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A family rocked by sinful secrets, broughttogether by untameable passions

THE ASHTONS:PAIGE, GRANT& TRACE

Three of your favourite authors bring

you the final three romances following

the scandalous Ashton dynasty

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June 2010

The Ashtons:Paige, Grant & Trace

Featuring

The Highest Bidder by Roxanne St Claire Savour the Seduction by Laura Wright Name Your Price by Barbara McCauley

The Sheikh’s Dilemma

Featuring

A Bed of Sand by Laura Wright Sheikh Surrender by Jacqueline Diamond The Sheikh Who Loved Me by Loreth Anne White

The Ashtons:
Paige, Grant
& Trace
Roxanne St Claire
Laura Wright
Barbara McCauley

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The Highest
Bidder

By

Roxanne St Claire

Roxanne St Claire began writing romance fiction in 1999 after nearly two decades as a public relations and marketing executive. Retiring from business to pursue a lifelong dream of writing romance is one of the most rewarding accomplishments in her life. The others are her happy marriage to a real-life hero and the daily joys of raising two young children. Roxanne writes mainstream romantic suspense, contemporary romance and women’s fiction. Her work has received numerous awards, including the prestigious Heart to Heart Award, the Golden Opportunity Award and the Gateway Award. An active member of the Romance Writers of America, Roxanne lives in Florida and currently writes—and raises children—full time. She loves to hear from readers through e-mail at roxannestc@aol.com and snail mail at PO Box 372909, Satellite Beach, FL 32937, USA. Visit her website at www.roxannestclaire.com.

This one’s for the Space Coast Authors of Romance…the

brightest stars in my writing world!

Prologue

Spencer Ashton studied the inviting sway of the woman’s hips as she sashayed across his spacious office and out the door, ending the interview but starting the mating dance.

His choice was made. This one was young, eager and ambitious enough to request a fancy title—“administrative assistant.” With an amused snort, he spun his chair around to the fog-tipped view of San Francisco eighteen floors below.

A little ambition in a secretary was good, he thought wryly. Then they understand just what they have to give in order to get. Too much ambition, on the other hand, and they cease to be satisfied with promises and pay raises, and the demands get stronger…and turn into ultimatums.

At the thought, the image of his wife appeared in his head. Lilah Jensen had been the perfect secretary—smart and sexy. A breath of fresh air after all those years married to the mouse, Caroline Lattimer. And now, seventeen years and three children later, Lilah was still smart enough to keep her mouth shut and look the other way when she had to. She had the status she craved as Lilah Ashton, and he had the freedom he required. Shrewd woman, Lilah. Always was.

This new secretary would be good. She’d flipped her hair and wet her lips enough times to let him know she’d do whatever he asked. He inhaled a satisfied breath, puffing up his chest with a deep breath and liking the way his still-toned muscles stretched the fabric of his custom-made shirt. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, about half his age. With a grin, he patted his hard-muscled stomach. Spencer Ashton still had it all. Good looks, a hard body and more money than God.

His quick laugh at that thought was interrupted by a tap on his door.

“What is it?” he called out, gruffly enough to communicate his distaste at any intrusion that he didn’t plan. Whoever it was should be stopped by his secretary and buzzed in through her.

The door inched open and the woman he’d just interviewed gave him a wary look. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Ashton. Just one more thing.”

Damn, she hadn’t even started yet. He swallowed the reprimand and flashed an easy smile. “You’re no bother…” Donna? Debbie? He couldn’t remember.

“I was just in the reception area and, uh, I noticed your secretary, well, she sort of packed up her bag and left.”

The little bitch. She’d figured out that the string of women he’d been interviewing were her potential replacements, before he had a chance to give her enough severance pay to guarantee silence. He cursed his thoughtless mistake.

His gaze swept over the brunette in front of him, making no effort to hide his admiration. “Then I hope you can start tomorrow.”

She did the hair toss again, and her eyes sparkled. She might as well have rubbed her crotch. The message was the same.

“I can start right now, Mr. Ashton,” she replied in a low voice.

He felt himself respond. “Good.”

“As a matter of fact,” she took a few more steps into the room and held out a thin white envelope. “While I was out there, a messenger delivered this for you. It says personal and confidential, so I didn’t open it.”

