that sort of thing.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “Your sister’s here.”
Rachel flinched. “Where?” Rhonda Westover MacMillan—Mrs. Harrison MacMillan—could never forget her role as big sister, which to her way of thinking gave her carte blanche to run Rachel’s life.
“Over by the door to the terrace. With that group of men.”
Of course Rhonda was with a group of men. The hairier sex had panted after her ever since she was a toddler in ruffled panties in nursery school, where she would bat her eyelashes and little boys would vie to share their afternoon animal crackers with her.
Rachel studied her sister now as she held court over five men in black suits, like some lounge singer with her backup group. Clinging close to her side was Harrison MacMillan himself, fifteen years older and many times richer than Rhonda. But of course, all that money was Rhonda’s now, and Rhonda made sure plenty of it was spent on keeping up her fabulous face and figure, not to mention endowing numerous charities and throwing lavish parties, all of which served to keep her name in the paper as one of Dallas’s most famous socialites.
Which explained what she was doing at Denton’s big shindig. The two ran in the same circles, though they weren’t exactly friends.
What would Rhonda say when little sister had her own television show? Rachel wondered. The first time a member of the public recognized Rachel before Rhonda, big sister would have to buy out Nieman Marcus to assuage her wounded ego.
Frankly, Rachel couldn’t wait.
“Are you going to go over and say hello?” Moira asked.
Rachel shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt.” Besides, Rhonda was sure to seek her out, if only to offer some bit of sisterly wisdom. Last time they’d met, Rachel had endured a lecture on the evils of cheap shoes. Never mind that they were at a backyard barbecue. Rachel had worn a pair of funky flip-flops, decorated with rhinestones and feathers. Rhonda, teetering on silver high-heeled sandals, swore her little sister was going to ruin her feet or—worse—get a reputation for being tacky. “I’m sure we’ll bump into each other sooner or later.” But not if Rachel could avoid it.
Moira was no longer listening. She was staring toward the door, her expression lightened. “There’s David. I’ll catch up with you later.”
She darted off after her man, leaving Rachel alone with her strawberries. The chocolate had softened a little on her plate, but that would make them all the more decadent.
She lifted a fat berry by the stem and shut her eyes. Her mouth closed over the treat and she took the first bite, sweet juice and velvety cocoa mingling in her mouth. She moaned a little at the positively orgasmic mix of luscious strawberry and rich, smooth chocolate.
“Excuse me, waiter,” said a masculine voice at her elbow. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
Rachel’s eyes snapped open and she stared at the man who’d interrupted her moment of indulgence. Tall and muscular, he managed to look rough-around-the-edges in spite of his tailored blue suit. His gold-streaked brown hair needed a trim and the stubble along his chiseled jaw testified to the fact that it had been a few days since he’d used a razor. He smelled of expensive aftershave and leather, an intoxicating combination even though he obviously wasn’t Rachel’s type. She preferred someone more sophisticated, less…rugged.
Of course, right now rugged didn’t sound so bad. She was a woman who hadn’t had a serious relationship in fourteen months, two weeks and three days. But who was counting?
“Don’t let me stop you,” the man said in a definite Aussie drawl. “I’m quite enjoyin’ the show.”
Rachel managed to swallow the rest of the bite of strawberry and looked for somewhere to stash her plate for safekeeping. Whether it was the warmth of the room, or the heat that had swept through her upon locking eyes with the gorgeous Neanderthal in front of her, chocolate had melted all over her fingers and was running down her hand. “Where are the napkins?” she asked.
“Don’t see any,” the hunk said, not bothering to look around. His blue eyes telegraphed his amusement at the whole situation.
“There have to be napkins somewhere!” She looked around, frantic. The chocolate was in danger of dripping either onto her white silk dress or the white Berber carpeting. But of course there wasn’t so much as a cocktail square anywhere in sight.
She was debating wiping her hands on the white linen tablecloth when the hunk spoke up again. “Might be I can help.”
Before Rachel could protest, he took hold of her wrist and brought her fingers to his mouth. As she gaped at him, he began licking the chocolate from her fingers.
She froze at the first touch of his tongue and stared at him, heart pounding. Was this guy for real? They didn’t even know each other and he was taking these kinds of liberties. Worse, as his tongue caressed her skin she began to feel weak in the knees and seriously turned on.
How pathetic was it that a total stranger could make her this hot? Granted, he was a gorgeous specimen who practically oozed testosterone, but if she hadn’t been so socially deprived of late surely she would have told him where to get off instead of melting into a puddle at his feet like this.
In the meantime he kept licking the chocolate from her fingers. Hot velvety tongue gliding over sensitive nerve endings, sending sparks of sensation traveling through her until her whole body practically quivered. She wanted to steady herself with her free hand on his broad, muscular shoulder, but she was powerless to do anything but breathe hard.
When all the chocolate was gone he released her and they stood staring at each other. He looked almost as dazed as she felt, and as his gaze continued to bore into her she became aware of a warm flush washing over her cheeks. Here was a man who had definitely raised her temperature—too much. She had important business to think about this evening. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by a good-looking stranger—no matter how lust-worthy.
“I—I can’t believe you did that,” she stammered, tearing her eyes away from him and attempting to regain her composure.
“Must be the champagne.” He took a step back and raked a hand through his hair, only succeeding in adding to his sexy, just-rolled-out-of-bed look. “Where’s a decent beer when you need one?”
Rachel eyed the plate of strawberries, wondering if she dared risk finishing them. She really needed chocolate about now. Maybe when Mr. Gorgeous left…. “I think there’s a keg in the corner,” she said.
He made a face. “Not that American piss. I mean a real beer.”
The conviction in his voice almost made her laugh. “Let me guess—you mean an Australian beer.”
“Accent gave me away, did it?” He grinned. His middle upper tooth was slightly crooked, as if it had been knocked loose at some point and never quite fixed in place. Rachel’s stomach fluttered. Since when had crooked teeth been sexy? Obviously, since now.
“Who are you?” she asked. Despite the suit, he didn’t remotely resemble the usual cadre of executives associated with Denton Morrison.
“Name’s Garret Kelly.” He offered his hand. A large, warm hand that engulfed hers. His grin widened. “Oops, feels like I missed a spot.” He held up her hand for inspection. “There it is, right by your thumb.”
Before she could protest, he bent his head low and drew her thumb into his mouth. This time, she did brace herself with a hand to his shoulder. She was dimly aware she was losing it badly—losing her dignity and focus and all those things she prided herself on. But she couldn’t seem to help it. Brash, brawny Garret Kelly—and his amazing tongue—had positively bewitched her.
He was doing more incredible things to her with his tongue when an all too familiar voice boomed in her ear. “I’m glad you two are getting to know each other, but do you think you could contain yourselves until you’re alone?”
Rachel