He won the auction…

Vanessa Partridge has a good reason for wanting the priceless manuscript being offered at auction—it is her twin babies’ legacy. But she doesn’t count on the winning bidder, financial guru Chase Harrington, showing up on her doorstep.

Now he wants the woman…

Chase has a new obsession—Vanessa. There’s more to the former-socialite-turned-working-single-mom than meets the eye…and he’s going to find it. He’s got secrets of his own—secrets threatened by the sexy Vanessa. More than anything, Chase wants to give in to their sizzling attraction…but can he afford to play with fire?

“Why did you really agree to come out with me?”

Chase leaned in, and his lips hovered close to her ear as he added, “If this is you trying to persuade me to sell you the manuscript, it’s going to take more than just one date.”

Vanessa jerked back, a frown marring her forehead, cheeks coloring as she glared at him. “Two dates, then?”

His deep chuckle aroused her as his warm breath fanned over her cheek. She bit her lip to stop a groan escaping.

“You are something, Vanessa Partridge. But you’re definitely not the type to offer yourself up Indecent Proposal-style—am I correct?”

“You …” She had to close her eyes to gather her wits as her heartbeat quickened. “You don’t know that.”

He eased back to study her. “So what are you offering?”

Her eyebrows went up. “What do you want?”

THE HIGHEST BIDDER

At this high-stakes auction house where everything is for sale, true love is priceless.

Don’t miss a single story in this new continuity!

GILDED SECRETS by Maureen Child

EXQUISITE ACQUISITIONS by Charlene Sands

A SILKEN SEDUCTION by Yvonne Lindsay

A PRECIOUS INHERITANCE by Paula Roe

THE ROGUE’S FORTUNE by Cat Schield

GOLDEN BETRAYALS by Barbara Dunlop

Dear Reader,

When I was at school, we didn’t have a “popular” group—it was more like a “loud and obnoxious” group. :-) Now I’m in Romance Writing World, and rubbing shoulders with writers I read, admire and generally want to be when I grow up. So when I was asked to join this particular group—which includes some of my favorite Mills & Boon Desire authors—I couldn’t say no!

So I started Chase and Vanessa’s story with my most favorite part of writing—delving deep into their pasts to discover what makes them tick. Vanessa’s baggage seemed to fall into place a lot easier than Chase’s.… That man just wouldn’t give up his secrets easily! But when I finally pieced together his childhood, everything else started to flow. And as always, I did a lot of surfing (read: research) and discovered some fascinating websites on New York, Washington, hedge funds, the Library of Congress… Now I desperately want to see it in real life and not just via Google Earth!

I hope this story comes alive for you, this fourth book in The Highest Bidder continuity. I had such a great time writing it. I’d love to hear from you at www.paularoe.com!

Paula

A Precious Inheritance

Paula Roe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Despite wanting to be a vet, choreographer, cardsharp, hairdresser and an interior designer (although not simultaneously!), British-born, Aussie-bred PAULA ROE ended up as a personal assistant, office manager, software trainer and aerobics instructor for thirteen interesting years.

Paula lives in western New South Wales, Australia, with her family, two opinionated cats and a garden full of dependent native birds. She still retains a deep love of filing systems, stationery and travelling, even though the latter doesn’t happen nearly as often as she’d like. She loves to hear from her readers—you can visit her at her website: www.paularoe.com

Recent titles by the same author:

A PRECIOUS INHERITANCE

BED OF LIES

PROMOTED TO WIFE?

THE BILLIONAIRE BABY BOMBSHELL

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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This book would never have come about without two groups of people: first, the fabulous Mills & Boon Desire editorial team (Jessica and Liba, for their awesome editing, and Charles, who has the delightful task of answering all my questions and queries and fielding my out-there ideas with tact and patience). And my writing group, The Coven, who hold my hand (both metaphorically and literally), talk me down off the ledge when things get crazy and generally keep me sane. I love you, girls!

Also, a separate special thanks goes to Kitty and her friend Betsy, for answering my questions on what it takes to be a teacher in the States.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Paula Roe for her contribution to The Highest Bidder miniseries

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Bonus Story

Excerpt

One

“Five hundred thousand. I have half a million dollars, ladies and gentlemen. Any more bids?”

The auctioneer’s French-accented baritone rose above the electric whispers spreading through the eager crowd at Waverly’s. The atmosphere was a living, breathing thing, undulating in intense waves of excitement and curiosity, and Chase Harrington could practically feel the energy bouncing off each and every bidder in the room, the familiar subdued rumble of gossip reverberating off the velvet-papered walls.

The chandeliered auction room with its tufted high-backed chairs and polished wooden floor was a far cry from Obscure, Texas. And for once, no one was gossiping about him: they were all fixated on the auction.

Being able to offer D. B. Dunbar’s hand-notated final draft for sale had been a massive coup for Waverly’s, one of New York’s oldest—and most scandalous—auction houses. Millions around the world had been riveted by the tragic death of America’s famous children’s author in a plane crash last October. But after the usual outpouring of grief, commentary quickly turned to the issue of the reclusive thirty-year-old’s final book in his acclaimed Charlie Jack: Teenage Ninja Warrior series. Countless Facebook fan pages, regular trending on Twitter and fan fiction sites were all about one thing—was there a fourth book and, if so, when would it be published?

Now, that was full-scale attention.

Chase’s fingers tightened on his paddle, nerves as tight as a teenager on his first date. Enter the distant relative, some cousin twice removed, desperate for money and fame.. Walter…Walter…Shalvey, that was it. Yeah, Shalvey was a narcissistic bottom feeder, but unfortunately he knew how to play the media, drip-feeding just enough information to keep the story in the public eye for months. The guy was not only set for life, thanks to lucrative royalties and associated licensing fees from the first three books. There was also a fourth book—Dunbar’s agent had just sold it for seven figures last week, with a scheduled publication date of April.

Which was way too late.

Chase cast an impatient glance over the crowded room. Judging by the turnout today, the hype had worked. Not that it was any old public auction, oh, no. Invitation only meant handpicked rich, famous or otherwise connected. He’d already spotted a politician and a socialite, plus an incognito actor who was rumored to be interested in the movie rights for his production company.

The extremely private Dunbar would probably be rolling over in his grave right about now.

“Any more bids?” repeated the auctioneer, his gavel poised and ready to call the sale.

Chase may have spent years honing his “detached and aloof” expression, but inside, a triumphant smile itched to escape. That manuscript would be his. He could almost taste it.

“Five hundred and ten thousand dollars. Thank you, ma’am.”

A unified gasp coursed through the crowd, drowning out Chase’s soft curse. Fist clenched tight on his paddle, he smoothly lifted it.

The auctioneer nodded at him. “Five hundred and twenty.”

The sharply dressed blonde sitting next to him finally looked up from her cell phone. “You do know the book is being published in six months, right?”

“Yes.”

She paused, but when Chase said no more, shrugged and went back to her phone.