He nodded and absently took the envelope, his attention still on the generous rise of her breasts she’d thoughtfully revealed by removing her jacket. “Thank you.”

“I’ll just get settled at the desk,” she added with a smile. “And thank you.”

She turned to leave, offering him that nice backside view again. “Just a second…” Dorie? Damn, what was her name?

“Yes, sir?”

“You may have to work a little late tonight.” He gave her an appropriately innocent look. “Just to learn some of the Ashton-Lattimer policies and procedures.”

“No problem, Mr. Ashton.”

He dropped the letter on the vast, empty surface of his desk and picked up his phone to call Lilah to let her know he’d be staying in his city apartment tonight and not driving home as he’d planned.

As he dialed the private line to his estate winery in Napa, his gaze fell on the envelope. On the front, his name was typed, with no return address.

While the phone rang in his ear, he sliced the envelope with his finger and swore as the paper cut a quarter-inch slash in his skin. He’d have to train…whatever the hell her name was…to open everything for him.

“Ashton Estate.”

He recognized the voice of his housekeeper, Irena, and didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Give me Lilah.”

“Of course, Mr. Ashton. One moment, please.”

As he waited for his wife, he sucked the drop of blood from his finger and pulled out a folded sheet of paper from the envelope. When he opened it, a yellowed newspaper clipping fluttered onto the desk. What the hell was this?

Like the envelope, the note was typed. One paragraph. No date. No signature.

An unholy tendril of apprehension snaked through him as he read the first sentence, the cut finger still in his mouth.

“Bigamy is against the law.”

He swallowed and tasted the bitterness of his own blood as he read:

Enclosed is the obituary of one Sally Barnett Ashton. Unfortunately, this newspaper seems to be in error. In the third paragraph it states that Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton was divorced from her husband, Spencer Ashton, at the time of her death. In fact, Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton was never divorced. Careful research reveals no divorce documents to be found in Crawley, Nebraska, or San Francisco, California. According to the laws of both states, that means her husband couldn’t remarry as long as Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton remained alive. If he did, such a union would be illegal, and any results of that union would be null and void. Wouldn’t the second Mrs. Ashton be interested to learn that her marriage—and the subsequent divorce settlement—was not legal?

The taste in his mouth turned metallic, as white-hot anger shot through his veins.

He picked up the clipping and stared at the obituary of the woman he’d been forced to marry thirty years ago. His gaze dropped to the handwritten note in the newspaper margin.

“It’d be a damn shame for anyone to find out about this.”

His fists balled as tightly as the knot in his gut. No one would blackmail Spencer Ashton. No one would dare. He’d kill them with his bare hands first.

“Hello, darling.” Lilah trilled in his ear. “Sorry to keep you holding. Don’t tell me you’re not coming home.”

Disgust and something frighteningly close to fear strained his chest. “Of course I am.” He glanced at his closed office door and thought of the new secretary. There’d be plenty of time for that. He needed to think tonight. “I’m leaving here around six.”

“Wonderful, darling. Then you haven’t forgotten it’s Paige’s birthday. The party is Saturday, but your baby is ten today.”

“Of course I haven’t forgotten.”

He hung up without another word and grabbed the letter again, watching in horror as a single drop of his blood spread a scarlet stain on the paper. Swearing, he tore the sheet in half again and again until he had dozens of pieces in his hand. Then he stuffed them all into the trash.

Chapter One

“And the lady is…sold! To the gentleman at table four!”

The auctioneer’s gavel smacked the podium and the 450 guests in the Ashton Estate Winery reception hall erupted in a chorus of cheers and boos. The bidding for a date with the blond Napa Valley socialite, also known as bachelorette number seventeen, had been fast and furious.

She had a name—the auctioneer had even said it—but Paige Ashton’s mind worked better with numbers than names. And now that number seventeen was bought and paid for, there were only three women left before dessert and dancing could commence. Then Paige was done.

She hugged her clipboard and beamed from the side of the stage. They were just shy of the magic number of $20,000, to be raised for the Candlelighters of Northern California. God bless the brave ladies willing to parade on that stage, willing to let men shout out dollar amounts they’d pay for a date.

