me why.”
She gave him a lazy smile that, Slade noticed, didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s much too serious a topic for a garden party. I want one of those luscious little cakes I saw on the way in, and Earl Grey tea in a Spode cup.”
Much too serious, Slade thought blankly. That’s what’s wrong. I’m in over my head, drowning in those delectable blue-green eyes. When have I ever wanted a woman as I want this one? “I’ll get you whatever you desire,” he said.
Her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch in her chest. “Desire is another very big topic. Let’s stick to want. What I want is cake and tea.”
Visited by the sudden irrational terror that she might vanish from his sight, he said, “You’ll meet me tomorrow morning?”
He wasn’t, Clea was sure, a man used to being turned down; in fact, he looked entirely capable of camping out on her hotel doorstep should she say no. Better, perhaps, that she meet him in a public place, use her usual tactics for getting rid of a man who didn’t fit her criteria, and then go back to Belle’s on her own.
“Popsicles and a carousel?” she said, raising her brows. “How could I not meet you?”
“Ten o’clock?”
“Fine.”
The tension slid from his shoulders. “I’ll look forward to it.” Which was an understatement if ever there was one.
She said obliquely, “I leave for Europe the next day.”
“I leave for Japan.”
Her lashes flickered. “Maybe I’ll sleep until noon tomorrow.”
“Play it safe?” He grinned at her. “Or do I sound incredibly arrogant?”
“I only take calculated risks,” she said.
“That’s a contradiction in terms.”
She said irritably, “How many women have told you your smile is pure dynamite?”
“How many men have wanted to warm their hands—or their hearts—in your hair?”
“I don’t do hearts,” Clea said.
“Nor do I. Always a good thing to have out in the open.”
She looked very much as though she was regretting her decision to meet him, he thought. He’d better play it cool, or Clea Chardin would run clear across the garden path and out of his life.
“Tea and cake,” he said, and watched her blink. Her lashes were deliciously long, her brows as tautly shaped as wings. Then she linked her arm with his; the contact surged through his body.
“Two cakes?” she said.
“A dozen, if that’s what you want,” he said unsteadily.
“Two is one too many. But sweets are my downfall.”
“Clams and French fries are mine. The greasier the better.”
“And really sexy broads.”
He said flatly, “Let’s set the record straight. First, I loathe the word broad. Secondly, sure I date. But I’m no playboy and I dislike promiscuity in either sex.”
So her tactics were almost sure to work, Clea thought in a flood of relief. “This is a charming garden, isn’t it?” she said.
For the first time since he’d seen her, Slade looked around. Big tubs of scented roses were in full bloom around the marquee, where an orchestra was sawing away at Vivaldi. The canopy of California oaks and palm trees cast swaying patterns of shade over the deep green grass, now trampled by many footsteps. The women in their bright dresses were like flowers, he thought fancifully.
Because Belle’s garden was perched on one of the city’s hilltops, a breeze was playing with Clea’s tangled curls. He reached over and tucked a strand behind her ear. “Charming indeed,” he said.
Her eyes darkened. Deliberately she moved a few inches away from him, dropping her hand from his sleeve. “Do you see much of Belle?” she asked.
“Not a great deal. I travel a lot with my job, and my base is on the East Coast…how did you meet her?”
“Through a mutual friend,” Clea said vaguely; no one other than Belle knew why she was here. “Oh look, miniature éclairs—do you think I can eat one without getting whipped cream on my chin?”
“Another calculated risk,” he said.
“One I shall take.”
Had he ever seen anything sexier than Clea Chardin, in broad daylight and surrounded by people, licking a tiny patch of whipped cream from her lips? Although sexy was far too mundane a word for his primitive and overwhelming need to possess her; or for the sensation he had of plummeting completely out of control to a destination unknown to him. Every nerve on edge, every sense finely honed. For underneath it all, wasn’t he frightened?
Frightened? Him, Slade Carruthers? Of a woman?
“Aren’t you going to eat anything, Slade?”
“What? Oh, sorry, of course I am.” He took a square from the chased silver platter and bit into it. It was a date square. He hated date squares. He said, “The summer my mother learned how to make chocolate éclairs, my father and I each gained five pounds.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Manhattan. My parents still live there. My mother’s on a health kick now, though. Soy burgers and salads.”
“And what does your father think of that?”
“He eats them because he adores her. Then at least once a week he takes her out for dinner in SoHo or GreenwichVillage and plies her with wine and decadent desserts.” Slade’s face softened. “The next day it’s back to tofu and radicchio.”
“It sounds idyllic.”
The sharpness in her voice would have cut paper. “You don’t sound amused.”
“I’m not a believer in marital bliss, whether flavored with tofu or chocolate,” she said coldly. “Ah, there’s Belle…if you’ll excuse me, I must speak to her before I leave. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She plunked her half-empty cup on the linen tablecloth so hard that tea slopped into the saucer. Then she threaded her way through the crowd toward Belle, her hair like a beacon among the clusters of pastel hats. Slade watched her go. Prickly wasn’t the word for Clea Chardin.
Although she claimed never to have been married, some guy had sure pulled a dirty on her. Recently, by the sound of things, and far from superficially.
He’d like to kill the bastard.
Maybe Belle would fill him in on the details at dinner tonight. After a couple of glasses of her favorite Pinot Noir.
He wanted to know everything there was to know about Clea Chardin.
CHAPTER TWO
THAT evening, Slade waited until he and Belle were halfway through their grilled squab, in a trendy French restaurant on Nob Hill, before saying, “I met Clea Chardin at your party this afternoon, Belle.”
Belle’s fork stopped in midair. While her hair was unabashedly gray, her shantung evening suit was pumpkin-orange, teamed with yellow diamonds that sparkled in the candlelight. Her eyes, enlarged with lime-green mascara, were shrewd: Belle harbored no illusions about human nature. Slade was one of the few people who knew how much of her fortune went to medical clinics for the indigent.
“Delightful gal, Clea,” she said.
“Tell me about her.”
“Why, Slade?”
“She interests