Another wave of murmurs bathed the spectators, then… “Five hundred and thirty thousand dollars.”

Oh, no, you don’t. Chase raised his paddle again then followed the auctioneer’s gaze.

His rival was on the far side of the room, three rows up, standing with her back against the wall. Petite, huge eyes, fiery-red hair pulled back into a no-nonsense hairdo, grim expression. He noticed all that within seconds then, oddly, that severe black suit isn’t working with her pale skin.

Right. But she was determined, judging by the way she countered his bid again, her brows dipping before her chin tipped up defiantly.

She was also, he realized as he ruthlessly picked her apart, a woman totally focused on projecting a haughty, untouchable facade. A woman obviously used to getting her own way.

And just like that, a broken fragment of his past jabbed him, flattening his mouth as a thousand sour memories filled it.

Oh, no. You are not sixteen anymore and she is definitely not a Perfect.

The Perfects… Man, he’d managed to not think about those three jerks and their catty girlfriends in years. Perfect in looks, perfect in social skills, perfect in freezing out anyone labeled “unsuitable” by their beautiful standards. Goddamn Perfects had made high school a living hell. He’d barely gotten out alive.

He glared at the woman, cataloging the familiar arrogant tilt of her chin, the aura of entitlement and control, the superiority as she looked down her nose at everyone. Judging him, finding him lacking. Unacceptable. Unworthy.

Get it together, man. You buried that life a thousand times over. You’re not that helpless boy with the white-trash parents anymore.

Yet he couldn’t take his eyes off her. His teeth ground together so tightly his jaw began to ache.

He finally tore his gaze back to the auctioneer before the poison filled him, and called out loudly, “One million dollars.”

The ripple of surprise erupted into a tsunami. Chase glanced over at his rival, his face expressionless. Try beating that, princess.

She blinked once, twice, those huge eyes studying him with such silent intent that he felt a frown furrow his brow.

Then she turned away, her paddle loose at her side as she shook her head at the auctioneer.

It was over a few seconds later.

Yes. Victory pulsed through him as he stood and made his way down the row of congratulatory observers.

“Congratulations,” the blonde said as she followed him through the tightly packed crowd. “Me, I could think of better things to spend a million bucks on.”

Chase gave her a thin smile then glanced across the room one last time.

She was gone.

He scanned the crowd. Blonde. Blonde. Brunette. Not red enough. Ah…

His gaze lingered and people began to move, finally parting to offer a better view.

She was talking to a tall blonde woman in a sharp suit, and as that woman turned, recognition hit.

Ann Richardson, beleaguered CEO of Waverly’s.

He’d read more than he cared to about Waverly’s these past months. Movie stars, scandals, a missing golden statue. Crazy stuff that belonged in bestselling fiction, not real life. Sometimes he found it hard to believe he actually moved in some of the same social circles.

But he knew firsthand how dark the flipside could be, especially when money was involved. Take Ann Richardson—a driven, charismatic woman who’d dragged the Waverly name through the tabloids, thanks to her alleged affair with Dalton Rothschild.

He scowled. There was something about Rothschild that rubbed him the wrong way… Oh, he had bags of charm and was a talented businessman, but Chase had never liked the way he seemed to seek the spotlight for every charity event, every donation he made. Too overdone, Chase had always thought.

While he suffered a few more handshakes, his gaze returned to the two women, noting the familiar way they chatted, the hand Ann placed on the redhead’s arm, the smiles. Then they bent their heads and a quick volley of words flew, in between a few surreptitious looks that could only mean they were exchanging something private.

A sliver of doubt took hold.

Chase pulled out his phone and on the pretext of checking his calls, studied the women more closely.

To a casual observer, the redhead’s appearance was impeccable. But Chase was looking for flaws and pretty soon his keen eyes found them. A loose thread on her cuff, sharp creases on her jacket—both pointed to lots of wardrobe storage. Then there was her bag, which showed faint wear along the leather handles.

He hesitated at her legs, appreciating the lean calves for a moment until he dragged his gaze down. Impossibly high shoes, shiny and obviously expensive. And vaguely familiar.

His thoughtful frown cleared. Yeah, that fashion designer he’d dated a few years back had had a thing for shoes and she’d had the exact same style in five different colors. If these were real, they were at least three years old. If they were fake, it only created more questions.

The redhead slowly shifted her weight from one leg to the other and winced, a dead giveaway that her feet were killing her. So, a woman not used to wearing fancy shoes. A woman—he quickly realized—who definitely did not have half a million to spare.

All those little anomalies exploded into full-blown suspicion. He’d seen more than his fair share of underhand deals not to realize something was off.

Anger flared, making his gut tighten. Coincidence? No way. Things always happened for a reason, not because of some cosmic karma. The redhead was up to something. Her conflicting appearance, her link to Ann Richardson, combined with Richardson’s tainted reputation…

Anger and distaste swelled up inside. If Richardson had resorted to shill bidding then Chase was not going to let her get away with it.

* * *

Lost, lost, lost. Vanessa’s red-heeled Louboutins tattooed out that one word as she clacked down Waverly’s polished hall, her throat thick with disappointment.

Her failure had been briefly overshadowed by seeing Ann Richardson, her sister’s college roommate, and for a few minutes she was simply Juliet’s sister, exchanging friendly chatter and playing catch-up.

“Juliet’s in Washington for a few weeks, you know,” Vanessa had said. “You should give her a call and we could do lunch sometime. That is,” she amended, belatedly recalling the recent sensational headlines, “if you’re not too busy.”

Ann smiled. “I’m always busy. But it is tempting. A chance to get away from the city would be welcome.”

Vanessa knew how she felt.

They chatted about the auction for a few minutes, then Vanessa’s family, until she regretfully mentioned her flight and Ann offered the use of her car. She wanted to refuse, but the truth was a chauffeured ride would provide more privacy than a New York cabdriver.

Privacy to wallow in her failure.

Gone, gone, gone, her heels continued to tap out on the white marbled floor.

She’d bid as high as she could, but her grandmother’s considerable trust fund just wasn’t enough. Sorry, Meme. She sighed as she tied her coat belt with a swift tug. I know you’d think I was crazy for wanting something from that man. But you always said a family legacy was one of the most important gifts you can give your children.

And all she’d gotten for her trouble was a bunch of aching muscles from pulling her shoulders straight, a painful reward for donning that familiar air of cool world-weariness designed to keep any curious onlookers at bay.

She kept up the brisk pace, her face still tight as she passed by an ornate mirror.

It had been so long since she’d needed her game face, but old ways died hard. Well, of course they did. It’s been drummed into you since you were five years old. And for twenty-two more she’d lived it with outward acceptance. “You are a Partridge,” was her father’s favorite lecture. “Your forefathers were one of the founding families of this great city of Washington. You do not show weakness or vulnerability and you never, ever do anything to taint the noble legacy of those ancestors.”

