Page 27

Now that her decision had been made, Ellie looked forward with relish to the coming confrontation.

Two could play this game.

She’d had it up to her ears with Clayton Whitfield.

Whitfield had used, humiliated, and shunned her in front of the entire show jumping world.

Jake hadn’t said anything, but he’d looked at her as if he wanted to.

Ellie knew what he was thinking— you were a fool, Ellie. Don’t let it happen again.

Clay had won every round so far, but he wouldn’t win this one.

It was Ellie’s turn to win.

Up at first light, she packed a traveling bag.

Not her usual easy-to-carry suitcase, but a big piece of luggage she packed with infinite care.

Choosing an expensive, embroidered, peach-colored sweater and matching linen slacks, she dressed carefully.

She and Prissy had selected the outfit and several others on their shopping excursion last week.

The clothes were all elegant.

At Prissy’s insistence, less conservative and a little more forward in fashion that the usual clothes she wore.

She already had most of what she needed, and when the stores opened this morning, she intended to be the first customer through the door.

Two hours later, a shiny little black taxi dropped her off at Michael Moretti in the Westbury Center off Grafton Street.

She’d never used the gold American Express card she carried for emergencies.

Today she intended to.

It was extremely short notice to find and fit the perfect evening gown for the black-tie dinner Avery Whitfield was certain to host but find one she would.

If the first shop couldn’t help her, Richard Allan was nearby, as well as Westbury Designs.

Though she rarely indulged in expensive fashions, she wasn’t ignorant of where to find them.

After a phone call to her mother, she could find them in Dublin.

“May I be of assistance, madam?”

It was the reedy voice of a thin, dark-featured man.

There wasn’t a trace of an Irish accent, only clipped, no-nonsense British.

“I’m in a hurry.

I need an evening gown, fitted and ready to go before I leave here in an hour.

Can it be done?”

He smiled, a feral gleam that said for the right price anything could be accomplished.

“Something simple,”

he said, turning her around for his inspection.

“No ruffles, no fuss.

Black maybe.

No. A luscious emerald green to enhance the color of your eyes.”

“That sounds perfect.”

She flashed him a smile that said she had complete faith in him.

“My name is Mabry Carstairs.

I believe we had better get to work.”

Ellie nodded and followed him through the heavy silk draperies into the elegant fitting salon.

By twelve o’clock sharp she was back at the hotel, standing next to Prissy and the others, watching as a string of Daimler limousines pulled up to the curb.

“You’re looking good,”

Prissy said, noticing Ellie’s polished appearance and satisfied smile.

“I guess I’m looking forward to this after all.”

“So I see.”

Prissy grinned at Ellie’s battle stance.

“One thing Clay should understand by now—you’re a tough competitor, Ellie.

I’m glad to see you back in the game.”

Ellie smiled.

“Thanks, Prissy.”

Chauffeurs dressed in black opened the car doors and Ellie saw Clay step out of the first limousine.

His eyes flicked over her briefly, then moved on to the others waiting on the curb.

“Good morning,”

Clay said to them.

“I’m glad to see you all could make it.

If you haven’t had a chance to see the countryside, I think you’ll enjoy the ride out to the house.”

Everyone voiced their excitement, and the drivers loaded the bags as team members filled each car.

Clay had already climbed back inside.

“Why don’t we ride with Clay?”

Ellie said to Prissy.

Her friend’s mouth dropped open.

Ellie didn’t wait, just ducked through the open car door and sat down on the seat next to Clay.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, then drew together in a frown as Prissy slid into the seat beside them and the driver closed the door.

She wondered if the warmth of his thigh against hers bothered him as much as it did her, then forced herself to ignore the tingling that crept over her skin.

“I’m really looking forward to this,”

she said.

“It was very thoughtful of your father—and you, of course—to invite us.”

“Thank you,”

Clay said, but his voice sounded dry.

He glanced out the dark-tinted windows and smoothed an imaginary crease from his immaculate navy blue slacks.

His nervousness was the first real emotion he’d shown since the night they’d spent together.

A thrill of satisfaction shot through her.