Not only was it a wonderful cause, the annual Candlelighters Bachelorette Auction was a smashing event, and she’d coordinated every detail for the “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” jungle theme right down to rainforest-inspired centerpieces. It had been a breeze after the balancing act she’d been performing with her family the past few months.

Still, she’d been a little nervous about executing this event—her first on her own since she’d returned home to the winery to help her sister handle the massive functions held at the world-famous estate. Megan would be proud, if she weren’t in the throes of morning sickness. Paige planned to debrief her sister on the success the next day, and they’d share a welcome reprieve from discussing their father’s murder and the various leads the police were following to find the person who shot Spencer Ashton.

“Tiffany Valencia is gone.”

The words, whispered to Paige by one of the auction aides, tickled her ear and raised a hair on the back of her neck.

“Gone? Number eighteen is gone?” It didn’t take her lightning-speed brain to solve this problem. “Get nineteen.”

The aide, a young intern for the auction company, shook her head. “No can do. That one just left with Ashley Bleeker for a smoke.”

“Bleeker? That means eighteen, nineteen and twenty are gone?”

“We have to take a break.”

“No break,” Paige insisted. That would ruin the rhythm of the event and, worse, stop the bidding. The event would ultimately be judged by how much money was raised. “Where the heck is eighteen—er, Tiffany?”

“I think she met a guy and took off with him,” the aide said apologetically.

Paige rolled her eyes. “He’s supposed to pay for that privilege.”

The aide shrugged and looked up at the stage where the auctioneer was peering at them. “You better tell George. He’s not good at ad-libbing. He needs someone to auction off.”

Paige didn’t waste a moment thinking about what needed to be done. “Get the band in place, we’re almost done with the auction portion. Let me talk to George and see if he can keep things moving until we find her.” She gave the aide her clipboard and took a deep breath, her palms suddenly too damp to risk smoothing her silk skirt.

How did these girls do it? Just going onstage to chat with the auctioneer raised her heart rate.

The room quieted a little as she stepped into the spotlights that flooded the stage. Someone whistled from the back.

Good heavens. They thought she was the next bachelorette. Paige threw an apologetic smile into the crowd and shook her head, but the lights blinded her. She could only make out a few faces in the very front, one of them her cousin Walker, looking both surprised and amused.

“Well, here’s a shocker!” The auctioneer further hushed the crowd with his booming voice. “Paige Ashton is bachelorette number eighteen.”

Blood drained from her head and rushed to her pounding heart. “No, no, I’m not.” Her denial was too soft to be heard over the rowdy response. She’d done her job and made sure the Ashton wine flowed freely. Now she had a roomful of inebriated men who’d have applauded any female at this point.

“I don’t have a fact sheet on Paige,” the auctioneer admitted, his commanding voice hardly needing a microphone. “But I know firsthand that she’s a delight to work with. She’s—how old, Paige?”

“Twenty-two!” She recognized Walker’s voice, and one more glance at her cousin revealed his fairly evil grin. He leaned over to say something to another man, missing the dirty look Paige directed at their table.

“How much do we hear for this twenty-two-year-old beauty with a well-known last name and an angel’s face?”

Death. Death would be preferable to the lights burning her cheeks—or was that just one massive blush that threatened to explode every blood vessel in her face?

“Five hundred!”

Oh, dear God. They were bidding. She held up a hand to stop them, but the auctioneer grabbed it, spinning her in a Fred Astaire-like move. “Just five hundred? Look at this beautiful young lady. Svelte, sweet and smart as a whip.”

“Six-fifty!”

“I hear six-fifty for the honey with honey hair, do I hear six seventy-five, six seventy-five…”

Paige felt her legs weaken. Please God, make this end. “This is a mistake, George,” she whispered to the auctioneer, her voice hoarse and low. “I’m not number—”

“Seven hundred!”

“That’s more like it,” George bellowed into the microphone. “I hear seven hundred, seven hundred, do I hear seven-fifty?”

He launched into the forced staccato that had enthralled the crowd all night, and someone yelled out a higher amount. The auctioneer’s drone rose in intensity as he dared and defied them to up the ante.

“Eight-fifty!”

“Nine hundred!”

Her legs would never hold. George spun her again. Twirling, Paige caught a glimpse of Walker, still talking to the other man, but the light prevented her from seeing who it was.

