Flash Point. Metsy Hingle

had him lowering his hand to protect his manhood. “You shouldn’t go around threatening the D.A., Meredith.”

      “It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. I mean it, Alex,” she told him with all the passion with which she did everything. “If you’ve been stupid enough to let Alicia get her hooks into you, I’ll kill you both.”

      Damn if she didn’t look adorable when she was mad, he thought. “Put away your weapons. Alicia’s not interested in me, and I’m not interested in her.” There was little chance he’d ever fall for an ice queen like Alicia Van Owen. How could he when Meredith Callaghan had been keeping him tied up in knots for years? “And before you start grilling me again, I’m not seeing anyone.”

      Her face lit up and she gave him a sultry smile that made the temperature in the room shoot up ten degrees. Moving closer, she speared her fingers through his hair and gazed up at him. “Well, what do you know? Neither am I. So you see, there’s really no reason we can’t be together just like old times.”

      “No,” he informed her.

      Ignoring him, she murmured, “I’ve missed you so much, Alex. Have you missed me, too?”

      “No.”

      She pressed her body closer. When her knee nudged his erection, she laughed, that husky laugh that made a man think of hot sex and sin. “Liar.”

      She was right. He was lying. But he forced himself not to respond to her.

      She traced his lips with her tongue. “Are you going to deny that you want me?”

      “No.” What would be the point in denying the obvious? he reasoned as he eased her away from him. “But I’m not going to do anything about it. I told you, Meredith, it’s over. Accept it.”

      “I won’t accept it. We’re good together, Alex. You know we are.”

      “The sex is good, but we’re not,” he said gently, the hurt in her eyes ripping at him.

      “We could be.”

      And for a short time, he’d almost convinced himself that they could be together. Then had come the campaign, the nasty publicity and slams at Meredith’s reputation, the shame and pain in her eyes. “You need to get on with your life. We both do. We’ll always be friends, but the rest of it…it’s over.”

      “I don’t believe you.”

      “Suit yourself. But I’m not going to change my mind.”

      Her expression hardened. A steely look came into her eyes. “You wanna bet?”

      “Meredith—”

      “I’ll see you tonight, Alex.” She pressed a quick kiss to his lips and slid her hand between their bodies.

      “Meredith,” he warned, then ruined it by groaning as she stroked his shaft.

      “Think of me,” she whispered against his lips, then dashed from the room in a whiff of perfume.

      Alex leaned back against his desk. He had little choice but to think of her, he admitted. In fact, he’d be damn lucky if he’d be able to think of anything else.

      Mary Ellen Callaghan stood in the dining room of her family’s home later that evening and surveyed the table. She’d ordered that it be set with her fine china, crystal and sterling silver for the small dinner party she’d orchestrated to celebrate her seventieth birthday.

      Seventy!

      Heavens, such a large number of years. Good years, happy years, even if the last two had been lonely without her beloved Tommy. Feeling melancholy at the thought of her departed husband, Mary Ellen pushed the sad thoughts aside and reminded herself that just last week at her annual physical Dr. St. Pierre had declared her to be in excellent health. The constitution of a woman ten years her junior, he’d said. And she certainly didn’t think she looked like a woman of seventy. Or at least she hoped that she didn’t. Except for a mini eye tuck at sixty, she hadn’t had any work done like so many of her friends. And she’d always taken good care of herself and her skin. Besides, she had no intention of joining her Tommy anytime soon—not when she still had so much that remained undone.

      Returning her focus to the evening ahead, she studied the table. Her grandmother’s lace tablecloth had been the right choice, she decided, noting how the light from the chandelier picked out the delicate fleur-de-lis pattern. As she moved about the table inspecting the place settings, she straightened a silver spoon, adjusted one of the place cards. She caught the scent of the peach roses that she’d clipped from her garden that very afternoon and had arranged in Waterford vases. Satisfied all was ready, she smiled.

      It was perfect. Elegant, tasteful. Perhaps even worthy of a page in Southern Living, she mused, pleased with the results of her handiwork. Trailing her fingers along the edge of the lace tablecloth, Mary Ellen marveled at its beauty. She sighed as she remembered when she’d inherited it from her grandmother as a young bride. Oh, she’d been so sure that she would have passed it on to her own daughter or to the wife of one of her sons by now. But neither Meredith nor Jackson had married. And Peter…poor Peter’s marriage had been brief and had ended tragically.

      But soon all that would change, she promised herself. If all went as she hoped it would, she would get her birthday wish and it wouldn’t be long before she’d be helping to plan her son Jackson’s wedding. He and Alicia made a lovely couple, she thought. Since her little nudges hadn’t been working, she’d decided it was time she gave that boy of hers a little push. Surely Jackson would see, as she did, that Alicia was perfect for him. Once he did, he’d ask her to marry him. And then, God willing, the two of them wouldn’t waste any time making her a grandmother.

      “There you are,” Jack said as he entered the room and walked over to her.

      “Jackson, darling. I was just thinking about you.”

      “Were you now? Good thoughts, I hope.”

      “Yes.” And because she was Catholic, she couldn’t help thinking her son’s appearance now was a sign.

      “Happy birthday, Mother,” he said, and kissed her cheek.

      “Thank you, dear. But I do think this is a first. You’re early and you’re never early for parties.”

      “That’s because it’s your birthday. Besides, you said this wasn’t going to be a party, just a simple dinner with family and a few friends.” He eyed the table suspiciously. “This doesn’t look like a simple dinner to me.”

      “Of course it is. But we’re having cake and champagne, so that makes it a party, too,” she explained. She straightened his tie and couldn’t help thinking how much he looked like his father. “You looked so handsome at the charity ball on Halloween. And wasn’t Alicia just beautiful?”

      “Yes, she was.”

      Disturbed by the lack of enthusiasm in her son’s voice, Mary Ellen said, “She’s a lovely young woman, Jackson. She’s well-bred and talented. And smart, too. Why look how well she’s done for herself since she moved here. She picked up that Devereaux house for a song and turn it into a showplace. And according to Phyllis Ladner, Alicia’s already among the top real estates associates in her firm.”

      “As you said, she’s talented and smart,” Jack replied with that same lack of conviction.

      “It still amazes me that any daughter of Abigail Beaumont could be so sweet-natured,” Mary Ellen told him, referring to the former debutante she’d had the misfortune of calling a sorority sister at Vanderbilt. The other woman had been the coldest, most calculating female she’d ever met—and she had met quite a few in her seventy years. “I can only think that Alicia must have taken after her father. I only met him once or twice, but Charles Van Owen seemed like a nice man.” Suddenly ashamed of her uncharitable thoughts about Abigail she said, “Listen to me. You must think I’m a mean-spirited old biddy, speaking ill of a dead friend that way.”

      “You