“Isn’t he?” She scowled and took one step forward.
At the flash of thigh, his mind clouded. “Excuse me?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t play games with me, mister.”
His own ire began to rise, but he didn’t want to provoke her further. “I don’t know anything about binoculars.”
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “So, Cliff, what did you want to talk about?”
His neck warmed. “Clay.”
Her only acknowledgment was the slight lift of one eyebrow.
In the course of his job to convince venture capitalists to invest in his clients’ projects, he’d become a master at interpreting people’s expressions, and never had one simple tic infuriated him so. He perused the rigid set of her chin and experienced an uneasy premonition that the woman before him had the potential to unleash more grief than the Castleberry men could handle. The sooner he dispensed with the preliminaries, the better.
“Ms. Coakley, I have a proposition for you.”
Chapter Three
ANNABELLE SURVEYED THE IMPOSING MAN who had so effectively dismissed her on the subway. The fact that he didn’t even recognize her stiffened her backbone. The cad. No wonder he’d looked familiar—Clay Castleberry resembled his celebrity father in coloring and profile, and, considering his provocative statement, in attitude as well. “A proposition?”
“Perhaps we should step inside.”
She hesitated. His arrogant demeanor triggered a row of red warning flags that stretched as far as her mind’s eye could see. Still, anything she could find out about the Castleberry family might give her ammunition when reasoning with Belle. Wordlessly, she swept an arm toward the interior of the house, then retreated to allow him to enter. Annabelle pressed her back against the door to avoid contact, but the man’s intensity grazed her as tangibly as his arm might have, dredging up an alarming swirl of awareness, which she attributed to too many evenings chatting with her cat.
He had traded the suit for taupe slacks and a long sleeve wheat-colored shirt—expensively cut with a price tag to match, she presumed. He was tall, probably six-two or -three, with powerful shoulders and thighs that strained against his clothing when he moved. She wondered what he did for a living that allowed him to spend enough hours at the gym to maintain that fabulous physique. Tilting her head, she noted the close-clipped hair, the bronzed skin, the confident air—on second thought, Mr. Silver Spoon probably owned a gym.
She walked behind him the few paces to the living room and gestured toward the yellow French country couch and chairs. “Have a seat.”
He gave the room a quick once-over, then pivoted in the center of the area rug to face her. “I’ll stand.”
She remained in the doorway, a couple of strides from the front door, which she’d left ajar. Flies be damned—a girl couldn’t be too careful with a Castleberry in the vicinity. “Suit yourself.”
His gaze traveled the length of her, triggering a ruffled sense of deja vu. She’d taken the time to jam her feet into a pair of her mother’s house shoes she stumbled over in the hallway. Admittedly the fur-trimmed white mules were a bit frou-frou, but at least her blue-tipped toes were covered. She knotted the robe tie again for extra security and drew herself up. “Now, what’s this all about, Mr. Castleberry?”
He pursed his mouth, as if mulling words, then his face took on the lines of granite. He withdrew a fat white envelope from his front pocket and extended it to her.
Confused, Annabelle took the package. “Is this some kind of dossier?”
“Open it.”
She didn’t like the tone of his voice, but she slid a short nail under the flap of the envelope. Her heart kicked up at the sight of one hundred dollar bills—lots of them—and she nearly dropped the packet. “What is this?”
“Twenty thousand dollars. Yours, Ms. Coakley, if you walk away from this little charade.” He remained unsmiling.
Bewilderment clogged her brain and her throat.
His face gentled for the briefest second. “My father is a sweet, gullible old man who is an easy target for young women who are charmed by his nostalgic celebrity.” His voice was low and soothing, as if he were speaking to a child. “But believe me, it would be better for all involved if you took this money and disappeared for a few weeks.”
She shook her head to clear it.
“Don’t be so hasty,” he warned. “I’m doing you a favor. After all, what kind of a life would a young woman like you have with a seventy-five-year-old man?”
