now, when she bent to offer a piece of cake to a small, shy boy, giving him an encouraging, full-on smile as he took his time over choosing.
Her position also gave Brodie a chance to check that the temptingly rounded breasts encased in a low-cut cream lace bra were nature’s work alone.
As she straightened, he hastily shifted his gaze to her face. Her smile abruptly faded when she met his eyes, and she blinked before turning to allow a couple of people to take their share of cake.
Finally reaching Brodie, she gave him a quick smile but her eyes seemed to look through him before she lowered her gaze to the platter she offered.
He took a piece of cake with a thick layer of white icing and said, “We haven’t met. I’m Brodie—Brodie Stanner. And you’re Sienna Rivers, the archaeologist who assessed some of the pieces Rogan salvaged.”
She seemed surprised that he knew that, the dark pupils of her eyes almost obscuring the amber glow when she looked up at him. “I did look at some stuff for Camille,” she acknowledged rather warily.
Brodie nodded. “You work with her at the university.”
“Camille’s in the history department at Rusden, but at the end of the semester she’s joining Rogan’s treasure-hunting company.” Her voice sounded disapproving, or perhaps disappointed. Turning away from him, she murmured, “Excuse me.”
She went on wending through the crowd, giving the same nice but impersonal smile to everyone as she dispensed her slices of cake.
Ruefully, Brodie stared after her.
Most women found something at least superficially attractive in his tanned, fit body, his clear blue eyes, the squared-off jaw with its hint of a cleft, and even his thick, naturally sun-streaked hair.
Sienna’s patent disinterest, and the fact that it annoyed him more than was reasonable, made him wonder if he was guilty of having an overinflated ego.
Across the room she tilted her head to the best man as Granger relieved her of the empty platter and handed her a glass of wine, his perfectly groomed dark head bent and aqua-marine eyes fixed on her as they talked, the expression on his undeniably good-looking face attentive.
For the second time that day Brodie envied one of the Broderick brothers.
Tearing his gaze away, he found it caught by a sweet-faced little blonde. She gave him a come-hither smile and did that bashful, fluttering thing with her eyelashes that women sometimes used to signal interest. After a peculiar instant of something that couldn’t possibly have been boredom, he smiled back and began to make his way toward her.
Granger Broderick offered to take away Sienna’s empty cake platter, and as he left her side, she turned and surveyed the room.
The glass in her hand was something to hold and an excuse to stop smiling for a while, giving her aching facial muscles a rest. She took a sip of the wine Granger had poured for her.
Rogan’s brother was carrying out his duties with impeccable courtesy and a certain aloofness that was infinitely reassuring. Quite unlike the unabashed interest of the man with the brazen summer-sky eyes.
She’d thought, before he gave his surname, that “Brodie” might be short for Broderick. But according to Camille, Rogan had only one brother.
Besides, he looked nothing like the Brodericks, who both met the classic definition of tall, dark and handsome—where he scored two out of three. Not that his blond-streaked brown hair was any handicap. She wondered if the streaks were artificial. Although he didn’t give an impression of vanity, his confident manner and assumption that she’d be pleased to stand talking with him argued that he was well aware of his own male appeal.
Men with such obvious sexual self-possession made her uncomfortable, sending out signals that she found too overt, taking for granted that she—or any woman—would be only too happy to return them.
Which most women would, she supposed, being fair. She’d learned the hard way that she wanted—needed—more from a man than good looks and sexual prowess, real or imagined.
Her glance idly passed over the guests. Camille and Rogan were circulating among them, and Brodie had moved to another part of the room, his head interestedly cocked to an animated blonde who was surely delighted to have his attention.
Sienna drank some more wine and reminded herself not to overdo it, especially as she’d only picked at the food laid out on the table. Her appetite hadn’t yet recovered after a virulent bout of food poisoning that had landed her in hospital only weeks ago, followed by an attack of some nasty superbug that had taken advantage of her weakened state and prolonged her stay. It had been doubtful whether she would make it to the wedding at all.
The big room seemed suddenly stuffy. Perhaps the wine wasn’t a wise idea after all, and she’d been on her feet too long.
There were no unoccupied chairs nearby. Cursing the continuing weakness that she’d hoped had passed for good, she turned to put down the glass on the nearest table and experienced a wave of dizzy nausea.
A quick visual search for an escape route revealed a pair of closed French doors leading to the hotel garden and an umbrella-shaded table with canvas chairs set on the grass. She started toward the doors.
They wouldn’t open, and wrestling with the catch she experienced a moment’s panic. Black spots were beginning to float before her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to cause a sensation by passing out at her friend’s wedding.
Then a suit-sleeved arm reached around her and pulled down a recalcitrant bolt, a masculine hand pushed the door open and a blessed wave of fresh, salty air stirred her hair and cooled her face. The hand circled her arm as she stumbled onto the grass, and a rough-timbred, urgent voice said in her ear, “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she lied, but her voice was almost inaudible, and she was infinitely grateful for the chair the man thrust her into. She rested her elbows on the table and let her head fall onto her raised hands until the dancing spots disappeared and the breeze cleared her swimming head.
Looking up, she saw Brodie Stanner had seated himself and was watching her, his eyes darkened to cobalt with concern. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, I’m fine.” She would be in a minute or two. “Thank you.”
“Fine, huh?” Concern changed to patent disbelief. “You look like death.”
“It was hot inside. I’ll be all right now.”
Ignoring the hint, he ran a disparaging glance over her. “Are you dieting or something?”
“I don’t diet!”
“You didn’t eat much in there.”
“I’m not very hungry.” He’d taken note of how much she ate?
“Why not?”
The look on his handsome face didn’t encourage her to think he’d let the subject go until he was satisfied. She finally said, “I’ve been sick recently, but it wasn’t life-threatening and I’m perfectly all right now, only I haven’t got much appetite yet.”
“I
