The Highest Bidder

by Roxanne St Claire

  "Really? Well, he's got a lot of history to sort."

  "I think he's more interested in the present than the past."

  Megan was quiet for a second, and Paige waited for her to ask what the comment meant. "You there, Meg?"

  "Mmm. Just sipping tea. Did you see Jack?"

  "Oh, yes. He's unbelievable."

  "Is he as cute as his picture?"

  Paige decided to focus on his appeal. The uncanny resemblance to their father would be obvious when Megan saw him. "Even more so in real life. He's the sweetest little thing. Called me Pay."

  "Awww."

  "Yeah, he's adorable." Paige studied the calendar on her screen. "There's only one meeting scheduled with a prospective client this afternoon and two event consultants from Silicon Valley who want to do a dog-and-pony show. I can handle it today."

  Before Megan answered, Paige's office door burst open. Her brother Trace stood in the doorway, his face pale and his green eyes dazed.

  "Go lie down," Paige told her sister. "I'll check in with you in a few hours."

  As soon as she hung up with Megan, Paige stood and came around her desk. "What's the matter, Trace?"

  He just shook his head. "I—I just saw someone."

  "Who?"

  He glanced over his shoulder as though the apparition had followed him into their upstairs offices. "Just … no one. I must have imagined it."

  An eerie chill skittered down her spine. "A ghost?"

  He just laughed lightly at the obvious implication. "No, Dad's not wandering around the estate with a chain and the Ghost of Christmas Past. Not yet, anyway."

  "Then who was it?"

  He shook his head. "I just thought I saw someone I knew."

  "Who?"

  "It was a mistake. Just looked like someone I once knew."

  Something in his voice touched Paige. "A lady?" she asked with a teasing smile.

  "Not exactly a 'lady,' but definitely a woman."

  Intrigued by the uncharacteristic wistfulness in the comment, Paige tried to push him into one of the chairs in front of her desk. "Tell me more."

  But his stoic, reserved demeanor had returned as suddenly as it had disappeared. "Not important, Paige. I just came up here to get the rundown on your meeting at The Vines. Why didn't you join us for dinner last night, by the way?"

  "I was busy." Fantasizing.

  "With Camberlane?" he asked pointedly, his tease not quite as light as hers had been.

  "Of course not," she said quickly. "I'd been gone all day. I had to catch up. My visit went very well, I think."

  "Eli backing off his threats?"

  "I don't know," she admitted. "I don't think he has Caroline's support to overturn the divorce settlement. She appears to be firmly opposed to opening that can of worms. But he and Cole are determined to contest the will. That isn't going to change. They're just waiting for the murder investigation to get closer to a resolution."

  Trace folded his arms and stared into the adjacent sunroom that Paige used as a conference area. "I hope to hell they don't have to wait long. I want this thing resolved."

  "You and me both," Paige agreed.

  Her desk phone beeped, and line one flashed.

  "I'll let you get back to work," Trace said with a nod to her phone.

  Paige leaned over her desk to read the Caller ED.

  Symphonies, Inc. Office of the CEO.

  Why did that make her heart leap and her throat close? "Yeah, this is a client."

  As Trace passed her desk, he glanced at the readout. "One of your favorites, too." With a brotherly wink, he left her alone to talk to … her client.

  Matt almost hung up before she answered. Why was he calling her first thing in the morning? Was he that gone over her?

  "Paige Ashton."

  Just the sound of her voice answered his question. Yep. That gone. "Don't tell me you don't have Caller ED."

  Her laugh was easy, quick. "I do."

  "And I get the formal hello?"

  "The same hello I give all my clients. No different from my … handshake."

  Yeah. Her handshake. The one that had him nursing severe masculine discomfort all the way back to Half Moon Bay. The handshake that made him sweat.

  "So, how are you this morning?" he asked casually.

  "Fine, thank you. And you?"

  He was the one who said they should keep it businesslike. It was all part of the battle of the brain and the body, and he'd won round one. Barely.

