turned to Megan, who had backed up a few paces while he’d been talking, a slender figure in the darkness. He tried not to notice any more about her, especially not the way the ring sparkled on the hand that held the forgotten invitation, which she’d picked up. “Well?” she asked.
“Wayne Lawrence is waiting,” he murmured.
“So, you’re going to open the gate for me?”
“Sure,” he said. “And that’s not all.”
She hesitated before asking, “What does that mean?”
“You’ve got an armed escort.”
“I what?” He could see her eyes widen. He wondered what color they were, and if it was just the night that made her lashes look so long and lush.
“He requested that you be escorted up to the house and taken to him on the lower terrace.”
“No thanks, I can find it,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
“I wouldn’t bet on that. That house up there is the size of a small country.”
“I’ll take my chances,” she said, then got back in her car. “Now, if you could just open the gates?”
She was making her escape, and he was inclined to let her go and find her way on her own. And he probably would have, but Brad McMillan, his replacement, came through the side gate right then. “Hey, Rafe, you can get going now.”
“Okay,” he said, then pushed the code for the main gates and went around in front of her car to get in on the passenger side. If she took off, she’d have to run him down to do it. Thankfully, she waited until he opened the door, and she even reached out and picked up her purse and cell phone to clear the seat for him. She dropped them on the center console along with the invitation before she put the car in gear.
“You all get going,” Brad said through the open window. “Mr. Lawrence is really anxious for her to get up there.”
“You didn’t have to come with me,” she said, as they eased through the open gates.
“I told you, I don’t want to lose my job, and those were the orders—to deliver you up to Mr. Lawrence.” She darted him an angry glance, and he said quickly, “Sorry, bad choice of words.”
“Sure you’re sorry,” she muttered, and even though she was angry now, it didn’t stop his body tensing when he noticed the way her dress was riding up her thigh. This had been a mistake. But he was in it now and he’d get out as soon as he could.
“I really am sorry,” he said.
“You’re just sorry that I really do have a right to be going to the ball.”
“Well, you’re no Cinderella,” he said.
She cast him a quick look. “I’m not wearing glass slippers, true,” she said before she turned back to the driveway ahead of them.
“Can I make a suggestion?” he asked.
“Could I stop you?”
“No, you couldn’t. I was just going to say that the jewelry doesn’t work with that dress.”
Very casually, she took her left hand off the wheel and rested it on her thigh, effectively hiding the ring from him. “What about my jewelry?”
“That earpiece just doesn’t do anything for you.”
She reached for the device connected to her cell phone and tugged it free, then dropped it on the console with her other things. “I forgot,” she said. “I got distracted.”
He found himself smiling. He was distracted, too, by a woman who was thoroughly stuck-up and bossy. The thing was, he was enjoying it. He hadn’t sparred verbally with a woman for a very long time, and he realized that he’d missed it. Even if she was annoying and what his mother used to call “uppity.” And even if he’d never see her again. Not that he wanted to. But this was a nice distraction for a few minutes.
They were almost up the driveway now, and he pointed ahead to the portico just outside the ballroom entrance. “Pull in there and the valet can park your chariot for you.”
Rafe was shocked when she actually laughed, a soft, sultry sound that seemed to fill the space around him as she pulled up to the nearest valet. That was when he looked at her, and he saw her smiling at him. A simple smile, yet it triggered so many things deep inside him that he found it hard to breathe. “Let me guess. Chariot parking is not part of your job description?”
And responding to this woman on such a basic level wasn’t something he wanted to do. “No,” he said, and the second the car stopped, he got out.
The air was filled with laughter and music and the scent of good cigars, but all he was aware of was Megan coming around the car when the valet let her out, and Megan standing in front of him with her purse clutched to her middle, the shadow of that smile still on her lips. And the gleaming ring on her finger. He looked away out of self-preservation, saw her car being driven off for parking, then said, “Follow me,” without looking at her again. “I’ll take you to Wayne Lawrence. That is in my job description,” he said, and started off without looking to see if she was following.
Actually, he didn’t have to look to know she was there. He could sense her, and he kept going, through the service area, around the side of the mansion, toward the back terraces. They walked along a pathway that cut across grass and through low shrubbery, and as they turned at the back corner of the house, she brushed against him. Rafe moved quickly ahead of her onto the flagstone terrace.
The party had spilled out onto the back lawns, under the draped fairy lights, and with the French doors of the ballroom, the music seemed to be everywhere, mingled with laughter. He stopped at the edge of the terrace, scanning the groups of guests to try and spot Wayne Lawrence. Sensing Megan right beside him, Rafe turned and saw her features softly illuminated in the glow of the lights. Blue. Her eyes were a clear blue, and that damn ring was winking at him. “I can take it from here,” she said. “Thanks for the escort.”
“Sorry for the trouble at the gate.”
“You were doing your job,” was all she said, as loud laughter from the far side of the terrace drew her attention. A group of people stood there—all men, all drinking, he noted—and that was when he spotted Mr. Lawrence. Rafe had only seen him in the picture Zane had provided, but recognized the man immediately. He looked every day of his sixty years, balding as he was, and even though the picture had been head and shoulders, Rafe had guessed right about him being out of shape despite the very expensive tux he was wearing.
“Well, there he is,” he said to Megan, motioning to Mr. Lawrence. “You found him on the lower terrace.”
“Yes, I did,” she murmured.
Right then, another security guard came jogging from the upper terrace, skirting the guests by staying on the lawn. Seeing Rafe, he hurried over and said in a low voice, “A 215 at the Service.”
That was their code for a troublesome drunk—a way of communicating what was going on without the guests knowing. Rafe had started that practice when he’d actually worked the
