Leslie Kelly - A Taste Of Paradise

She downed her drink. “Join the club.”

Hearing the pain in her voice, he asked, “They didn’t—I mean, nobody from the tabloids ever came after you, did they?”

“No. I escaped their radar.” She fished an olive out of her drink with her long, slim fingers and popped it into her mouth, the movement as graceful as it was sexy.

Damn, he was still so affected by this woman. He had to drag his eyes away from those lips as he asked, “Then what do you mean? What happened? Was it something about the emergency you mentioned in your note that day?”

“Indirectly, I guess.” She nodded toward the happy couple, who were dancing to a big band number on the otherwise empty dance floor. “Essentially, that’s what happened.”

“So you’re not happy about this, either?”

She shook her head, and a rush of relief flooded him. He had been worried Heather would support the romantic lunacy when, in fact, she might actually be an ally.

“Thank God,” he said, lifting his own drink and tossing back a mouthful. “I thought I was gonna have to break up this wedding all by myself.”

Shock widened her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I flew here today to convince my father how crazy this whole thing is. We’ve been fighting about it all day.”

“Fighting...”

“He’s such a romantic. A sucker for a pretty face. Two out of three of his former wives have swindled him out of fortunes. My dad can’t see clearly when it comes to women.”

“Swindled?”

“What’s that old saying? Marry in haste, repent at leisure. Believe me, his accountant always repents,” he said, thinking how lucky he had been that his own romantic misadventure hadn’t actually led down any aisles other than in a courtroom. “Desperate, middle-aged women see the name and the dollar signs and can’t resist trying for the brass ring. He falls for it every damn time.”

Heather stared at him for a long moment, her eyes flashing. Her whole body had grown rigid, and her mouth opened and then snapped closed, as if she were trying to control herself.

Which was when Nate remembered exactly who he’d been referencing as a desperate, middle-aged woman.

“Oh, crap, Heather.”

“My mother is no swindler.” She launched from her chair.

He rose, too. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...”

“Yes, you did mean. You think my mother’s marrying your father for his money?”

No backing off that now, and no way to say it nicely. “She wouldn’t be the first bored divorcée to want what a rich man can give her.”

Heather gasped, drawing a hand to her chest. Her fingers pressed so hard they left red marks on the pale, creamy swell of her cleavage. It was as if she were trying to hold her heart in place, as if he’d wounded her.

He was so out of practice talking to women. He’d lost his charm, and tonight, it seemed, even his tact. Maybe it was her nearness that had loosened his tongue, and his own recent history that had made his words so bitter. Maybe the martini he’d just consumed—and the two he’d had earlier—had contributed, too. In any case, Heather appeared as furious as a tornado.

Without another word, she swooped her nearly empty glass off the table. To his shock, she tossed the contents—liquor, melting ice, one olive—right into his face.

“Stay away from me, Nate Watson,” she said, her whole body shaking. “Or I swear to God, I will pitch you off that boat right in the middle of the Caribbean and laugh while you drown.”

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