Annabelle stared until anger and disbelief began to dawn. Surely this man didn’t think that she was her mother? She looked at the money in her hand, then back to Clay Castleberry. “You can’t be serious.”
His gaze bore into her. “Oh, but I am.”
“You’re offering me twenty thousand dollars?”
He stepped closer, invading her personal space, and his expression turned mocking. “Not enough to make you forget true love?” His voice shifted from silk to sandpaper. He stood so close she could feel the air displacement from his warm breath. “Spare me the fairy tale, Ms. Coakley. My father is the romantic—I don’t believe in happy endings.”
The man was giving her insight into the kind of family her mother was about to marry into, reinforcing her motivation to rescue Belle. The knowledge that Clay Castleberry had so grossly misinterpreted the situation emboldened her—she had the advantage.
After an appropriate pause, she asked, “And what do you expect in return for the payment?” She conjured up a syrupy smile—fortunately, lawyering required that she master a certain amount of theatrics.
Triumph licked at one corner of his broad unsmiling mouth. “You’ll break off the engagement, then leave town for a while.”
He stopped, as if allowing her to memorize his orders before proceeding—the man was apparently used to giving commands.
“Then I’ll take Martin on a vacation to distract him. When he returns, you’ll have changed your phone number and become immune to his attention. Understood?”
Feeling uncharacteristically wicked, Annabelle ran her thumb over the stack of bills. “And if I don’t?”
He leaned closer still and placed one hand against the wall over her shoulder. With a half-turn she could have escaped his towering presence, but she remained frozen to the spot. Her breathing became more shallow and she was increasingly aware of her state of near undress. His eyes weren’t black after all, but the deepest blue, and framed with enough lines to put him in his early to mid-thirties. His skin emitted a minty aroma—shaving cream, she decided, since his clenched jaw looked newly shorn.
“If you don’t,” he whispered, his mouth set in a straight line, “I will make things, shall we say, difficult?”
She considered her options and decided laughing in his face would be best—and just. Her mouth twitched.
“Twenty-five thousand,” he murmured, his voice as sensuous as if he were paying her the grandest of compliments. “And not a penny more.”
Even as her fury bloomed, her body responded to his nearness, the traitor. Annabelle wet her lips, perversely driven to provoke the arrogant man. “And what if I told you that I’m devoted to your father?”
*****
For a few seconds, panic drove all other emotion from Clay’s chest. This woman exhibited more spunk than the others—was it possible she actually cared for Martin, or was she simply more determined? He searched her face for sincerity, but her intriguing eyes were unreadable. A few strands of walnut-colored hair had dried and fallen forward to frame a face comprised of uncommonly elegant bone structure. Her skin glowed clean and translucent, her cheeks pink, her freckles prominent. The aroma of baby powder invaded his nostrils, reminding him she had recently stepped from the shower and was most likely nude beneath her robe. How many times had his father seen her wearing this robe…and less?
A twinge of envy fluttered in his stomach, but anger chased away the inappropriate feelings as he acknowledged
the woman would enjoy knowing she was pushing the buttons of both Castleberry men. Struggling to regain control of the situation, his gaze lit upon her mouth, full and rosy. On impulse, he curled his hand around the nape of her neck and dragged her mouth to his. He had no reason to hesitate—his instincts had never led him astray.
Clay registered lush softness and exquisite flavors before she realized he was kissing her. She gasped and stiffened, but he captured her hands and chased her mouth as she tried to wrench away, pressing her shoulders into the wall. She grunted and bit down, but he levered his mouth and stilled her squirming by imprisoning her legs with his, maintaining constant but gentle pressure on her lips.
At last her resistance petered out and she relaxed under his persuasive ministrations. Clay softened the kiss and coaxed her tongue until her mouth moved willingly under his. He had proved his point, but he prolonged the kiss for the sake of sheer accomplishment. When he lifted his head, the sight of her flushed face, disarrayed hair, and swollen mouth fueled his desire. The robe had parted just enough to reveal the swell of her cleavage. His body responded and he very nearly kissed her again. Instead, still leaning into her with their fingers entwined, Clay smirked. “Devoted to my father, did you say?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re despicable.”
