The Daddy Deal. Kathleen O'Brien

frowned. She must have had too much champagne. She couldn’t catch up somehow, couldn’t follow the dizzying turn of events. Catch up? Good heavens—when he smiled at her like that, she couldn’t even catch her breath.

      “A toast?”

      “Yes,” he said, pouring each of them half a glass, then lifting his. “To Clarke Westover, wherever he is right now.”

      Her frown deepened. “Do you know Clarke?”

      He nodded. “Oh, yes. I know him.” His voice had undertones she couldn’t decipher, but he didn’t give her time to dwell on them. “Let’s toast him, then, for being such a busy man. For leaving this chair empty.” He grinned disarmingly. “You see, I’ve been wanting to meet you all night.”

      She knew her cheeks pinkened at the compliment, which pleased her inordinately. He was a very handsome man after all, and the room was ripe with beautiful women. The wriggle of sensual warmth, that delicious female awareness she had felt when she first saw this man, had returned. In spite of the awkward circumstances, she felt strangely exhilarated, triumphant, as if she had proved something. Proved, perhaps, that she wasn’t quite an old, dried-up woman yet.

      After all, it wasn’t quite so terrible, not if he really knew Clarke. Clarke would reimburse him tomorrow, as Taylor had said. Still, a dim note of caution sounded. Something in all this didn’t make sense.

      “But if you know Clarke,” she said, trying to verbalize that hazy uncertainty, “then why didn’t you come over when he was still here?”

      He smiled again, and in that moment she almost felt as if he were an old, trusted friend. His eyes were so familiar somehow, so warm and full of intelligence, full of sympathy. And yet she knew she’d never met him before. If she had, she never could have forgotten it.

      Already, though, her nerves were relaxing, and she picked up her glass slowly. Logic be damned. She liked this man, whoever he was. She liked him very much. Now if only he could answer the question, could still her suspicions, and let her give in to the pleasurable glow that was stealing through her.

      “If you know Clarke,” she repeated, “why didn’t you join us when he was here?”

      “That should be obvious, I’d think,” he answered, clinking the rim of his glass against hers. “Because I simply cannot stand the man.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      AT FIRST, she was speechless. He’d uttered the words casually, in the offhand way he might have expressed a dislike for broccoli, and she wasn’t at all sure how she should respond. Stalling, she brought her glass to her lips and drank, studying him over the rim, looking for a cue.

      To her surprise, his green eyes were alight with an irreverent sparkle. It was infectious, and in spite of herself she felt a smile tickling at her lips. As she began to grin, she felt something odd happening inside her. It was as if a logjam of oppression burst loose with an almost audible pop, and she was washed by a sudden, delicious sensation of freedom.

      “Now that you mention it,” she said, still grinning, “I can’t stand Clarke, either.”

      “Oh?” He raised one brow.

      Nodding, she took another sip, wondering whether this last glass might have pushed her judgment over the edge. Perhaps instead of being forthright and bold, she was merely being drunk. But did it really make any difference? She felt freer than she had in months. She felt good.

      “Absolutely cannot stand him. So that makes two of us. Good thing we didn’t marry him, isn’t it?”

      “Very.” The creases at the corner of his eyes grew more pronounced. “I for one am deeply relieved.”

      “Me, too.” She stared into her champagne, then sipped again thoughtfully. “The bottom line,” she confided, “is that Mr. Clarke Westover is an assous pomp.”

      But that hadn’t come out quite right. “A passous...” She frowned and gave up. “A jerk.”

      She punctuated her pronouncement by swigging an emphatic mouthful of bubbles, but just as she did so, she glimpsed the smile quirking Taylor’s lips. Immediately, a dangerous spasm of answering laughter tightened her chest. She swallowed quickly and lowered her glass, trying not to spill the champagne as she began to giggle. But the table was small, and her aim was faulty. She knocked her glass against the edge of his, and the stern rocked dangerously. It finally righted itself, but not before spraying a fine mist of liquid across the outer edge of her hand and onto the tabletop.

      “Hey,” he said, leaning over to dab the moisture from her knuckles with the handkerchief he bad once again magically produced. “Careful. We’re never going to get our money’s worth out of this champagne if you keep flinging it around like that.”

      Our money’s worth. She noticed how instinctively thoughtful he was, how even his pronouns were chosen to minimize her self-consciousness. His touch was very deft, almost impersonal—it held no hint of sleazy opportunism. Over his ministering hand, they smiled at each other in a companionable harmony.

      She knew she should feel like a fool. And yet somehow she wasn’t at all embarrassed. He had a gift for making people comfortable, she realized, though perhaps it was merely a lucky by-product of his own sublime self-confidence.

      “I’m sorry,” she said sheepishly, shoving her glass to one side. “A friend of mine once had a great word for this. Spiff—” she struggled to get her lips around the syllables correctly “—spifSicated.” She smiled. “I’m afraid I’m getting spifflicated.”

      “No, you’re not.” He picked up her hand and swabbed champagne efficiently from the underside. “In fact, in some counties they use that as a legal test. If you can actually pronounce ‘spifflicated’, you’re not.”

      “Still,” she said, eying the last two inches of golden bubbles in her glass and shuddering. “That’s it for me.”

      She knew, even as she said it, that he might interpret her words as the excuse he needed to get up and say goodbye. His chivalrous mission was accomplished—he had rescued her from Clarke’s petty cruelties. He had loaned her a quarter, paid the astronomical auction bill and wiped her fingers. He had even salvaged her pride—letting everyone in the room see that, though Clarke had abandoned her, she was not entirely friendless. Best of all, he had made her laugh.

      It was more unselfish generosity than she had ever received from anyone, much less from a total stranger. She had no right to expect more. Or even to wish for it. She had to let him leave now, if he wanted to.

      But he made no move to stand. Instead, he poured himself another glass of champagne and leaned back, stretching his shoulders against the iron rim of the chair, getting comfortable. Her hopes shot up like a kite in a gusting wind, and she suddenly realized how much, how very much, she had hoped he would stay.

      “You were with someone earlier,” she began hesitantly, strangely reluctant to broach the subject, but knowing she had to. There was no point in letting herself dream if that slinky brunette was going to return from the ladies’ room any minute and reclaim her white knight. “Is she still here?”

      “No,” he said, meeting her gaze directly, without a trace of self-consciousness. “She wasn’t my date. I met her only a couple of hours ago. In fact, I don’t really know most of the people here. I don’t live in Florida. I’m from Massachusetts, from a little town in the Berkshires.”

      Not from Tampa, then—not even a Floridian. She couldn’t have been more surprised. He had certainly looked right at home with this crowd. She supposed that being very, very rich was like belonging to an exclusive fraternity—no matter where you traveled, you could always look up the local chapter and be assured of fitting right in.

      Still, she knew the tickets to this fund-raiser had been exorbitant. Surely there were places back home in the Berkshires with more legitimate claim on his charity. “So why are you