The MacGregor Grooms (3 page)

Ah well, she thought. She supposed the son of a former president would make news over trivialities. And being the grandson of Daniel MacGregor would only intensify the spotlight. Layna was much happier working backstage herself.

And obviously the man couldn’t be such a hit with the ladies if he couldn’t even get his own date on a Saturday night.

Putting on her company smile, she opened the door. Only years of education by Swiss nuns, and the discipline they’d instilled, kept her mouth from dropping open.

This man—this very dangerous-looking man in black tie, with hair the color of her prized dining-room table and eyes so blue they burned—needed his grandfather to find him a date?

“Layna Drake?” He had to have the wrong house, was all D.C. could think. This shimmering willow stem in white silk was nothing like the spindly little girl he remembered. Rather than dandelion fluff, her hair was spun gold curved sleekly around a face that might have been carved from ivory. Her eyes were a soft and misty green.

She recovered, her how-do-you-do smile never faltering as she offered a hand. “Yes. Daniel MacGregor?”

“D.C. Daniel’s my grandfather.”

“D.C. then.” Normally she would have invited him in, played hostess for a short time and given them both an opportunity to get somewhat comfortable with each other. But there was something not quite safe about him, she decided. He was too big, too male, and those eyes were far too bold. “Well.” Deliberately she stepped out and closed the door behind her. “Shall we go?”

“Sure.” Cool, his grandfather had said, and D.C. decided the old man had hit the mark. Definitely an ice princess for all her glamorous looks. It was going to be a very long evening.

Layna took one look at the ancient and tiny sports car at the curb and wondered how the hell she was supposed to fold herself into it wearing this gown.

Aunt Myra, she thought, what have you gotten me into?

She felt as if she were locked inside a mechanical shoe box with a giant. The man had to be six-four if he was an inch. But he seemed perfectly content to drive the toy car—at high rates of speed—through the swirling Washington traffic.

Layna clamped a hand on the padded handle of her door, checked the fit of her seat belt and prayed she wouldn’t be crushed like a bug on the windshield before the evening even started.

Small talk, she decided, would keep her mind off that particular image.

“Aunt Myra tells me we met some years ago when your father was president.” The last word came out in a squeak as he threaded the little car between a bus and a limo, then careened around a circle.

“That’s what I hear. You just relocated in Washington?”

“Yes.” Realizing she’d squeezed her eyes shut, Layna lifted her chin and courageously opened them again.

“Me, too.” She smelled fabulous, D.C. thought. It was mildly distracting, so he opened his window and let the air whip through the car.

“Really?” Her heart was in her throat now. Didn’t he see that light was turning red? Wasn’t he going to slow down? She bit back a gasp, nearly strangled on it as he zoomed through the yellow just as it blinked to red. “Are we late?”

“For what?”

“You seem to be in a hurry.”

“Not particularly.”

“You ran a red light.”

He cocked a brow. “It was yellow,” he said, downshifting, then screaming past a slow-moving compact.

“I was under the impression one slowed for a yellow light in preparation for stopping.”

“Not if you want to get where you’re going.”

“I see. Do you always drive like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re at the wheel of a getaway car after a bank robbery?”

He thought about it, smiling at her description. “Yeah.”

He made the turn to the hotel and pulled in with a cocky squeal of brakes. “Saves time,” he said easily, then unfolded those long legs and climbed out of the car.

Layna sat where she was, catching her breath, offering up her gratitude that she’d arrived in one piece. She hadn’t moved a muscle by the time D.C. rounded the hood, passed the keys to the valet and opened her door.

“You’re going to want to unhook your seat belt.” He waited while she did so, then took her hand to help her out. It brought them close, made him aware of her scent again, the texture and shape of her hand.

She was a looker, all right, he mused. Sea-siren eyes in a cameo face. An intriguing contrast. Though portraiture wasn’t the heart of his work, he sometimes sketched faces that interested him.

He imagined he’d be compelled to sketch hers.

Her legs were still weak, but she was alive. Layna drew one deep, steadying breath. “People like you shouldn’t be issued a driver’s license and should never be allowed behind the wheel of a car for any reason, particularly that soup can on wheels.”

“It’s a Porsche.” Because she didn’t seem inclined to move on her own, he kept her hand and pulled her into the hotel lobby. “If you’d wanted me to slow down, why didn’t you just ask?”

“I was too busy praying.”

He grinned at that, a quick flash of humor. It didn’t detract from the danger of his face by a whit. Layna would have said it only added to it.

“Looks like your prayers were answered. Where the hell are we going here?”

Setting her teeth, Layna turned to the bank of elevators and jabbed the button. Then she stepped in ahead of him and jabbed the proper button for the proper ballroom, simmering.

Behind her back, D.C. rolled his eyes. “You know …” What the hell was her name? “Layna, if you’re going to sulk, this is going to be a very long, tedious evening.”

She kept her eyes trained straight ahead and kept a choke hold on her temper. She knew it was a bad one, tending toward blasts of sarcasm if she didn’t maintain control. “I don’t sulk.” Her voice had as much warmth as winter in Winnipeg.

Only deeply ingrained manners prevented her from stalking off the elevator the minute the doors slid open. Instead she stepped off, turned gracefully and waited for him to stand beside her.

Temper put color in her cheeks, D.C. noted as he took her arm. Added passion to a cool and classic face. If he’d had any interest in her, he thought he’d make it his business to put that color there, that snap in her eyes, as often as possible.