She grabbed the door handle as emotion tumbled inside. Well, she’d well and truly tainted that legacy; she’d not only thrown away a career in law for a teaching degree, then quit the position her father had arranged at the exclusively private Winchester Prep: she’d ended up unwed and pregnant. In the eyes of the great Allen Partridge, that was a bigger offense than her teaching job at Bright Stars Nursery School. She’d felt his scorn and disappointment for days under his roof until she’d finally decided to move.

“Excuse me.” A large male hand suddenly slapped on the door, shoving it closed and breaking her thoughts.

“What do you think you’re…?” She whirled, but the rest of her sentence petered off as she stared up into a pair of angry blue eyes. Nice face. Very nice face. No, wait! It was Mr. Million Dollars, the smug suit who’d won what should have been hers. “…doing?” she finished in irritation.

She put her weight on the back foot, creating distance even as her fingers tightened on her handbag.

Animosity seeped from every pore of his sharply dressed body, broad shoulders straight, cool arrogance lining an impressively striking face. Tanned skin, chiseled jaw. Her inner artist paused to admire the view. Classically handsome, really…

“Who are you?” he barked.

She blinked, the spell broken. “None of your business. Who are you?”

“Someone who can make a lot of trouble for you. How do you know Ann Richardson?”

Vanessa shoved her handbag strap up her shoulder. “Again, none of your business. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

The man refused to budge, preferring instead to stare her down.

Yeah, good luck with that, buddy.

She raised one condescending eyebrow then slowly crossed her arms. “Do I need to call security?”

“Oh, go right ahead. I’m sure they’ll be interested in your story.”

What? Confusion spiked, followed quickly by a thread of worry. She drew in a sharp breath. “Look, I don’t know who you think I am or what I’ve—”

He snorted. “Cut the crap. I know exactly what you’ve been doing. The question is, do you want to come clean or should I do it for you?”

The cold steel in his voice matched his eyes, slicing through her tough protective shell in one swift movement.

“Come clean?” she said faintly.

“Yeah. And I’m sure I could wrangle a few reporters interested enough to run a story.”

Shock stole her voice, her breath. How could he know? No one knew. Her hand flew to her throat, her fingers tightening around her woolen collar.

Yet as he stood there, bristling and combative as he invaded her personal space, a thought began to grow inside, pushing past her outrage and fear. What was it her father always said? “Until there’s irrefutable evidence, never admit to anything.”

Wow, it did help to have a defense lawyer in the family.

A shot of resolve forced her hand into a tight fist by her side. Quickly she called on every tired muscle to straighten her already ramrod back as she inhaled, filling her lungs with self-assurance.

“And what story would that be?” she said calmly, pinning him with her direct gaze.

His murmur of disbelief annoyed the hell out of her. “Shill bidding.”

She blinked. “What?”

“A plant, bidding against—”

“Legitimate bidders to bump up the price. Yes, I know what it is. And you… you—” she released a relieved breath “—are out of your mind.”

“Are you denying you know Ann Richardson?”

Vanessa’s mouth tightened. “Of course I know her—she was my sister’s college roommate.”

The stranger’s expression turned shrewd. “Right.” His gaze swept over her, scrutinizing, studying. Frankly contemptuous in his perusal.

That faint sheen of worry started up again, sending a shiver down her spine. Careful, Ness. “It’s true, and very easily proved.”

“Of course it is.”

“Listen, Mr.…?”

“Harrington. Chase Harrington.”

“Mr. Harrington. You won the auction. You are now the proud owner of the rare and precious hand-notated copy of D. B. Dunbar’s final book—” Her voice nearly cracked then, but she swallowed and forged on. “So go and pay Waverly’s and enjoy your prize. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“So why were you bidding on Dunbar’s manuscript?”

She dug around in her bag for her sunglasses. “Why did everyone else in that room want it?”

“I’m asking you, not them.”

With a deliberately bored shrug, she slid her glasses on. “I hate waiting. Especially for a D. B. Dunbar.”

He crossed his arms, his expression part skeptical, part disgusted. “You couldn’t wait six months.”

“That’s right.”

“Bull.”

The stress of the past few years, the tense auction, missing her babies and the frantic craziness of New York had done their damage, steadily chipping away at her control. And now this… this… arrogant SOB in her face. She’d had enough.

Resentment surged through her veins, heating her face and pulling her shoulders back. She shoved her glasses on her head then tipped her chin up, giving him her haughtiest death stare.

“You know what? You got me. You want to know who I am?” When she took an aggressive step forward, surprise flashed across his face, and empowered, she took another. “I was Dunbar’s secret girlfriend, he left me with nothing and I was bidding on that manuscript so I could wait a few months, then flog it off for a nice little profit when his book came out. That sound about right to you?”

She punctuated every word with a pointing finger, until finally she paused, a bare inch away from poking that finger into his broad chest.

His eyes were a sharp, clear blue, the kind of blue reserved for movie stars and rock gods. Yet strangely, it reminded her of a perfect Colorado winter, the morning after the first snowfall.

Contact lenses, probably. His whole persona screamed money and entitlement, and with that, ego and vanity came hand in hand. Yet as she paused, breath pumping from her lungs and fists now on hips, his gaze flicked to her mouth.

The moment flared, so sudden and intense that Vanessa sucked in a gasp. Her anger shorted out as awareness flooded in, infinite possibilities and anticipation threading through the air, binding them.

It left her reeling.

Chase couldn’t help but notice how wide those green eyes had become. Innocent eyes, he would’ve said, if not for the fact that she’d spent the last twenty seconds practically screaming her crazy scenario at him.

And boy, a woman with a mouth that good was as far from innocent as he was.

He dragged in a breath, then quickly exhaled when he realized it was all her. Something vanilla, plus something else…soft and powdery, familiar yet unable to place.

Princess smelled amazing, and that pissed him off because the last thing he needed was a raging attraction to her. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He didn’t do commitment or Perfects.

Control. He had to get control.

“Miss Partridge?” came a voice, and as one, they both sprung back and turned.

A uniformed man stood there, a cap tucked under his arm.

“Yes?” she said, her chin going up, eyebrows raised in an imperious “why are you interrupting me” expression.

“Miss Richardson said to inform you her car is ready for you. Where would you like to go?”

She spared Chase a haughty look. “JFK, thanks.” And without another word, she turned on her heel and followed the driver down the long corridor.

She had the rounded tones and patrician air that clenched every muscle in Chase’s body, sending it onto high alert. She even had the walk down pat, he realized, watching her hips sway beneath that tight black skirt, her precise footsteps in killer heels eating up the hall. Part hypnotic, part infuriating, that arrogant walk told him she knew exactly where his eyes were focused. He’d bet a thousand bucks a smug smile was plastered all over that beautiful face, too.

With hands on his hips he glared at her back until she turned the corner and finally disappeared.

She hadn’t declared her innocence or answered his questions. And now he had a name—Partridge. Which meant this was far from over.

Two

Chase checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes then stared out into the dark, leafy suburban street, shifting restlessly in the luxurious leather seat of his rental car as his thoughts tossed.

