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.
She also knew that Matt Camberlane was flat-out magnificent. And that Paige Ashton was way out of her league.
Even in heels, he towered over her, fitting her comfortably in the nook of his neck and chest. She had to restrain herself from running her hands along the luxurious linen of his white shirt just to feel the male hardness beneath it.
With a sigh, she realized she should stop swooning and start talking. But small talk had never been her strong suit. She was an observer. And he offered plenty to observe.
“You should be very proud of yourself,” he said into her ear.
Grateful for the chance to make conversation, she leaned back and looked up into his gun-metal-gray eyes. “I think the whole event has gone quite well, thank you.”
“I mean for getting up on that stage and helping out.”
She shook her head. “I can’t take credit for any brilliant idea. I was just trying to tell the auctioneer that one of the girls was missing.”
“Then it was my good luck.” His smile was absolutely immoral.
In fact, everything about him indicated he was not a man to be toyed with. Nor was he the kind that would toy with her. She had never attracted powerful men; perhaps her father had scared them off, or perhaps her introverted personality had bored them.
She tried to lean back, but his hand held her securely against him, somehow managing to maintain blissful contact between their chests, their stomachs, their legs.
She recognized the last verse of the song. The dance was nearly done. Relief warred with disappointment.
“I really have to make sure the dessert table is still stocked. And I have to coordinate the cashiers and I have to—”
Still holding her hand, he reached under her chin and tipped her face toward him. “Are you scared of me, Paige?”
Petrified. “What a silly question. I just feel sorry that you spent—”
“Then why are you shaking?”
She stilled her step, hoping that would help the involuntary quiver that had started in her stomach the moment their bodies touched.
A million phony explanations swirled through her head: she was cold; she was worried about details; she was sorry he’d spent all that money on her.
She certainly wasn’t going to admit that he made her shake. “Do you live in the Bay Area?”
As soon as she said it, she realized that sounded as though she cared where he lived. As though it mattered to her.
“I live in Half Moon Bay, near my office in San Mateo. But I came up to Napa for the weekend. So, we can start our date right now and go straight through until Monday, if you like.”
Heat washed over her at the thought. She liked. Oh, yes, she did.
“Or I’ll settle for dinner tomorrow night,” he said.
Why was he doing this? Men didn’t flirt with Paige Ashton. She was too aloof, too quiet and usually too smart to play this kind of game. A game she’d undoubtedly lose. She closed her eyes and let her forehead rest on his shoulder with a soft sigh.
He nestled her closer. “Is that a yes?”
“No.”
He chuckled in her ear. “Is that a maybe?”
“No.”
He lowered his head and brought his lips so close to her cheek that she could feel the warmth of his breath. “Is that an ‘I’ll think about it and let you know, Matt’?”
The desire to turn toward his mouth, to close that centimeter of space and taste his lips nearly knocked her over.
“I’ll think about it and let you know, Matt.”
“I knew you’d come around.”
He did? The only thing Matt Camberlane exuded more than sex appeal was raw confidence. And that, Paige realized as she inhaled the masculine, musky scent of him, was precisely what made her shake.
Paige Ashton had virtually disappeared from his side when their dance ended. He’d seen her gliding about the massive reception hall, quietly giving instructions, signaling waiters and assistants to change the lighting, adjust the sound system, bus the tables, refresh the glasses. She had effectively managed to stay out of the limelight, and much too far away from him.
He found ways to linger as the event wound down to a conclusion well after midnight. While he waited, he’d plunked down a check for ten grand made out to Candlelighters of Northern California, and had another glass of wine with Walker and his fiancée, Tamra, but neither made any mention of his cousin or the bid for a date with her. When the crowd thinned to almost nothing, the wait staff started yanking tablecloths and stacking chairs.
Still, he waited. Something told him she’d be back. As always, drawn to music, he shot the breeze with the lead singer as the band packed up. Matt purposely didn’t mention his name—any musician would recognize it—but he did find out that the piano belonged to the Ashton Estate and that the band wouldn’t be moving it.
The wait staff seemed preoccupied and unconcerned with what was happening on the stage, so he pulled out the bench and threaded his fingers, bending them back and giving them a shake. He hadn’t played in a few weeks, but the sight of a grand piano usually stirred him. As did the sight of a fine-looking woman whom he wanted.
So, while he waited for her to appear again, he plunked out the first four measures of “Come Fly with Me.” The bass player looked up from the mess of cables he was untangling, surprised.
“Like the old stuff, eh?”
Matt just grinned. Yep, he was Sinatra reborn. Only he couldn’t sing a note. The words played in his head, on key and in Frankie’s voice, while his fingers moved as if they had a mind of their own.
He closed his eyes and saw…yellow silk. Layers of soft, touchable, golden-brown hair. Almond-shaped green eyes…or were they blue? Depended on the light. And the uncertainty in them.
He smiled, thinking of how he’d steamrolled her. But the wisp of a woman had held her own against his will. She held
