“No, no…!” Wainwright waved a paternal hand. “Take her, my dear old chap.” Like cheap gilt, some of the fake accent and British vocabulary had rubbed off on him.
“Please, Councillor Wainwright, do finish your story,” Lady Catrina cooed.
She hadn’t even glanced at Patrick, who was now pressed hard against the back of his seat by her single-minded determination to lean across him. Her bare, lovely shoulder was turned to him, so close that he could have nuzzled it with his lips if he’d wanted to.
Not that he did, he reminded himself.
“Heavens, no, Earl! The story’s not very interesting,” said one of the women farther around the table. She was watching Lady Catrina suspiciously. “Do go and dance, you two!”
The woman was dressed magnificently in chartreuse beaded satin, and her cheeks were rosy-bright from champagne. She looked to be about fifty-five, and it suddenly clicked. For heaven’s sake, this was Darlene, Earl Wainwright’s wife!
Patrick wanted to coach his gold-digging, pseudo-British friend, “Get real! Sheesh, woman! You can’t make a play for the man in front of his own wife!”
Perhaps Lady Catrina had realized this herself. Trying unsuccessfully to disguise her reluctance, she stood up.
“Dancing! How splendid!” she exclaimed unconvincingly. She tossed a frown back at Earl Wainwright, then apparently accepted the inevitable and took a step towards the ice.
Patrick glanced down at her spiky black heels. “Better take my arm, I think. We have to navigate that ice.”
“There are escorts for that,” she told him absently. “On skates. Here.”
She reached the edge of the carpet and was joined by a bladed male. A skate bunny took Patrick’s arm and helped him skitter across to the comparative safety of the wooden dance floor. Now he was face to face with her, and the music was slow. He took her into his arms.
Inwardly, Cat was still cursing the stranger. What had he said his name was? Patrick something. Callahan, that’s right, “Managing Director of Callahan Systems Software,” someone had said.
It wasn’t important. The only reason she’d accepted his invitation to dance was because it would have drawn too much attention if she hadn’t. She certainly didn’t want to upset innocent Mrs. Wainwright any more than absolutely necessary.
She tallied up the details of Patrick Callahan’s incredible good looks with less warmth than she’d have shown in assessing the shape and size of a Christmas tree in a wintry sale yard. Yeah, sure, he had it all. The height, the build, the hair, the shoulders, the Grecian nose and jaw, the healthy tan on his skin, the air of confidence, assurance and bone-deep entitlement.
He was the kind of man she detested, no doubt about that. An upmarket version of how Barry Grindlay must have been fifteen or twenty years ago. Barry Grindlay, the sleazy developer who was poised to bulldoze sweet, frail Cousin Pixie’s family home the moment the rezoning of lower Highgate Street went through in the middle of August. Barry Grindlay, who had no intention of paying Pixie market value for the place if he could possibly help it. Barry Grindlay, who refused to accept the fact that Pixie didn’t even want to sell in the first place.
In other words, Patrick Callahan was…had to be…arrogant and totally ruthless in his wealth and good looks. He had that sense of unquestioning entitlement written all over his face. He was the type who’d do anything for money, Cat was quite sure. And he undoubtedly believed that money could do anything for him, including pick up any woman he wanted, close any deal he wanted, buy any opinion he wanted.
In contrast to Grindlay, however, the CEO of Callahan Systems Software wasn’t important enough in Cat’s life to take the trouble of loathing. All she had to do was get this dance over and done with as smoothly as possible.
Doable. Easy.
He took her hand and held her in the middle of her back, and they began to waltz. Cat was thankful for Jill and Pixie’s dance lessons over the past couple of days. Patrick Callahan had done this before. He didn’t make the clumsy man’s mistake of trying to cover too much ground at once. They just pivoted gently in one spot, in three-four rhythm, leaving him plenty of time to gaze intently into her eyes.
Which, for some reason, he seemed keen to do.
They didn’t talk at first. Cat had to concentrate very hard in order not to start muttering, “one, two, three, one, two, three,” under her breath.
Patrick’s eyes were mesmerizing, she soon discovered. They were bluer than the reflection of a clear summer sky in a mountain lake, blue enough to put both Mel Gibson and Paul Newman into serious therapy. And there was a warm and very appealing glint of curiosity in them that drew her own gaze.
It made her want to ask, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Since she refused to express any interest in the man whatsoever, she didn’t say it. Instead, each time they circled, she craned her head to glimpse Earl Wainwright to make sure she didn’t lose track of him. It was frustrating at first.
If only I was dancing with the councillor instead…
But then Patrick eased her a little farther out onto the floor and other bodies got in the way. Cat couldn’t see Councillor Wainwright anymore. She suppressed a sigh, surrendered her impatience for the moment and hoped desperately that the dance would end soon.
Chapter Two
Patrick felt the stifled movement of Lady Catrina’s sigh, and his curiosity surged once more.
Her body had been quite a distraction. There was something about this woman. She was lithe, supple and smooth in his arms. Her body was slim but strong and healthy. There was a warmth and sparkle to her that he hadn’t expected to find, an aura about her that suggested she lived her life to the fullest.
He couldn’t put his finger on it. Did it come from her eyes?
Well, no, apparently not. When they rested on him, they were cool and bored, and when they moved elsewhere, they were frustrated and impatient, which gave him a sour sort of feeling in his gut that he couldn’t quite identify.
His hand rested against the black fabric at the back of her simple, swishy dress. He could tell it wasn’t silk. Her skin would undoubtedly feel much, much silkier. He was a little startled to catch himself in the wish that the back of the dress was lower, so that he could discover the texture of her skin with his fingers.
Was he attracted to her, then, despite his cynicism?
Hell, yes! And he couldn’t understand why he didn’t have more control. He’d already decided exactly what sort of a person she had to be, and he wasn’t impressed.
All the same, there were things about her that didn’t fit…like the scratchy feeling on the heel of her hand, another item on a growing list of things he hadn’t identified yet. What on earth was that?
And this gown intrigued him. The fabric was cheap, yet his eye told him the gown was beautifully made, fitting her like a designer original stitched by a professional to her unique measurements. And that was a contradiction, because if she could afford a made-to-measure garment, why couldn’t she afford silk?
Since this was a far safer issue than the complicated matter of his unwilling…and growing…attraction to her, he focused on it and began to challenge her subtly.
“I hadn’t expected to come across a certified member of the British aristocracy at this event,” he murmured. “What brings you to Pennsylvania?”
“I’m staying with some friends,” she said, without hesitation. Without blinking, either, he noticed.
“They’re here tonight?” He