“Nine-fifty!” The shout came from the back of the room.

That silenced the crowd for a moment, no doubt because they neared the thousand dollar figure that usually stopped the bidding.

Her cousin laughed at something his companion said, and leaned back, momentarily blocking the blinding light and giving Paige a straight shot at the man sitting next to Walker.

“One thousand dollars!”

She heard the amount called out from the back, but her gaze locked on wolflike gray eyes that devoured her. A spray of goose bumps cascaded down her spine as they stared at each other.

“Fifteen hundred!” The bid was shouted from the far left side of the crowded room, followed immediately by another.

But the lights seemed to fade, the shouting muted, and the merciless bidding drowned out. She simply couldn’t tear her gaze from the handsome stranger who stared right back at her. Who was he? Who had Walker invited to this fund-raiser? Then he lifted his lips in a provocative half smile.

Whoever he was, he was a heartthrob.

“Two thousand!” With the blood rushing through her head, Paige barely heard the crazy bid barked from the far right side of the room.

The auctioneer roared with glee and urged the frenzy onward.

A trickle of perspiration snaked between her shoulder blades and she tried to swallow, still unable to look away from the man’s riveting gaze.

Then he winked. So subtle, so sneaky, no one else could possibly have seen his secret message. But she did. And it sent an involuntary shudder through her body.

“Ten thousand dollars.”

The auctioneer froze and looked toward the front table. “Did I hear…?”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t have said that. The wolf with gray eyes stood to an impressive height. Backlit by a spotlight and looking like a monarch making his pronouncement, his half smile widened to a predatory grin. “Ten thousand dollars for Paige Ashton.”

For a long time the room remained soundless, then the gavel slammed so hard the podium vibrated and Paige’s knees nearly buckled.

“Congratulations, sir, you’ve bought yourself one expensive evening out!”

His gaze never wavered from her. “Worth every penny.”

“What the hell did you do that for?”

Matt Camberlane grinned at Walker Ashton’s question. “I couldn’t stand to see her suffer,” he declared, his gaze skimming the stage for another glimpse of her. That had been true, but Matt knew that his lifelong competitive streak had just seized him. No way that pretty woman was going out with any of the sharks in this room. At least not with any other shark in the room.

Walker burned Matt with a threatening stare. “She’s my cousin. She wasn’t up for bid. I told you, she’s running the event.”

“Precisely why I had to rescue her.”

“She doesn’t need your kind of rescuing.”

Matt attempted a “Who me?” look that he knew didn’t work on his friend. “I just told you, I’ve sworn off the opposite sex. You may have found the holy grail of love with Tamra, but I am not meant to drink from that ultimate cup of happiness.” To underscore his point, he drained his goblet of Ashton pinot noir. As he tilted his head back, he caught a flash of butter-yellow silk behind the temporary stage and curtain. She’d get away for sure, if he didn’t get back there and stake his claim.

He heard Walker snort. “Love? You weren’t looking at her with love in your eyes, Matty boy. That was lust and I repeat—she’s my cousin. We were raised together. Paige is like a little sister to me. Plus, she’s been through hell the last couple of months.”

“Chill, Walker. I’m not interested in her. I’m merely doing a little good deed. Some charity work.” Still, he’d seen the intelligent glint in her almond-shaped eyes, and couldn’t help noticing a few enticing curves on her slender body. He was most definitely interested. “She was seriously uncomfortable, couldn’t you tell?” He stepped away from the table, determined to nab her. “It’s for a good cause, remember?”

Before Walker could respond, the auctioneer started yammering about number nineteen, and a skinny redhead slithered into the spotlights. Matt dashed between the round tables and made his way behind the velvet curtain.

He stood in the back for a moment, searching the darkened area for the woman who’d just caused havoc in his head…and a few other places, too.

“I don’t know who you are, sir, but I guess I owe you ten thousand dollars.”

Matt 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.

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 herself pretty nicely against his body, too. The memory of her slender legs brushing against him, of her delicate breasts pressed against his chest forced him to reposition himself on the piano bench.

