The Highest Bidder

by Roxanne St Claire

  "Don't you have any new leads?" he asked, impatience coloring his tone.

  Of course he was impatient. He hadn't flown in from South Dakota for a recap, Paige thought. Or just to plant seeds of doubt in Paige's heart.

  Dan Ryland nodded. "That's why we're here, Mr. Ashton. As you know, several weeks ago a teenager admitted he'd been paid by a stranger to pick Grant Ashton out of a line up. In exchange for leniency, this young man agreed to help us create a sketch of the person who paid him."

  Ryland's partner, a no-nonsense woman by the name of Nicole Holbrook, began distributing papers to everyone.

  A palpable sense of hope filled the room as they all studied the image intently, silently. A pencil drawing of a balding, beady-eyed man stared back at Paige, someone she'd guess was in his late forties. Someone, she'd hoped, who held the answer to the mystery of who murdered her father.

  "Do you have any idea who this is?" Trace asked.

  "We haven't yet made a positive identification," Ryland responded. "Although we have been running checks through various national law-enforcement databases. So far, there's no match to anyone who has ever been arrested or charged with a crime."

  "There has to be some way to find out who this man is," Lilah insisted, her challenging glare locked on the detective. "This is taking entirely too long."

  Stephen reached forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. "It does take time, Lilah," he said softly.

  "And perhaps you can help," Detective Ryland added, obviously unaffected by Lilah's insinuation that they weren't doing enough.

  "How?" Trace and Walker asked simultaneously.

  "By sharing this photo with every employee of every Ashton business." This time he looked at Walker and Trace. "By searching any videotapes of winery tours, interviewing the security guards at the Ashton-Lattimer Company, reviewing any files that could contain photos of individuals who had business with the family, with Spencer or with any Ashton business."

  "Isn't that your job?" Lilah demanded again.

  "I'll get this sketch into the hands of everyone who works at Ashton-Lattimer," Walker offered, ignoring his aunt.

  "And I'll get it through the winery," Trace agreed. Ryland nodded. "Please run every cross-check you can."

  "We maintain proof sheets of the photos taken at every event held at the winery," Megan said. "And almost every guest is captioned with a name."

  "That's right," Paige nodded. "I'll go through the event photo files this afternoon." Although she seriously doubted the beady-eyed man had partied in the ballroom, it was a perfect diversion to keep her mind off the conversation with Walker … and the evening she had planned with Matt.

  Stephen Cassidy looked hard at Detective Ryland. "Have you shared this with Caroline Sheppard's family?"

  The detective shook his head. "Not yet. We will shortly." He glanced around the room at the other family members. "This is not necessarily a sketch of the murderer, but it is reasonable to assume this man has information about the crime."

  "Or has a beef against Grant," Trace added.

  "We've considered that option," the detective agreed. "We've got every available resource on the investigation."

  As the detectives packed up, Walker cleared his throat and looked at Paige. "Can you stay here for a few minutes, Paige?"

  Her heart dropped. Was he going to publicly chastise her for spending the night with his friend? She gave him a hard look, and he shook his head slightly as though he could read her mind. "We'd all like to hear about your trip to The Vines," he assured her.

  Lilah escorted the two detectives into the foyer, where Irena showed them the door. When Paige's mother returned to the library, her shoulders seemed to sag ever so slightly. Stephen Cassidy put a comforting arm around her and led her across the library to a chair.

  Next to Paige, Trace folded his arms behind his head and blew out a frustrated breath. "They've got to find this guy."

  "They're getting closer," Walker said. "And we'll do everything we can to help."

  Lilah held up a hand to quiet them. "Now that we're all together, we need to discuss another issue." She spoke in general, but directed her attention to Paige. "What did you learn when you visited Louret, Paige? Is that woman still determined to contest your father's will?"

  "That woman" would be Caroline Sheppard, but Paige bit back the correction. Lilah was loath to even acknowledge the existence of Spencer Ashton's previous wife, as they all knew from the way she'd treated Caroline's daughters when they'd shown up to make a sympathy call.

