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She closed her eyes, and for the merest, most exquisite millisecond, she thought she felt the brush of his lips over hers.
But she told herself she’d only imagined it.
The crowd had dispersed, caught up in another song, another dance, another moment. But Gracie couldn’t quite let this moment go. And neither, it seemed, could he. When he began to lower his head toward hers—there was no mistaking his intention this time—she didn’t know how to react. Not until his mouth covered hers completely. After that, she knew exactly what to do.
She kissed him back.
The feel of his mouth was extraordinary, at once entreating and demanding, tender and rough, soft and firm. By the time he pulled back, her brain was so rattled all she could do was say the first thing that popped into her head. “I thought you didn’t like me.”
He nuzzled the curve where her neck joined her shoulder. “Oh, I like you very much.”
“You think I took advantage of your father.”
“I don’t think that at all.”
“Since when?”
* * *
Only on His Terms is part of The Accidental Heirs duet: First they find their fortunes, then they find love.
Only on His Terms
Elizabeth Bevarly
ELIZABETH BEVARLY is a New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of more than seventy novels and novellas. Her books have been translated into two dozen languages and published in three dozen countries, and she hopes to some-day be as well traveled herself. An honors graduate of the University of Louisville, she has called home places as diverse as San Juan, Puerto Rico and Haddonfield, New Jersey, but now writes full-time in her native Kentucky, usually on a futon between two cats. She loves reading, movies, British and Canadian TV shows, and fiddling with soup recipes. Visit her on the web at www.elizabethbevarly.com, follow her on Twitter or send her a friend request on Facebook.
For Wanda Ottewell
With many, many thanks
and even more fond memories.
Contents
Gracie Sumner came from a long line of waitresses. Her mother worked for a popular chain restaurant for three decades, and her grandmother manned the counter of a gleaming silver diner on the Great White Way. The tradition went all the way back to her great-great-great-grandmother, in fact, who welcomed westward-ho train passengers to a Denver saloon. Gracie may have brought a bit more prestige to the family trade by finding work in a four-star, Zagat-approved bistro, but the instinct and artistry of waitressing was pretty much encoded on her DNA, the same way her tawny hair and brown eyes were.
And that instinct was how she knew there was something more to the silver-haired gentleman seated at table fifteen of Seattle’s Café Destiné than a desire to sample the pot-au-feu.
He had come in at the end of the lunch shift and asked specifically to be seated in her area, then engaged her in conversation in a way that made her feel as if he already knew her. But neither he nor the name on the credit card he placed atop his check—Bennett Tarrant—was familiar. That wasn’t surprising, however, since judging by his bespoke suit and platinum card, he was clearly a man of means. Unlike Gracie, who was struggling to pay her way through college, and who, at twenty-six, still had three semesters left before earning her BA in early childhood education.
“Here you go, Mr. Tarrant,” she said as she placed the server book back on the table. “I hope you’ll visit Café Destiné again soon.”
“Actually, Miss Sumner, there’s a reason why I came here today.”
Her gaze flew to his. Although she always introduced herself as Gracie to her customers, she never gave out her last name. Warily, she replied, “The pot-au-feu. Yes, it’s the most popular item on our menu.”
“And it was delicious,” Mr. Tarrant assured her. “But I really came in to see you on behalf of a client. I inquired for you at your apartment first, and your landlady told me where you work.”
Good old Mrs. Mancini. Gracie could always count on her to guard absolutely no one’s privacy.
Mr. Tarrant withdrew a silver case from inside his suit jacket and handed her a business card. Tarrant, Fiver & Twigg, it read, and there was a New York City address. Bennett Tarrant’s title was President and Senior Probate Researcher. Which told Gracie all of nothing.
She looked at him again. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. What’s a probate researcher?”
“I’m an attorney. My firm is one of several appointed by the State of New York when someone passes away without a will, or when a beneficiary named in someone’s will can’t be found. In such circumstances, we locate the rightful heirs.”
Gracie’s confusion deepened. “I still don’t understand. My mother died in Cincinnati, and her estate was settled years ago.”
Not that there had been much to settle. Marian Sumner had left Gracie just enough to cover four