It had been a good long time since Matt had pursued a woman with any enthusiasm. Before his abomination of a marriage, they pretty much fell at his feet. After Brooke he’d been so cautious he’d avoided women for anything but mindless sex. But it had been two years since his quick and fairly clean divorce from the San Francisco social climber. His bank account had rebounded nicely, but his heart hadn’t.

Not that Brooke Carlysle had broken his heart. No, she just left scars as deep as if she’d scraped it with acrylic nails, ensuring that he’d never again take that risk. He hadn’t really loved her, he thought, as he transitioned effortlessly into an old Cole Porter tune. But he’d trusted Brooke. That was worse.

Plus, she’d represented something a kid from Modesto, with an alcoholic father and a trailer-jumping mother always wanted. Respect. Credibility. Acceptance.

He opened his eyes and let his gaze drift over the elegantly appointed hall. 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 wild, warm feeling she’d experienced last night spread through her again at the thought of him. She smoothed the skirt of the simple blue suit she’d chosen, as if that could wipe away the effect he had on her. On the passenger seat rested a leather binder containing an Ashton Estate Winery event contract, typed and ready for his signature. Strictly business.

But, oh, his attention had been far from professional last night. That man did things to her body and brain that they certainly didn’t teach her in business school. Not that she took him seriously. Not for a minute. He must have some other reason for flirting with her.

She simply wasn’t the kind of woman men played with. She was attractive enough, but Paige knew she lacked the vivaciousness and charm that appealed to most men. When she looked in the mirror, she saw serious hazel eyes that seemed a little too big for her small features, and plain brown hair that had none of the sassiness of the bottle blondes and redheads who’d paraded across that stage seeking a bid.

She shook her head at the thought of the bid that she got from Matt Camberlane. Men like Matt Camberlane—big, gorgeous, successful, self-assured, intriguing men—usually looked right through the Paige Ashtons of the world.

So what was that magic buzzing between them last night?

Pulling into the back parking lot, she found a spot next to a sleek silver sports car, grabbed the binder and a small handbag and climbed out.

Instantly her senses were assaulted by the rich smell of Napa’s earth and the heady scents of fresh rosemary and mint. Herb gardens tumbled around the ancient building, a riot of lavender and green. A cool autumn breeze lifted her hair as she paused to drink in the beauty of the recently harvested hillsides, bathed in streaks of gold and ginger as the sun dipped into the western slopes.

Taking a deep breath for confidence, she rounded the restaurant to a tiny front patio darkened by a vine-covered overhang. There, her senses were assaulted again. By Matt.

And all her determination to treat this meeting as strictly business melted into a pool of liquid heat that spread from her chest, through her tummy and straight down to the most feminine part of her.

He stood facing away from her, his attention focused on the glorious scenery. He wore an off-white shirt that stretched nicely across his broad back, tucked into elegant dark trousers. A sports jacket hung next to him, over the stone wall that enclosed the porch, his expression impassive. The setting sun cast a warm glow on his dark-brown hair that grazed his collar, adding a golden luster to the ends.

Paige’s hands literally itched to touch that hair. To run her fingers through the length of it, then over the solid muscles of his shoulders, his chest. Down, down…

She swallowed against the erotic image that took hold of her brain.

Strictly business, Paige Ashton. She cleared her throat. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

At her question, he turned and flashed that wicked smile as his gaze swept over her appreciatively. “It certainly is.”

Oh, she’d walked right into that one.

He lifted his sports coat without taking his attention from her. “You have a habit of sneaking up on me.” He slipped into the jacket, denying her a view of his broad shoulders but taking on a different, more sophisticated look.

“I’m quiet, in case you haven’t noticed.”

His gaze slid over her face again, dipping down to her throat and chest, making her wonder if she should have worn something buttoned higher instead of a V-neck shell. “I notice everything,” he said softly. “For instance, I notice you came armed with a briefcase.”

She shifted the thin portfolio from one hand to the other. “The contract,” she told him. “I promised my sister Megan I’d nail down the Halloween event.”

He guided her toward the entrance. “Walker tells me Megan is happily married and pregnant, and delighted to let you step into her shoes at the estate.”

“She’s happy and pregnant, yes,” Paige agreed, “but hasn’t exactly handed over the event-planning reins entirely to me. The auction was my first solo act.”

“Really? I’d call it an astounding success.”

She glanced up at him. “Thanks to one especially generous bidder.”

