Clare pulled the cork out and let a pleasant smile curve her lips. These days he had a whole new way of riling her. “Nothing happened. He didn’t pull my hair or swindle me out of my money.” No, he’d just kissed her and made her want more.
Leo looked closely at her, then nodded. “If you’re sure.”
Lord, she was a good liar. “I am.” She grabbed the wine and moved to the pantry.
Leo chuckled and called after her, “He can be a rascal.”
“Yes,” Clare said, although there were other words that fit him better than rascal. She opened the pantry door inward and moved inside, turned on the light and walked past a stepladder and rows of canned goods. On a back shelf, she grabbed a box of Wheat Thins and Rye Crisps.
Returning to the dining room, Clare set the wine beside the other bottles. She replenished a red wicker tray with crackers and plucked a green grape from its vine. From the parlor, she heard her mother’s laugh above the group of voices in the foyer next to the Christmas tree.
“They let anyone in the club these days,” someone said. “Before she married into that family, she was working at Wal-Mart.”
Clare frowned and popped the grape into her mouth. She didn’t see anything wrong with working at Wal-Mart, only the people who thought there was something wrong with it.
“How’s your love life?” Berni Lang asked from across the narcissus centerpiece.
“Nonexistent at the moment,” Clare answered.
“Weren’t you engaged? Or was that Prue Williams’s daughter?”
Clare was tempted to lie, but she knew Berni wasn’t confused. She was just using her false naivete like a crowbar to do a little stealth prying. “I had a short engagement but it didn’t work out.”
“That’s too bad. You’re an attractive girl, I just don’t understand why you’re still single.” Bernice Lang was in her mid-to late seventies, had a slight case of osteoporosis and a severe case of old ladyitis. An affliction that hit some women after the age of seventy with the belief they could be as rude as they pleased. “How old are you? If you don’t mind my asking?”
Of course she minded, because she knew where this conversation was headed. “Not at all. I’ll be thirty-four in a few months.”
“Oh.” She raised a glass of wine to her lips but paused as if a thought had just occurred to her. “You’d better hurry, then, hadn’t you? You don’t want your eggs to wither. That happened to Patricia Beideman’s daughter Linda. By the time she found a man, she couldn’t conceive outside a petri dish.” She took a drink, then added, “I have a grandson you might be interested in.”
And have Berni for a grandmother? Hell, no. “I’m not dating right now,” Clare said, and grabbed a tray of canapes. “Excuse me.” She left the dining room before she gave into the urge to tell Berni that her eggs were none of the older lady’s damn business.
Clare didn’t believe the biological clock started counting down until a woman was over the age of thirty-five. She was safe for a year, but her stomach twisted into a knot anyway. She figured it was from the stress of forcing herself to be polite
She carried the tray into the parlor. “Canapes?”
“Thank you, dear,” her mother said as she looked over the tray. “These are lovely.” She straightened the holly berries in Clare’s pocket, then said, “You remember Mrs. Hillard, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Clare held the tray to one side and kissed the air above Ava Hillard’s cheek. “How are you?”
“I’m well.” Ava reached for a canape. “Your mother tells me you have a new book out this month.” She took a bite, then washed it down with chardonnay.
“Yes.”
“I think that’s wonderful. I can’t imagine writing a whole book.” She looked at Clare through a pair of thin tortoiseshell glasses. “You must be very creative.”
“I try.”
“Clare always was a very creative child,” her mother said as she rearranged the canapes as if they hadn’t been placed at exactly the right angles. The old passive-aggressive Clare would have accidently tilted the tray so they slid to one side. The new Clare simply smiled and let her mother do her thing. Canape placement wasn’t something to get upset about.
“I love to read.” Ava was the latest wife of Norris Hillard, the richest man in the state and the third richest in the country. “Your mother suggested that I ask you for a copy of your latest book.”
But her mother promising free giveaways was a little irksome. “I don’t give away copies of my books, but you can buy them at any area bookstore.” She looked at her mother and smiled. “I’m going to warm these up,” she said, holding up the tray. “Excuse me.”
She wove her way through her mother’s friends, dispensed a few canapes, and made it to the kitchen without losing her cool or her smile. She expected to see Leo puttering about. Instead, Sebastian stood at the counter, his back to the room as he looked out into the backyard. He wore a white T-shirt beneath a bulky gray sweater and his usual cargo pants. His hair appeared wet against the back of his head and bare neck. At the sound of her shoes on the tile floor, he turned and looked at her. His green gaze caught and held hers, and she came to an abrupt halt.
“Where’s Leo?” she asked as several hors d’oeuvres shifted precariously close to the edge of the tray.
Sebastian, being Sebastian, had made himself at home with Joyce’s red wine and held a glass near his hip. “He said he’s taking a break.”
“At the carriage house?”
“Yeah.” Sebastian’s gaze lowered from her eyes to her mouth, then slid slowly to her holly berries. He pointed at her with his glass. “You look good in red.”
“Thank you.” She took a few steps forward and set the tray on the island in the middle of the room. He looked good too, in a totally edible way, and she purposely kept her distance. Her stomach felt light and heavy all at the same time, and she made an attempt at polite conversation. “What have you been doing since yesterday?”
“I was up all night reading.” He took a drink of his wine.
The distance between them allowed her stomach to settle, and she took a relieved breath. “What about this time?”
He looked at her over his glass, then said, “Pirates.”
“Internet pirates?”
“Internet?” He shook his head and one corner of his mouth slid up into a smile. “No. High seas. The real swashbuckling kind.”
Her first two books had been about pirates. The first featured Captain Jonathan Blackwell, bastard son of the Duke of Stanhope, while the second had starred William Dewhurst, whose love of plundering the South Pacific was second only to his love of plundering Lady Lydia. During her research for those books, she’d learned that piracy was still a problem. It certainly wasn’t as prevalent as it had been several hundred years ago, but was as brutal as ever. “Are you writing an article about piracy?”
“No. No article.” He walked toward her and set his glass next to the silver tray, effectively removing the nice safe distance between them. “How’s the party going?”
Clare shrugged a shoulder. “Berni Lang told me that my eggs are withering.”
He simply looked at her through his deep green eyes, clueless as to what she was talking about. But of course he was. Men didn’t have to worry about ticking clocks or aging eggs.
“She’s concerned that if I don’t get to it, I won’t be able to conceive outside of a petri dish.”
“Ah.” He tilted his head back and lowered his gaze to her abdomen. “Are you worried about that?”
“No.” She placed a hand on her stomach as if to shield herself from his sexually potent gaze. If there was one man who could impregnate with just a look, it was Sebastian Vaughan. “Or at least I wasn’t until today. Now, I’m a little freaked.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” He glanced into her face. “You’re still young and beautiful, and you’ll find someone to make a baby with you.”
He’d said she was beautiful, and for some stupid reason, that left her light-headed and feeling a little warm and