For a moment, Clay thought she might spit in his face and the idea amused him. He laughed as he released her and stepped back. The money had fallen to the floor and the bills lay strewn like a forgotten newspaper. She turned her back to straighten her robe, her movements jerky. He scooped up the money, trying not to stare at the slender lines of her calves and ankles, elevated in those ridiculous shoes. Tapping the stack of bills even on a mahogany sideboard, Clay decided the impromptu kiss had been worth the extra five thousand. And he was definitely doing Martin a favor by driving this one away—if their embattled kiss was any indication of the depths of her passion, he had spared his father a certain heart attack during the honeymoon.
“Then we have a deal, Ms. Coakley?”
She still stood with her back to him, her shoulders rising and falling, but at his words, she turned. Anger rolled off her in waves, filling the room. “Take your filthy money and get out.”
Clay tamped his irritation, reminding himself of his goal. “Taking advantage of my father’s hospitality and generosity might be fun for you at the moment,” he said patiently, “but I have news for you, Ms. Coakley. I own the house, the pool and all the other toys you undoubtedly find so intriguing. I also control my father’s purse strings. I’ve dealt with your kind before and I can assure you, you have no place in this family. We don’t like outsiders.”
Her mouth tightened. “Leave now or I’ll call the police.”
He ground his teeth, then advanced slowly, making a show of counting the bills. “I was beginning to think you were smarter than the others. Was I wrong?”
She reached for the phone, but he reacted quickly and covered her hand with his own, stilling her movement. Her hand was small and ringless, and her skin felt hot—or was the heat his own? He held up the money with his free hand. “If you don’t cooperate, Ms. Coakley, you’ll be sorry you ever met me.”
Her gaze locked with his and a clock somewhere ticked off several loud seconds. Clay realized he was holding his breath. God, she really was lovely.
“I’m already sorry I met you, Mr. Castleberry. Now get your hand off me.”
Her chest rose and fell in a quick rhythm. Her clenched jaw defined her cheekbones and the faint impressions of high dimples. Although he itched to kiss her again, he knew resolve when he saw it, and released her hand. Suddenly tired, Clay shoved the money into his pocket, tempted to let his father drown in his own foolishness this time. Martin hadn’t made a responsible decision on his own since Clay’s mother had died, and Clay was weary of cleaning up his messes. This woman promised to be a thorn in his side, and he didn’t need the hassle. But deep-seated protective feelings for his father compelled him to goad her one last time.
“By the way, I’ll be sure to let Martin know just how devoted you are to him.”
He saw her hand coming, and allowed her to slap him. In fact, he’d expected no less from her. Clay rubbed his stinging jaw.
“Annabelle?”
At the sound of another woman’s voice, Clay swung toward the front door. A middle-aged woman stood inside the foyer, her face a mask of surprise, her eyes darting back and forth between him and the woman who’d slapped him.
For a few seconds, no one spoke, then the young robed woman laughed a bit nervously. “Surprise…Mother. I thought we could spend some time together before…you know.” Their embrace was a bit abrupt, though they appeared happy to see one another.
Clay’s confusion doubled when his father stepped in behind the older woman, his eyes wide and searching. “Clayton? I thought that was your car in the driveway. What are you doing here, son?”
He cast about for an appropriately vague answer, his mind spinning. “My, um, business in Paris ended sooner than I expected.”
Martin Castleberry frowned. “But what are you doing here, at Belle’s?” He placed a hand on the older woman’s shoulder, and Clay had the first horrible inkling that something was very wrong. He glanced at the young woman, and her smug look reinforced his suspicion. She angled her chin and adopted an expression of ‘We’re waiting.’
“Well, I…that is, we—”
“You won’t believe it,” the young woman cut in, her eyes never leaving his. “Clay and I met accidentally on the train from the airport and he offered to drive me out. Quite a coincidence, huh?”
