Courting Justice. Brenda Jackson

lifted a brow. “And that’s a bad thing?”

      “For me it is. I told you why I’m here. And the thought that anyone wouldn’t think we’re a couple is simply crazy. You are better for me than any other woman in this room, hands down.”

      Was that irritation she heard in his voice? She fought back a laugh that he would waste his time being annoyed at such a thing. “Hands down, huh?” she said, deciding to make light of their conversation.

      He leaned in closer and the look in his eyes told her he wasn’t making polite conversation. “So what do you think, Peyton?”

      If he thought he had answered all her questions, she had news for him. “Why me, Angelo?”

      Their gazes held, and the look in his eyes had her heart pumping like crazy. She bit her bottom lip, feeling a sudden flutter in the pit of her stomach. For whatever reason, it appeared he was still annoyed with her.

      “You’ve known me longer than anyone here, so I can trust you,” he finally said. “With you I don’t have to worry about your interest in me being purely financial or because of my newfound fame.”

      His words were actually a compliment—kind of. And she couldn’t help the sensation that made her chest swell or the undercurrents that were making the tips of her nipples harden under her blouse. “I thought men who weren’t serious about women didn’t care one way or the other, as long as they were on top of their game.”

      He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Maybe for some, but I’ve outgrown that.”

      She waved off his words. “Whatever.”

      “You don’t believe me.”

      She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Angelo? No. But does it matter what I believe?”

      He was spared from answering when the waitress came to take their order. Just as well, Peyton thought. He had told her more than enough fairy tales today anyway.

      * * *

      Angelo shifted in his chair thinking that every muscle in his body was feeling Peyton’s presence. Conversation for them had ceased for the moment while they enjoyed their meal.

      She had ordered a lot, and he was surprised she ate it all. Since he’d eaten breakfast and lunch, all he wanted was something light and decided a bowl of soup would be enough, or so he’d thought. But more than once he swiped a French fry off her plate.

      He slowly chewed on the fry thinking he could feel the connection between them even if she couldn’t. Did she even sense what was taking place? Had she caught on that he was laying the groundwork for what was to come? What would eventually happen between them?

      More than once he saw her glance at the group of women sitting at a table across the room. He was very much aware that the women were staring at them and had been doing so for quite a while. He wondered if that’s what was bothering Peyton and decided to ask.

      He glanced over at her and before he could speak his eyes devoured her, taking in the smooth, creamy brown texture of her skin, her dark eyes that preferred studying the food on her plate rather than him, and the way her mouth was curved in a pout.

      He lifted a brow. “Would you like to tell me what’s wrong, Peyton?”

      She glanced up, met his gaze, held it and was about to move her mouth to speak when they both noticed a presence at their table. He lifted his gaze and stared into the face of Lela Stillwell.

      Where the hell had she come from? And why had she chosen just that precise moment to appear? And what right did she have to glare at him like he’d been caught doing something wrong?

      “Lela?” he said, acknowledging her presence.

      “I’ve been looking for you,” Lela said in that syrupy voice that made him cringe. Then she had the audacity to reach out and place her hand over his. Now she was being disrespectful to Peyton, and he wasn’t going to put up with it. He reached out and removed her hand from his.

      “You were looking for me for what reason?”

      “I thought we could spend the afternoon together.”

      He gave her a smile that he knew didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then he glanced over to Peyton. “I’m sure Lela somehow forgot her manners, so let me make the introductions. Peyton, this is Lela Stillwell. Lela, this is Peyton Mahoney.” The two women glanced at each other, but neither extended their hands, nor did they exchange pleasantries.

      In fact, as if dismissing Peyton altogether, Lela turned her attention back to him and said, “Well, are you ready?”

      He lifted a brow. “Ready for what?”

      “For us to spend the afternoon together. Didn’t you read the brochure you were given when you checked in?”

      He had to remind himself that standing before him was a woman who could take the words spoiled, selfish and narcissistic to a whole new level. “Evidently I didn’t. What did it say?” he asked.

      She smiled. “Tonight the resort is hosting the couples’ ball, and it would be best to claim your date early.”

      He stared at her for a moment and then just to make sure he understood what she was insinuating, he said, “So you’re claiming me?”

      She smiled brightly. “Of course.”

      Sometimes people simply amazed him, especially women, and at that moment, particularly Lela. She had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth; had attended some of the best schools; had been introduced to all the finer things in life. But when it came to substance—namely manners and respecting others—she might as well have been raised by a pack of wild dogs. Especially compared to Peyton—who had been raised by her grandmother in a less than desirable part of Chicago, rarely saw her mother growing up, didn’t know her father and had to pay her own way through college and law school but still possessed the kind of class and grace that money couldn’t buy. If the two women were pitted against one another, Peyton was the winner hands down.

      He held Lela’s gaze and was about to open his mouth to tell Lela that it would be a cold day in hell before he would allow her to claim him for anything, when he heard Peyton’s soft chuckle.

      He glanced across the table in time to hear her say to Lela, “Sorry, Ms. What’s-Your-Name, but you’re a tad too late. Angelo might not have read the brochure, but I did. And he’s already been claimed—by me.”