Even that didn’t seem to be much in question. As Brooke watched, too tired to subdue the demon of envy, the man smiled at some soft coquetry the brunette tossed his way. And what a smile... For a space no longer than the pulse of a heartbeat, something intensely female lurched inside Brooke, something warm and electric she hadn’t felt in years—something she certainly hadn’t expected to feel tonight.
The sensation disappeared as quickly as it came, though. Feeling foolish, Brooke averted her eyes and gulped down some of Clarke’s seven-hundred-dollar champagne, which the obedient usher had just poured into her glass.
She drank again, aware of growing slightly tipsy, blessedly numb. How depressing. How desperately depressing. It was proof of how exhausted she really was that, even after a glimpse of that smile, she still wanted more than anything to go home and sleep—alone—for a week.
Was she really a dried-up old woman at only twenty-six? Had the past two years of constant worry—worry about expensive doctors and painful operations and her little boy sobbing in bewildered pain—left her with a heart too withered to enjoy, even for a moment, a handsome man’s beautiful, sexy smile?
Finally, halfway through the second bottle, the auction was over. Though by now she could hardly feel her tongue, could hardly string her words together with anything approaching eloquence or diplomacy, she began trying to explain to Clarke why she had asked to see him.
She heard it all as if someone else were speaking. “The doctors say Justin’s new skin graft has to be done right away,” she said. “They think the old one, the one just above his rib cage, has healed awkwardly—and it might be restricting the use of his left arm.” She was proud of the matter-of-fact tone she achieved. The words might be slurred a little, but at least they weren’t spoken through tears. “So I have to find more money, and I have to find it soon.”
Clarke’s face seemed colder than before, more remote. “What about your inheritance from your grandmother? You told me you’d use that to finance Justin’s medical care.”
“It’s gone.” In her mind’s eye, Brooke could see the rapidly decreasing numbers marching across her bank statements. The inheritance had been small to begin with. Two years of expensive surgeries had been like an open drain, and the money had flowed through it in a flood. “I...” She tried to think of a way to put it. “I guess I underestimated the number of op—”
Clarke broke in with a bitter laugh. “I told you, didn’t I? I knew you had no idea what you were getting into. No idea at all.”
“No,” she agreed meekly. He was right. She hadn’t listened to him, hadn’t even wanted to know. You couldn’t put a price tag on love. She had been rescuing Justin, an orphan in a dangerous foreign country, from being sold to the highest bidder by two uncles who had no interest in taking responsibility for a badly burned, badly frightened infant. What did it matter, in such a case, how much the doctors were going to cost?
“You were right. I had no idea at all.” She leaned forward. “Anway, the bungalow is the only asset I have left.”
Clarke raised his brows. “It’s pretty small. Is it worth enough to pay for the operation?”
“No.” She bit her lower lip and folded her hands, white-knuckled, on the table in front of her. “That’s why I needed to see you. Your Richard Alston has always wanted to buy it, you know. A few years ago he offered me almost three times its appraised value.”
Clarke nodded warily. “Yes, but you turned him down. As I recall, he told you then he’d never make the offer again. He’s not a man who takes rejection well. He’s not accustomed to it.”
She drew in a deep breath and tried to sound sweet—the way Clarke liked her. “I know. That’s why I’m coming to you. I was hoping you might be able to coax him into reinstating the offer. Maybe not at the full price he offered before, but something—something that would help me cover the expenses...”
Halfway through the speech, she saw Clarke’s face was tightening. His lips seemed to be closing in on themselves, his eyes disappearing into the folds of their lids.
He was furious. Oh, God. She had so hoped that he could put their personal issues behind him long enough to see that the suggestion she was making him could benefit both of them. But the sight of his tense, offended features was far from reassuring, and she swallowed hard before finishing up in a rush of awkward words.
“So I was hoping that perhaps you could set something up.” She smiled ingratiatingly. “It could work to your advantage, too, earn you some goodwill if he realizes you’re the one making it possible. He might be grateful, and—”
“Wait a minute.” Clarke broke through Brooke’s stumbling explanations, waving his right hand, his diamond-studded signet ring glinting under the electric stars. “Are you telling me that all of this—your call, our date—this really is just about business?”
His color had risen along with his voice, and Brooke had to steel herself not to flinch. All around them, people who had been murmuring politely over their champagne glasses were casting curious, sidelong glances their way.
His scowl, though fierce, looked suddenly a lot like the approach of one of Justin’s two-year-old tantrums, and even through her anxiety, Brooke felt a surge of relief that she hadn’t actually married this man. She must have been mad, quite completely mad, ever to have considered it.
“I did say it was just business.” She defended herself mildly, trying not to inflame him any further, but her tone was firm. “I wanted to meet at your office, but you. insisted on bringing me here—”
“I didn’t have time at my office.” Clarke’s flush deepened. “You said it had to be today, and I was booked solid. I’m a damned busy man, Brooke.”
“I know you are.” She forced herself to soothe him.
“I’m grateful, really I am, that you’re making the time to talk to me now. And of course I’m pleased to get the chance to be part of such a lovely evening....”
She rattled on, not allowing herself to feel humiliated by hand-feeding this petty man’s ego. It was for Justin, she reminded herself desperately.
She gave it her best, but Clarke was clearly only marginally mollified. Finishing his drink with a sharp, backward toss of his head, he drummed his fingers on the small wrought-iron table between them and let his eyes roam the room, checking out the other guests, refusing to meet Brooke’s gaze.
“So what do you think?” She was losing patience with his petulance. Though she knew it was suicidal, the champagne was playing havoc with her self-control. “Do you think Mr. Alston is still interested? I really need to sell the house soon, Clarke.”
Clarke swiveled in his chair. “Jennifer!” he cried in patently feigned surprise. “Look, there’s Jennifer Hanlon!” He stood, excusing himself curtly with a wave of his hand and, with a deliberate discourtesy, pushed his way through the crush of bodies toward a lovely blonde swathed in mink.
At-first, Brooke was too stunned to be angry. Her gaze followed him numbly, watching his slow, self-important progress through the crowd. The dancing was just about to begin, the orchestra already in the pit, tuning up, and the floor was dense with people, all of whom seemed to know Clarke. He stopped every few feet, eager to slap another back, shake another hand.
She tilted her head down, trying to compose herself. What a fool she had been to think that Clarke would help her. He didn’t understand anything. He still thought life was just a power play, where you lived for the chance to one-up your enemies.
He didn’t have any idea how far she had traveled beyond that pinched world of his. He had no idea what it was like to be a parent, to love someone more than you loved yourself. And he didn’t know real grief—didn’t know what it felt like to hear your child crying, begging