The wealthy young men lavished Ellie with compliments, fetched her drinks, and vied with each other for her attention. Ellie toyed with them, flirted, bantered, did all the things a charming, utterly sophisticated female knew how to do.
Then he discovered—to his utter amazement and profound relief—that when Ellie thought he wasn’t watching, her sophisticated façade disappeared, her shoulders drooped, and she sagged as if she’d been delivered from the tortures of hell.
She’s acting,he realized with an astonished grin as he watched her performance from his vantage point on the terrace above her.She’s been acting from the start.
Thank God his cruel treatment hadn’t truly destroyed her.
Feeling as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, Clay sank down on a gray marble bench and looked out across the manicured lawns, past the formal gardens, to the lake. Dusk was beginning to fall. The guests were retreating to their rooms to change for dinner.
His mind returned to Ellie.She’s amazing,he thought with an inward smile. As usual, he’d been underestimating her. Maybe this time he’d learn his lesson.
Glancing back to where Franklin Marston, one of his father’s friends, had spotted her and begun a conversation, Clay felt a rush of admiration—grudging, he admitted, since he was the butt of her joke.
Jake said she had balls—and heart. Clay had discovered those qualities some time ago but mistakenly believed they applied only to the sport she loved. Now he realized just how much strength she had.
On the grounds below, Ellie had moved away from Marston and was heading into the castle on the arm of Darren McKittrick, a fortyish playboy who owned a large block of stock in Whitfield International, one of the family’s trading companies. Olive-skinned and handsome, McKittrick was an even more notorious ladies’ man than Clay.
His chest tightened. Damn, he had to stop reacting this way.
At the sound of a soft knock, Maggie turned toward the French-paned doors that led onto a secluded terrace outside her room. Hurriedly, she pinned her hair back with a rhinestone comb and headed for the door. Parting the heavy silk draperies, she unlocked the door and turned the knob to find Jake standing outside. With a rakish smile, he stepped over the threshold, and Maggie went into his arms.
“Our rooms share the same private terrace,” he said against her ear, tightening his hold. “Apparently Clay has his suspicions about us.”
When Maggie pulled back to look at him, Jake bent his head and kissed her, a tender kiss, but one that made his passion clear. He looked magnificent in his black tuxedo, his shoes so shiny they reflected the amber glow of the gilded wall sconces.
“I knew Clay was a romantic at heart,” Maggie said when Jake pulled away.
“I can’t say I’m sorry. Though I probably should be. This is damned dangerous, and we both know it.”
“I don’t care. God only knows what could happen next week.”
Jake kissed her again, this time more deeply, and heat slid out through her limbs. Maggie could feel the warmth of his hands on her body as he pulled her closer, letting her feel his arousal. He kissed her a moment more, then, with a heavy sigh, set her away.
“If we keep this up, we’ll never make it downstairs,” he said.
“I suppose it would be rude not to at least make an appearance.”
Jake smiled. “Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?” His gaze swept over her bare shoulders, down the snug-fitting bodice of her pale peach, watered-silk gown, over the gently belled skirt. Beneath his hot gaze, her breasts pebbled beneath the fabric.
Maggie smiled. “It isn’t something a woman can hear too often.”
“Well, you look lovely. And thanks to Whitfield, I suddenly find myself looking forward to the evening. I suppose I’ll have to forgive him for all the trouble he’s caused.”
“He’s doing this to set things right.”
“I know.” Jake ran a finger down Maggie’s cheek. “I’d better go. I’ll see you downstairs, but now that I’ve discovered your terrace door, I hope you aren’t planning a lengthy evening.”
Maggie smiled. “Dinner and a dance or two with you, the handsome Chef d’ Equipe,and I’m certain to develop a headache.”
“Just make sure it disappears by the time you get undressed.”
Violins played softly as Clay greeted guests in satins and silks, sequins and tuxedos. His father stood across the way, shaking hands and smiling, a buxom blonde named Marian clinging to his arm. Some of the guests Clay knew, some were unfamiliar, friends of his father’s or members of the Irish show jumping community.
Clay’s glance flicked to the doorway where he continued to search for Ellie. It was Prissy who walked into the room.
“Hi, Clay,” she said. “You sure know how to throw a shindig.”
“Thank you.” He glanced back at the door.
