The Care and Feeding of Unmarried Men (8 page)

I
t was the recipe for a party Eve had attended a hundred times before. The expansive desert estate of some Hollywood exec, a five-piece combo playing everything from the Beatles to Bono to Beyoncé, an ask-for-it-we-have-it bar, a lush buffet catered by one of Palm Springs's poshest restaurants, and two hundred people with nowhere they'd rather be unless it was a different party with a more influential host, a more trendy caterer, or a more interesting guest list.

The fact was, reporting on scenes like this one was an almost scandalously delightful way to make a living. She loved Palm Springs, she loved the successful, entertaining, philanthropical—sometimes all three in one!—people whom she met during the social season's various celebrations and fund-raising events. She loved the chat, the flash of sequins, the tinkle of ice,
and the rustle of silk that was the sound track of the good life and a good time.

She never apologized for her enjoyment of it—not even to The Preacher, Nash Cargill. It still surprised her that he'd seemed to understand that day in the parking lot. She would have guessed he expected all women to be nurses or teachers. Or nuns.

Strolling through the front entry, Eve booted the man out of her mind. She didn't have time for him tonight because she had a job to do. Make that three jobs. Collect info for her “Party Girl” column. Pass along the Caruso-transition-is-under-control message.

And then, last but not least, while smiling, while looking prosperous, not desperate, she must approach that SOB Vince Standish. Approach him and work on getting him to relax enough, to trust her enough, that at some later date he would spill the way he'd been screwing the SEC, not to mention helping his friends and hurting his enemies.

“Eve!” She was hailed by silver-haired Douglas Darnell, who hurried toward her, carrying two champagne glasses.

She winked at him and drew out her handheld mini–tape recorder from her jeweled purse. “The host looks dazzling,” she said, holding it close to her mouth. “Very cosmopolitan in white slacks topped by a jacket with Japanese-inspired characters embroidered on the lapels and a pair of ruby suede loafers. Pliner?”

Grinning, Doug nodded. “You know your shoe designers.”

Eve thumbed off her recorder and slipped it back in her purse, then took one of the proffered champagnes. They clicked glasses. “To—?”

“Our hearts' desires,” Doug said. “What else?”

Two months ago Eve might have said she was living it. Now she didn't know what was in her heart.

Another group of guests came in behind her, and Eve moved on to allow Doug to greet them. The beautiful octogenarian who had written the society column for forty years before handing it over to Eve had trained her in the art of the party reporter.
Talk to as many people as possible. Never linger too long with any one guest.

If you spent too much time with a man consoling his bruised ego with scotch after losing a skins game on the golf course that afternoon, or if you listened too long to a woman who was sucking down Cosmos after not eating for three days so she could fit into her cocktail dress, well, that's when you found out the kind of things you didn't want to know. Eve's column reported on new business partnerships, new romantic partnerships, new hairstyles. Her task was to get prominent names in print. Those she talked about welcomed her in order to start a buzz going or keep a buzz humming along.

Téa had once remarked that she figured Eve evaded being the target of gossip herself by becoming the one who talked about others. Smart woman, her sister. Nobody asked Eve about being a mob boss's bastard daughter when they wanted to tell her all about themselves instead.

Realizing she'd wandered onto the deserted poolside terrace, Eve forced herself to turn around and head back toward the action. Overcrowded rooms could bring on the claustrophobia that plagued her, but she couldn't afford to let that bother her tonight. She gazed across the large screening room that was serving as the dance floor and through the archway
leading to the living room, taking in the faces of the newly arrived guests. And suddenly, there he was—Vince Standish.

The man whose secrets would keep her out of jail.

His gaze flicked to hers, and an odd dread clamped around the back of her neck like a frozen hand. She frowned, quickly dismissing the sensation as nothing more than craven cowardice.

Go. Move toward Vince.

With a breath, she stepped in his direction. Then a hand at her elbow halted her movement.

Gasping, Eve jumped, champagne sloshing down her fingers and onto her wrist. Her head whipped left. “Jemima.” She transferred the glass and tried shaking her hand dry. “You startled me.”

