A GARDEN party. Not his usual scene.
Slade Carruthers had stationed himself in one corner of the garden, a palm tree waving high over his head, his back flanked by California holly. The sun was, of course, shining. Would it dare do anything else for Mrs. Henry Hayward IIIâs annual garden party?
He was here on his own. As he preferred to be.
He was in between women right now; had been for quite a while. Maybe heâd grown bored with the age-old game of the chase, and the inevitable surrender that led, equally inevitably, to the end of yet another affair. Certainly for quite a while he hadnât met anyone whoâd tempted him to abandon his solitary status.
Casually Slade looked around. Belle Haywardâs guests were, as usual, an eccentric mixture of extremely rich, well-bred socialites and artistic mavericks. But every one of them knew the rules: suits and ties for the gentlemen, dresses and hats for the ladies. The two large men stationed at the iron gates had been rumored to turn away a famous painter in acrylic-spattered jeans, and an heiress in diamond-sprinkled capri pants.
The Ascot of San Francisco, Slade thought, amused. His own summerweight suit was hand-tailored, his shoes Italian leather, his shirt and tie silk. Heâd even combed his unruly dark hair into some sort of order.
A young woman strolled into his field of view. Her head was bent as she listened to an elderly lady who looked familiar to Slade, and who was wearing a mauve gown that looked all too recently resurrected from mothballs. He searched for her name, realizing heâd met her here last year. Maggie Yarrow, that was it. Last of a line of ruthless steel magnates, possessor of a tongue like a blunt ax.
The young woman had broken both Belleâs rules. She was hatless and she was dressed in a flowing tunic over wide-legged pants.
Her wild tangle of red curls shone like flame in the sunlight.
Slade left his post under the palm tree and started walking toward her, smiling at acquaintances as he went, refusing a goblet of champagne from one of the white-jacketed waiters. His heart was beating rather faster than he liked.
As he got closer, he saw she had wide-spaced eyes of a true turquoise under elegantly arched brows; a soft, voluptuously curved mouth; a decided chin that added character to a face already imbued with passionate intelligence.
And with kindness, Slade thought. Not everyone would have chosen to pass the afternoon with a rude and dotty ninety-year-old. His nose twitched. Who did indeed smell of mothballs.
Then the young woman threw back her head and laughed, a delightful cascade of sound that pierced Slade to the core. Her hair rippled over her shoulders, gleaming as a bolt of silk gleams in the light.
He stopped dead in his tracks. His palms were damp, his heart was racketing in his chest and his groin had hardened. How could he be so strongly attracted to someone whose name he didnât even know?
It looked as though his long months of abstinence were over.
If he didnât meet her, heâd die.
Where the hell had that thought come from? Cool it, he told himself. Weâre talking lust here. Plain old-fashioned lust.
As though she sensed the intensity of his gaze, the young woman looked straight at him. Her smile faded, replaced by a look of puzzlement. âIs something wrong?â she said. âAm I supposed to know you?â
Her voice was honey-smooth, layered like fine brandy; she had the trace of an accent. Slade said, âI donât believe weâve met, no. Slade Carruthers. Hello, Mrs. Yarrow, youâre looking well.â
The elderly lady gave an uncouth cackle. âWatch out for this one, girl. Richer than you by a city mile. Money and machismoâheâs one of Belleâs favorites.â
âWhy donât you introduce me anyway?â Slade said.
âIntroduce yourselves.â Maggie Yarrow hitched at the shoulder of her gown. âLook at the pair of youâan ad for Beautiful People. California Chic. I need more champagne.â
Slade ducked as she swished her ebony cane through the air to get the attention of the nearest waiter. After grabbing a glass from his tray, she tossed back its contents, took another from him and walked in a dead-straight line toward her hostess.
Trying not to laugh, Slade sought out those incredible turquoise eyes again. âIâm not from California. Are you?â
âNo.â She held out one hand. âClea Chardin.â
Her fingers were slender, yet her handclasp was imbued with confidence; Slade always paid attention to handshakes. It also, he thought shakily, carried a jolt like electricity. He opened his mouth to say something urbane, witty, erudite. Instead he heard himself say, âYouâre the most beautiful woman Iâve ever met.â
Clea tugged her hand free, to her dismay feeling desire uncoil in her belly; every nerve she possessed was suddenly on high alert. Danger, she thought. This man wasnât her usual fare. Far from it. Taking a deep breath, she said lightly, âI read an article recently that said beauty is based on symmetry. So youâre complimenting me because my nose isnât crooked and Iâm not wall-eyed.â