Clay blinked and a memory surfaced of a slender woman in overalls on the train staring at him. Mentally, he subtracted the yellow sunglasses, freed the bound hair and replaced the baggy clothes with the silky wrap. He couldn’t see her blue-tipped toes, but it was the same woman, all right. Dammit, she’d somehow known who he was all along.
The older woman gave the short robe a worried glance, then smiled a bit shakily. “Martin, this is my daughter, Annabelle.”
Martin beamed and extended his hand. “What a pleasure. Belle has told me so much about you.” He lifted his gaze to Clay, whose limbs felt stiff with impending doom. “Clay, I want you to meet the most important woman in my life.” He gave the older woman’s shoulder a squeeze. “This is Belle Coakley, my fiancée.”
Clay’s lips moved and he forced some inane pleasantry through his teeth. Meanwhile, his heart raced and heat flooded his face. Annabelle Coakley looked as if she were enjoying his torment immensely. Clay set his jaw, which still tingled from her slap. He’d mistaken the woman’s daughter for the bride-to-be, and the little phony had played along. What kind of trick did she have up her sleeve? Did she think she could extort even more than he’d offered?
Belle clapped her hands. “Oh, isn’t this the most wonderful turn of events? Annabelle is here early and Clayton has come home. The two of you can help us plan the ceremony, and—” she dimpled, “—we can all get to know each other.” She gave Annabelle another hug, this one affording Clay a generous view of the back of Annabelle’s toned thighs. He averted his gaze and gave his father a tight smile.
Martin crossed to him and clapped him on the back. “Our marriage was going to be a surprise, son, but I couldn’t be happier to have you here.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “This is the one, Clay. Just look at her, isn’t she something?”
Clay stared at the two women standing arm in arm, but his attention kept straying to the dark-haired beauty who had duped him. Annabelle wore an expression of veiled loathing. “She’s something, all right.”
“Is that a one hundred dollar bill?” Belle asked, stooping to pick up a bill lying on the foyer tile.
Clay’s stomach flipped over, and the wad of cash in his pocket burned his thigh.
“Oh, that’s mine,” Annabelle said. “I must have dropped it. I…don’t have a pocket,” she said, gesturing to her robe as if she made perfect sense. “In fact—”
She beamed. “—lunch is on me.”
Clay looked to the ceiling—how magnanimous of her.
“Great,” Martin said in a happy, booming voice. “Let’s order take-out and have lunch around the pool. I can’t think of a better way to catch up on everyone’s life.” His father grinned. “I’m so glad you kids are already acquainted. How serendipitous for you to meet! It must be a good omen. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the future—holidays, maybe even family vacations.”
Clay scowled.
“Just think,” Belle said, her bubbly mood matching his father’s as she squeezed Annabelle tighter, “none of us have to be alone any longer—we’ll be one big, happy family.”
But one look at Annabelle Coakley’s narrowed eyes and kiss-bruised mouth and Clay felt decidedly unhappy.
Chapter Four
“MOM,” ANNABELLE SAID, holding up a bright pink teeny-weeny bikini. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Belle pursed her lips and nodded. “You’re right—the pink will wash you out. Try the green suit, dear.” Then her mother turned back to the vanity mirror to pat her hair, which had, since Annabelle’s last visit, transformed from salt and pepper gray to a shade that fell somewhere between butter and Parkay margarine.
Annabelle rehung the barely-there suit in the closet of the Castleberry changing house and drew a deep breath for patience. “I meant spending the afternoon with the Castleberrys isn’t a good idea.” A strip of aqua colored pool water winked at her through a shuttered window. The otherwise soothing sight rankled her, as did the familiarity with which her mother moved about this man’s property, and even the posh amenities in the changing cottage. Leather furniture, pale textured wallpaper, real artwork, terra cotta tiled floors—the place was nicer than the home she was agonizing over buying. “How about just you and I zip down to Buckhead for lunch?”
Stop the Wedding! Page 3
