Flanked by French doors with heavy silk draperies and sparkling marble floors, the room could easily have been the formal ballroom at any palace in the world. And this was just another room in Paige Ashton’s home.
His fingers paused momentarily on the keyboard as he finished with a flourish. His eyes still closed, he lifted his hands and let them drop on his thighs, a little disgusted that the music hadn’t soothed him and old thoughts had plagued him.
Matt Camberlane was no longer the poor kid who managed to swing a degree from Berkeley thanks to the largesse of the U.S. Army and its ROTC program. He was no longer a struggling computer nerd who left the military with discipline and muscles but not a whole lot else. His fascination with technology, combined with a bone-deep love of music had translated into wealth beyond his childhood imaginings, and a lifetime of security and comfort. Anyone who didn’t respect or accept him could screw themselves.
He played the opening of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”
A sweet, clear voice sang the first line. With a start, he opened his eyes and saw…yellow.
For a moment they just looked at each other. He expected her to sing the next line, but she didn’t and his fingers stilled. The air damn near popped between them.
“The workers are here to break down the stage,” she finally said.
“Then that’ll have to be my last number.” He stood and gathered his jacket from where he’d flung it over the piano. “You have a very pretty voice.”
She smiled but didn’t say anything as she started back down the side stairs of the stage. He followed her until she slowed her step and he nearly bumped into her.
Turning, she shot him a serious look. “The party’s over, Mr. Camberlane.”
Actually, it hadn’t started. “I need to know what time you want me to pick you up tomorrow.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “I am so sorry for the misunderstanding. I hope you’ll let me arrange for a refund of your donation.”
It was the little hitch in her voice that got him. He held up a hand in surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of taking a refund,” he said. “It’s a great cause and I’m happy to donate. And the apology is mine to offer.”
He slipped into his jacket, noting the slackness of her jaw and the slight surprise in her expression at his sudden change of heart. Or was that disappointment?
“It was a great party,” he added. “Every detail was—” The flash of insight was so brilliant, it should have blinded him. Why the hell didn’t he think of it sooner? “In fact, I was so impressed, I’d like to reserve the estate for Halloween.”
“Excuse me?”
“Are you booked?”
She shook her head slowly and frowned. “Not that I know of—but what’s happening on Halloween?”
“Symphonics has picked the date to launch our new software product, the VoiceBox, that turns any computer into a karaoke machine. I just met with the product-development team last night and the last of the bugs has been worked out. We need a venue for about four hundred computer retailers, media and industry types and at least fifty of my employees for the VoiceBox launch party.” He glanced around the room. “This place would be perfect.”
“Halloween is less than four weeks away.” She folded her arms and pursed her lips in doubt. “We usually plan events that large many, many months in advance.”
“The computer industry moves at lightning speed. I have to get this product out and into stores for Christmas. And before any competitor gets wind of it.”
“I don’t know…”
“My Marketing department is excellent, but I would personally oversee the entire event.” And the event planner. “We could meet, say, tomorrow night? At the French Laundry at seven.”
The hint of a smile danced in those blue…no, no, they were definitely green eyes. “A business meeting at one of the finest restaurants in California?”
“Hey, that’s my style. Bring a contract and ideas.” He buttoned the single button on his jacket and grinned at her. “Strictly business.”
Her defiant shoulders unlocked just enough to tell him he’d won. “Okay. My sister will be doubly pleased that we made the numbers tonight and I nailed a new account.”
“Happy to accommodate your career aspirations. Should I pick you up here?”
She shook her head quickly. “Not for a meeting. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”
Okay, a point to the lady for keeping it businesslike. “See you tomorrow, then.”
He took one step backward, even though everything in him wanted to go in the other direction and plant a victory kiss on her appealing mouth. But that would definitely negate the “strictly business” promise he’d just made.
A promise he had no intention of keeping.
Chapter Two
Matt Camberlane either had to have been planning this dinner for months or his name carried so much weight that he managed to obtain what few mortals can: reservations at the French Laundry.
That thought was momentarily lost as Paige drove up Highway 29 toward the restaurant in Yountville, because she passed the rolling hills of Louret Vineyards. She glanced toward the entrance of the estate that her four half siblings called home. She hadn’t seen any of them since she’d had lunch with Mercedes last month—one of her recent efforts to close the rift that only seemed to grow wider since their father’s horrible murder last May.
Mercedes had been kind but preoccupied. And she hadn’t been able to convince Paige that Mercedes’s brother, Eli, would back off on his quest to have Spencer Ashton’s will reversed.
As always Paige could see both sides of the Ashton family’s ever-complicated story. Her father had basically ensured this kind of turmoil by turning his back on his four children by Caroline Lattimer, and only acknowledging the family he’d created with Paige’s mother. He’d done it in life, by ignoring Cole, Eli, Mercedes and Jillian, and he’d done it in death by leaving them out of his will. But Paige refused to believe her father was the god-awful man everyone made him out to be; as his youngest child, she was determined to see her father in a positive light.
Well, not really his youngest child, she corrected herself. Not since baby Jack had come into the picture, the surprise “love child” of Spencer and his last mistress. She made a mental note to make a visit to Louret next week, both to finally meet little Jack and try another pass at fence mending.
Just outside of town she turned onto Washington Street and saw the rustic two-story stone structure built as a French steam laundry in the late 1800s. But in that unassuming building, and in the lush gardens surrounding it, about sixty people a night were treated to the finest gourmet dinners served anywhere. And no one—well, practically no one—could get reservations without waiting at least two months.
Obviously Matt Camberlane wasn’t “no one.”
That