  "To be honest, Mother, I don't think Caroline wants to pursue any legal action."

  "That's a relief," Lilah said, with another knowing glance at Stephen.

  "But Eli still does," Paige added.

  Trace stifled a groan. "That guy's a loose cannon."

  "I have had some informal conversations with their lawyers," Stephen announced. "They haven't made a decision yet regarding pursuing legal action, but they see it as two separate issues—contesting the will and contesting the divorce settlement."

  Lilah paled, and Stephen's expression softened. "We'll handle this, Lilah," he promised.

  Trace suddenly stood and dug his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. "There has to be a better way than long, drawn-out litigation."

  Normally Paige would have jumped on that fair-minded concept, but she just stared ahead, hearing the words, but still thinking about the pronouncement Walker had made that morning.

  He's not interested in you. He was doing a good deed.

  Megan laid a gentle hand on Paige's arm. "You okay?" she whispered.

  Paige gave her a quick nod and forced herself back to the present. "To be honest, they couldn't have been more accommodating when I visited," she told the group. "I was … impressed by their class."

  Lilah bit back a decidedly unladylike snort, and Trace looked to the ceiling with a disgusted breath of disbelief.

  As much as she longed for an end to the fighting between the half siblings, Paige had to admit that not all members of this family were ready for mending fences. And from what Jillian and Caroline had implied, neither were the men of the other family.

  "I recommend we focus all efforts on helping the police find out who this man is," Stephen said, lifting a copy of the sketch from a desk. "Until this murder's solved, all the legal issues are moot."

  For once, they all agreed.

  By four o'clock Paige had looked at hundreds of pictures—hardcopy and digital—for a face that matched the sketch the police had shown them. Glancing at her watch, she decided to go through one more file before heading to her room for a good long soak and at least an hour of careful preparations.

  He really liked the black lace underwear, she thought with a wicked smile. Maybe she'd wear red tonight.

  Crackles of anticipation sparked through her as she opened the last file folder. And not because she thought she'd find the beady-eyed man.

  She'd done an excellent job of silencing that nasty old voice of reason, as well as the even louder voice of her cousin Walker. Instead she'd just let the pleasant buzz of sexual tension sing through her veins all afternoon. She literally couldn't wait to get back to him. To kiss and touch and taste each other again.

  A soft moan escaped her lips, and she forced herself to focus on the pictures in front of her.

  And the first face she saw made her heart jump. It wasn't a match to the sketch, but a match to the man whose image danced around in her head.

  Matthias Camberlane, the caption read, Attending the Annual Bachelorette Auction for the Candlelighters of Northern California. She'd forgotten his name was Matthias and not Matthew. Where did that name come from, she wondered, making a mental note to ask him later. In bed. Naked.

  With a smile that couldn't be erased, she studied the picture, lingering on his handsome face, his steel-gray eyes, his fabulous six-foot-two-inch body encased in a very expensive suit.

  Matthias Camberlane. Her lover.

  The cap
tion described him as A Self-Made Millionaire and Founder of Symphonies, Inc. Dropping her chin into her palms, she leaned forward and whispered, "Oh, but you're so much more than that, darling."

  Slowly she turned the photo and discovered more captioned proofs that had been sent to the local papers. She skimmed the rows of pictures only halfheartedly searching for the beady-eyed target. In truth, she was looking for gray eyes. And chestnut-brown hair. And that sinfully talented mouth.

  And there it was. That sinfully talented mouth smack-dab against the ear of … bachelorette number eleven, if memory served her right. The perky little brunette had one hand on his fabulous shoulder, the other draped possessively over that impressive chest.

  Then she found him again. This time he had his arm around a statuesque blonde. Number four, Paige thought. Tara Something or Other from San Francisco.

  And there was the good-looking self-made millionaire yet again. Flanked, in this photo, by a stunning set of redheaded twins. They'd gone for fifteen hundred apiece on a double-date special.

