“Someone who can make a lot of trouble for you. How do you know Ann Richardson?”
Vanessa shoved her handbag strap up her shoulder. “Again, none of your business. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
The man refused to budge, preferring instead to stare her down.
Yeah, good luck with that, buddy.
She raised one condescending eyebrow then slowly crossed her arms. “Do I need to call security?”
“Oh, go right ahead. I’m sure they’ll be interested in your story.”
What? Confusion spiked, followed quickly by a thread of worry. She drew in a sharp breath. “Look, I don’t know who you think I am or what I’ve—”
He snorted. “Cut the crap. I know exactly what you’ve been doing. The question is, do you want to come clean or should I do it for you?”
The cold steel in his voice matched his eyes, slicing through her tough protective shell in one swift movement.
“Come clean?” she said faintly.
“Yeah. And I’m sure I could wrangle a few reporters interested enough to run a story.”
Shock stole her voice, her breath. How could he know? No one knew. Her hand flew to her throat, her fingers tightening around her woolen collar.
Yet as he stood there, bristling and combative as he invaded her personal space, a thought began to grow inside, pushing past her outrage and fear. What was it her father always said? “Until there’s irrefutable evidence, never admit to anything.”
Wow, it did help to have a defense lawyer in the family.
A shot of resolve forced her hand into a tight fist by her side. Quickly she called on every tired muscle to straighten her already ramrod back as she inhaled, filling her lungs with self-assurance.
“And what story would that be?” she said calmly, pinning him with her direct gaze.
His murmur of disbelief annoyed the hell out of her. “Shill bidding.”
She blinked. “What?”
“A plant, bidding against—”
“Legitimate bidders to bump up the price. Yes, I know what it is. And you… you—” she released a relieved breath “—are out of your mind.”
“Are you denying you know Ann Richardson?”
Vanessa’s mouth tightened. “Of course I know her—she was my sister’s college roommate.”
The stranger’s expression turned shrewd. “Right.” His gaze swept over her, scrutinizing, studying. Frankly contemptuous in his perusal.
That faint sheen of worry started up again, sending a shiver down her spine. Careful, Ness. “It’s true, and very easily proved.”
“Of course it is.”
“Listen, Mr.…?”
“Harrington. Chase Harrington.”
“Mr. Harrington. You won the auction. You are now the proud owner of the rare and precious hand-notated copy of D. B. Dunbar’s final book—” Her voice nearly cracked then, but she swallowed and forged on. “So go and pay Waverly’s and enjoy your prize. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“So why were you bidding on Dunbar’s manuscript?”
She dug around in her bag for her sunglasses. “Why did everyone else in that room want it?”
“I’m asking you, not them.”
With a deliberately bored shrug, she slid her glasses on. “I hate waiting. Especially for a D. B. Dunbar.”
He crossed his arms, his expression part skeptical, part disgusted. “You couldn’t wait six months.”
“That’s right.”
“Bull.”
The stress of the past few years, the tense auction, missing her babies and the frantic craziness of New York had done their damage, steadily chipping away at her control. And now this… this… arrogant SOB in her face. She’d had enough.
Resentment surged through her veins, heating her face and pulling her shoulders back. She shoved her glasses on her head then tipped her chin up, giving him her haughtiest death stare.
“You know what? You got me. You want to know who I am?” When she took an aggressive step forward, surprise flashed across his face, and empowered, she took another. “I was Dunbar’s secret girlfriend, he left me with nothing and I was bidding on that manuscript so I could wait a few months, then flog it off for a nice little profit when his book came out. That sound about right to you?”
She punctuated every word with a pointing finger, until finally she paused, a bare inch away from poking that finger into his broad chest.
His eyes were a sharp, clear blue, the kind of blue reserved for movie stars and rock gods. Yet strangely, it reminded her of a perfect Colorado winter, the morning after the first snowfall.
Contact lenses, probably. His whole persona screamed money and entitlement, and with that, ego and vanity came hand in hand. Yet as she paused, breath pumping from her lungs and fists now on hips, his gaze flicked to her mouth.
The moment flared, so sudden and intense that Vanessa sucked in a gasp. Her anger shorted out as awareness flooded in, infinite possibilities and anticipation threading through the air, binding them.
It left her reeling.
Chase couldn’t help but notice how wide those green eyes had become. Innocent eyes, he would’ve said, if not for the fact that she’d spent the last twenty seconds practically screaming her crazy scenario at him.
And boy, a woman with a mouth that good was as far from innocent as he was.
He dragged in a breath, then quickly exhaled when he realized it was all her. Something vanilla, plus something else…soft and powdery, familiar yet unable to place.
Princess smelled amazing, and that pissed him off because the last thing he needed was a raging attraction to her. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He didn’t do commitment or Perfects.
Control. He had to get control.
“Miss Partridge?” came a voice, and as one, they both sprung back and turned.
A uniformed man stood there, a cap tucked under his arm.
“Yes?” she said, her chin going up, eyebrows raised in an imperious “why are you interrupting me” expression.
“Miss Richardson said to inform you her car is ready for you. Where would you like to go?”
She spared Chase a haughty look. “JFK, thanks.” And without another word, she turned
