Matchless Millionaires. Elizabeth Bevarly

last night might just as well have convinced him of the opposite. After all, you couldn’t hold your liquor—” Erica gave her a semiapologetic smile “—and you didn’t leave the bar with anyone. I mean, other than Ryan.”

      Kelly frowned. “He ran the guy off.”

      Erica raised her eyebrows. “Ryan ran off a guy you were talking to?”

      “Not talking to,” she corrected. “Flirting with. And yes, he ran him off, though he denied it. I don’t know what he said to Tate.”

      At least she thought his name had been Tate. Last night continued to be a headache in more ways than one.

      Erica laughed. “I ought to tell you my story of Greg running off a guy I was flirting with soon after we met.”

      Kelly sighed and Erica looked at her sympathetically.

      “Is it possible that Ryan isn’t the black-hearted ogre you think he is?” Erica asked. “Greg liked him.”

      “Greg’s a guy.” Then she admitted, “Ryan was extraordinarily nice this morning. I couldn’t really understand why …”

      “Mmm-hmm.”

      “He wanted to have dinner tonight at Clearwater’s.”

      “And you said?” Erica asked.

      “I said yes.”

      Seven

      That night, using directions Kelly had given him, Ryan discovered that Kelly lived in a town house midway between the lodge and Distressed Success.

      Her place was in an older development, with a parking space out back and a neat little garden in front.

      He rang the doorbell, and when she opened the door, he felt the air whoosh out of him.

      She wore a bottle-green velvet jacket that gathered under her breasts and revealed plenty of cleavage. A slim brown skirt and knee-high, high-heeled boots completed her outfit.

      He was glad now that he’d dressed more formally for tonight. He had on beige pants and a striped dress shirt beneath his blazer.

      “You look fantastic,” he said as his eyes ate her up.

      She smiled at him and stepped aside. “Come on in. I just need to grab my purse.”

      When he’d stepped inside, he immediately realized her house was a showcase for Distressed Success’s style.

      The front door led directly into a large room with a living-room area at one end and a dining room at the other. A kitchen sat off to one side.

      The dining room had a table and sideboard in some sort of distressed finish. A chandelier with multicolored beads that reflected the light hung above the table.

      The living room contained a sofa and love seat at right angles to each other. They were covered with a profusion of pillows in different prints and shapes. An etched-glass cabinet stood against one wall and a fireplace was set in another. A tasseled rug partially covered the wood floor.

      “If your decorating project at the lodge turns out as well as your house,” he said, turning toward her, “I’d say you’re well on the path to success.”

      “Distressed Success,” she deadpanned.

      “Is there any other?” he countered.

      She smiled. “I’d offer to show you the rest of the house, but I think we’ll be late.”

      Looking into her eyes, he said, “Next time.”

      The moment drew itself out between them and he could tell she was thinking about what meaning to attach to his words.

      All of them, he wanted to tell her.

      Kelly cleared her throat, breaking the mood. “Let me just turn off the lights and make sure I’ve got my house keys.”

      As she switched off lamps, he reflected that she’d surprised him last night and proven him wrong, and he wasn’t a man used to being surprised—or wrong.

      She’d only slept with a guy once or twice. She’d floored him with the admission, though she’d given no sign since that she even remembered what she’d said.

      He realized now that she must have been even more affected by growing up with Brenda Hartley than he’d been by being Webb Sperling’s son.

      Last night she’d even referred to not being able to shake off her mother’s history. Now he knew how it had affected her in surprising ways.

      Of course, it all meant he’d been wrong about her—wrong to accuse her of being like her mother and wrong to think he had her all figured out.

      Sure, the way she’d dressed and acted last night had been at odds with her sexual inexperience, but she seemed to have set out to teach him a lesson.

      She’d said she was just living up to the behavior he expected of her. Or just maybe, he mused, it was the behavior she was expecting of herself that she had fought against.

      It also occurred to him now that she might have gotten her start as a designer by making the most of a modest budget while she was growing up. His recollection was that Brenda Hartley was not supposed to have had much money, and rumor around town was that she’d also been an indifferent parent.

      When Kelly drifted back to his side, he asked,

      “Ready?” She smiled. “Yes.”

      On the drive over to Clearwater’s, they chatted casually about local events. When they got to restaurant, he made sure they were shown to a table with a prime view of the twinkling lights on and around Lake Tahoe.

      They talked about innocuous subjects such as the weather and skiing. She’d learned to ski only when she’d moved to Tahoe, he discovered, while he did black-diamond runs to work off steam.

      After the waiter arrived and they’d placed their order—she, a salad and veal française, he, a shrimp cocktail and the surf and turf—he sat back and contemplated her.

      She had extraordinary features. Her bone structure was exquisite and the combination of full lips and hazel eyes with shades of topaz added a hint of exoticism.

      “Why are you staring at me?” She looked back at him with a hint of uncertainty.

      “You’re beautiful,” he said simply. In her case, it was a statement of fact, not flattery.

      She looked as if she didn’t know how to react. “Thank you,” she said eventually.

      “I also think you’re not completely happy with the fact,” he added.

      Her eyes lowered to hide her expression. “I don’t know what you mean.”

      “I mean,” he said, refusing to let her off the hook, “you don’t seem entirely comfortable being Brenda Hartley’s daughter.”

      “About as comfortable as you are being Webb Sperling’s son.”

      He nodded briefly. “I accept that,” he said, then he eyed her. “Have you been in touch with him recently?”

      “Who?” she asked, cloaking her expression again.

      “You know who. Your mother’s former lover.” He said it unflinchingly, forcing them both to face the fact baldly.

      “Why would I tell you?” she countered. “You obviously don’t approve.”

      “I don’t like watching anyone make a deal with the devil.”

      “Some have called you ruthless and worse. I do read the newspapers like everyone else, you know.”

      He changed tactics. “Webb Sperling is a philanderer and worse.”

      She remained