Holding the Dream Page 0,17

could, at his whim, slide over you as if you were invisible or pin you shuddering to the wall.

Six two, she judged, with the long limbs and strong shoulders of a long-distance runner. And of course, that voice, with its faint, misty drawl that hinted of hot summer nights and southern comfort.

Men like him, Kate had decided, were not ever to be trusted.

"That's new," he murmured.

Caught staring and appraising as his sharp green eyes shifted to hers, Kate looked quickly away. "What?"

"That scent you're wearing. It suits you better than the soap and talc you seem so fond of. Straight up sexy," he continued, smiling when she gaped at him. "No games, no illusions."

She'd known him for months, ever since he had transferred from Atlanta to Monterey to take over Peter Ridgeway's position at Templeton. He was, by all accounts, a savvy, experienced, and creative hotelier, one who had worked his way to the top of the Templeton organization over a period of fourteen years.

She knew he came from money, polite southern wealth, steeped in tradition and chivalry.

She had disliked him on sight and had been confident, despite his unflagging manners, that her feelings were reciprocated.

"Are you coming on to me?"

His eyes, still on hers, filled with humor. "I was commenting on your perfume, Katherine. If I were coming on to you, you wouldn't have to clarify."

She tossed back the rest of her wine. A mistake, she knew, with a migraine lurking. "Don't call me Katherine."

"That always seems to slip my mind."

"Like hell."

"Exactly. And if I were to tell you you're looking particularly attractive tonight, that would be an observation, not an overture. Anyway... Kate. We were discussing real estate."

She continued to scowl. Even Margo's favored Cristal champagne didn't sit well on a nervous stomach. "We were?"

"Or were about to. I'm considering buying a home in the area. Since my six-month trial period is almost over - "

"You had a trial period?" It cheered her considerably to picture him on probation at Templeton California.

"I had six months to decide if I wanted to be based here permanently or go back to Atlanta." Reading her mind easily, he grinned. "I like it here - the sea, the cliffs, the forests. I like the people I work with. But I don't intend to continue to live in a hotel, however well run and lovely it may be."

She shrugged, irritated by the way the wine seemed to be sitting like lead under her breastbone. "Your business, De Witt, not mine."

He would not, he told himself patiently, allow her prickly nature to divert him from his objective. "You know the area, you have contacts and a good eye for quality and value. I thought you could let me know if you hear about any interesting property, particularly in the Seventeen Mile Drive area."

"I'm not a realtor," she muttered.

"Good. That means I don't have to worry about your commission."

Because she appreciated that, she bent. "There is a place - might be a little big for your needs."

"I like big."

"Figures. It's near Pebble Beach. Four or five bedrooms, I can't remember. But it's back off the road, a lot of cypress trees and a nice established yard. Decks," she continued, squinting her eyes as she tried to remember. "Front and back. Wood - cedar, I think. Lots of glass. It's been on the market about six months and hasn't moved. There's probably a reason for that."

"Might be it was waiting for the right buyer. Do you know the realtor?"

"Sure, they're a client. Monterey Bay Real Estate. Ask for Arlene. She shoots straight."

"I appreciate it. If it works out, I'll have to buy you dinner."

"No, thanks. Just consider it a - " She broke off as pain stabbed into her stomach, then, like a sick echo, erupted in her head. The glass slipped out of her hand and shattered on the tile even as he grabbed her.

"Hold on." He picked her up, had a moment to notice she was little more than bones and nerves, before he eased her onto the cushions of a chair. "Jesus Christ, Kate, you're dead white. I'll get someone."

"No." Biting back on the pain, she grabbed at his arm. "It's nothing. Just a twinge. Sometimes alcohol - wine on an empty stomach," she managed, regulating her breathing. "I should know better."

His brow knit, his voice thrummed with impatience. "When did you eat last?"

"I was kind of swamped today."

"Idiot." He straightened. "There's enough food around here for three hundred starving sailors. I'll get