Vanessa Partridge. His gaze honed in on the apartment building three doors down, at the lights behind the drawn curtains on the second floor.

At first he’d thought there was something in that manuscript, something incriminating she wanted to remain private. But apart from a stack of hand-written notes and a bunch of chapters running low on toner, he’d come up empty.

He’d stared at those neat pages on his desk for so long he could’ve burned a hole in them. And eventually he returned to his original accusation—she was a Waverly plant.

He buttoned up his coat then swung open the car door, wincing as an unseasonably cold October breeze rushed in. A thousand questions burned, their missing endings gnawing away at him. Despite the information Chase had charmed out of Waverly’s staff, then had followed up online, nothing could fill in the gaps better than the woman herself. Yes, her story about her sister and Ann Richardson had proven correct, but the rest was woefully deficient…and he hated the imperfection those holes wrought.

Why would Vanessa Partridge resort to shill bidding? And why would the daughter of two highly respected Washington lawyers have such a blatant disregard for the law?

Chase shoved his hands in his pockets. If she was as innocent as she claimed, how could she afford to bid on that manuscript, given her single-parent status and teacher’s salary? Daddy’s money? So why not use that money for a house, a flashy car, a nanny?

Those questions had dogged his thoughts after he’d observed her leaving the nursery school where she worked, dressed in jeans and a battered bomber jacket, hair tied in a simple ponytail. He’d watched in fascination as she went through what was obviously the familiar process of carrying two babies outside, strapping them into her old BMW, throwing her bags into the trunk, then driving fifteen minutes to a double-story apartment block. One of many that lined an average street in the lower end of Silver Spring, Maryland.

Everything about Vanessa Partridge screamed respectability, from her old-money Washington-lawyer parents, to her centuries-old bloodline. But she also baffled him. Why would someone turn her back on a promising career in law, one where she could fall into the family practice straight after her bar exam? When he’d read that particular bit of information he’d known that a trip to Maryland was in the cards. He dealt in speculation every single waking moment: it’s what he did, first as the new guy at Rushford Investments, then as one of McCoy Jameson’s most sought-after portfolio managers. These days, he worked for himself and a few choice investors. He had a talent for making money and he’d made an obscene amount of it over the years, even through the turbulent time following the crash. He was pretty much free to please himself.

And right now, what pleased him was figuring out the puzzle that was Vanessa Partridge because everything about her just didn’t add up.

He stared up at the drawn curtains of Vanessa’s apartment.

If it somehow turned out he was wrong, he owed her an apology. Chase Harrington always admitted his mistakes. But the only way he’d get to the truth was by confronting her.

No, not confronting. He’d done that back in New York and look what had happened—she’d been all up in his face and then, wham! That moment when he’d suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to kiss her.

His breath puffed out, clouding in the cool night air. Dammit. She was a Perfect in every sense of the word, and not just by the standards of his narrow-minded hometown. She had the breeding, the money, the attitude…the looks. That skin, the hair. The mouth—that beautifully shaped, top-heavy mouth, coupled with those wide green eyes…

With a muffled curse he slammed his car door closed. Get a grip, Chase. He’d fought hard to keep his past in the past, even though it had molded him into the man he was today, guiding his decisions so he could get as far away as possible from his previous life. Far away from people like Vanessa Partridge.

She’d piqued his curiosity and raised too many flags. If she was a shill bidder, he had to report her.

And if she wasn’t?

His mind flashed back to earlier, when he’d watched her struggle to get her two children into the car.

Until he knew what her story was and how she was connected to his manuscript, he needed a cool head. Angry meant emotional, and that had the potential for mistakes. He’d learned that lesson from a very early age.

* * *

“Good girl, Heather. You ate all your dinner!” Vanessa gently wiped the drooly, smiling mouth of her eighteen-month-old daughter before turning to the little girl’s twin, who sat beside her in an identical high chair. “And how are you doing, Erin? Still painting?”

The chocolate-curled baby looked up from her pumpkin-smeared tray to grin. “Pain!” Then she slowly stuck her fingers in her mouth, her eyes twinkling in mischief.

Vanessa laughed, swiping away a fleck of food in the toddler’s hair. “That’s some mighty fine artwork you’ve got there. Edible, too. How avant-garde of you.”

Wanting in on the conversation, Heather clapped her hands and squealed, prompting her sister to follow suit. Pumpkin splattered Vanessa’s shirt, leaving orange smears on dark blue. Vanessa quickly wiped it off with a smile, even as her insides cramped with bittersweet regret.

She’d been back home for two days, back to her normal life and her job and still she couldn’t shake the failure of her New York trip.

I am very disappointed in you, Vanessa. If she closed her eyes, that imaginary voice even sounded like her father’s.

She cupped Heather’s warm cheek with her palm, her mouth grim.

Yes, she had friends, her girls, a job she loved. All those had satisfied her for nearly two years. A few times she’d thought of calling her parents, even apologizing, but she quickly nixed that idea. She had nothing to apologize for.

Then she’d heard about the auction and it was as if she’d been hit by a renewed purpose. Something had taken hold of her conscience and wouldn’t let go, a righteous emotion that had amplified day by day, night by night, until two weeks ago. She’d thought about it, analyzed it to death before allowing herself to hope, to plan, to follow up. Dylan may have left her—left her babies—with nothing to remember him by, but she was determined to right that wrong.

She’d failed.

Obviously, someone up there didn’t want her to have that manuscript.

She sighed, gently wiping pumpkin from Heather’s high chair. So many memories rolling through her head. So many mistakes.

Well, except two. Her gaze went to Erin and Heather, gleefully mucking about with their food, and her chest tightened to almost painful intensity. She’d go through her father’s horrible accusations, their awful row and her storming out all over again if it meant having these two gorgeous babies in her life. They were hers. All hers.

“Mum-mum-mum?” Heather said, huge brown eyes so like Dylan’s staring up at her.

Vanessa’s breath caught as she leaned in to kiss the soft, downy head. Lingering notes of baby shampoo mixed with pumpkin quickly chased away the regret and she smiled.

“I think it’s time for someone’s bath.”

“Baff!” Erin echoed with a final bang on her high chair.

With smooth efficiency, she wiped down the high chairs then unstrapped the girls. With one on each hip, she padded out of the kitchen, through the living room and down the short hall.

This apartment was perfect, although sharing her master bath would definitely lose its appeal once the girls got older. Eventually they’d have to find a bigger place, something with three bedrooms and at least two bathrooms.

Maybe fate was telling her she needed to use her money for more important things.

Shoving all thoughts of that auction from her mind, she concentrated on the familiar routine of bathing the girls, drying them, reading a bedtime story, then settling them down in their cribs. As usual, Erin was the first to fall asleep, her little breath coming in deep and even almost immediately. Heather was the restless one, unable to settle unless Vanessa was softly singing, her hand a reassuring pressure on her back.

