The society pages were filled with her. The queen of philanthropy, she’d been an advocate for the downtrodden since high school, using the influence of being the daughter of a senator—before she’d married Paul Reynolds—to draw attention to matters that bothered her.
She and the commissioner had no children—due, one article said, to her own infertility. She sat on the boards of three different infertility clinics as fundraising chairperson.
And there Chantel had it. Too bad “it” wasn’t anything she could use.
CHAPTER NINE
COLIN WAS TOO practical to believe in love at first sight. He wasn’t even sure he truly believed in falling in love at all. You loved your parents and siblings, the people you were born to and who were born to you. If you were lucky, you’d feel a strong fondness for a friend or two along the way.
And when you married, if you were a smart man, you chose a woman you liked spending time with. A woman you trusted. Someone you cared for deeply. One who’d be a good mother to any children you might have. One who enjoyed at least some of the same things you did. And, of course, one who turned you on.
He’d yet to find that woman. He’d thought he had, once. Until she’d left him because he was leaving his inheritance to his sister. He’d thought maybe he was close another time or two. But with his parents dying so young, one after the other—necessitating him taking over the business long before he’d expected—with Julie’s attack and resultant internal battles, time had passed, taking his twenties with it.
And now here he was, just two nights after the evening he’d gone to a dreaded art auction, sitting across from Chantel Johnson and feeling as though he’d known her since before he was born.
Or something equally as foolish.
They’d had gourmet food for lunch. He’d decided on fondue for dinner because the restaurant he had in mind had quiet, rounded, high-back dimly lit booths that secluded each party and provided excellent views of the ocean in the distance. And because cooking each course at your table made for a long dinner.
He ordered a bottle of wine, poured them each a glass and discussed the various menu choices with her. They had to make meat selections, choose vegetables, and items for their dessert tray. It didn’t even surprise him that they went for the same things.
“To you.” He raised his glass of wine and tipped it to hers.
“To you,” she said, and when she added, “To my good luck,” it was like the words slid right inside of him.
“Your good luck?” he asked, but he knew what she’d meant. He wanted to prolong the conversation.
“I go to my first public function in a state that is completely new to me, knowing not a single soul, and the first person I meet is you.”
The sincerity shining from her gaze hit him harder than the wine.
“So I’m not alone in this...strange feeling...that’s been accompanying me the past couple of days?” He heard the sex in his voice but couldn’t have changed it if he’d wanted to.
He wanted her.
And not just for sex.
He was drawn to her. Suddenly more alive because she existed.
Her smile was sweet. Loaded with invitation—though maybe not intentionally. “You care to define that feeling? I like to know what I’m agreeing to before I commit myself.”
His first thought was to ask her to commit herself to his bed. That night. And for the foreseeable future. Thank God he was mature enough to stop himself from actually acting on the thought.
“You’re different,” he said, watching her over their glasses of wine lit by candlelight. He drew out the words. His voice purposely “bedroom,” liking the foreplay. “Compelling. In a way I’ve never known before.”
Eyes glistening, she didn’t shy away from his boldness. “I can commit to that,” she said.
In a stunningly simple black short shift that was sexier for what it covered, not for what it left uncovered, she could have stepped out of a fashion magazine. Again. He wondered who did her hair. The color was so natural looking he couldn’t stop watching it. Wondering how it would feel to run his fingers through it. To have it falling around his body, tickling his chest...
And those lips—so artfully painted—they glistened with promise.
“But...”
When her eyes shadowed, he brought himself back to dinner. To what was, in reality, a first date.
“But?” he asked.
“You did hear me say that when I’m done with my book I have decided to return to New York, after all? My family misses me more than I thought. I’ve promised that I will resume my former position within the company.”