The Ashtons: Paige, Grant & Trace. Roxanne St. Claire

scanned it.

      “You did a lot of work yesterday,” he said slowly. “I’m impressed.”

      She didn’t respond for a moment as the flush deepened in her cheeks. “I didn’t want to just sit around and think.”

      About what a jerk he was, no doubt. “Paige.” He put his hand over hers, loving the slender, smooth feel of it. There went the vow not to touch her. “I canceled the contract and this meeting.”

      “I know.”

      She knew? He just stared at her.

      “I got your fax and your message. But I really wanted you to see these ideas, so I decided to bend the rules and muscle my way into your office.” She gave him a saucy grin. “Pretty good muscling, huh?”

      He couldn’t fight his own smile as he studied her. “Yeah. Damn good. Muscled your way right past Eleanor, and that’s no easy feat.”

      “Eleanor was a breeze. Now, Tessa, in the bathroom. She was a little more protective of you.”

      He laughed out loud at that. “She works for me.”

      “Yes, in Marketing. I know.”

      “She was here to be briefed—”

      “On the product announcement and event. I know.”

      Still smiling, he leaned back in his chair and let out a little puff of air in defeat. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

      “I don’t know why you got so weird on me yesterday afternoon.”

      His throat closed up. Not at what she said, but at the brave, straightforward way she said it. He owed this lady an explanation and, more than that, he admired her for seeking it out.

      Searching her face, he tried to form the right words. Your tears freaked me out? He’d sound like a basket case. You’re too refined and intelligent for me to seduce? What, he only slept with coarse, classless girls? You want emotion and I want sex?

      Bingo.

      He looked down for one second, then back into those ever-changing eyes. Forget the color, he could just get lost in the shape and size and patience he saw as she waited for his explanation.

      “When you cried, Paige, I realized that a…a physical relationship was more meaningful to you than it…than it usually is to me.” Geez. He sounded like a cad. “I mean, I generally don’t get emotionally involved with the women I…” No better.

      He stood suddenly, moving behind his chair to grip the backrest, aware that her gaze never left him. “I…I just sensed that casual sex and you…don’t mix well.”

      She didn’t say a word.

      He waited a beat, then added, “I respect you.”

      “Well, that’s a shame.”

      A shame? “Pardon me?”

      “Because your respect cost me a very important piece of business.”

      “A piece of—Do you want to have this event at your winery that much?”

      She arched a brow. “I want it very much, yes. Enough to get past the awkwardness of a single, unexpected moment where we…lost control.” She stood and shuffled the papers on his desk. “But not if it’s going to make you so uncomfortable you stutter.”

      He was not stuttering. Was he?

      He slammed a hand over the papers. “Not so fast, Miss Paige Ashton.”

      She looked up questioningly, a teasing smile at the corner of her lips. “Yes, Matt?”

      “I like those ideas.”

      “I knew you would.” She shrugged. “But they’re mine. They come with the Ashton Estate Winery locale and my event-planning skills.” She tugged at the papers under his hand. “Evidently, you respect me too much to get a chance to see them executed.”

      He couldn’t hold back the laugh. “You’re muscling again.”

      Her smile widened, but she kept her attention on the papers, trying to sort them neatly.

      “I keep forgetting you’re an Ashton.”

      That earned him a quick look. “And we’re fairly adept at getting what we want.”

      “I see that.” He fluttered the sketch of Frankie’s felt hat. “Now I’m sorry I canceled that contract.”

      “I happen to have another one right here.” Without missing a beat, she flipped a piece of paper in front of him and produced a pen. “All you have to do is sign.”

      She had no idea what she was asking him to do. Their attraction was palpable, and not acting on it would take every ounce of control he wasn’t sure he had.

      “I…I can’t.”

      She leaned close enough to tease him with that dainty, flowery scent. The same aroma that lingered on the silk bra that he’d dropped into his suitcase when he left Auberge.

      “Can’t?” she asked, holding his gaze with a look so rich with promise and possibilities that it damn near knocked the wind out of him. “I seem to recall you don’t know what that word means.”

      Her smile was pure victory as she handed him a pen.

      He could do this.

      After Matt gave his keys to the Ritz-Carlton valet, he rounded the back end of his Ferrari to meet Paige, as another valet opened her door.

      He repeated his silent mantra, the one he’d started during their two-hour morning meeting about the VoiceBox launch event.

      He could do this. He could work on a project with a woman he was wildly attracted to and not seduce her. He could get the benefit of her ideas and business acumen—which was formidable—and he could walk away without having to get the view from on top of her.

      He wasn’t a teenager crazed by lust-starved hormones.

      He made it around the car just in time to see that slinky dress slide up her thighs as she maneuvered out of the low sports car. A demon of an early erection threatened.

      Not a teenager? Okay. Then he was an adult crazed by lust-starved hormones. But he was also the born competitor. He’d just think of this as one major competition. The brain vs. the body.

      Good money was on the…oh, hell.

      She gave him a sunny smile. “The Ritz, eh? You’re not thinking about checking out their function rooms are you?”

      “Not a chance. You won me over this morning.” He led her into the lobby toward his favorite luncheon spot, The Terrace. “The event is going to be held on Halloween at Ashton Winery Estate,” he assured her. “Your ideas are too good to pass up.”

      At least, that was the reason he gave himself for signing the contract. Flimsy, but he’d hold on to it.

      They were seated at his favorite table on the brick courtyard of The Terrace, secluded among the flowers and trees, and serenaded by the cascade of a giant fountain.

      “Walker introduced me to this place,” Matt told her after they’d listened to the waiter describe an array of Mediterranean-themed specials. “We used to come here for Sunday brunch when we were in college.”

      Her eyebrow shot up in disbelief. “Pretty swanky place for a couple of Berkeley students.”

      “Trust me, we hit the not-so-swanky places the night before.” He dropped a linen napkin on his lap. “That was the great thing about Walker. You’d never know his background. He was always really down to earth. But after a week of midterms and all-nighters, he was the first to pull out his wallet and say, ‘Matty boy, we need some decent chow.’”

      She laughed at his dead-on