She was halfway through the second song of her nightly Rascal Flatts repertoire when Heather finally stilled and her breathing changed.

With a soft sigh, Vanessa gently drew her hand away, tiptoed across the room and pulled the door to.

She was nearly to the kitchen when the phone rang.

She surged forward and grabbed the receiver off the wall. “Hello?”

“Evening, Vanessa. It’s Connor Jarvis from number fifteen.”

Her heart sank. Her elderly neighbor took his self-designated role as McKenzie Road’s protector of the street’s females seriously. While it was flattering most of the time, tonight was not the night. “Hi, Mr. Jarvis. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I know the Taylors below you are away for the month and, ahhh…” She waited patiently for Jarvis’s hacking cough to subside. Finally he wheezed, “So you know I told you about that guy loitering at number seven last night?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think he’s out in front of your place.”

“What?”

She walked swiftly over to the living room window, dipping down the blinds a bare inch and staring at the lamp-lit street.

“Outside?” she said. “Where?”

“He was at the curb a few minutes ago, looking up at your window. But now I can’t see him.” Jarvis paused again, coughing for long-drawn-out seconds.

“You sure it was a man?” Vanessa said, slowly scanning the shadows outside.

“Couldn’t miss it. Tall, broad. Dressed in a suit, for crying out loud. What kind of criminal wears a suit?”

“Ones who’re good at their job?”

Jarvis burst into wheezy laughter until Vanessa began to feel bad about her lame joke. Finally, he got it under control enough to say, “You want me to call the cops?”

Before she could answer, she caught movement in her yard. The security light came on a second later, bathing the would-be criminal in a harsh amber glow.

Vanessa sucked in a breath as her stomach bottomed out.

“You want me to call the cops?” Jarvis repeated.

“No. No, I…” She sighed. “I know him. Thanks for letting me know, Mr. Jarvis. I’ll deal with it. You have a good night.”

She quickly hung up before the man had a chance to grill her further.

Vanessa paused in the middle of her living room, moments passing before she realized she had the tip of her thumb in her mouth, the nail flicking back and forth over her front tooth.

Fingers out of your mouth, Vanessa!

She winced. Even now, the mere memory of her father’s commanding bellow still had the power to make her jump.

Focus. Chase Harrington. Right.

She could ignore him.

Yeah, right. You think Mr. Million Dollars would stand for being ignored?

Her mind whirled with too many questions lacking answers. What on earth was he doing here? Lord, had he actually thought she’d been serious about her sarcastic Dylan’s “girlfriend” crack? So what did he want? She swallowed. And the big one—did he know about the girls?

She hesitated, uncertain and unprepared until the doorbell made the decision for her. In a flurry of irritation she raced down the steps and yanked the door open.

“Don’t touch that bell again!”

His hand hovered, then dropped as he stared at her through the security screen. He dominated the space on her porch—tall, broad-shouldered and dressed in an expensive suit, an equally fine winter coat only emphasizing his impressive frame. “Okay.”

“Are you stalking me, Mr. Harrington?” She crossed her arms against the night chill.

“No. I just want to talk to you.”

“If you’ve tracked me down to accuse me of something else—”

“That’s not it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Can we talk inside?”

“You could be a psychopath for all I know,” she retorted. Of course, she’d checked up on Mr. Million Dollars—have to stop calling him that!—days ago. And what she’d found gave no indication he was a criminal…at least, not on the record, anyway.

Across the street a light came on—Connor Jarvis’s—and she sighed. After a quick glance up the stairs, she unlatched the screen door. “Fine. Come in.”

He paused on the threshold. “I could be a psychopath.”

“Apparently you’re not, or so Google says.”

Surprise flashed across his face and she swallowed a satisfied smile, adding, “Silver Spring’s a bit far from One Madison Park just for a talk.”

Yes, I’ve been checking up on you. She let him digest that as she relatched the door.

She hadn’t forgotten their encounter, least of all that weird, tense moment just before Ann’s driver had inadvertently rescued her. She’d spent the last few days trying to forget it, steadfastly refusing to do what she normally did, which was scrutinize every single word, every action and reaction, then sort and define subtext and body language, keeping herself awake at night in the process.

She could practically hear her sister Juliet’s teasing laughter ringing in her ears. You always analyze things way too much, Ness. Does he like me? Do I like him? Should I hold his hand? Should I kiss him? And if I do, will it mean I’m too easy?

She’d interpreted Dylan’s interest—correctly, as it turned out—and followed up on it, which was how she’d ended up in his bed. And boy, had that turned out to be one colossal misjudgment on her part.

Only an idiot makes the same mistake twice, chère, her grandma used to say. And Partridges are smarter than that.

She finally turned to face him, the hall’s subdued lighting creating shadows and slashes of light across his face. Unfortunately, it was a very nice face and Vanessa could feel the unwanted flicker of attraction warm her insides.

He’s just a good-looking guy. Yet there was something else, something behind those carefully shuttered eyes, that called to her, something different.

Yeah, you always go for the brooding, intelligent, emotionally stunted ones, don’t you?

Vanessa clamped down hard on all emotion, instead letting righteous indignation flow freely. Chase Harrington here, in her home, did not bode well, of that she was certain.

Three

“Look, you’ve obviously been checking up on me, Mr. Harrington,” she began, arms crossed and eyes hard. “So you should know I was a legitimate bidder in that auction.”

“It’s Chase.”

Chase studied her as she stared at him expectantly, her legs planted wide and arms crossed in a classic defensive stance.

Chase tipped his head. “You’re swaying.”

Her cheeks flushed and she abruptly stilled. “Force of habit. So…you were telling me why you were here.”

Good question he’d yet to fully answer himself. Did rampant curiosity count or would that make him really sound like a stalker? “What you said at Waverly’s—the bit about you being Dunbar’s girlfriend. Was it true?”

She blinked, shock leaking out before she swiftly wiped her expression clean. “No. And anyway, what possible interest is my life to someone like—” she put her hand out, palm up, and swept him from head to toe “—you?”

That got his back up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?”

“That little…” He mimicked her gesture with a lot less finesse.

She pulled her back straight, chin tipping up. “I mean, you are obviously a rich man. Someone with connections and power and influence…”—did she just curl her lip?—“And I, on the other hand, am not.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t sell yourself short, Miss Partridge.”

She frowned and there was that look again, that irritating-as-all-hell flash of arrogance. It was an expression so effortlessly executed he wondered if she’d spent hours practicing in the mirror.

Chase gritted his teeth. Yeah, this was such a great idea.

As they silently glared at each other, a baby’s muffled cry drifted down the stairs, cutting through the charged air. Vanessa’s gaze snapped away, then she put a foot on the first step. “If that’s all you came to say…?”

“There’s more.”

Irritation flared in those wide green eyes, but she reined it in with practiced ease.

“Go,” he said, nodding up the stairs. “I’ll wait.”

With a frown and a grudging “fine,” she turned away.