  "I'd like to schedule that tour, and a meeting to go over some of the event details," he said, purposely formal.

  "Of course. How's Friday morning?"

  "How's Saturday night?" Screw formality.

  For a moment she said nothing. He heard a keyboard click. Was she checking her calendar or deliberately making him wait?

  "Let's compromise, Matt." Her voice was silky smooth. Like every other inch of her.

  Oh, boy. Round two would be tough.

  "I can compromise," he agreed.

  "Let's make it Friday afternoon. And if we, uh, run into Friday night, then we'll take it from there."

  He smiled into the phone. "It's a date."

  "No. It's a meeting."

  "Of course," he said with a laugh. "That's what I meant."

  When he hung up, Matt strode over to the window of his office, looking out at the koi pond where a group of software engineers sat around a stone table, a laptop open, a few taking notes, one standing to make an emphatic point.

  That was a meeting, he thought.

  What he had in mind with Paige was … he closed his eyes and remembered the feel of her body as she spread her legs over his lap.

  Shaking his head, he turned back to his desk. For one insane moment he considered calling Auberge to make reservations for the weekend.

  But then he remembered those tears. And his promise to Walker. So, platonic and businesslike it had to be. He could do that, he repeated for the gazillionth time. Couldn't he?

  But maybe he should call that hotel in Napa just in case he lost round two.

  * * *

  Eight

  « ^ »

  Matt pushed his luck by arriving at four-thirty on Friday afternoon. It was technically still afternoon. But perilously close to evening. To dinnertime.

  Paige breezed into the event-planning reception area the minute he arrived.

  "We're too late to take a tour of the winery," she announced, a hint of accusation in her voice.

  He gave her a half smile and made a show of extending his hand. "Hello, Paige."

  She gave him a remarkably unremarkable handshake. He got the message: this is business, buddy.

  "Why don't you come into my office and I can show you the new layout and seating arrangements we've developed?"

  He nodded, following her through a single door and short hallway to a spacious office, past her desk, through a set of French doors to a long, narrow solarium. He barely glanced at the mind-boggling vista of autumn vineyards out the wall of windows; his attention was seized by the conference table covered with sketches.

  She indicated the papers with a sweep of her hand. "You can take a look at these while I get the creative concepts for the invitations. As soon as you select a design, we'll get them into production. They need to be printed and ready for hand addressing by the end of next week."

  She rushed by him, back into the office, but kept talking over her shoulder.

  "We've hired a special sound man, and he's arranged with your technical folks to have the VoiceBox software loaded into his system. He'll be programming songs so that every laptop on every table will have the software on it," she said from her office, gathering papers at her desk. "When we do the seating, we'll match up music with the guests. So it's important, when people RSVP, that they tell us ahead of time who they plan to dress as, so we can have music by that artist."

  Arms crossed, he leaned into the doorway to observe her, unable to wipe the amused look from his face. She was a wh
irling dervish, zinging facts and information and moving at the speed of sound. Was that nerves?

  From his vantage point, he could see her reach way over her desk to get something. His gaze traveled over her trim form, dressed today in gray slacks and a simple black sweater. The pants were just fitted enough to show the outline of her feminine little derriere, and the sweater was just fuzzy enough to make him want to … pet it.

  She straightened and he withdrew from the doorway before she caught him staring.

  "I've also met with the chef, and I've worked out three different menu options with wine recommendations, of course," she said, sailing back into the room and filling any empty table space with more papers.

  She glanced at her watch. "Some sketches of centerpieces were due here by three, but the courier must be late. You're going to love what we came up with for Madonna."

  "A bustier?"

  She snapped her finger. "That reminds me. I wanted to go over a list of speakers with you. Will you be making a formal address?"

  "A bustier reminded you of me making a speech?" He couldn't resist a teasing grin and a gentle tug at the sleeve of her fluffy sweater. "Slow down, will you?"

  "Time is money, they taught us in B-school."

