When they’d finished, Asha had taken one look at Reese and sighed. “Darling, you’re a vision.” While Reese twirled in front of the full-length mirror, Asha had murmured under her breath, “If this doesn’t do the trick, nothing will.”
“Everyone has been buzzing about today’s show,” Celeste said, breaking into Reese’s musings. “If I didn’t know better, I would think it was Michael’s, not Asha’s party.” The satisfied gleam in her eyes made it clear what she thought of anyone stealing Asha’s spotlight.
After everything Asha had done for Reese, she would have felt guilty taking sides against her. And she didn’t necessarily agree with Celeste’s assessment, anyway.
But one thing every attendee could agree upon that night: both Michael and Asha knew how to throw one hell of a party. Asha had spared no expense, and Michael’s catering crew had more than delivered. The food had been lavish and plentiful, wine flowed freely and the decorations were top-notch. The lush garden sparkled with thousands of fairy lights, and piazzas had been specially erected on platforms to represent Asha’s new line of Italian-inspired clothing. Tables grouped together invited guests to linger after dinner to enjoy the starlight and the elegant music provided by a five-string quartet.
As Reese surveyed the sea of strangers garbed in glittering attire, she was struck by the presence of celebrities and fashion heavyweights who had turned out en masse to celebrate the opening of Asha’s latest boutique. There were editors from Vogue, Mademoiselle, Essence, Cosmopolitan, along with some international reporters and members of the local press.
With Samara in tow, Asha circulated among her guests—greeting friends with double-cheek kisses, introducing acquaintances and lightly admonishing reporters who tried to claim an exclusive with her. “The time for interviews is over, chère, ” she could be heard saying. “Now it’s time to play.”
She was totally in her element.
And so, apparently, was Michael.
As Reese’s gaze traveled reluctantly across the garden, she saw him and Quentin surrounded by—what else?—a group of leggy, gorgeous models. It was easy to see why the women had flocked to the two friends, who were devastatingly handsome in black tuxedos that made nearly every other man present look like penguins in comparison. As Reese watched, one of the runway kittens leaned close to whisper something in Michael’s ear. The sight of his slow, lazy smile was like a knife between Reese’s ribs.
Between overseeing his catering staff and mingling with the guests, she hadn’t expected to see much of Michael that evening. But she hadn’t expected him to completely ignore her, either. She was surprised by how hurt she felt. Hurt and angry.
Celeste, who had followed the direction of her gaze, regarded Reese with an expression of gentle maternal sympathy. “Boys will be boys,” she quipped in a feeble attempt at humor.
Reese forced a shrug and an aloof smile.
Inwardly she knew she had no right to expect Michael to spend time with her, especially not after the way she’d practically laughed in his face at the mere suggestion of him being boyfriend material. She wasn’t trying to be unkind, but he’d reacted angrily, as though he were deeply offended.
After taping their promo commercial on Thursday, he’d rushed off for a lunch date, and that was the last time Reese had seen him—until today. He’d been so good with her that morning, holding her hand and trying to ease her stage fright. And she would never, ever forget the look on his face as he’d watched her walk toward him. How could he look at her that way, with such tenderness and fierce pride, then turn around and treat her like she didn’t even exist?
And here you are thinking you are the expert on giving mixed signals, her conscience mocked.
“Grant and I are going inside for a while,” Celeste told Reese. “Why don’t you come with us, get off your feet for a bit?”
Reese thought of the separate party that was going on inside the main house, where several guests had gathered in the spacious living room to watch the season premiere of Howlin’ Good. The last thing she needed was a reminder of how much chemistry she and Michael shared.
“That’s okay,” she said, flashing a bright smile at Celeste. “I’m fine out here. In fact, I think I’ll go find Samara. She begged me to rescue her from her mother’s clutches at some point this evening.”
Celeste looked unconvinced, but she smiled and allowed herself to be led away by Grant.
As Reese started across the garden, she snagged a flute of champagne from a tray carried by a white-gloved waiter. She sipped, smiling when she spied Marcus leading Samara onto the empty dance floor. If anyone could rescue Samara from Asha, it was her husband.
Ignoring the interested stares of several men she passed, Reese found an empty table and sat down. “Hey, beautiful.”
She glanced up, surprised to find Quentin towering over her, his bright hazel eyes twinkling with that irrepressible mischief she remembered so well. She smiled. “Hey, yourself.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.” Reese wondered if any female with functioning X chromosomes ever refused Quentin Reddick.
He folded his long body into a chair and stretched out his endless legs. “Having a good time?”
Reese grinned. “Not as good a time as you were obviously having with Asha’s models.”
He chuckled lazily. “Blame it on my personal motto.”
“Which is?”
“Work hard, play even harder.”
