She stared at his hands—large and strong with clean nails—as he reached for a water goblet and she had a sudden image of those big, experienced, untamed hands on her breasts.
Beneath the confines of a rather sturdy cotton bra, her nipples tightened.
For Pete’s sake.
Transferring her gaze to the salt and pepper shakers, she tried to distract her body. But the question persisted: had the opportunity presented itself, would she have seized the moment? One incredibly sexy, lusty moment the likes of which she’d never before experienced and might never again?
Would you, Audrey?
I don’t know.
Would you?
I—don’t—know.
Would you?
“Would you?”
“Yes! Yes!” In the silence that met her exclamation, Audrey glanced around the table. Uh-oh.
Fairly certain that last “Would you?” had emanated from somewhere other than her own thoughts, she looked up to see Eva Franklin, the Prestons’ brilliant cook, standing beside her. In a much smaller voice, Audrey said, “Could you repeat the question?”
“Would you like mango hollandaise, Miss Audrey?” Poor Eva looked uncertain, poised to ladle a thick peach-colored sauce atop the plate of salmon Audrey hadn’t even noticed being set in front of her. The deep spoon of sauce hovered precariously between gravy boat and plate.
Smiling brilliantly at the kind, middle-aged woman, Audrey tried to cover her tracks by nodding enthusiastically. “Yes! Yes! I would!”
Eva smiled back and covered the fish in a thick film of mango hollandaise. Melanie regarded Audrey quizzically from across the table, while beside her, Shane smirked.
As Eva moved on around the table, Shane inquired in a wiseass undertone, “Are you a fan of all tropical fruits, Miss Griffin, or is the mango a particular favorite?”
His smile mocked her. She had the incredibly disturbing sensation that he knew exactly what she’d been thinking.
Picking up her fork, she took a poke at her salmon. “I try not to discriminate against produce.”
“Commendable. I’m a staunch supporter of the kiwi myself. Try to attend all the rallies, go door-to-door for the cause when necessary.”
Such a wiseass.
“That sounds time-consuming. What do you do for a living? No! Don’t tell me. I’ll guess.”
Giving him a good long look, as if he wasn’t already an indelible imprint on her brain, she ventured, “You’re an… undertaker.”
Jenna gasped. Thomas and Melanie laughed, and the man in question spit up a little bit of ice water.
The look he gave her—surprised, amused, a little irritated—sent a buzz of excitement running through her body and pooling low, low in her belly.
“What tipped you off?” he said, dabbing his lips with the napkin—the perfect gentleman, though his voice was low and laced with challenge.
In that moment, he reminded her of a tiger pretending to be full while a gazelle strolled by. No matter how relaxed he looked, he could pounce when least expected.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t convince herself to change her course.
Reaching for the roll on her bread plate, Audrey broke a piece off, popped it into her mouth and spoke around it. “The dark suits, I suppose. And the fact that you have a stick up your—”
Pausing while she faked a need to concentrate on her chewing, she swallowed and completed her sentence.
“—back.” Then she widened her eyes and tried to look innocent. “You have really good posture.”
Chapter Four
So she wanted to wrangle.
Shane came close to giving in to the temptation to cross swords with the idiosyncratic woman beside him.
Carefully avoiding eye contact with the others around the table, he slid his fork into his salmon and considered his various strong reactions to Audrey Griffin.
Even now that she was cleaned up, she looked no more formal than she had in the bar. Jeans that were designed to be serviceable rather than sexy appeared to be her uniform, a damned disappointment given the obvious shapeliness of the body beneath them. Her freckled skin was toasted to an appealing tan by the sun, and her hair, still damp from a shower, was the color of wet bricks. The lack of makeup and the plain rubber band holding her long braid made him think of a hardworking pioneer woman.
The disparity between her appearance and her personality did not escape him. A first glance at Audrey Griffin suggested someone guileless and straightforward, perhaps philosophical, definitely sweet. Then she opened her mouth and all he could think was trouble.
He was thirty-four, thank God, not twenty. Several years ago, he may have gotten to know her better for her audacity alone. Now he had a business and a life to build. A reckless young woman out for a good time was not on his radar.
“Thank you for the compliment, Miss Griffin,” he said with boring neutrality. “I look forward to telling my parents that their insistence on cotillion classes did not go to waste.”
“Did you really take cotillion?” Melanie eyed him with suspicion. “Mom tried to coerce us, but Brent and Robbie threatened to run away from home. I went twice and both times the instructor ended the class with a horrible migraine. She’d never had one before, so it was agreed all around that I could quit.” She shifted her gaze. “Audrey, did your dad ever send you to cotillion or did you escape that nightmare?”
Audrey hesitated. Lines of tension formed around her lips before she visibly forced herself to smile. “I escaped.”
She ducked her head, and Shane was certain that she blushed. Curiosity mingled with sympathy, because it was pretty damned obvious that the audacious young woman had never taken a course on manners or conventional grace.
Then Shane realized what Melanie had revealed: Audrey had had a father, but no mother. It might be the mention of that fact or something else, but Audrey was suddenly acutely uncomfortable.
While Melanie and her parents debated the merits of cotillion, he reached spontaneously for Audrey’s hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. To his surprise, she jumped as if he’d stuck her with his fork. Her blush deepened, flushing not only her cheeks, but also her chest and even a few splotchy areas onher arms. Fidgeting, she reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, unnecessary as it was already scraped back into a braid, but the movement drew his attention to the scar on her neck.
Standing out white against her reddened skin, the scar ran from behind her ear to below the collar of her shirt.
“We’re pouring one of your wines, Shane.” Thomas commanded his attention, raising a bottle of Chardon-nay that had been uncorked in the kitchen. “We’re not as sophisticated about this as I’m sure you are. I’m a Kentucky bourbon man. So if there’s something special you want us to—”
“I’d be happy to act as your sommelier, if you’ll allow me.” Shane rose, awaiting permission to take the bottle from his uncle.
“Sommelier, huh?” Thomas huffed, half impressed and half gently mocking. “Around here we call that bartending.” He held out the bottle. “Have at it.”
Adrenaline pulsed through Shane as he rounded the table and accepted the wine.
This was why he was in the U.S. This bottle in his hands was his future. Hilary’s future.
Respectfully, he poured an inch of Chardonnay into Thomas’s wineglass and another inch