Forth’s presence was enough for Gideon to find his voice, but the words came out stilted and flat. “It is a surprise to see you as well.” He shifted his glance to the other man and offered his hand. “Forth. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here—with the election less than three weeks away.”
Rachel interrupted the odd moment with the tact of someone used to all aspects of social situations. “Mr. Forth, I’m Rachel Backley, one of the partners at The Marage Group. It’s a pleasure to meet you—I’ve been quite interested in your candidacy.” She extended her hand, following it with a warm smile, then transferred it to Fiona. “I didn’t catch your name,” she said easily, “and I suppose I could wait for Gideon to introduce us…but that doesn’t seem to be imminent.”
“Fiona Murphy.” She shook Rachel’s hand and while trying to suppress the shock and—well,furywas the word—that Gideon should have shown up here with this ice-cold babe (who was just his type, actually) on his arm after propositioning her, Fiona, just yesterday afternoon.
Of course, shehadturned him down. But still. She gave him a very dark look.
“Fiona is a client of my grandfather—as is Brad Forth,” Gideon finally said, dragging away his silvery gaze. “They’re both heirs of Nevio Valente’s estate.”
“Valente?” One of the other men in the crowd—Fiona remembered his name was Norm van Delt—spoke up, drawing attention away from her and allowing Fiona an opportunity to compose herself.
It was a sin, she mused as the conversation picked up around her, that anyone should look so good in a tux—especially a man that she knew had a tighter rump than Al Gore. A little giggle threatened to burst free, and damn if Gideon didn’t happen to look at her at that moment.
He fixed that same haughty, arrogant glare on her that he had the first time they’d met—the one that was so very much like her third grade teacher’s pointed stare. The one that failed, as it had twenty years ago, to have any sobering affect on her whatsoever.
But as she transferred her attention to the sleek Ms. Rachel Backley, Fiona’s amusement once again transformed into ire.
How dare that man kiss her like he had and try to get her to sleep with him, then appear with this trophy-woman the very next night?
This time, when Gideon looked at her, she caught his eyes with a cold glare of her own, firming her lips and jutting her chin in an unmistakable show of her feelings.
Surprise flitted in his eyes, then, to her shock and chagrin, he turned to his escort and said, “Excuse me, Rachel, for just a moment. I believe Ms. Murphy needs to speak with me on a confidential matter.”
“Of course,” she replied casually, returning to the conversation and, to Fiona’s surprise, batting nary an eyelash that her date was going off with another woman.
As her escort, Brad showed mild annoyance, but he didn’t say anything other than, “I hope you won’t be long, as there are a few other people I think you should meet, Fiona.”
She was given no chance to protest as Gideon gestured firmly for her to step away from the group of people. As soon as they were out of sight, he closed those elegant fingers over her wrist and led her out of the Grand Ballroom to the vestibule of the hotel before she shook herself free.
“Let’s step outside,” he suggested, glancing toward the smattering of people milling about. “It’s a beautiful night.”
In fact, it was achilly, mid-October night, and that only fueled Fiona’s aggravation. She was sleeveless and backless in her halter dress, while he was wearing a coat and tie.
Men.
She walked brusquely ahead of him down the semi-circle steps that led to a flagstone path that meandered along the Grand River. Across the stretch of water was the Gerald Ford Presidential Library, its lights winking on the ripples of water.
Fiona chose to sit, and did so with a small flourish that caused the full, gauzy skirt of her dress to settle over the majority of the bench—leaving no place for Gideon to place his stiff rump without mussing her skirt. She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed, eyebrow raised with the same slant she imagined Queen Elizabeth would use.
“You wanted to speak with me?”
“What are you doing here—with Forth?”
That was the last question she’d expected him to utter, and she rolled her eyes at his audacity. “The same thing you are, I presume—placing myself in an environment where I’ll be induced to contribute money to a political cause. Not that I have any to contribute. Brad thought it would be good publicity for my shop’s re-opening.” Then, she realized she was angry with him and the small talk would do nothing to alleviate that. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to make a pass at me—twice—and then show up here with someone you’re obviously involved with.”
“Twice?” he exploded. “Don’t be ridiculous, Fiona. I made a—apass,” he spat the last word as if it were vulgar, “as you call it, at you, afteryoukissed thehellout of me—then acted as if nothing happened.”
She stared up at him, unable to keep a slow smile from creeping over her face. He wassohot when he unwound a little. “So you do have some emotion in that stiff-necked body after all, H.—um, Gideon. Other than related to passion, I mean. I was beginning to wonder.”
He gaped at her, clearly flummoxed. Despite the brainless expression on his face, she had to admit he looked delicious there in the moonlight. Tall, dark, his figure vibrating with emotion she hadn’t thought he’d possessed, he stood with his hands slung onto his hips. His stance pulled the tux jacket open to reveal a cummerbund and white shirt stretched taut over the defined muscles of chest and abdomen—slabs like iron that Fiona remembered feeling all too well. His thick, wavy hair had obviously been trimmed, as it was close-cropped by his neck, and only one small curl flipped out of line, over his forehead. By now, he was gritting his teeth—she could tell by the way the muscle along his jaw moved—and his brows had drawn together in a frown.
Before he could speak, she seized the opportunity to keep the upper hand. “Youcame on to me, H. Gideon. And just what would thelovely, elegantMs. Backley say if she knew about that?”
To her surprise, he relaxed slightly. “Actually, that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about.” He glanced longingly at the bench, still covered by the fabric of her skirt, but she made no move to accommodate him.
“What is she—your fiancée? Your girlfriend? Don’t tell me she’s yourwife!”
He was shaking his head. “No, none of those. Fiona, she’s a friend—that’s all. If neither of us have a date, we often attend business or professional functions with the other. That’s it.”