He just winked at her, that secret, sexy wink that curled her toes. Then an older maître d’ greeted Matt with a huge smile and an air of familiarity. “Good evening, Mr. Camberlane. Your table is ready.” Somehow it sounded like it was just that—his table.

In a moment they were seated at an intimate table for two next to a window. “His” table was not exactly the strictly business setting she’d hoped for, leaving her to wonder just how often he dined here with women. One look at him answered that question. Often.

She tamped down the thought and listened to Matt exchange pleasantries with the maître d’ about a new sommelier, a wine expert he’d brought over from France.

As soon as they were alone, he focused on her, the intensity of his silver-gray gaze nearly taking her breath away. “I would have introduced you,” he said. “But I didn’t want to put you in the awkward position of discussing the wine list.”

She knew exactly what he was talking about. “They don’t serve Ashton wine here.”

Ashton wine was good—great in some years, especially under her older brother Trace’s fine management—but the exclusive restaurant leaned more toward the impossibly expensive and elite wines. Like Louret.

“It wouldn’t make me uncomfortable to discuss their cellar,” she assured him. “No doubt it will come up when the new sommelier makes his recommendations.” She gave him a direct, serious look. “Regardless of the less-than-stellar media coverage my family has received, I remain proud of the name.”

He nodded in agreement. “As you should be. You can’t take the blame for the troubles your father inflicted on the family.”

“My father’s murder inflicted the trouble,” she corrected. “My half brothers and sisters have simply fanned the fire and made things worse. Although,” she lifted one shoulder in a shrug, “I understand their position.”

“That’s sisterly of you.”

“Family is…” Taking her napkin and smoothing it on her lap, she met his gaze again, purposely not finishing the thought. “How much has Walker told you?”

“Walker has always been very candid about your family. He told me when we first met as roommates in Berkeley the whole story of how his uncle Spencer arranged to take him and Charlotte and raise them as your siblings.”

“And no doubt he told you that my father told Walker his mother was dead, and not living on a Sioux reservation.”

“Yes,” Matt nodded. “Like I said, he’s never hidden anything from me. But—” he gave a rueful smile “—he’s been a little preoccupied since Tamra came into the picture and they began establishing the Sioux scholarship program. So what I know of the recent drama I’ve read in the papers or heard, if you’ll forgive the awful pun, through the grapevine.”

She laughed softly. “Grapevines are for wine, not gossip.”

The waiter, who also seemed to know Matt well, stopped by to light the candle and exchange pleasantries but didn’t even discuss the menu. Dinner at the Laundry was a lengthy, multicoursed affair dictated by the whims and moods of the world-famous chef.

A long, intimate affair. By candlelight. With wine.

Paige automatically reached for her leather binder when the waiter left. “I haven’t drawn up a specific theme for your event, yet—”

In one smooth move, he flipped the portfolio closed, making the candle flicker with the puff of air from the sudden movement. “That can wait.”

Paige gave him a sharp look. “We have business to discuss.”

“I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a silver pen. “Give it to me to sign and then we’ll be done.”

She hesitated and leaned back, the folder against her chest. “You’re too savvy a businessman to sign just anything without reading it first.”

“All that contract should say is that Symphonics, Inc. has reserved the reception hall of Ashton Estate for an event on October 31.”

Paige had to admit it really didn’t contain too much more detail. “There’s a lot of fine print,” she said, knowing by the look in his eyes that didn’t matter. Once they were done discussing business, this dinner went back to date status. For some reason that thought sent a tremor of trepidation straight through her.

She could handle Matt Camberlane on a business level—after all, she’d graduated from business school with honors, the youngest in her class. But as a date?

He reached over and gently wrested the portfolio from her hand. “We’ll go over the fine print and details next week,” he announced. “We can meet in my office on Monday.”

He opened the portfolio, shuffled through the pages and scribbled his name on the last one. With a satisfied smile, he handed the whole package back to her. “Now you can relax.”

Yeah, right. “I am relaxed.” She set the folder against the leg of her chair with an air of resignation. Well, he paid for a date.

He leaned forward, as though he’d like to eliminate the space and table between them. “I would imagine everyone in your family has strong opinions and volatile emotions where your father’s will and death are concerned. I’m intrigued by your levelheaded view of the situation.”