Chase’s gaze followed her jeans-clad bottom as it swayed upward, one mesmerizing step at a time. In fact, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Bare feet… Nicely filled pair of denims…

Wait, what?

He shook his head then dug fingernails into his clenched palm for good measure. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out her rapid steps.

He’d managed to gain control when she returned fifteen minutes later, her hands brushing back a few stray hairs as she slowly descended.

“You have a baby,” he stated, feigning ignorance.

She crossed her arms. “Two girls. Twins. But considering you know where I live, I’m pretty sure you already know that.” When he slowly nodded, she narrowed her eyes. “Why the interest in me?”

“Why did you want Dunbar’s manuscript?”

“I told you why.” She cocked her hip, hands going to her waist as she effected a deliberately bored expression. “I hate waiting.”

Chase sighed. She was trying too hard and his patience was dwindling. But instead of plowing through her facade, he moved on. “So you’re a D. B. Dunbar fan.”

“Of his books, yes.”

He swiftly picked up on that correction with no outward indication. What did she think he’d meant?

Then she added, “So you must be quite a fan too.”

“Me? No.”

She frowned. “You’ve never read any of his books?” At his head shake, she said incredulously, “Charlie Jack? Calm Before the Storm? Justice Prevailed?”

“No.”

“You should. He is…was…” She paused, searching for the rights words before settling on, “Incredibly, amazingly talented. The world he painted just takes you to another place.” She smiled the smile of a true believer. “There are a finite number of words in the English language, yet when D. B. Dunbar arranged them he did it in such a way every page just sang. He was—” she hesitated a brief second, a flash of something behind her eyes “—a great writer.”

He’d bet a thousand bucks that wasn’t what she was originally going to say.

She brushed her hair back again, the other hand going to her back pocket. “So why did you buy the manuscript if you’re not a fan?”

“It’s a collector’s item,” he said neutrally. “A good investment that will only increase in value with the author dead.”

A flinch. Just a small one, barely noticeable. But he still caught it.

A thread of disquiet surged.

In New York she’d been as slick and icy as a January sidewalk. But here, on her own turf, not so Perfect. That is, if you didn’t count that haughty display earlier.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, recrossing her arms. “Why the interest in me?”

“Because I wanted to make sure you were on the level. And if you were, I owed you an apology.”

Her brow twisted into confusion. “A phone call would’ve sufficed.”

“Ah, but you could’ve hung up on me.”

“Most probably. So, Mr. Harrington—” she crossed her arms “—what did you find out about me?”

Oh, boy. Amazingly, he found himself tongue-tied, trapped beneath that challenging green gaze like a fifteen-year-old kid caught spying on the girls’ bathroom. He took a steadying breath, unable to shake the remnants of his past. “Your sister and Ann did go to college, your parents are hugely successful lawyers. You started out studying law but instead changed your major. But…”

“But what?” She lifted her brow questioningly. “You’ve come all this way, you might as well ask. Whether I’ll answer, though, is another thing.”

“You’re not exactly flush with cash, are you?”

“How could I afford to bid, you mean?” Her face tightened, shoulders straightening. “I have an inheritance from my maternal grandmother.”

Oh, this just gets better. Of course Vanessa Partridge has an inheritance. “But not enough to outbid me.”

Her mouth thinned. “No.”

Chase’s outward expression revealed nothing of the confusion warring inside. Her response didn’t feel rehearsed, and he’d seen some standout performances in his time. So, if he scratched shill bidder, what was left? She was more than just a rabid fan.

But how to approach it so she wouldn’t end up kicking him out?

Fresh out of inspiration, he glanced up at her brightly painted blue door. “So, what are your girls’ names?”

She hesitated then said slowly, “Erin and Heather.”

Chase’s eyebrows shot up. Score. “The characters in Dunbar’s manuscript.”

“What?”

She grabbed the stair railing, her eyes rounding.

He put out a steadying hand, but she waved it away with an “are you kidding me?” look. Suitably chastened, he watched her shake her head, her gaze on the floor.

“I skimmed through the manuscript,” he continued slowly. Her thick auburn ponytail slid over her shoulder as her chin dipped and she placed one hand on her hip. “About halfway in he introduces two characters called Megan and Tori. But in his notes, he renames them.”

Her head snapped up. “Did the notes explain why?”

“No.”

“So the published version will be—”

“Heather and Erin. Your daughters.” He paused, then added calmly, “And Dunbar’s.”

Silence fell, stretching interminably, punctuated only by the thick exhale of her breath. Shock? Anger? A prelude to tears? Whatever was going through her head, he knew one thing with unerring certainty: Vanessa Partridge wasn’t the type to cry in public. Her straightened shoulders and lifted chin just seconds later proved that thought.

“You’d better come up.”

His brow lifted. “You sure?”

With a swift nod, she turned and went back up the stairs.

Refusing to focus on her rear end, Chase finally reached the top and followed her inside. He took in the short horizontal hallway and a glimpse of a bedroom to the right before she pointed in the opposite direction and said, “Take a seat.”

He did as she asked and walked into her living room.

Stacks of books, their spines creased and worn, lined the far wall of the cozy room, spreading out under the large window to his left, before a small television and DVD player filled the remaining gap. A high shelf housed a multitude of keepsakes—a candle holder, an oddly-shaped clay sculpture and a dozen tiny origami figures. Magazines cluttered the coffee table, along with a stack of colored paper and a jar of chunky crayons. A playpen sat center, bracketed by a corner lounge chair.

So, was this the real Vanessa Partridge?

He gave her apartment another once-over. Why would someone with silver-spoon parents be living in a rental and working as an underpaid preschool teacher?

* * *

Vanessa closed the door behind them, her mind a whirling mass of chaos and confusion. Why? Why had Dylan…?

That phone call.

“I have to talk to you.” That was it. One scratchy, tinny message he’d left on her voice mail. She’d assumed he’d meant “right away” and gone from hopefully optimistic to raging fury after three hours and five messages and he still hadn’t shown up. Then she’d turned on the TV and discovered Dylan was not only half a world away, but he’d died in a plane crash.

She slowly walked into her living room. Never had she felt the sting of bewilderment so keenly than at this exact moment. Yes, she’d been dumb enough to get involved with a guy incapable of loving her the way she should be loved, and that awful, gut-gouging hope when she’d played his last message over and over had been her own personal torture device for days.

But this? This was off the charts.

She’d had no one to confide in after the accident, which had magnified her isolation a thousandfold. When the news had run the D.B. Dunbar stories 24/7 for weeks, interviewing his neighbors, his editor, his assistant, all she could do was stare at the screen with a mix of frustration and anger. Starting her new life and new job had been hard, but they’d been minor traumas compared to the ever-constant ripples that being D. B. Dunbar’s secret girlfriend had wrought.

And Chase Harrington was the only other person alive who knew the truth.

Well, more than most. She shot him a panicky glance.

“So what—” she began.