  Paige slumped back in her chair.

  You're not his type, honey. She could still hear Walker's voice. He felt sorry for you.

  And, face it, Walker was right. Plain-brain Paige, the girl with hazel eyes and mouse-brown hair was not playing on the same field as these knockouts.

  Torturing herself, Paige read the attached caption as it had been given to the photographer and then, the file noted, printed in the San Francisco Chronicle society column. "I can't believe I was outbid," Matt Camberlane stated. "I really wanted them both."

  Her heart dropped into her stomach. And the voice of reason made a sudden, unscheduled appearance in her head.

  You're a fool, Paige Ashton. You were squirming under the lights and he was doing … a good deed.

  At the tap on her office door, Paige turned the photo facedown.

  "Any luck, sweetie?" Megan asked.

  Paige shook her head and closed the file. "Nope."

  "Same in the winery. I've just been helping Trace's staff go through the records there. Nada." Megan gave her long, curious look. "Simon wants to get a bite in town and catch a movie. You want to join us tonight?"

  Paige stared at her sister and waited for the voice of reason to holler out some advice.

  One good deed deserves another. "Yeah, Meg. I'd like that. I need to get my mind off … work."

  He'd never been stood up before.

  Matt stared at the keys of the Steinway, at the reflection of his fingers against the polished ebony of the piano dancing in what was left of the firelight.

  He played the first few bittersweet notes of an old Cole Porter song, but swore when he missed a G-sharp.

  Glancing at his cell phone—his extremely quiet cell phone—on top of the piano, he fought the urge to listen to Paige's voice mail message again.

  Nah. Maybe he should belt down another shot of Scotch instead.

  Disgusted, he pushed the bench out from underneath him and strode across the expanse of his living room, the sounds of the surf of Half Moon Bay drifting up the hilltop and through the open windows.

  He'd gone for romance, all right. Wine, candles, fire, gourmet food and Of Blue Eyes on the invisible sound system that permeated every room.

  Pouring that last shot he didn't want, Matt sank into a leather chair and set the glass down without drinking. He didn't need to listen to his voice mail because he'd memorized the message. She'd left it at four thirty-five; he'd been out on his lawn putting the final touches on a beach-view cocktail area for them and had left his cell phone in the kitchen.

  Her voice had been tight but serious. No joke. No real apology, he noticed. Just a brief and businesslike cancellation.

  "This is Paige Ashton," she'd said. As if he knew another Paige. "It looks like our family meeting is going to run well into the evening. So, I'll e-mail you all the follow-up from our meeting and will touch base with your assistant this week as the RSVPs start coming in. Thanks."

  How well into the evening? Should he drive up there? Call her? Send flowers? Throw rocks at her bedroom window?

  What the hell had happened to him? He had a crush, for God's sake. A stupid, massive, heart-crunching crush on a woman and … she'd stood him up.

  He walked over to the piano and grabbed the cell phone. Not only had she stood him up—she'd done it by leaving a message. Something wasn't right. This just wasn't like Paige. Maybe something was wrong. Maybe…

  He started to dial the Napa Valley area code then stopped, raking a hand through his hair. What was the matter with him?

  Dropping onto the piano bench, he stared at the phone. What if something was wrong?

  Something was wrong.

  Paige was not here, not in his arms, not at his romantic little dinner on the patio and not in his bed. Where he wanted her. Tonight. And tomorrow. And the next night. And…

  Jeez. He stabbed another cell number from memory into the phone.

  "Yeah?" Walker answered on the first ring, impatience clear in his tone.

  "Hey, Walker, it's Matt."

  His friend didn't say anything for a minute, then gave a quick intake of breath. "What's the matter? Is Paige okay?"

  Matt's chest tightened. "I'm not with Paige. I thought you were."

  Walker laughed briefly. "Unless she's wandering around the Pine Ridge rez in South Dakota, she's not with me."

  Matt blinked and held the phone away from his ear in disbelief. "Didn't your family meeting go, uh, well into the night?"

