So where do you want to go?" he asked.
"Home."
He chuckled. "You will have to make up your mind eventually."
"Where do you want to go?" she countered.
He thought for a moment. "Home."
Hers … or his? The idea of going to his house made every nerve ending in her body sing in anticipation. "Home," she repeated slowly. "You mean … my home."
He shot her an innocent look. "Of course."
She nodded in agreement, and while they drove the half hour to the Ashton Estate, they were comfortably quiet. He slid a dreamy Sinatra CD into the sound system, and she closed her eyes and got lost in the music.
The romantic, soulful music of a sexy man that put all sorts of romantic, soulful and sexy thoughts into her head.
She peeked at Matt from under her lashes. His lips moved slightly with the lyrics. The same delicious, demanding lips that had covered her mouth, sucked her tongue, tasted her breasts.
Fire shot through her.
One hand on the gearshift, his long, masculine fingers casually tapped in time to the song. No, he was playing the imaginary keys of a piano, she realized. With the same fingers that had explored her skin and sent Shockwaves of sensuality all over her body.
Like the one coiling right through her at that moment.
A whisper of a five-o'clock shadow darkened his cheeks, giving him a rugged, renegade look, and his chestnut hair looked just tousled enough to make her want to run her fingers through it.
He turned to her, his expression suddenly serious. "Something tells me you're not thinking about your family."
"Nope."
He raked her with a quick glance, then turned back to the road. "About the VoiceBox product-launch party?"
"Nope."
"About an alternative destination for this car."
"Yep."
He grinned. "We're not far from the estate. But you name the place and I'll take you there."
"Home."
"You are totally confusing me, woman." The way he said woman nearly did her in. "I meant your home."
She saw him swallow. "That's another hour south of here."
"Chicken."
A smile danced on those amazing lips. "I've been called worse."
"Like?"
"Gentleman."
"Why is that worse?"
"Because I'm trying like hell to be one. And you—" he flashed her another look, smoky and sincere "—are killing me."
Delight danced through her at the thought. "I'm not doing anything," she responded with mock indignity. "I'm sitting here, listening to music."
"You're eating me up with your eyes and inviting yourself to my house."
She couldn't help laughing. "I am not," she lied. "I'm doing what I always do … weighing the options. Considering both sides of the argument."
He slowed as they reached the iron gate of the main entrance to the estate. "Which side is winning?"
"Ohh." Uncertainty colored her tone. "Kiss or handshake? Kiss or handshake? Which shall it be?"
Suddenly he pulled into the main drive and slid his car door up to the security dial pad. All that dancing delight dropped to her stomach with a thud of disappointment.
"Let me decide for you," he said, lowering his window with the press of a button. "I think you should go home, talk to your family, concentrate on work, get a good night's sleep, and when I call you tomorrow, we can arrange a time for our next meeting." He took a deep breath and held his hand out to her. "Go for the handshake, Paige, as you would with any business acquaintance or platonic friend."
She looked at his hand but didn't touch it. "That's a reasonable way to look at the situation."
He dropped the hand he'd offered and cocked his head toward the keypad. "Now, do you want to tell me the secret code, or will you have to kill me afterward?"
Moistening her lips, she slowly unlatched her seat belt, never taking her gaze from his.
With a slow smile she climbed out of her seat, turned carefully and eased herself onto his lap, facing him. She could feel the steering wheel at her back, but focused on his shocked face in front of her. She felt his whole body—every masculine inch—stiffen under her.
"We never tell anyone our code." She held her right hand out the window and touched the keypad without taking her eyes off him.
She punched in the five digits. Slowly.
She could have sworn he stifled a moan.
As the gate rumbled open in front of the car, they both sat motionless. Heat burned where they touched as he hardened and she melted.
Then she leaned toward his mouth, pressing her breasts to his chest, loving how his pewter gaze darkened as his pupils dilated with arousal.
"What are you doing, Paige?" he ground out.
"Just making the other side of that argument," she whispered, her lips almost touching
his.
She could feel his heart thundering like hers. They were so close. No more than a breath apart. The needy ache between her legs rippled through her whole body, making her nipples hurt, her fingers twitch, her mouth water.
"You make one hell of a compelling argument, Paige." His voice was tight, as a single vein pulsed under a muscle in his neck. Sending blood, she knew, to one place in his body.
She rolled her bottom ever so slightly against him, as a shot of pure, womanly desire heated her. "It's the curse of a fair-minded person."
"Your fair mind is having quite an effect on me," he said roughly. "And if you don't move, I'm going to go from gentleman to hot-blooded male in about three seconds."
She didn't move a muscle. "Two."
She closed her eyes. "One."
She parted her lips.
He whispered her name as he inched closer to kiss her, but she backed up at precisely the same time. Then she extended her hand to him. For a simple, businesslike shake.
"Thank you for your company, Mr. Camberlane."
His jaw dropped as he closed his hand over hers.
"Please have your secretary call my office at your earliest convenience so we can … meet again."
With one hand she grabbed her bag, flipped open his door and slid out of the car. Then she turned and walked up the drive without giving him the satisfaction of turning around.
That was balanced, she thought smugly. Not fair, but balanced.
"I feel like I'm going to blow breakfast every time I stand up. It's like I have no control over my own body. Do you know that feeling?"
No control over her body? Yes, Paige knew exactly how Megan felt. But her loss of physical control had nothing to do with pregnancy and everything to do with the restless night of erotic fantasies that had kept her awake.
"We're cool today, Meg," Paige addressed the speaker phone on her desk as she booted up her computer to check the day's calendar. "Did you leave me any major headaches from yesterday?"
"Yesterday was quiet. But tell me more about what happened at Louret."
"I told you." Paige clicked a few keystrokes and opened up her daily calendar. "Caroline and Jillian were very kind and sweet. Oh, and Grant is still staying there."
The Highest Bidder Page 9
