Courting Justice. Brenda Jackson
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“With you I don’t have to worry about your interest in me being purely financial or because of my newfound fame.”
His words were actually a compliment—kind of. And she couldn’t help the sensation that made her chest swell or the undercurrents that were making the tips of her nipples harden under her blouse. “I thought men who weren’t serious about women didn’t care one way or the other, as long as they were on top of their game.”
He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Maybe for some, but I’ve outgrown that.”
She waved off his words. “Whatever.”
“You don’t believe me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Angelo? No. But does it matter what I believe?”
He was spared from answering when the waitress came to take their order. Just as well, Peyton thought. He had told her more than enough fairy tales today anyway.
* * *
Angelo shifted in his chair thinking that every muscle in his body was feeling Peyton’s presence. Conversation for them had ceased for the moment while they enjoyed their meal.
She had ordered a lot, and he was surprised she ate it all. Since he’d eaten breakfast and lunch, all he wanted was something light and decided a bowl of soup would be enough, or so he’d thought. But more than once he swiped a French fry off her plate.
He slowly chewed on the fry thinking he could feel the connection between them even if she couldn’t. Did she even sense what was taking place? Had she caught on that he was laying the groundwork for what was to come? What would eventually happen between them?
More than once he saw her glance at the group of women sitting at a table across the room. He was very much aware that the women were staring at them and had been doing so for quite a while. He wondered if that’s what was bothering Peyton and decided to ask.
He glanced over at her and before he could speak his eyes devoured her, taking in the smooth, creamy brown texture of her skin, her dark eyes that preferred studying the food on her plate rather than him, and the way her mouth was curved in a pout.
He lifted a brow. “Would you like to tell me what’s wrong, Peyton?”
She glanced up, met his gaze, held it and was about to move her mouth to speak when they both noticed a presence at their table. He lifted his gaze and stared into the face of Lela Stillwell.
Where the hell had she come from? And why had she chosen just that precise moment to appear? And what right did she have to glare at him like he’d been caught doing something wrong?
“Lela?” he said, acknowledging her presence.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Lela said in that syrupy voice that made him cringe. Then she had the audacity to reach out and place her hand over his. Now she was being disrespectful to Peyton, and he wasn’t going to put up with it. He reached out and removed her hand from his.
“You were looking for me for what reason?”
“I thought we could spend the afternoon together.”
He gave her a smile that he knew didn’t quite reach his eyes. Then he glanced over to Peyton. “I’m sure Lela somehow forgot her manners, so let me make the introductions. Peyton, this is Lela Stillwell. Lela, this is Peyton Mahoney.” The two women glanced at each other, but neither extended their hands, nor did they exchange pleasantries.
In fact, as if dismissing Peyton altogether, Lela turned her attention back to him and said, “Well, are you ready?”
He lifted a brow. “Ready for what?”
“For us to spend the afternoon together. Didn’t you read the brochure you were given when you checked in?”
He had to remind himself that standing before him was a woman who could take the words spoiled, selfish and narcissistic to a whole new level. “Evidently I didn’t. What did it say?” he asked.
She smiled. “Tonight the resort is hosting the couples’ ball, and it would be best to claim your date early.”
He stared at her for a moment and then just to make sure he understood what she was insinuating, he said, “So you’re claiming me?”
She smiled brightly. “Of course.”
Sometimes people simply amazed him, especially women, and at that moment, particularly Lela. She had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth; had attended some of the best schools; had been introduced to all the finer things in life. But when it came to substance—namely manners and respecting others—she might as well have been raised by a pack of wild dogs. Especially compared to Peyton—who had been raised by her grandmother in a less than desirable part of Chicago, rarely saw her mother growing up, didn’t know her father and had to pay her own way through college and law school but still possessed the kind of class and grace that money couldn’t buy. If the two women were pitted against one another, Peyton was the winner hands down.
He held Lela’s gaze and was about to open his mouth to tell Lela that it would be a cold day in hell before he would allow her to claim him for anything, when he heard Peyton’s soft chuckle.
He glanced across the table in time to hear her say to Lela, “Sorry, Ms. What’s-Your-Name, but you’re a tad too late. Angelo might not have read the brochure, but I did. And he’s already been claimed—by me.”
Chapter 6
The coffee machine in Peyton’s suite was taking too long to brew and the steady slow drip was driving her crazy. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Angelo hadn’t been standing across the room watching her every move.
After putting Lela in her place and watching her stomp away like the spoiled brat she was, Peyton had finished her coffee. Angelo had had the good sense to keep quiet while she did so. Telling him she’d see him later, she’d left the restaurant. To her surprise, when she passed the group of women from the elevator, they smiled and gave her the thumbs-up. Evidently they had witnessed Lela Stillwell’s behavior from across the room and were glad she had been put in her place.
Peyton had met a lot of rude people during her lifetime, but she was convinced Lela took the icing off the cake. It wasn’t what she said, but how she had said it, like she had every right to talk down to people. Who had made her queen? How dare Lela assume that even though Angelo was having lunch with Peyton, that she was insignificant and that Lela could make a play for him right in front of her and show her disrespect. Anger raced through her body.
The nerve of that hussy, she thought.
“I hope that coffee you’re brewing is for drinking and not to throw on me.”
She looked back at Angelo over her shoulder. She had let him in a few moments before, and he was still there standing with his back against the closed door, as if trying to decide whether it was safe to stay. “I don’t know what I plan to do just yet,” she said, still fuming inside.
“Why are you angry at me? It’s not my fault Lela is the way she is.”
He was right, it wasn’t his fault. But still, why was he like a magnet for some of the most ill-mannered, obnoxious women around? Why?
She turned around and glared at him. “I hope you know that I had made up my mind not to get involved with you and that woman. You’re a grown-ass man who should be able to fight off unwanted advances on your own. However, Lela Stillwell takes the damn cake. That heifer had the nerve, the damn audacity, to stand there and act like I wasn’t there, like I was no better than the friggin’ ketchup bottle on the table. Who in the hell gave her the right to ignore me that way? As if I was insignificant!”
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