The Player:Moorehouse Legacy(18)

He had some dim notion he should probably leave, but he wanted to see Joy. He just needed to …

Hell, if he was better at dealing with his emotions, he might have actually known what he needed from her. As it was, he just had an undeniable urge to be in the same room with Joy. To look into her eyes. To breathe the same air she did.

When he rounded the corner and saw the library's half-open door, he braced himself. What if she didn't want to see him? What if-

He looked inside.

There she was, facing the shelves, her head tilted up as she stroked the leather spine of a book. The black knit dress she wore was a second skin. Her hair spilled down her back. Her feet were in another pair of strappy numbers that made him want to kiss her arches.

Still hovering in the doorway, Gray scanned the room, half expecting there to be a man with her. But she was alone, as if she'd sought sanctuary from noisy strangers, and with the classical music swirling in the air, the party was nearly drowned out.

God, he wanted to shut them in together. Hold her. Find some peace. Give some to her.

He stepped forward only to feel someone brush past him.

"Bennett, how are you?" Charles Wilshire, one of New York's top tax attorneys, spoke quietly and held up two wineglasses. "I'd shake, but I'm taking care of a lady."

Gray's eyes narrowed as Wilshire walked over to Joy. She turned, keeping her back to the door, and took the glass he offered. Their hands touched.

                       
       
           



       Chapter Eight

"SO YOU WERE ABOUT to tell me how long you've known Cassandra?"

Joy sipped her wine. The man standing in front of her was super-sophisticated in his navy-blue suit and he fit in with the rest of the people at the party. All the guests had the shiny freshness of big wealth, that ambient glow of disposable cash radiating from their clothes, their jewelry, their eyes. The whole lot of them just sparkled.

"I haven't known Cass long," she answered. "I designed a gown for her."

His eyes flared. "Really. What house are you with?"

"I'm on my own."

He glanced at her left hand. "And you came with Cassandra, too, didn't you? Not a husband."

She nodded. "I'm staying with her while I'm in town."

The man's eyes traced over her face.

When she'd walked into the party, he'd taken one look at her and cut a path through the crowd. His name was Charles something.

She'd been surprised because she was out of her league in borrowed clothes, although Charles Whoever apparently hadn't picked up on the subterfuge. As he didn't look like a stupid man, she had to assume she was a better actress than she'd thought.

"How long are you in town?" Charles asked. His smile was direct. So were his eyes. Neither were lewd.

"A couple of days. I'm doing the alterations here."

His gaze dipped lower. The dress's high neckline meant she wasn't showing a lot of skin, but the black knit fabric clung to her body. Just like his eyes did.

She glanced back to the orderly rows of books, wishing her thoughts could be so well cataloged and controlled. Being stared at by a man like that reminded her of Gray. When Gray had looked at her that way, she'd come apart in her own skin. Charles Whoever had no such effect on her.

Gray.

A familiar, achy sting nailed her in the chest. The emotion, a not-so-charming combination of shame, regret and impotent longing, evidently had the shelf life of a Twinkies. Because the damn feeling was as fresh as the moment when he'd left her mostly naked on that bed.

She took another sip of wine.

"Are you free for dinner tomorrow night?"

Joy looked over at the man in front of her, feeling flustered. He was very attractive in that slick, New York kind of way and not joking in the slightest. But she just wasn't attracted to him.

"I, uh-"

"God, you blush," he said in wonderment. As if the women he knew did nothing of the sort.

Charles Whoever reached out and brushed a lock of hair over her shoulder. His fingers lingered on the waves and she suddenly became aware that they were in a room that was very empty.

Time to get out of here, she thought.

But before she could make an excuse to leave, a deep voice cut through the classical music. "Hello, Joy."

She spun around. Gray was standing behind her, big as one of Saranac's mountains, dark as a summer thunderstorm. The cold control in his face suggested he was flat-out angry.

She nearly dropped her wineglass.