Let him sweat for a change.

The bastard .

She was ready for him, ready even for Gabriella Marchbanks, or the contessa, or any of the other bits of fluff he might be bringing along.

“You look lovely,”

he said to her, his eyes going over her more sophisticated appearance.

“Both of you,”

he quickly amended.

Prissy had worn a simple beige silk dress.

“I almost didn’t recognize you, Ellie.”

Ellie flashed him a carefully controlled smile.

With her hair slicked into a stylish chignon at the nape of her neck, expensive high heels, and a little more makeup than she usually wore, she looked older, more remote.

It was exactly the look she wanted.

“It’s time I changed my look, begun to dress a little more mature.

This makes me appear more cosmopolitan, don’t you think?”

Clay couldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“I rather liked you the way you were,”

he said gruffly.

“Well, I love it,”

Prissy put in before Ellie could reply.

“It gives her an aura of sophistication, a certain presence.

If your father throws his usual gala affair, we’ll be able to see if the effect is as dazzling as I think it is.”

Clay just grumbled and looked out the window.

“When I get back to the States,”

Ellie said, “I’m going to throw out my entire wardrobe, make a trip to Saks and start all over.

Then I think I’ll get a new car.

Somehow I don’t think my little Toyota will be right for my new image.”

“What kind of car so you want?”

Clay asked, brows pulled together in disapproval.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe a Porsche.

That might be fun.”

Prissy smiled at Clay.

“You know the difference between a Porsche and a cactus, don’t you?”

She flashed Clay a grin.

“The pricks are on the outside of a cactus.”

Ellie laughed.

“What’s the difference between a woman and a car? A car doesn’t get excited when you shove a hose into its—”

“Don’t,”

Clay said, his frown even deeper.

“It doesn’t become you.

Or is that part of your new image as well?”

Prissy sliced him a glance.

“When did you turn into a prude?”

“I’m not a prude.

I just don’t think what happened between Ellie and me should turn her into something she’s not.”

Ellie just smiled.

“I think that’s a rather conceited statement, Clay.

What makes you think a little romance could have that much effect on me?”

“A little romance! Is that what you call it?”

Clay’s face turned red, and Ellie felt a rush of satisfaction.

“I’d rather we didn’t discuss this in front of Prissy,”

she said.

“Maybe we can find a moment or two this weekend, if you really feel there’s something that needs to be said.

In the meantime, you were right about the scenery.

It’s quite spectacular.”

As the caravan of limousines headed out of Dublin, Clay clamped his jaw and leaned back against the deep red leather seat.

“What’s that?”

Prissy asked, leaning across Ellie to get a better look at some sort of battlements atop Mount Pelier.

“That’s the Hellfire Club,”

Clay said with studied nonchalance.

“Or what’s left of it.

The ruins can be seen for miles.

It was a club for eighteen century rakes, people who wished to take part in immoral acts.”

Ellie lifted an eyebrow.

“Really? I suppose you would know more about that than I.”

Clay glanced away.

Ellie didn’t miss the lines of tension around his mouth.

They drove on through the lush green landscape, along roads lined with bright yellow gorse, past ancient churches, weathered cottages, and centuries-old monuments.

The drive took them past Glencullen, Kilteman, and the Scalp, into Enniskerry, one of the prettiest villages in Ireland.

“It’s lovely,”

Ellie said softly, for a moment forgetting her newly acquired role of sophisticate.

“Like something out of a storybook.”

Clay flashed her a questioning glance, reminding her of her new, woman-of-the-world role, so Ellie added, “Of course there’s probably so little to do, one would find oneself bored in a fortnight.”

Clay started scowling, and Prissy pressed Ellie’s thigh in a sort of female code for a high-five.

It was all Ellie could do to stifle a triumphant grin.

Clay obviously preferred the ingénue to the sophisticate.

Someone na?ve enough to fall for his phony charm instead a woman who would laugh at his practiced lines.

Well, Ellie—no Ellen Elizabeth Fletcher—had only just begun!

Clay glanced out the window, trying to fathom the sudden turn of events.

Things weren’t going at all as he’d planned.