A soft muffle interrupted them and their eyes met. Vanessa turned and started down the hall until Chase’s hand on her wrist pulled her up short.

“Wait.” She stared at him, then at his warm fingers encircling her wrist. He let her go. “Just talk to her from outside the door. Don’t go in there and don’t turn on any lights.”

She frowned. “Why…”

The cries grew louder and Chase added, “Can you just try it?”

Vanessa glared at him then silently went down the hall to the door slightly ajar. “It’s okay, Heather,” she began softly.

“Higher. More singsongy.”

Of all the— She gritted her teeth and did as he instructed. “Mommy’s heeeere. Just go back to sleep, sweetie.”

She paused, letting Heather mutter again before adding gently, “Time for sleepy, sweetie. Baaaaaack tooooo sleeeeeep.”

She held her breath, waiting. After a second or two of baby mumbles, silence fell.

No. Way. She slowly turned to Chase, staring at him incredulously. “How did you know that?”

He shrugged. “I spent a lot of time with kids when I was younger. It seemed to work for them.”

When a sudden wail pierced the air, Chase added wryly, “But obviously not for Heather.”

Vanessa shot Chase a look then went swiftly into the girls’ room. The soft glow of the night-light spread across the walls and ceiling, highlighting Heather in the cot, flat on her back with eyes screwed up, ready to throw herself into her usual crying jag. Vanessa began the routine: a low gentle croon, slowly flipping her to her side, then rubbing her back, all the while scanning the mattress then the pillow.

Aha! She grabbed the pacifier and wrapped Heather’s fingers around the plastic handle. Almost instantly, Heather shoved the rubber nipple in her mouth and started to grumble, sucking furiously.

So very angry. Vanessa smiled. Erin couldn’t care less, she was so laid-back. But Heather—her fierce little warrior girl—couldn’t sleep without one.

With a quick check on the still-sound-asleep Erin, Vanessa made a silent exit, shaking her head as she padded back to the living room.

Chase was standing in the middle of her space, hands behind his back and legs apart. It was such a typically male stance, one that indicated control and command, that she felt her defenses go on full alert.

“Heather only wakes up when she loses her pacifier,” she said, trying to ignore the authority he radiated.

“Ahhh.”

“Erin could sleep through a bomb blast.”

He gave her a wry smile and for just one second, Vanessa wondered what it’d be like if he put everything into it. Devastating, most probably.

“You have kids?” she began.

“No. Look, I should apologize and—”

“Would you like a—” she said simultaneously. They both stopped, waited a second, then started again.

“…go.”

“…drink?”

Again, silence descended, but this time, Chase’s mouth curved and suddenly all Vanessa could hear was her heartbeat as it picked up the pace.

Mr. Million-Dollar Smile. Wow.

“I—I have coffee,” she said faintly, hating the way she stumbled over those three simple words. She quickly attempted to drag back the tattered remnants of composure, but his smile told her she was fooling no one with her straight back and square shoulders.

In fact, that smile only brought out a dimple. A dimple, for heaven’s sakes! As if he didn’t have enough money and looks in his corner already.

Well, deduct a few points for arrogance.

“Vanessa, let’s be honest here. I know why you were bidding on that manuscript.”

And a few more for impropriety.

He had no idea what the real story was and she had half a mind to tell him where to go. She even drew herself up, bolstering her mental strength while the cutting words formed on her tongue.

Yet as he silently stood there, waiting for her response with a look of—was that sympathy?—on his face, she chickened out at the last minute.

“Mr. Harrington—”

“Chase.”

“Chase,” she repeated, trying to ignore the intimacy of his name on her lips. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. I don’t discuss my personal life with complete strangers—even if that stranger probably hired someone to dig into my background.”

He blinked, scrutinizing her in a most disturbing way before he said, “I think I will have that coffee, thanks.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You did offer coffee, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“I can help if you show me where—”

“No! No,” she repeated more calmly. “How do you take it?”

“Black with one sugar.”

She nodded then whirled to the kitchen, her mind one big hot mess. Coffee. He wants coffee. She strode over to the cupboard below the sink, opened it to grab the box of Nespresso pods and began to prepare two cups.

The familiar task did nothing to settle her sudden disquiet. Cups from the stand… What was he up to now? Spoons from the drawer… Is he fishing for more information, maybe to go to the press with? Sugar from the cabinet…

You could try to convince him to sell you the manuscript.

She eyed his broad back through the archway as she warmed the first cup with hot water. Possible. She may not have Juliet’s stunning looks and killer negotiation skills but she was still a Partridge. Persuasion ran in her veins.

She dropped the coffee pod into the machine and pressed the button. Yeah, but how much “persuading” would he need?

The brief memory of their first meeting and that weird anticipatory…thing that had passed between them suddenly flared. The scent of his cologne. The sound of her heartbeat thudding in her head. The moment when he realized how close they were, the exact second his eyes had dropped to her lips…and lingered.

She sucked in a breath, held it for an eternity then exhaled with a snort. Her entire relationship with Dylan had been a secret, sordid affair designed to bolster his fragile ego. And prior to that, she’d been popular because of who her parents were. For once, it’d be nice if a man wanted her just for her.

So Chase Harrington thought he knew why she wanted that manuscript? He had no clue. He had no idea how Dylan’s rejection of her—of his children—had cut so deeply that it had only now just started to heal. No idea that she’d chosen this new life rather than spend a moment longer in her parents’ poisonous silent judgment. No idea how desperately she needed some kind of bond, some tangible proof that Erin and Heather’s father had been a living, breathing person to her.

As the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, she took a second to think—really think—about her situation. One—she still wanted that manuscript and all it represented. Two—Chase was a businessman, and businessmen lived to make money, right? If she could make him the right offer—

Yeah, but with whose money?

She dropped sugar into his cup then started on hers. By the time she’d finished and returned to the living room, Chase had made himself comfortable.

He’d removed his coat, and it was now draped over the back of the couch. He sat, ankle crossed over knee, looking perfectly relaxed amongst the girls’ toys and her comfortable possessions, and her first thought was: he’d make a great portrait subject. Her second: that internet search had done nothing to appease her intense curiosity.

Hedge funder extraordinaire Chase Harrington was worth billions, which was not exactly a selling point given the current financial climate. Yet he was no high-profile Donald Trump: he didn’t spend money on expensive cars or private jets. And except for that one standout purchase of a beleaguered midtown office complex, no multibillion-dollar property deals either. For all his connections and wealth, her rudimentary search had come up with less than thirty accurate hits, and only after the usual ones featuring his recent purchase from Waverly’s. From those she quickly worked out that, while he owned a few properties around the world, he didn’t date supermodels, didn’t court the limelight and was intensely private.

Which meant a possibly interesting backstory in there somewhere.

“Tell me, what exactly do hedge fund managers do?”

He took the cup she proffered, palming it in one large hand.

“Well, in simplified terms, they manage a private pool of capital from investors and advise them on trading strategies.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

“I put in a percentage, so when the investors make money, I do, too. Plus, there’s the investment and management fees.”