Leaning against a dark wall, the waif-actress, dressed in gauzy layers of violet chiffon punctuated with sequined flowers, grimaced. “Sorry. I didn't realize you were so—”

“Focused on someone across the room,” a deep voice filled in.

Eve lifted her gaze. The darkness she'd registered as a wall behind Jemima was no wall at all but Nash Cargill, looking seven feet tall and solid and almost domesticated in a dark suit and a matching dark shirt, open at the throat. He looked…good.

Her mind flashed to that night in the bar. He'd looked good then, too, in a pair of faded jeans, a white knit sweater, his cowboy boots. She thought of him carrying her out the French doors, his lean hips between her thighs, his muscled arms around her waist, her hands resting on his heavy, wide shoulders.

Now her gaze focused on his mouth, and she remembered him nipping her bottom lip with his
strong white teeth. The cold hand on her neck turned hot, and she tried tonguing away the memory of his kiss.

Except then he smiled, as if he knew what she was attempting to do, and she felt that delicious hurt all over again.

“Great dress,” Jemima said. Tonight she was trying out yet another accent. German, maybe? “Where'd you get it,
mein freund
?”

Eve couldn't look away from Nash's face. “At a c—” Dear God. She'd almost said consignment shop, which was the truth. She'd traded three of her own dresses from last season for this one, which she could only hope hadn't first belonged to another of the party's guests. “At a cute little boutique. I'll take you there sometime.”

“If I ever catch you wearing something like that, Jem, I'll tan your fanny.”

Jemima gave a dramatic eye-roll. “Not again. First you wouldn't let me come to this party by myself and now this. I'm not a baby, Nash.” And as if to prove it, she pivoted and strode off after a white-coated waiter carrying a sterling platter of champagne flutes.

Leaving Eve alone with Nash. If she thought—hoped—he'd hie after his sister to make sure the waiter carded her before handing over a drink, she was disappointed. Or maybe not, because he was still looking at her dress. More specifically, her body in her dress. She glanced in the direction of Vince. She should march over to him right this instant, but then she'd surrender this delicious moment with Nash.

Kisses she couldn't forget weren't within her comfort zone, but a man admiring her assets was her turf, and here she knew the rules to all the games and just
exactly how to play him—
uh-hem
—them. She couldn't walk away just yet.

Lifting the heel of one strappy silver sandal, she tucked her right knee against her left. It was a subtle, sexy pose, one she'd learned from a runway model acquaintance, and it worked as she knew it would. Nash's gaze traveled down to her nude legs and then back up to her just-above-the-knees champagne-satin dress. It had a subtle flare at the hem, then was fitted close to her thighs, hips, and waist. The bodice was simple matching triangles held up by thin straps that ran over her shoulders. Another pair of straps ran from the point of the vee between her breasts then up to meet those at the shoulder, creating a frame for the swell of flesh above the semi-modest décolletage.

Nestled at her throat on a triple strand of delicate, white-gold chains was a pavé diamond heart. It was pure girl-candy, a treat she'd once bought herself from Baby Doll Gems, and something she couldn't bear to part with, no matter what. She touched it with her fingertips and gave Nash a smile. “From the Mafia Princess collection, of course.”

His gaze lingered on the sweet piece of bling, then made another slow perusal of her barely-there dress. In a flashier color, or with an inch less bodice, or with a less-classy piece of jewelry, the whole presentation would have been pure nastiness.

Nash took his time checking it out anyway. “How in blazes does that scrap of fabric stay on you anyway?” he inquired in a mild voice.

“It's not about how it's on, it's all about what's under,” Eve said, then sipped at her champagne, looking up at him through her lashes.

He had the nerve to laugh. “You want me to ask the
obvious, when what's obvious is that you're buck naked beneath that dress.”

She was better than naked. And she knew telling him the details would drive him nuts. “Really, Nash. Do those Farrahs only go commando underneath their 501s and Hooter tees?”

His eyes narrowed. “How'd you guess?”

“Because you're obviously ignorant of the finer points of female occasion dressing.”

“‘Occasion' dressing?”