After three weeks of thinking about the man, seeing him in the flesh was like cozying up to a stun gun. On numb reflex, she absorbed his pin-striped suit, his bright red tie, his ultra-white shirt. She thought about how silky his thick hair had felt on her skin. How he had touched her with his hands. His mouth.

Her body responded in a blood rush, as if it recognized him as its own.

"And maybe we can shake now," Gray drawled, offering his hand to Whoever. "Your wife here tonight, or are you flying solo?"

Whoever flushed. "No, uh, she's gone down with the staff to open the Palm Beach house."

Gray swirled a squat drink in his hand. Ice tinkled. "Imagine that. And the kids? How are they? Must be three and six now, right?"

"Um, yes. How good of you to remember."

There was a tight silence.

Whoever looked out to the party. As though he couldn't wait to get back to it.

"If you'll excuse me," he murmured to Joy. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

"Yeah, run along, Charles," Gray bit out. "There's a good boy."

Joy watched Whoever go, trying to collect herself. When she looked up, Gray was staring at her, a hard line to his jaw. His brows. His shoulders.

All she could think of was, Thank God she hadn't called him.

She'd been tempted to. Desperate to take back her untimely confession, she'd often considered picking up the phone. She hadn't been sure what she would say, but the urge to try to delete, erase, do-over, was a powerful one. Now, though, she was proud of herself for walking away clean, for not embarrassing herself even more.

"Well, Joy, aren't you getting around," Gray said, finishing his drink. "And you seem so disappointed Charles has left. Or maybe you're just surprised that he's married? No, wait. I don't think that would bother you."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, because she couldn't think of anything else to say. His anger didn't make sense. His words didn't make sense.

"What are you doing here?"

Joy's spine tightened. "Cassandra invited me to come along with her."

"Quite the hostess that woman is."

A waiter walked in with another squat glass. Gray traded it for the one he'd emptied. "I want another. Now, not later."

The other man quickly disappeared.

As Gray downed the fresh bourbon or Scotch or whatever it was in two swallows, Joy thought she should probably follow the waiter's example. No one stayed in the path of an eighteen-wheeler, not if they had an ounce of common sense. And Gray was carrying one hell of a load of something tonight.

"If you'll excuse me-"

Gray's hand shot out and took her arm. "No, I don't think I will."

With one tug, he brought her close to his body. Heat rolled off of him, seething emotions and the promise of raw sex combined.

"You look good in that dress, Joy. But then I'm sure Charles said the same thing." Gray's voice was silky now, but that was just cover. His fingers were a vise. "And I'm surprised Wilshire ran off so fast. Then again, he frightens easy."

"Yeah, well, you'd intimate a lot of armed felons right now," she shot back.

As they glared at each other, Joy wondered why she wasn't more afraid. She remembered what Tom had said about Gray, that underneath the man's urbane window dressing, there was something scary hard about him. Except even though Tom was right, she knew Gray would never hurt her. He was chewed up inside about something, but he wouldn't physically harm her.

And sure enough, Gray's grip loosened and his thumb moved, caressing the inside of her wrist. Her breath quickened as his eyes became hooded.

"Tell me something, Joy. How is it possible that I've read you wrong after all these years?"

"Have you?"

"Oh, yes. Most definitely." He smiled in a way that made his teeth seem sharp. "So how's Tom?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What's he doing right now, Joy? While you're here in that dress, letting some married man feel you up? Is he sitting by the phone, waiting for you to call? Or did you tell him you were going to be really busy and would phone in the morning?"

"I don't know what he's doing," she said slowly and clearly. "Because I'm not with him."

"Not tonight you aren't."

"Ever."

"God, you're good. I think it's those wide eyes. You could convince a man hell was heaven, couldn't you?"

The waiter came back with yet another glass and Gray let go of her to do the exchange. The guy with the tray left in a hurry.

When Gray went to drink, she put her hand on his forearm. "I don't understand all this. Why are you so angry? What's the problem?"

His eyes narrowed. "You. You're the problem."

Ouch.

"Well, that's easily fixed. Goodbye, Gray." She turned away.

"I want you," he said baldly. "And it hurts."