“So it’s like playing the stock market?”

“Sort of.” He blew on the coffee before taking an experimental sip. “The term hedging means reducing risk, so it’s all about getting as much money as you can for as little risk as possible, then getting out. All funds aren’t the same, and returns, volatility and risk all vary. You can hedge anything, from stocks and bonds, to currency, to downturns in the market.”

“Like what happened in the financial crisis.”

She noted the way his shoulders stiffened, his brow creasing. “Yeah. But that…that was the result of a bunch of arrogant, irresponsible people who—” he took a breath and gave a tight smile “—who aren’t really fit to mention in polite conversation. And the only money I manage now is my own and a few select investors’.”

She shook her head. “I’m okay at math, but you must have some kind of superbrain to do what you do.”

He took another sip of coffee then said slowly, “It’s called an eidetic ability.”

Her eyes widened. “You have a photographic memory? You’re kidding me.”

“Oh, I’m not. I was the most frequently requested party trick at college when word got out.” His sardonic tone told her it wasn’t something he was particularly proud of, which was odd.

A college guy who didn’t want to impress everyone, be the life of the party and brag about himself? Intriguing.

“Your parents must be happy you’ve done so well,” she said now.

He made a noncommittal sound and shrugged, which was neither confirmation nor denial. There was a major story in his past, Vanessa surmised. One that probably didn’t end well, given his response.

So whose does?

In the awkward silence Vanessa sipped on her too-hot coffee, burning her tongue in the process.

“So how did you and Dunbar meet?” he finally asked.

Okay, moment over. “I think we established I’m not going to answer your personal questions.”

“I’m not about to go running to the press.”

“That’s not the impression I got in New York.”

He leaned back on the couch, those worry lines marring his forehead again, a sure sign he was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with being rude? Or because she’d called him on it?

He sighed and suddenly his expression changed. “Vanessa.” His cup went down on the coffee table as he fixed her with his direct gaze. “I apologize for my behavior in New York. I was impolite and pushy and totally got the wrong end of the story. I’m sorry.” Oh. Those sincere blue eyes held hers and, after a few seconds, his singular attention started to make her giddy, the not-unpleasant feeling a little like a champagne buzz. “I must’ve come across as…”

She finally found her tongue. “Rude?”

He nodded, stunning her further. “Yeah. I tend to get steamed when people are trying to rip me off.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“I know. Look, this isn’t coming out right at all. I made an assumption about you and it turns out I was wrong. Normally I’m smarter than that.”

If that didn’t beat all. She sat there, unable to form a comeback. Truth be told, he was not at all what she’d first assumed, and she didn’t know what to think.

“What would it take for you to sell me that manuscript?” she blurted out.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You sure? Just about everything has a price.”

Was it her imagination, or did his expression turn bitter? “Not this thing. And anyway, I seem to recall you don’t have the money.”

“Not everything has to be about money.” At the look on Chase’s face, she added quickly, “Oh, wow, that came out so wrong. I didn’t mean… Did you think I…? Ewww.”

You weren’t thinking ewww two days ago, though, were you?

Obviously, he was disgusted by that thought too, because his expression tightened and he rose abruptly. “I’ve got to be going.”

She nodded, her face warm. “I’ll see you out.”

Vanessa honed in on his broad back as she followed down the stairs, gazing at the efficient haircut closely cropped at the nape. The skin was smooth and tanned beneath his collar—a jogger’s tan?

Great. Now she had an image of him running in a clingy, damp T-shirt, his pumped-up arms and legs gliding him effortlessly through Central Park.

Then he was at the last step and she was back in the real world.

Should she shake his hand? Thank him for coming? No, that wouldn’t be right. Say something, she urged herself as he reached the bottom then slowly turned back to her standing on the last step.

She was nearly eye to eye with him. A disconcerting thought.

“What are you doing Saturday night?”

She wrinkled her brow. “What’s on Saturday night?”

“The Library of Congress is having a thing and I’m on the guest list.”

“A thing?”

“A formal event. To celebrate some Egyptian display.”

“The Tombs of the Missing Pharaohs exhibit?” She crossed her arms, pulling her shirtsleeves over her hands as the cold began to seep in.

“That’s the one.”

“Aren’t you leaving your RSVP a bit late?”

“I’m a donor—I get a bit of leeway.”

“Right.”

After a moment’s silence, he said, “I’m asking you to be my plus one, Vanessa.”

She blinked. She had not seen that one coming.

“But…”

“But what?”

“Well…” She felt warmth heat her neck again. “I said ‘ewww.’”

One commanding eyebrow went up. “I’ve had much worse, believe me.”

“And honestly, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Okay.”

“Really. I mean, you’re an attractive guy. A very attractive guy and I’m…” She trailed off, swallowing thickly as Chase’s lips quirked. Okay. I should stop now.

“So,” he said, thankfully glossing over her uncharacteristic loss of control. “Saturday? Just think of it as an extended apology. There’ll be food, champagne, culture, adult conversation.” His mouth curved again, giving her a tempting sample of devastating charm. “Have I sold you yet?”

“I…” She glanced back down up the stairs, her mind spinning at the sudden turn of events. Her immediate response was to say no. She should say no. Her world and Chase’s were miles apart. She’d been a part of that world—albeit not at Chase’s high end—and had turned her back on it. But deep inside, a gentle insistent tug had started and just wouldn’t ease up.

“I’d have to get a sitter,” she warned, finally stepping down and walking over to the front door.

“Of course.”

She added, “Why are you asking me?”

“Why not?” He tempered that statement with a smile.

She swallowed. “What if I say no?”

He slid his hands into his coat pockets. “Do you want to say no?”

Maybe that manuscript wasn’t completely lost to her after all. And if one party invitation was all it took to definitively find out, then she’d consider it a good deal.

“Okay. Saturday night.”

“Great.” He reached past her for the door handle and suddenly her personal space became way too cramped. She took a step back just for the room and air to breathe easier.

Yet his perfectly handsome face, now flush with male satisfaction, made her heart pound against her ribs.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve just so she’d stop staring at him.

I blame you, Mrs. Knopf. Her ninth-grade art teacher had encouraged a healthy appreciation of a well-put-together face, of shadow, form and color and it had stuck, even though Vanessa had long since made peace with her basic art skills.

“I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

“Oh.” She blinked. “I thought I could just meet you there.”

“You’re not out of my way.”

I doubt it was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it back. It would save on gas. She shrugged. “Okay.” Then she glanced past his shoulder. “Is it raining?”

Chase turned, his profile in stark relief against the porch light and the dark night. “It is.” He turned up his collar, dug his hands in his pockets and gave her a small smile. “Sleep well, Vanessa.”

She nodded, ostensibly crossing her arms to ward off the chill. But her goosebumping skin had more to do with the way Chase’s mouth had formed that little farewell—soft, almost intimate—followed by a small grin that had her wishing for more.

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