The Ashtons: Paige, Grant & Trace. Roxanne St. Claire
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evening, Mr. Camberlane. Your table is ready.” Somehow it sounded like it was just that—his table.
In a moment they were seated at an intimate table for two next to a window. “His” table was not exactly the strictly business setting she’d hoped for, leaving her to wonder just how often he dined here with women. One look at him answered that question. Often.
She tamped down the thought and listened to Matt exchange pleasantries with the maître d’ about a new sommelier, a wine expert he’d brought over from France.
As soon as they were alone, he focused on her, the intensity of his silver-gray gaze nearly taking her breath away. “I would have introduced you,” he said. “But I didn’t want to put you in the awkward position of discussing the wine list.”
She knew exactly what he was talking about. “They don’t serve Ashton wine here.”
Ashton wine was good—great in some years, especially under her older brother Trace’s fine management—but the exclusive restaurant leaned more toward the impossibly expensive and elite wines. Like Louret.
“It wouldn’t make me uncomfortable to discuss their cellar,” she assured him. “No doubt it will come up when the new sommelier makes his recommendations.” She gave him a direct, serious look. “Regardless of the less-than-stellar media coverage my family has received, I remain proud of the name.”
He nodded in agreement. “As you should be. You can’t take the blame for the troubles your father inflicted on the family.”
“My father’s murder inflicted the trouble,” she corrected. “My half brothers and sisters have simply fanned the fire and made things worse. Although,” she lifted one shoulder in a shrug, “I understand their position.”
“That’s sisterly of you.”
“Family is…” Taking her napkin and smoothing it on her lap, she met his gaze again, purposely not finishing the thought. “How much has Walker told you?”
“Walker has always been very candid about your family. He told me when we first met as roommates in Berkeley the whole story of how his uncle Spencer arranged to take him and Charlotte and raise them as your siblings.”
“And no doubt he told you that my father told Walker his mother was dead, and not living on a Sioux reservation.”
“Yes,” Matt nodded. “Like I said, he’s never hidden anything from me. But—” he gave a rueful smile “—he’s been a little preoccupied since Tamra came into the picture and they began establishing the Sioux scholarship program. So what I know of the recent drama I’ve read in the papers or heard, if you’ll forgive the awful pun, through the grapevine.”
She laughed softly. “Grapevines are for wine, not gossip.”
The waiter, who also seemed to know Matt well, stopped by to light the candle and exchange pleasantries but didn’t even discuss the menu. Dinner at the Laundry was a lengthy, multicoursed affair dictated by the whims and moods of the world-famous chef.
A long, intimate affair. By candlelight. With wine.
Paige automatically reached for her leather binder when the waiter left. “I haven’t drawn up a specific theme for your event, yet—”
In one smooth move, he flipped the portfolio closed, making the candle flicker with the puff of air from the sudden movement. “That can wait.”
Paige gave him a sharp look. “We have business to discuss.”
“I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and produced a silver pen. “Give it to me to sign and then we’ll be done.”
She hesitated and leaned back, the folder against her chest. “You’re too savvy a businessman to sign just anything without reading it first.”
“All that contract should say is that Symphonics, Inc. has reserved the reception hall of Ashton Estate for an event on October 31.”
Paige had to admit it really didn’t contain too much more detail. “There’s a lot of fine print,” she said, knowing by the look in his eyes that didn’t matter. Once they were done discussing business, this dinner went back to date status. For some reason that thought sent a tremor of trepidation straight through her.
She could handle Matt Camberlane on a business level—after all, she’d graduated from business school with honors, the youngest in her class. But as a date?
He reached over and gently wrested the portfolio from her hand. “We’ll go over the fine print and details next week,” he announced. “We can meet in my office on Monday.”
He opened the portfolio, shuffled through the pages and scribbled his name on the last one. With a satisfied smile, he handed the whole package back to her. “Now you can relax.”
Yeah, right. “I am relaxed.” She set the folder against the leg of her chair with an air of resignation. Well, he paid for a date.
He leaned forward, as though he’d like to eliminate the space and table between them. “I would imagine everyone in your family has strong opinions and volatile emotions where your father’s will and death are concerned. I’m intrigued by your levelheaded view of the situation.”
His demeanor said he was intrigued by more than that, but she played along and answered the question. “I believe there are two sides to every story. My half brothers and sisters are understandably crushed that my father had…” She tried to think of a less vicious word than abandoned to describe what her father had done to the four children he had with Caroline Lattimer, but couldn’t. There was no word other for it. “They—especially the oldest, Eli—are simply determined to get what they think is rightfully theirs.” And since the estate had been in the Lattimer family long before Spencer had renamed it Ashton and kept it in his divorce from Caroline, Paige couldn’t help but understand Eli’s position.
“Any progress on the murder investigation? The media seems to be reporting nothing.”
Paige closed her eyes for a moment, then blew out a slow breath as the image of her father, shot point-blank in his own office, darkened her mind. “Not really. At the moment, the police are honing in on some blackmail threats my father had received and a numbered bank account that he’d mysteriously kept well stocked.”
His eyes softened a bit at the crack in her voice. “I got the impression that most of the Ashtons were…” he paused and tilted his head as he obviously searched for his own euphemism. “Not that distraught over your father’s death.”
Most of them weren’t, she silently agreed. “He was my father,” she said simply. “Everyone deserves to be mourned.”
The sommelier approached their table, and the conversation turned to wine, and once again Matt Camberlane impressed her. Not only had he gracefully handled the issue of her last name, he knew an awful lot about wines.
“Not bad, for a computer guy,” she said with a smile once they were alone.
He laughed. “I can thank Walker. A wine expert is a good roommate to have in college. We never got drunk on anything but the good stuff.”
She seized on the chance to turn the conversation toward him. “Did you go to business school at Berkeley, as well?”
“I didn’t go to graduate school,” he said evenly. “I went into the Army.”
It was her turn to be surprised. “You did?”
“Didn’t Walker ever tell you? I was at Berkeley on an Army ROTC scholarship. I had to do my time for Uncle Sam to pay for the privilege.” She heard a note of defensiveness creep into his voice, making her heart clutch a bit.
“Walker’s only bragged that the boy wonder of Symphonics was his old college buddy. Did you like the Army?”
“I liked the