In fact, far from it.

For the sake of the team, he’d hoped to speak to Ellie in private, tell her he was sorry, explain how ill-suited they were, tell her how much better off she was without him.

It appeared all his arrangements had been for naught.

Ellie seemed to be handling their estrangement just fine.

Too fine, he thought, and realized how much it rankled him.

He wanted her to be upset, he grudgingly admitted.

Wanted her despondent at his leaving.

He hated this new woman Ellie seemed bound and determined to become.

He hadn’t seen much of her lately, purposely staying away.

Had their single night of lovemaking changed her so completely?

It was possible, he knew.

What had happed in Monaco had certainly changed him.

He glanced at Ellie, sitting regally beside him.

When she felt his eyes on her, she tilted her chin at precisely the angle to display her features to their best advantage.

It was a gesture he might have expected from Gabriella, or Angela, but never from Ellie.

Where was the warm, vibrant woman who had captured his heart?

Clay looked back out the window.

Outside the car, the wild splendor of the Wicklow Mountains passed by.

The road wound its way through some of the most beautiful country in the world.

They drove through Glendalough, a secluded, wooded valley between two lakes, arriving at their destination, Castle Glenmorra, not a moment too soon for Clay.

“Good heavens,”

Ellie said.

“This is what your father calls a house? It looks more like a palace.”

Her face lit up with childish delight, that joie de vive Clay had come to love.

His heart began to pound.

He felt her leg pressing against his, smelled her subtle perfume, and his blood began to pound.

Damn! He’d come up with the idea for this weekend in order to put things right between the members of the team, not to set himself up for more problems with Ellie.

He’d have to stay away from her, steel himself as he had before.

He could do it, he knew.

He’d kept his emotions controlled for most of his life. He was even better at it now.

Waiting as the car slowed to a stop, Ellie’s excited look faded, replaced by her newly acquired veneer.

She was making it easy, Clay thought.

Becoming the kind of person he’d come to hate almost as much as he’d hated ending their ill-fated affair.

“Actually, this is the ancestral estate of the Baron of Lahinch,”

he said dryly.

“My father has expensive taste.”

Then the chauffer opened the door.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?”

Ellie whispered to Prissy as they climbed the massive marble staircase, the sound of their voices echoing off the stone walls.

The huge, vaulted entry was magnificently paneled in walnut, exquisitely carved, and lit with ornate gilded sconces.

Original oil paintings hung above ancient suits of armor.

Prissy’s gaze followed hers.

“The Whitfields sure know how to live.”

Ellie was shown to a huge sleeping chamber, Prissy to one across the hall.

From the frescoed ceilings to the tapestry-draped four-poster bed, the castle spoke of an elegance long forgotten.

Even though she had to put up with Clay, Ellie was glad she’d gotten a glimpse of an era and a way of life few people ever discovered.

A black-suited servant brought up her bags, which were unpacked by a uniformed maid.

“You ready?”

Prissy stuck her head through the door.

Avery had invited the guests to what he termed “a light repast”

by the pool.

Ellie had changed into a mauve silk jumpsuit, very chic, and drawn her hair into a long ponytail that started at the top of her head.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Dressed in a two-piece navy linen pant suit piped in white, Prissy flashed her an approving glance.

“Didn’t take you long to catch onto the high society look.”

“My mother has a passion for clothes.

For years she’s been dying to get me to dress like this.

Up until now, it wasn’t my style.”

“Times do change,”

Prissy teased.

Ellie grinned.

“Clay said I was a quick study.”

“I think he’s eating his heart out.”

That was a sobering thought.

“I doubt it.

But I can’t help hoping you’re right.”

They headed downstairs to join the rest of the team members as well as the dozens of other guests Avery had invited.

Ellie’s armor was holding up and she felt good about herself for the first time in days.

She’d show Clayton Whitfield.

Or damn well die trying.

Though he tried to remain immune, Clay found himself watching Ellie throughout the day.

The poolside party, overflowing with guests invited in honor of the team, provided her an endless stream of admirers.