His demeanor said he was intrigued by more than that, but she played along and answered the question. “I believe there are two sides to every story. My half brothers and sisters are understandably crushed that my father had…” She tried to think of a less vicious word than abandoned to describe what her father had done to the four children he had with Caroline Lattimer, but couldn’t. There was no word other for it. “They—especially the oldest, Eli—are simply determined to get what they think is rightfully theirs.” And since the estate had been in the Lattimer family long before Spencer had renamed it Ashton and kept it in his divorce from Caroline, Paige couldn’t help but understand Eli’s position.

“Any progress on the murder investigation? The media seems to be reporting nothing.”

Paige closed her eyes for a moment, then blew out a slow breath as the image of her father, shot point-blank in his own office, darkened her mind. “Not really. At the moment, the police are honing in on some blackmail threats my father had received and a numbered bank account that he’d mysteriously kept well stocked.”

His eyes softened a bit at the crack in her voice. “I got the impression that most of the Ashtons were…” he paused and tilted his head as he obviously searched for his own euphemism. “Not that distraught over your father’s death.”

Most of them weren’t, she silently agreed. “He was my father,” she said simply. “Everyone deserves to be mourned.”

The sommelier approached their table, and the conversation turned to wine, and once again Matt Camberlane impressed her. Not only had he gracefully handled the issue of her last name, he knew an awful lot about wines.

“Not bad, for a computer guy,” she said with a smile once they were alone.

He laughed. “I can thank Walker. A wine expert is a good roommate to have in college. We never got drunk on anything but the good stuff.”

She seized on the chance to turn the conversation toward him. “Did you go to business school at Berkeley, as well?”

“I didn’t go to graduate school,” he said evenly. “I went into the Army.”

It was her turn to be surprised. “You did?”

“Didn’t Walker ever tell you? I was at Berkeley on an Army ROTC scholarship. I had to do my time for Uncle Sam to pay for the privilege.” She heard a note of defensiveness creep into his voice, making her heart clutch a bit.

“Walker’s only bragged that the boy wonder of Symphonics was his old college buddy. Did you like the Army?”

“I liked the discipline, the order of it. I got the opportunity to work on some amazing electronics, really cutting edge stuff. It all led me to where I am today, so I don’t complain.” He gave her a seductive smile. “By the way, I’m a wonder, but no boy.”

“You’re a flirt,” she responded, trying to ignore the tightening low in her tummy at his words and tone. “And I’m not.”

He slid a water glass to the left and closed his hand over hers, never taking his gaze off her. “That’s what I like about you, Paige Ashton.”

It was easy to believe him and very hard to ignore her body’s response.

Several hours passed as they sampled nouvelle servings of foie gras, red pepper crostini and sautéed moulard, complimented by a bottle of extraordinary Louret wine. By the time they’d finished sharing a champagne gellée dessert, Matt knew one thing for sure about Paige Ashton—besides the fact that she wasn’t a flirt:

He wanted her.

He liked her quiet spirit, her keen intelligence and the way her lower lip sort of trembled when he captured, and purposely held, her gaze. He liked her elegant table manners, her smooth ability to keep a conversation going, her enticing little cleavage when she leaned forward.

Yep. He wanted her.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he suggested as they stepped into the moon-washed patio, nearly the last of the customers to leave.

She flattened the portfolio against her chest again like thin leather armor. “Thank you, but I really have to get back to the estate.”

“It’s Saturday night, Paige.” He took her arm possessively and slid it into his elbow. “The stars are out, the moon is—” he squinted into the sky “—half-full and I have less than three thousand miles on a brand new sports car. You could be the first girl to ride in it.”

“But not the last,” she said quickly.

He feigned a wounded look. “You think I’m a cad.”

“A cad? Do people use that word anymore?”

He laughed as they reached his car. “You tell me. You’re a smart girl.”

“Smart enough to say thank you for the lovely dinner and your business. What time is our meeting on Monday?”

He considered how simple it would be to turn her in his arms, ease her against the side door of his Ferrari and pull her delicious little body into his.

The thought had its effect on him, so he did precisely the opposite and stepped away from her. No making out in a parking lot for this lady. Seducing Paige would take longer, and the place had to be perfect.