Reese’s grin widened. When she made an exaggerated show of glancing over his broad shoulder, Quentin eyed her curiously.
“What’re you looking for?” he asked.
“The string of broken hearts you left in your wake on your way over here.”
He laughed, the sound curling around her like a drift of smoke. “I like you.”
She fluttered her lashes at him. “Oh, Quentin,” she said in a breathy voice. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Again he laughed, shaking his head at her. “Gorgeous and sassy. Damn, girl, you are deadly.”
“Thanks.” Reese grinned, raising her glass in a mock toast before taking a long sip.
A companionable silence lapsed between them as they watched Marcus and Samara swaying together on the dance floor, lost in their own private world.
“It’s like being at their wedding again,” Quentin murmured.
Reese smiled softly. “I bet it was beautiful. This garden has ‘romantic wedding’
written all over it.”
“It was. Most definitely.” He slid a glance at her. “Even Mike cried.”
Reese gaped at him. “He did? ”
Quentin laughed. “Well, he got choked up,” he amended, as if he realized he’d violated an unwritten rule of brotherhood: never make your best friend look like a sap to a member of the opposite sex.
“There’s nothing wrong with men crying at weddings,” Reese remarked.
“Especially your brother’s wedding. I know how close Michael and Marcus are. I’m sure he was very happy for him.”
“Of course,” Quentin agreed. “We all were. Especially since no one saw it coming.”
“Oh? Did Marcus have commitment issues like his brother?” The moment the words left her mouth, Reese wished she could snatch them back. She’d all but confessed to Quentin that she was falling for his best friend, something she wasn’t even ready to admit to herself.
Quentin’s eyes narrowed on her face, silently assessing her. After a prolonged moment he nodded slowly, though Reese didn’t know whether he was responding to her question or confirming a suspicion about her.
A small, rueful smile touched his mouth. “When we were growing up, there were these two old ladies who used to congregate on their front porch. Every poor neighborhood has them—the nosy old gossips who keep the grapevine going. Mike’s parents’ divorce was one of the juiciest scandals to ever hit the block, because of the way things went down.
After Mike’s mom moved out, every time he
and I walked to the corner store, we’d pass those two old ladies. And without fail, we’d hear them cluck their tongues and say to each other—and I quote—‘Gonna take a miracle to tame those Wolf boys. Both of them are gonna be heartbreakers. You can thank their mama for that.’”
Reese stared at him. “Every time?”
“Every time.”
She grimaced and shook her head sympathetically. “That must have been really hard for Michael, having to hear that all the time.”
Quentin shrugged. “He got used to it eventually, learned to tune them out. Two years later he was off to college, and poor Marcus had to deal with it. Anyway, you mentioned their commitment issues, so I just wanted to give you some context.”
Reese nodded slowly. “What you’re telling me is that Michael and Marcus were really scarred by their parents’ divorce.”
“Yeah,” Quentin said quietly. “But I’m not going to get into specifics. I’ll let Mike do that.”
“What makes you think he’s going to confide in me?”
A soft, enigmatic smile curved Quentin’s lips. “Call it a hunch.”
Reese followed his lazy gaze across the garden to where Michael stood talking to an attractive, fair-skinned woman resplendent in shimmering Chanel. Reese remembered seeing the woman at her audition, and again at today’s taping. Whenever they’d made eye contact, Reese had felt as though she were being sized up.
“Who is that woman?” she asked, feigning only casual interest.
The twitch of Quentin’s mouth told her that he saw right through her. “That’s Andrea Barrister, Mike’s publicist.”
“No wonder. I’ve seen her before.”
“No surprise there,” Quentin drawled ironically. “Wherever you see Mike, Andrea’s never too far behind.”
Reese felt a pang of jealousy. “I see.”
“No, you don’t. He’s not sleeping with her.”
“But you just said—”
“I said that Andrea follows him around everywhere. That doesn’t mean they’re involved.”
“Oh.” Reese hesitated, then shrugged dispassionately. “Doesn’t matter. It’s none of my business.”
“No?” Quentin couldn’t have conveyed more amused skepticism if he’d tried.
She bristled. “In case you haven’t noticed, your friend hasn’t said two words to me all evening.”
Quentin chuckled. “Aw, hell, girl. He’s been watching you the whole night.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“How would you know?” Those hazel eyes glinted perceptively. “Unless you’ve been watching him, too?”
Heat stung her face. Averting her gaze, she sipped her champagne.
“You don’t believe me? You think I’m lying about him watching you?”
“Yes,” Reese said gloomily.
Quentin stood, holding out his hand to her.
She gave him a blank look. “What?”
“Dance with me.”
“I don’t feel like—”
“Come on, baby girl. You look too damn good to be sitting around moping.”
