The Love Child. Catherine Mann

crossed. Manicured fingers gripped a now empty plate, traces of crumbs decorating the china.

      A vision.

      That’s what she was. A vision he very much wanted to touch, hold and more, so much more. With the signature bravado that enabled him to approach even the flightiest and most aggressive horses, he drew in a breath and walked toward her with the Mikkelson swagger that had turned the onetime small business into an oil empire.

      She sipped a glass of champagne, her bright eyes focusing on him as he drew closer.

      “Come with me.” Extending a hand, he noticed as her lips parted, brows raising in subdued—but visible—interest.

      “Okay. You’re the boss.” She stared awkwardly at her plate, seeming unsure what to do with it.

      Taking it from her, he set it down on a nearby table. She set her now empty champagne flute down too, rising to take his outstretched hand. “Where are we going?”

      “Dancing,” he said simply as they moved to the center of the great room. The small jazz band was tucked in the corner amidst the woodland themed decorations and a small space was cleared for dancing. So far the tunes had all been of the slower variety, and he hoped they stayed that way, eager for the feel of Isabeau against him.

      “Dancing?” She laughed lightly, but still kept her soft hand tucked in his. “Now you’ve surprised me.”

      The band segued into a Sinatra classic and Trystan didn’t miss a beat. He pulled her into his arms. He slipped his hand to her waist, letting it rest in the curve of her slender body. She seemed to lean into him, ever so slightly. Enough to send his blood pumping through his veins.

      “I do know how. Mother insisted on lessons for all of us, everything from the basic ballroom styles to a session on square dancing.”

      “Good for Jeannie. Did you protest?” Her steps synched with his from the first move.

      “Hell no, I was worried my family would get rid of me—” He stopped short. He didn’t want to bust the mood here with talk about his insecurities during the early days when he’d been adopted. “Bad joke. I tend to blurt out what I’m thinking.”

      “Honesty is an admirable trait. It’s just...” She bit her bottom lip.

      A low laugh burst free. “Not always the most tactful for the business world.”

      A major part of why he was better cut out for his role managing the family ranch.

      “That makes tact sound dishonest somehow.”

      Wanting to lighten the mood and chase away the shadows in her eyes, he twirled her away, the silky yellow dress fanning around her lithe legs. Radiant and sexy. She spun back to him, her hands finding his.

      “I only meant that I get that there are nuances and things that are better left unsaid. I’m just not a nuance kind of man.” Keeping her close, he guided their steps away from the other half-dozen couples dancing, steering her toward the stone fireplace. Massive moose antlers stared down at him. Tall ceilings provided an airy balance to the thick leather sofas that were now strategically staged against the walls rather than in their normal places.

      “Let’s talk about the dancing more. You’re a natural. I think we should capitalize on that this month in your image building. This has a great sophisticated look to it. With the right press coverage—”

      “Isabeau, seriously, the image again?” He needed a night off from all of that. The past week had been intense and outside his comfort zone. Particularly the past two days when all he could think about was having her here tonight. In his arms for a dance.

      Yes, he wanted a night he could enjoy. With her.

      “Could you stop with the business talk and let’s just enjoy this dance?”

      “Oh, um, sure. This must be an emotional day for you, with your sister getting married and your mom engaged—”

      “Emotional?” He stifled a laugh, drawing her closer to his chest. He whispered against her ear, as they swayed in time to the music, “It’s just a wedding. That’s it. I’m focused on you.”

      “Wait, our being here together is supposed to be about business, working on your image.”

      He smiled, his blue eyes glinting.

      She swatted his arm. “Stop that or I’m going to line up a dozen more press conferences for you.”

      “I didn’t say a word so I couldn’t have shoved my boot in my mouth.”

      “Your smile speaks volumes.”

      His grin widened.

      “Trystan, that’s not professional—or fair.”

      And perhaps that proclamation would have been followed by a moment—the kind he’d been thinking about nonstop since the day of the fitting—but a cacophony of voices disrupted the intensity of their eye contact, the closeness of their bodies.

      Isabeau pivoted toward the noise first. Chuck and his wife, Shana, stood at the edge of the dance floor. Heat seemed to rise around them, calling a tempest into the room as their voices escalated, beginning to drown out the jazz tune.

      His cousin, Sage Hammond, moved between them, her voice low and calming. While Trystan couldn’t make out what the argument was about this time, it was clear that Sage was playing peacemaker. A role he’d seen his fierce butterfly of a cousin play on behalf of her aunt and boss, Jeannie Steele.

      He felt Isabeau tense, clearly uncomfortable with a family altercation. Squeezing her hand, Trystan tilted his head and mouthed, “Follow me.”

      A quick nod of agreement was all the encouragement she needed to leave the tense scene unfolding nearby. He maneuvered them outside, taking the path to the boathouse on the bay, near the seaplane.

      Toward a small section of the compound all their own.