She cocked her head toward the throng of well-heeled in the living room. “
This
is an occasion.”

“Well, ma'am,” his soft drawl made a long shivery path down the back of her spine. “I'd say any place you're in a dress like that is an occasion. So what are these finer points a simple country boy like me is missing?”

Once she told him he'd be unable to put them from his mind, giving her a smug satisfaction that would keep her warm all evening long. “Under something as slinky as this, it comes down to three simple things. One, a flesh-colored microfiber thong. Two, a La Perla strapless bra, and three…” She dipped her finger in the champagne and then drew it from the notch at her throat to the low vee between her breasts.

“Three?”

“Three is…” Once again, she moistened her fingertip in her drink.

Before she could touch her flesh, he captured it in his huge fist. “Stop teasing. Three?”

God, his hand was so big. Big and hot and firm. “Hairpiece—” Her voice squeaked, so she had to swallow and try again. “Hairpiece tape.”

Blinking, he dropped her finger. “What?”

She cleared her throat, sent him her best cat smile. “Two-sided tape that keeps the dress in place so that all the naughty bits don't get too…naughty.”

He shook his head. “
You're
naughty.”

Another sidelong look through her lashes. “Oh, Nash, do you want to spank me too?”

“Damn straight I do. And it might surprise you, Party Girl, to find out just how much you like it.”

Cretin. Caveman. Cowboy.

He was teasing her again, of course. Calling her bluff, so she resisted taking a hasty step away. And instead, she found herself remembering the feel of his wide,
firm
hand and felt a very un-PC little tingle rush up the back of her legs. Of
course
she didn't want to be spanked, she hated violence toward women from men, had a firsthand hatred of it as a matter of fact, but the fantasy of being draped over Nash's lap…

Without a by-your-leave, he plucked her glass out of her hand and chugged the remainder of her champagne. Then he cleared his throat and surveyed the crowd around them. “I'm losing my focus, thanks to you. I'm supposed to be here to keep an eye on Jem. Anybody liable to cause her trouble?”

Eve slammed the bedroom door on the unwelcome mental image inside her head and quickly drew around herself an air of insouciance. “You can't be serious. This is a private party. I don't think some villain is on the guest list.”

Except Vince Standish. Oh, God, she'd almost forgotten Vince. Her gaze flicked to where he'd last been standing, but he was gone. Her stomach clenched. “I've known most of the people here for years.”

“Is that right? Why don't you fill me in on who some of them are?”

She used the opportunity to search the vicinity. “In the corner over there, that's Steve Sanchez, he's retired now, but made a bundle in real estate before his forty-fifth birthday. By the archway is Earl Adamcyzk, he owns a PR firm in L.A. And Dr. Stanley Greenburg is one of the most notable plastic surgeons in the Valley. He's the one with the salt-and-pepper crew cut and the cigar. All perfectly respectable. Completely nonthreatening.” None of them Vince.

“All wealthy.”

Eve shrugged. “Yes.”

“They all look alike too. They're short. Slight almost.”

Eve shrugged again. “I suppose you're right.”

“There's something else they have in common.” As a waiter came by, Nash dropped off her empty champagne glass and picked up two others, handing over one.

“What's that?” She sipped at hers.

“They've all dated you.”

She managed to swallow her champagne instead of spitting it out. “What makes you think that?” He was right.

“Am I wrong?” A knot of people moved through the crowd around them, and Nash sidled closer to Eve to give them room. His voice lowered, slowed to that thick drawl that poured like syrup through the air. “Or don't small, rich men turn you on?”

Small men made her feel secure. Without fear. Rich men…

“Here's a dollar, just for being pretty.”
Her father's voice, her father's roguish smile. Her father's love. He gave Téa a rose every Friday afternoon as reward for doing well in school. For Eve…

Here's a dollar, just for being pretty.

But Nash was looming over her, so she ignored the old memory and looked up at him, straight in the eye. “You know what kind of woman I am.” She knew what kind of woman he thought she was, and maybe he was right. There was a reason she'd taken Vince Standish's insider tip and run with it.