  He pulled out a chair and dropped into it with mock exhaustion. "When you work, you make my head spin, you know that?"

  She gave him a saucy smile. "You should see when I play."

  Desire sucker punched him at the thought.

  "Plus," she narrowed her blue-green eyes at him in accusation, "You are woefully late. We'll never get through all this today."

  "All what?"

  She pointed at the table. "All this."

  He looked at his watch. "It's only four-thirty. You have a date?"

  That made her smile.

  "Tell you what," he said, pulling out the chair next to him. "You sit down, take me through every imaginable detail, then we'll go out to dinner and discuss anything we can't cover here."

  "Okay," she finally said, taking the seat. "But I'm serious, Matt, we've got a lot to cover if we're going to pull off this party."

  He nodded in agreement and scooted his chair closer to her. "I'm all yours."

  "Yeah, right," she mumbled, pulling the sketches closer. "Let's start with the room layout."

  Paige moved through her agenda with speed and efficiency. She had done an impressive job of preparation, offering him two or three creative options for every element of the party and checking off a master list every time he made a decision.

  He'd been so wrapped up in fighting the physical attraction, he'd forgotten how damn bright she was, how focused. He liked the way she concentrated on each issue. He liked the way she presented every idea. He liked the way she argued and analyzed and … smelled. Hell, he loved the way she smelled.

  Inching just a little closer, they examined various invitation concepts, their heads practically touching as they rearranged table placements, finalized the invitation list and reviewed the menu.

  "I'm not so sure about the autumn duck salad," she said, gnawing a little on her bottom lip.

  "Why not?" He was far more interested in the taste of that lip than the duck salad.

  "Because I really think you want a marinated duck breast with butternut squash."

  What he wanted was to kiss that mouth. "I do." He caught himself. "I do?"

  "Mmm." Her eyelids closed with a sensual moan that left him slack-jawed as he watched. "The duck breast is to die for with our sparkling Pinot Noir. Just unimaginably delicious."

  Speaking of delicious… His gaze was riveted to her mouth. Then it dropped to her throat. And landed at the little V-neck of the black sweater.

  "Matt," she said softly.

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm losin' you, buddy."

  He laughed and snagged her gaze. "Quite the contrary. But this talk of marinades and…" breasts "duck is getting me hungry."

  He was perilously close to kissing her. One inch, two and their lips would meet. The air literally hummed between them.

  "Paige? Are you in here?" A voice called from Paige's office.

  Paige jerked her chair back, but not quickly enough.

  A woman stood in the doorway grinning broadly. "Oh, I didn't realize you were with a client."

  He stood immediately, recognizing Megan Ashton and the implication in her voice. He doubted Paige got quite that close to most clients.

  She stood also, smoothing her slacks and stepping a good two feet away from him. "You've met Matt Camberlane, Meg. Matt, my sister Megan Pearce."

  Megan gave him a firm handshake and held his gaze with her brilliant green eyes. "It's nice to see you again, Matt." She looked beyond him at the ocean of paper they'd created on the conference room table. Her lips curled in a teasing smile. "So, are you two making any progress? On the event, I mean."

  He laughed, liking her wit immediately. "Are you kidding? She's a slave driver. Can't even get her to quit for dinner."

  Megan raised one brow and glanced at her sister. "I'm sure you can talk her into a quick bite somewhere."

  The sisters shared a look, making Matt wonder just how much Paige had confided.

  "As a matter of fact, we were just closing up here," he said. As much as he hated to, he knew the right thing to do in this situation. "Would you care to join us for dinner in town?"

  Her eyes widened along with her smile. "Thank you, Matt. But the VoiceBox event is all Paige's, and I'm sure you two have many, uh, details to discuss."

  Paige cleared her throat and put a hand on her hip. "Did you come in here just to throw around innuendos, Meg, or are you saying goodbye for the weekend?"