  "I think you have been had, Matty boy," Walker said with a quick laugh. "Our meeting was over before lunch. I flew back this afternoon. To be with Tamra. A rendezvous, I might add, that you are interrupting."

  "Sorry," Matt mumbled. "I guess she changed her mind."

  "Or," Walker said quietly, "I might have changed it for her."

  "What?"

  "I caught her coming in this morning."

  Matt swallowed, expecting the full fireworks from Walker. "Yeah, we, uh, got together last night."

  "I figured."

  "What did you say to her?"

  Walker snorted softly. "I warned her, that's all. Same as I did you. But she's a grown woman, a fact that no doubt has caught your attention. I can't control my little cousin."

  But evidently Walker could control her. Or at least convince her to stay away from him. "I really like her, Walker."

  "I've seen what you do to women you like."

  "I've never intentionally hurt anyone," he said defensively. "And I don't intend to hurt Paige."

  All Matt could hear was the clean silence of their satellite connection. Then he thought he heard Tamra say something in the background.

  "Hey, man, I didn't mean to interrupt. Apologies to Tamra."

  "Listen, Matty," Walker said, after a moment of muffled conversation with his fiancée. "I told Paige you bid on her because you felt sorry for her."

  "You did what?"

  "It's the truth, isn't it?"

  Regret rolled over him. Yeah, for one second, it had been the truth. And he'd even said that to Walker. But one look into those blue-green eyes. One conversation … one kiss … one unbelievable night…

  "Walker," he said slowly, the truth of what he was about to admit hitting him hard. "This is different."

  "Yeah." Walker could pack a whole bunch of cynicism into one syllable. "Prove it."

  "Prove it?"

  Then, for the first time in hours, Matt smiled. There were few things in life he liked as much as a challenge.

  * * *

  Eleven

  « ^ »

  Paige looked across the conference table at Matt, who was studying the song list she'd just presented to him. And as in every other meeting they'd had during the past three weeks—and there had been plenty—her empty stomach tightened.

  Empty because he always managed to arrange their meetings near lunchtime. Or dinner. And the occasional breakfast.

  So they weren't technically dates, thos
e long lunches and dinners that just naturally occurred after their meetings. They were just two business … sharing stories and easy laughs. They always included notebooks and agendas and items for discussion.

  Even though they discussed family—his and hers—as much as work. And their childhoods. And their dreams. And their favorite songs, books and movies.

  But never once did those "meetings" include a mention of the night they'd made love, or the dinner date at his house that never happened.

  That was why her stomach—empty or otherwise—tightened. That and the fact that just looking at him made her ache. Listening to him made her weak. And working side by side on every minor detail of the VoiceBox launch party just made her … happy. There was no other word for it.

  Well, there was. But it wasn't a word she dared use when she thought about Matt Camberlane. Which was just about every minute of every day.

  "I don't see much country on here," he commented, looking up at her with those tantalizing gray eyes. "Didn't someone say they are coming as Faith Hill and Tim McGraw?"

  She frowned. "I know we've programmed in a bunch of Garth Brooks, but I'll check with the sound man tomorrow. There's still time."

  But not much. The event was three days away, and this late-Friday-afternoon meeting at his office was one of her last legitimate opportunities to be with Matt. After this, their business was over. The thought made her throat swell, and she forced the lump away.

  He'd done his good deed, and she'd done one right back by coordinating a killer event. They were square.

  It wasn't his fault she'd gone and fallen in love with him in the process.

  He put the song sheet away and picked up the next item: the final menu.

  "I made some last-minute changes to the appetizers," she commented, gnawing her lip as her gaze took a leisurely trip over the snug fit of his blue oxford shirt. Those arms had held her all night one time.

  Would he ever hold her again?

  Not likely. And heaven knew he'd had enough opportunities since the day she'd canceled their dinner date.

  But he'd been nothing but a perfect gentleman. Warm, friendly, professional. He listened and talked and made her laugh, he advised and shared his opinions and congratulated her on every great idea.