The laughter, flirtatious smiles, and teasing expressions she bestowed on the men around her aroused feelings in Clay more powerful than anything he’d been prepared for.

His emotions ran the gauntlet—anger, jealousy disappointment, humiliation, and heartache.

The wealthy young men lavished Ellie with compliments, fetched her drinks, and vied with each other for her attention.

Ellie toyed with them, flirted, bantered, did all the things a charming, utterly sophisticated female knew how to do.

Then he discovered—to his utter amazement and profound relief—that when Ellie thought he wasn’t watching, her sophisticated facade disappeared, her shoulders drooped, and she sagged as if she’d been delivered from the tortures of hell.

She’s acting, he realized with an astonished grin as he watched her performance from his vantage point on the terrace above her.

She’s been acting from the start .

Thank God his cruel treatment hadn’t truly destroyed her.

Feeling as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, Clay sank down on a gray marble bench and looked out across the manicured lawns, past the formal gardens, to the lake.

Dusk was beginning to fall.

The guests were retreating to their rooms to change for dinner.

His mind returned to Ellie.

She’s amazing, he thought with an inward smile.

As usual, he’d been underestimating her.

Maybe this time he’d learn his lesson.

Glancing back to where Franklin Marston, one of his father’s friends, had spotted her and begun a conversation, Clay felt a rush of admiration—grudging, he admitted, since he was the butt of her joke.

Jake said she had balls—and heart.

Clay had discovered those qualities some time ago but mistakenly believed they applied only to the sport she loved.

Now he realized just how much strength she had.

On the grounds below, Ellie had moved away from Marston and was heading into the castle on the arm of Darren McKittrick, a fortyish playboy who owned a large block of stock in Whitfield International, one of the family’s trading companies.

Olive-skinned and handsome, McKittrick was an even more notorious ladies’ man than Clay.

His chest tightened.

Damn, he had to stop reacting this way.

At the sound of a soft knock, Maggie turned toward the French-paned doors that led onto a secluded terrace outside her room.

Hurriedly, she pinned her hair back with a rhinestone comb and headed for the door.

Parting the heavy silk draperies, she unlocked the door and turned the knob to find Jake standing outside.

With a rakish smile, he stepped over the threshold, and Maggie went into his arms.

“Our rooms share the same private terrace,”

he said against her ear, tightening his hold.

“Apparently Clay has his suspicions about us.”

When Maggie pulled back to look at him, Jake bent his head and kissed her, a tender kiss, but one that made his passion clear.

He looked magnificent in his black tuxedo, his shoes so shiny they reflected the amber glow of the gilded wall sconces.

“I knew Clay was a romantic at heart,”

Maggie said when Jake pulled away.

“I can’t say I’m sorry.

Though I probably should be.

This is damned dangerous, and we both know it.”

“I don’t care.

God only knows what could happen next week.”

Jake kissed her again, this time more deeply, and heat slid out through her limbs.

Maggie could feel the warmth of his hands on her body as he pulled her closer, letting her feel his arousal.

He kissed her a moment more, then, with a heavy sigh, set her away.

“If we keep this up, we’ll never make it downstairs,” he said.

“I suppose it would be rude not to at least make an appearance.”

Jake smiled.

“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”

His gaze swept over her bare shoulders, down the snug-fitting bodice of her pale peach, watered-silk gown, over the gently belled skirt.

Beneath his hot gaze, her breasts pebbled beneath the fabric.

Maggie smiled.

“It isn’t something a woman can hear too often.”

“Well, you look lovely.

And thanks to Whitfield, I suddenly find myself looking forward to the evening.

I suppose I’ll have to forgive him for all the trouble he’s caused.”

“He’s doing this to set things right.”

“I know.”

Jake ran a finger down Maggie’s cheek.

“I’d better go.

I’ll see you downstairs, but now that I’ve discovered your terrace door, I hope you aren’t planning a lengthy evening.”

Maggie smiled.

“Dinner and a dance or two with you, the handsome C hef d’ Equipe, and I’m certain to develop a headache.”

“Just make sure it disappears by the time you get undressed.”