  Megan laughed lightly and put an affectionate hand on Paige's shoulder. "Both, if you must know the truth. But not for the weekend. I'm coming back tomorrow morning. We're having a … family gathering."

  "Really?" Paige frowned. "First I've heard of it."

  "Evidently the detectives want to review some evidence with all of us and go over the progress of the investigation."

  "On a Saturday?"

  "It's the only time Walker could fly in. He'll be here tomorrow morning. The meeting's at eleven."

  Paige nodded in understanding. "Okay. I hope they've made some progress."

  "We all do." Megan turned to the door and caught Matt's eye. "Great to see you again, Matt. I hope you are thrilled with the Ashton event-planning services."

  "I'm crazy about her—er, them."

  Megan just laughed on her way out.

  They agreed on everything, even the fact that the unseasonably warm evening called for beer, not wine. Tucked into a corner booth at Downtown Joes, one of the most unpretentious restaurants in Napa Valley, Paige and Matt sipped something the microbrewery called Tail Waggin' Amber Ale and listened to the buzz of the locals and the strains of Bruce Springsteen in the background.

  Paige's slender fingers curled around the frosty mug and Matt debated the desire to reach over and take her hand. How could something that felt so right be such a battle?

  Instead he drummed his fingers over the ever-present imaginary keyboard on the table.

  "Where did you learn to play the piano?" she asked.

  "Self-taught."

  "Really? No lessons?"

  He almost laughed. As if they could have afforded lessons. "No, no lessons. No piano in my house." Or apartment. Or trailer. Or wherever Dianne Camberlane was waitressing when he was a child.

  "So how did you learn?"

  "The first piano I ever played was in a bar. Not like this one—" he looked around with a rueful glance "—a little more downscale."

  "Where was that?"

  He took a sip of ale to buy a moment of time and decide how much to reveal. "My mom worked the closing shift one summer when I was eleven or so. She didn't have a sitter, so I used to hang out while she worked."

  "In a bar?" Her eyes, which looked remarkably blue in the dim light of the restaurant, widened.

  And not just any bar
, he thought wryly. The Dragon Lady in Modesto was in a league of lowlife all its own.

  He shrugged. "Yeah, in a bar. But there was this piano, and I started to pluck out songs."

  "By ear?"

  "I have a good ear for music. Then I found some sheet music in the piano bench. Old and yellowed, and left over from the fifties, when," he laughed again, "that piano was last tuned."

  She smiled and ran a finger around the rim of her glass. "Don't tell me. Frank Sinatra songs."

  "You got it, sweetheart." He grinned and hummed the opening notes of "Fly Me to the Moon" as he "played" the table. "I knew those songs because my grandmother, believe it or not, used to play records of Frankie when I would visit her. I guess I was always a bit of a techno nerd. I just started to sight-read music."

  "That's not nerdy. That's genius."

  "Hardly, but there is a close association between math and music. They both come naturally to me. I don't use any of the right fingering. I tried to take formal lessons in college, but didn't learn much except what all the Italian words mean."

  "What Italian words?"

  "Fortissimo. Diminuendo. Pianissimo."

  She gave him a questioning look.

  "Very loud, gradually softer and very soft. The little italic instructions you see on sheet music. Until I took a lesson, I just played that stuff from feel."

  "From feel." She folded her arms over the table. "You are a very sensual man, aren't you?"

  Here we go. Round two about to start. "I like music." He couldn't resist leaning closer and lowering his voice. "Does that make me sensual?"

  "You do everything like that—from feel." Her gaze dropped over his face, lingered on his mouth and returned to his eyes.

  "I trust my gut instinct, if that's what you mean." And his gut was screaming to close the space and devour her with one long Tail Waggin' Amber Ale kiss. "That's how I learned music. And how I got through college and the Army and how I built my business."

  "Is that how you got through your divorce?"

  He inched back, more from the edge in her tone than the fact that they'd never discussed that he'd been married. "I guess if I had trusted my gut instinct on that one, I never would have gotten married."