“I’m not—”
But Quentin had already tugged her to her feet and started toward the dance floor.
When Michael glanced up from conversing with his publicist to see Quentin leading Reese onto the dance floor, his first instinct was to storm across the garden and smash his fist into Quentin’s face. It took every shred of self-control he possessed to remain where he was, to keep his distance from Reese as he’d been doing all night.
He’d spent the past few days force-feeding himself a litany of reasons why the two of them shouldn’t be together. She lived too far away. He didn’t do long-distance relationships, so one of them would have to relocate, and he honestly didn’t think he was ready to make that kind of sacrifice. Besides, with their busy careers, how much quality time would they really spend together, anyway?
And, of course, there was the matter of her boyfriend. Michael was superstitious enough to believe that if he got Reese by taking her from another man, their relationship might be doomed forever.
But one look at her that morning, and all those rationales—excuses—had gone right out the window. One smile from her, and he’d been a goner. Right then and there, as he was about to go onstage before a live studio audience, he’d looked into Reese’s eyes and made the most stunning discovery of his life: he was in love with her.
After that, everything else had been a blur. He was so shaken, so distracted, that it was a miracle he hadn’t burned down his kitchen during the taping. Hours later he was still rattled, to the extent that he’d avoided contact with Reese for the entire evening. But he’d seen her. Oh, how he’d seen her. He couldn’t take his eyes off her in that slinky white siren’s dress that hugged every dangerous curve. The first time she turned around, he’d gotten a mind-blowing glimpse of smooth bare skin revealed by the dress’s plunging backline. His eyes had bulged, and he’d nearly swallowed his damn tongue. As she’d wafted through the moonlit garden, looking like a heavenly creature, more than a few men had craned their necks to stare and lust after her. Michael had been on edge all night, dreading the inevitable moment when some asshole would make a move on her.
Little did he know it would be his best friend.
Michael glared as Quentin and Reese swayed to the soft, dreamy music. When Quentin leaned down to murmur something in her ear, Michael felt a snarl curling up the corners of his mouth. When Reese tossed back her head and laughed, a red haze settled over his vision. He told himself that Marcus must have forgotten to pass along his warning to Quentin to stay away from Reese. Why else would Quentin risk life and limb by holding her in his arms, putting his hands on her bare back and—
Michael cut Andrea off midsentence. “Excuse me.”
He must have resembled a charging bull as he bore down on the dancing couple. He reached them in a matter of seconds and ground out tersely, “Mind if I cut in?”
They glanced around in surprise. Well, Reese looked surprised. Quentin looked smug, the bastard.
Quentin slid a lazy glance at Reese. “What do you say, beautiful?” he drawled, his eyes glinting with wicked mischief. “Can my boy have this dance?”
Reese hesitated, biting her lip. When she nodded, Michael felt as relieved as a death row inmate who’d been granted an eleventh-hour gubernatorial pardon.
Quentin grinned, slow and knowing. “I’m gonna go find Lexi. You kids have fun.”
Winking at them, he strolled off.
Holding Reese’s gaze, Michael drew her into his embrace. After a slight hesitation, she rested her head on his shoulder and wreathed her arms around his neck. A shudder rippled through him at the feel of her soft breasts pressed against his chest, her belly to his groin. She was a perfect fit, her body molded to his as if she’d been expressly created for him. The way he felt about her, he wasn’t so sure she hadn’t been.
They began moving together, flowing into an easy rhythm that seemed innate. Like their lovemaking.
Michael tightened his hands around her waist, tilting her closer to him. Her round, curvy butt tempted him beneath the clinging silk of her dress.
“You look breathtaking,” he said huskily.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m wearing one of Asha’s designs.”
God bless that woman, Michael thought. “It’s incredible.”
“I think so, too.” Reese paused. “At first I was afraid it might be too—”
“Revealing?”
She chuckled softly. “Yes.”
“Now that you mention it, you have been getting one too many lewd stares for my liking.”
She lifted her head from his shoulder, her eyes glittering with accusation in the silvery moonlight. “You haven’t glanced my way all night. How would you know how many stares I’ve been getting?”
He held her gaze. “Sweetheart, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you. If you don’t believe me, just ask anyone who’s tried to hold a conversation w
ith me tonight.”
He could tell that pleased her. She smiled softly, her lush lips glistening like moist, ripe cherries.
Michael wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t trust himself to stop there. Not when he was dying to peel off her dress and feast on her voluptuous body, starting with the plump, luscious breasts rubbing against his chest.
Before he succumbed to temptation, he cupped her nape and gently urged her head back to his shoulder. As they continued swaying together, he slanted his head and nuzzled his face against the warm skin of her neck, savoring the light, exotic scent of her perfume.
Recipe for Temptation Page 18
