turned to find Paige behind him, barely reaching his chin, even in the strappy high heels he’d checked out while she’d been up on stage. They’d done very nice things for her legs. She stood with her shoulders locked in defiance, but her wide, sea-green eyes gave her a hint of vulnerability. She clasped a clipboard like a protective shield in front of her chest.
“Perhaps you don’t understand how this works,” he said, letting his gaze roam over her china-doll skin and settle on her slightly glossy, slightly parted lips. “I owe you ten thousand dollars. All you owe me is the pleasure of your company for an evening.”
She shook her head. “No. You’ve made a mistake. A huge mistake. I’m not up—I’m not a bachelorette.”
Disappointment squeezed his chest. “You’re not?”
“I mean, I am technically, a…a—” she stammered, and then broke into a wide smile, holding out her hand. “I’m Paige Ashton. The assistant event coordinator.”
He took the hand she offered and held it a second longer than he would a business associate. “I’m Matt Camberlane. The highest bidder.”
“Matt Camberlane? The computer guy?”
He laughed. “I guess I’ve been called worse. Yeah, I’m the computer guy, and now I’m your next date, Miss Ashton. Where would you like to go for dinner?” And breakfast, he thought with a flash of her writhing naked between the ridiculously expensive sheets of the five-star Napa resort he’d checked in to that afternoon.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Camberlane.” He saw her take a deep breath and could have sworn she shuddered with it. “I can’t.”
“Can’t?” He dipped his head closer to her and lowered his voice. “I don’t know what that word means.”
A slight flush darkened her cheeks. Damn, but she was pretty. Not an over-the-top vixen like most of the women who had been bobbing in the lights to get a better look at him. No, Paige Ashton was like hand-blown glass next to their plastic. Real and delicate and fragile.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “You’ve bid on the wrong girl. I’m the wrong—”
“On the contrary.” He placed a single finger on her lips to quiet her, a tiny bit of gloss sticking to him. “I don’t see anything wrong with you at all.”
She stepped back, out of his touch. “I’m afraid I—”
“Surely you wouldn’t deny those poor families with sick children the benefits of all your hard work for this auction.”
“I said I’ll pay for your mistake.”
He closed the space she’d made but didn’t touch her again. Even though he really wanted to. “And I’m telling you, I didn’t make a mistake.”
“Ten thousand was way, way too much,” she said.
He shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, it’s a jungle out there. Survival of the biddest.”
She started to laugh, but the voice of the auctioneer screeched from a loudspeaker beside them. “Sold to the gentleman at table eleven! And that brings our auction to a close.” “Are you just about finished here?” he asked, already imagining a moonlit stroll around the vineyard.
The speaker crackled with the next announcement, answering for her. “But the night isn’t over. If you bidders would be kind enough to open your wallets for the cashiers, you can get to know your future dates with some dancing, courtesy of White Lightning.”
The amplifier whined with a second of electronic feedback, then suddenly shut off, leaving them staring at each other in an unexpected silence.
“I have to work,” she finally said. “But, please, let me fix this. Your donation was wonderfully generous and will go a long way to helping the families of children with cancer. One of the ladies didn’t get a chance to go onstage. Number eighteen.” She glanced at her papers and ran a finger over a list along the side. “Tiffany Valencia. Lovely girl.” She looked up at him. “Gorgeous, in fact. I’ll go arrange for you to meet her. You’ll see—”
He took the clipboard from her hands and dropped it square on the wood floor with a resounding slap. “I don’t want Tiffany Valencia,” he said quietly. “I paid ten thousand dollars for Paige Ashton.”
The color drained from her cheeks as she held his gaze. “Do you always get what you want, Mr. Camberlane?”
“Always.” He added another wink to soften the next statement. “And I want you.”
The words, and the sincere, sexy way he said them, sent a crackle of sparks to every nerve ending in Paige’s body.
But something told her that this legendary self-made gazillionaire, whose image graced the San Francisco society columns with supermodels glued to his toned, athletic body, had better things to buy with his money. He’d never be interested in plain-brain Paige, as she believed the rest of her family secretly thought of her.
She moved to retrieve her clipboard, but he was too fast. He scooped it up before she’d bent her decidedly wobbly knees.
“The music is starting,” he said.
“It is?” She tore her attention from him to see the lead singer of White Lightning stepping up to the microphone. Good God, she’s lost all focus on the event. “Yes, well, I have to—I have to—”
“You have to dance with me.”
“I’m working,” she insisted.
“No. You’re dancing.” He set the clipboard on a box next to the stage.
Jeez, the man was single-minded. Could he have wanted her that much? The impossible thought made her dizzy. Or maybe it was the sensation of his powerful hand on her lower back as he guided her around the stage to the dance floor set up in the middle of the room.
Wordlessly they joined the bachelorettes and their “dates” who’d already started swaying to the first ballad. As he pulled her into his chest, she realized with a start that his heart was pounding as steadily as hers. For some reason, that sent a new and wild exhilaration tumbling through her. He tightened his grip so her breasts pressed against the steely muscles of his chest. And that…oh, boy, that sent an even wilder exhilaration through her.
She didn’t dare look up at him as he took her right hand and settled his comfortably around her waist. What did she even know about Matt Camberlane?
She knew that he’d started Symphonics, a successful company that specialized in music-oriented software. She knew he’d broken ground with the recording industry and solved some of the copyright problems that had plagued it, making millions for his efforts.
She knew he’d attended Berkeley with Walker a decade ago, but didn’t realize they were still friends.
As they caught the rhythm of the song, she sneaked a peek over his substantial shoulder to where his dark-brown hair touched the collar of his shirt, a hint of golden chestnut at the tips. Her head brushed the hard angle of his jaw and she closed her eyes for a moment, remembering how his handsome face softened when he smiled.