Violins played softly as Clay greeted guests in satins and silks, sequins and tuxedos.

His father stood across the way, shaking hands and smiling, a buxom blonde named Marian clinging to his arm.

Some of the guests Clay knew, some were unfamiliar, friends of his father’s or members of the Irish show jumping community.

Clay’s glance flicked to the doorway where he continued to search for Ellie.

It was Prissy who walked into the room.

“Hi, Clay,”

she said.

“You sure know how to throw a shindig.”

“Thank you.”

He glanced back at the door.

“She’ll be here any minute.”

Prissy smiled, and Clay felt the heat at the back of his neck.

“I was looking for Flex.”

“Sure, you were.

Why don’t you just admit it? For once in your life, you’re hooked.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Prissy.

Ellie and I are about as well-suited as a maiden aunt and a pimp.”

“Have it your way.

Looks to me like she’s getting over you just fine.

She certainly doesn’t seem to be hurting for attention.”

Shep strolled up beside them.

“Who’s hurting for attention?”

Champagne glass in hand, silver hair gleaming above his tailored black evening clothes, Shep glanced around the room.

“I’m the only one hurting around here.

And I never did get the attention I deserved.”

Prissy laughed.

Turning Shep’s face with her hand, she inspected the fading bruises, now a purplish gray.

“Poor Shep.”

“Poor Shep is right.”

Then he spotted Martin Saperstein, one of Avery’s entourage, talking to a handsome black-haired man in his late twenties.

When the young man caught Shep’s interested look, he smiled back so warmly there was no mistaking the invitation.

Shep grinned.

“Maybe poor Shep will have a change of luck.”

Shep excused himself and so did Prissy.

Then Flex walked in.

“I’m glad you came,”

Clay said, extending a hand.

Flex accepted it with a smile.

“I’m glad you invited me.

Nice party.

Your father’s idea or yours?”

“Mine.”

“Listen, Clay, I’m sorry about what happened.

I shouldn’t have hit you, but you have to admit you deserved it.”

Clay grinned.

“More than you’ll ever know.”

“She seems to be picking up the pieces.”

“She’ll be fine.”

“You could have let her down a little easier.”

“If I could have, I would have.”

“Which means?”

“Which means it wasn’t easy for me, either.”

Flex’s eyes widened and opened his mouth to speak.

Clay stopped him with a warning glance.

“Sorry,”

Flex said.

He glanced around.

“I wonder where she is?”

As if on cue, Ellie swept through the door on Darren McKittrick’s arm.

He was smiling at her, totally entranced, and Ellie was smiling back.

This time it didn’t appear to be an act, and Clay was suddenly furious.

“Like I said, she seems to be on the mend.”

“So I see.”

Without a farewell, Clay left Flex and followed McKittrick and Ellie into the main salon.

Heading for the bar, he ordered a Glenfiddich on the rocks, but his eyes never left Ellie.

“Great party, eh, son?”

Avery walked up beside him, the blonde still clinging to his arm.

Though his father was twenty-six years Clay’s senior, dressed in a black tuxedo, as Clay was, the resemblance between them was striking.

“I think they’re all enjoying themselves.”

“There’s your little redhead.”

His dad pointed rudely in Ellie’s direction.

“For once in my life, I was wrong.

Get her all decked out, she’s a real looker.”

It figured his father would change his opinion as soon as Ellie began to fit in with the rest of the social elite.

Tonight, she wore a floor-length designer gown of emerald crepe de chine.

There was little trim, just two narrow rhinestone straps that went over her bare shoulders, and a small self-bow in front that subtly emphasized the soft white mounds of her breasts.

The lines of the garment were simple and elegant, showing off her figure to perfection, accenting the gentle curves Clay remembered only too well.

Her hair was swept up in back, but left undisciplined around her face, giving her a very stylish, almost pagan appearance.

Desire slipped through him, and his body stirred to life.

“Since you aren’t seeing her anymore,”

Avery added, “I guess she wasn’t much good in bed.”

Clay bristled.

“Ellie and I were ill-suited on a far different level, I assure you.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe we’re being summoned to dinner.”