But this verbal sparring held a different edge.
This came in the shadow of laughter, with a lazy smile and a dangerous shot of pleasure because Vanessa sensed that, finally, she had managed to surprise him in a positive way. That shouldn’t have pleased her quite so much. She should have felt repelled by the prospect of another kiss, a real kiss, with no agenda other than exploring—
No. She jolted upright, appalled that she’d been staring at his lips. That she’d allowed the marine-scented air and the witchery of a full moon to lure her from her evening’s task.
No more, Ms. Pragmatist admonished. Get to the point and get out of here.
“Andy is not my lover. He never was. He never will be.” She laid it on the line in a resolute rush. “If he is named in that letter, I think it’s only fair that he should know.”
“There are no names.”
“Can I see?”
“Now?” He showed his hands, palms up, empty. “Not possible. It’s in my lawyer’s hands.”
“You didn’t waste any time.”
“You had your chance this afternoon, when I came to your house. It was you who suggested we deal through our lawyers.”
Yes, she remembered. She also remembered what had made her so spitting mad that she’d kicked him out without seeing the letter. Blast him and her own sorry self for not asking over the phone. She could have saved herself the drive and the aggravation and the gossip she’d no doubt started by meeting him in this public place.
Tight frustration prickled at the back of her throat, but she lifted her chin and ruthlessly shoved that emotion aside. “Could you please arrange for a copy to be sent to my lawyer’s office tomorrow?”
“First thing,” he replied with surprising compliance.
Prepared for their usual slanging match, Vanessa stared at him through narrowed eyes. What was the hitch? What angle was he playing? He held her gaze for a long moment, steady, blue, guileless, and there was nothing left to say.
Nothing left to do, except get out of there before she started trusting his word.
“Fine.” With a brief, decisive nod, she reached for her purse. A shadow fell across their table. And Frank Forrester’s distinctive longtime smoker’s voice rasped through the silence.
“Sorry for the intrusion, but I couldn’t leave without saying hello to my second favorite blonde. Given my rusty old ticker—” he tapped a thin hand against his chest and winked “—I don’t put off till tomorrow.”
Although Frank often quipped about his age and his heart condition, Vanessa couldn’t voice her usual light-hearted reproach. Not only because he’d interrupted her getaway, either. Up close he looked a decade older than his years, frail and slight and stooped.
Smiling up at him, she only hoped her shock at his appearance didn’t show on her face.
“Your company is never an intrusion,” she assured him. And because it was the gracious thing to do, she added, “Would you care to join us? For coffee or a nightcap?”
“No, no. I’m on my way home. Can’t dally.” But he made no move to leave and his gaze glinted with genuine interest—or curiosity—as it edged toward her companion and back.
As much as she’d have liked to, Vanessa couldn’t ignore the hint. “Tristan, meet Frank Forrester. Frank, this is Stuart’s son. From Australia.”
“You don’t say?” Frank shook his head slowly, his gaze beetling in on the younger man’s face. “You’ve grown some since I last saw you, lad. You were a weedy young beanpole then. It must be at least fifteen years.”
“Twenty,” Tristan said. And he was on his feet, shaking hands. Being clapped on the back in the male version of an embrace.
“Welcome back to Eastwick, lad. Welcome home!”
Vanessa blinked with surprise. She hadn’t considered they might know one another, despite the former bank president’s longtime friendship with Stuart. And as for the welcome home—the concept of Tristan belonging here in Eastwick was almost as unsettling as seeing him in her home that afternoon.
“Suppose you’re here on business,” Frank mused. “You started up a telecom, didn’t you? Heard you’d turned it into one of the Pacific’s major players.”
“I’m surprised you’ve heard of us.”
Frank made a gruff sound. “Your father was a proud man. He wasn’t above crowing your successes.”
If this came as a surprise to Tristan, he didn’t show it. No shift in his expression, no acknowledgment, no mention of his father. Just a smoothly offered, “I recently sold out of the company, as it happens.”
“You don’t say.”
“It was an attractive offer.”
“Made a killing, eh?”
Tristan’s smile came quick and unexpected, its impact a devil of awareness that settled low in her belly. She had to force herself to concentrate on his words. Not the sharp line of his jaw or the curve of his lips. Not the sudden recall of those lips against hers, but his words.
He’s sold his business. Does that mean this trip is open-ended? That nothing will prevent him staying in Eastwick for as long as it took?
“Are you asking as a friend or a banker?” he asked.
Frank chuckled. “I’m an old man. Retired, didn’t you know?”
“Once a banker, always a banker.”
Suppressing a smile, Vanessa looked away. Apparently she needed her own mantra: once a brute, always a brute. Just to remind herself what lurked behind that slow, charismatic grin.
“You’ll have to come for dinner one night,” Frank suggested. “If you’re in town for more than a day or two.”
“That depends—” she felt the glancing touch of a sharp blue gaze “—on my business.”
“Are you staying with Vanessa? Even better. Why don’t you both come?”
Staying with her? In her home? Her heart did a little stumbling hitch as their eyes met. No way.
They both spoke at once.
“He’s not staying with me, actually.”
“I’m staying here. At the Marabella.”
Oblivious to the sudden tension in the air, Frank dug around in his jacket until he unearthed a card. He pressed it into Tristan’s hand. “Even more reason to join us for a meal, lad. Call me when you know your plans.”
They said their goodbyes and Frank started to leave. Then he stopped, one hand raised, as if struck by a sudden notion. He turned back. “Is that polo do this weekend, Vanessa?”
“It’s on Sunday, yes. But I don’t—”
“Perfect!” Frank spoke over the top of her objection. “Why don’t you join us?”
“Polo?”
Tristan sounded dubious and Frank nodded sympathetically. “Damn sissy sport if you ask me, but my wife seems to like it.”
Champagne, celebrities, studly Argentinean players. Of course Delia liked the polo.
Vanessa did not, particularly, but Sunday’s match was a fund-raiser for Eastwick Cares, one of her favored charities since it dealt with at-risk youth. The kind of place