“I’ll clear my schedule for you on Monday,” he offered politely. “What time can you be in San Mateo?”

“Ten o’clock.”

“Ten it is. We’ll go up to San Francisco and have lunch afterward.”

She laughed softly. “How can you think of lunch after all that fantastic food?”

“You make me hungry,” he admitted with a teasing smile.

Her eyes darkened just enough to communicate that she got his meaning. “Matt…” She stepped back. “I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

“Then tear up that contract,” he joked.

She smiled and clutched the binder. “Not a chance. We’re going to have fun with this event. Everyone in costumes, fantastic music—”

“Costumes?” He choked a little. “I hadn’t thought of costumes.”

“It’s Halloween,” she countered. “Of course there’ll be costumes. I need to know all the details of the new product—the VoiceBox, is it? I’ll need to start thinking of a theme for the event.”

“Music. That’s the only theme I’m interested in.”

“Perfect. Come as your favorite musician. Who’s yours?”

“Sinatra.” He didn’t even hesitate. “I’m his numberone fan.”

That won him the sweetest smile. “Then you’ll come as Old Blue Eyes himself.”

He laughed at the thought. “Just don’t make me sing.”

“But you could play. I heard you last night. You’re very good.”

“Hardly. But I like the idea of musician costumes. The product is a computer karaoke, so we could have a lot of fun with that.”

“Great. I’ll work on it for Monday morning.”

He suddenly hated the idea of Sunday stretching out before him without her. “I’m staying at Auberge du Soleil, in Napa,” he said. “Let’s get together tomorrow and work on it then.”

Her eyes narrowed just enough to let him know she was thinking about it. “Another business meeting?”

“Call it whatever you want, Paige.” He couldn’t resist sliding his hands up her arms, over her narrow shoulders, letting her hair tickle his skin. He held her delicate face between his hands, his focus dropping to that lower lip he wanted so much to taste. “I happen to think business and pleasure is a great mix.”

One kiss. That was all he wanted. One quick, warm, good-night kiss.

As he leaned toward her, he felt her tense up, but as soon as their lips touched, she relaxed. He tilted his head slightly, tasting a whisper of sweet sorbet that clung to her lips.

No. One kiss was not going to be enough.

But it was all he would take now. “Tomorrow?” he asked, keeping his mouth just a breath from hers. “We’ll have a picnic in the olive grove at Auberge.”

Her little sigh of resignation warmed his lips and he fought back a grin. There was nothing Matt loved more than winning. “One stipulation, however,” he added.

She gave him a questioning look.

“Leave that binder at home. This won’t be work, I promise.”

As Paige tiptoed down the main stairs of the estate the next morning, she heard a few familiar family voices in the dining room, and caught a whiff of Irena Hunter’s incomparable eggs Benedict floating from the cavernous kitchen.

She slipped past the butler’s pantry and eyed the pot of fresh-brewed coffee tucked into the corner. After last night’s meal, coffee was all she wanted. And after a sleepless night of reliving one breathless kiss and imagining many more, she needed the caffeine.

“I didn’t hear you come in last night, honey.”

Paige winced at the sound of her mother’s voice coming from the dining room. She almost asked, “Since when did you listen for me?” but swallowed the retort. Lilah Ashton may not have been the model for motherhood, but in her own way she cared about her children.

Filling her cup, Paige simply called out a morning greeting.

“What time did you get in?” Walker’s question was pointed and direct, the way he always was.

Taking a deep breath and a sip of strong, black coffee, she made her way through the hallway into the dining area. As always the table was set with fine china, crystal and snow-white linens. For just a minute Paige longed to curl up at a cozy kitchen table, drink coffee from a chipped mug and skim the Sunday paper like normal people.

But they weren’t normal. They were Ashtons.

The thought made her smile, as she took her usual seat.

“What are you smiling about?” Tamra looked remarkably relaxed for a woman who, just three months earlier, had been rather overwhelmed by all that was Ashton when Walker had brought her home from the reservation. He’d gone to find his long-lost mother and had unexpectedly found the love of his life, as well.

Paige widened her smile for Tamra, happy that she and Walker, having built their own world away from the estate, had decided to stay for the whole weekend after the fund-raiser.