But since he didn’t, and he wanted to get through the evening as smoothly and painlessly as possible, he would placate. “Sorry.”

Sorry, she thought as he guided her into the ballroom. That was it? That was all? Obviously he hadn’t inherited any of his father’s diplomatic skills or his mother’s charm.

At least the room was full of people and sound. Layna wouldn’t be stuck making conversation with a graceless oaf all night. As soon as manners permitted, she intended to separate and find someone sensible to chat with.

“Wine?” he asked her. “White?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He’d pegged her there, D.C. mused as he got her a glass and selected a beer for himself. He could only be grateful that his adored meddler of a grandfather wasn’t playing matchmaker this time around.

“There you are!” Myra hurried over, both hands extended. Oh, didn’t they make a handsome couple? She couldn’t wait to tell Daniel how striking their babies looked together. “D.C, you’re sinfully handsome.” She tilted her head as he bent down to kiss her cheek.

“Did you save a dance for me?”

“Of course. Your parents are here. Why don’t you come sit with us awhile?” She stepped between them, sliding an arm around each and making them a unit. “I know you have to mingle, and of course you’ll want to dance. Glorious music tonight. But I’m entitled to be selfish with you for a few minutes.”

With the skill and style of long practice, Myra steered them through the crowd, around groups that had gathered to chat, winding among tables spread with white cloths and decked with bouquets of sunny spring flowers.

She was dying for a chance to watch them together, to study the little details of body language, to see how they behaved. In her head she was already working on the guest list for the wedding.

“Look who I brought us,” Myra announced.

“D.C.” Shelby Campbell MacGregor sprang to her feet. Her gown of citrine silk rustled as she opened her arms to her son. The russet curls piled on top of her head brushed his cheek. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Neither did I.” He held her close a moment, then turned to catch his father in a bear hug.

Alan MacGregor’s silver hair glinted under the lights. A grin spread over his strong face as he looked at his son. “God, you look more like your grandfather every day.”

Even an oaf could love his family, Layna supposed. But a part of her had softened because the love between them, and their enjoyment of it, was so obvious.

If she’d met her parents under similar circumstances, there would have been impersonal air kisses and a polite “how are you?”

Then Shelby turned, her gray eyes warm, the slim brows over them lifting curiously. “Hello.”

“Shelby MacGregor, my goddaughter,” Myra said with a lilt of pride. “Layna Drake.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. MacGregor.”

Shelby accepted the hand, pleased that it felt strong and capable. “You’d be Donna and Matthew’s daughter?”

“Yes. They’re in Miami now.”

“Give them my best when you speak to them again. Alan, this is Layna Drake, Donna and Matthew’s daughter—and Myra’s goddaughter.”

“Myra’s told us a great deal about you.” Alan took her hand, held it warmly. “You’ve moved back to Washington?”

“Yes, sir. It’s good to be back. It’s an honor to meet you again. I was introduced to you when I was a child. I was terrified.”

He grinned as he pulled out a chair for her. “Was I frightening?”

“No, sir. You were presidential. I’d just lost my two front teeth and was feeling miserably gawky. You talked to me about the tooth fairy.” She smiled. “I fell in love with you.”

“Really?” Alan winked at his wife when Shelby chuckled.

“You were my first crush. It took at least two years before you were replaced by Dennis Riley—and that was only because he looked so very stalwart in his Boy Scout uniform.”

Fascinating, D.C. thought, as he watched Layna chat with his parents. Suddenly, all this warmth and animation. Oh, the coolness was still there, a light sheen on the surface, but the charm and vivacity bloomed under it, like the blush on a new rose.

When she laughed it was like a murmur through fog. Sexy but discreet. He had to admit it was a pleasure to watch her—those smooth, economical gestures; the sleek sweep of gilded hair; the slow curve of soft, shapely lips.

It was entertaining to listen to her—that low, cultured voice. Especially if he didn’t have to actually talk to her.

“D.C, for heaven’s sake.” Myra gave him a subtle elbow jab and kept her voice in a whisper. “You haven’t even asked her to dance.”

“What?”

“Ask Layna to dance,” she hissed, fighting impatience. “Where are your manners?”

“Oh, sorry.” Hell, he thought, but obligingly touched a hand to Layna’s shoulder.

She nearly jolted, and her head whipped around, her eyes meeting his. She’d all but forgotten he
was there. Ignoring her duties, she realized with an inward wince. She fixed a smile on her face and prepared to shift her attention from the delightful parents to the oafish son.

“Would you like to dance?”

Her heart dropped to her toes. If he danced the way he drove, she’d be lucky to leave the dance floor with all of her limbs intact. “Yes, of course.”

Feeling like a woman approaching a firing squad, she rose and allowed him to lead her toward the dance floor.

At least the music was lovely, she mused. Slow, dreamy, heavy on the brass. A number of couples were taking advantage of it, so the dance floor was crowded. Crowded enough that Layna had hope her partner wouldn’t feel compelled to plow through it, stumbling over her feet and wrenching her arms out of their sockets.

Then he stopped near the edge of the dance floor and turned her into his arms.

It was surprise, she decided, sheer surprise that had her mind fogging. Who would have believed that such a big man could move so well? The large hand at her waist wasn’t rough or awkward, but it was very, very male. It made her outrageously aware there was only a thin barrier of silk between it and her skin.

The lights twinkled down, dancing over his face, over that not-quite-tamed mane of richly colored hair. His shoulders were so broad, she thought numbly. His eyes so blue.

She struggled to clear such ridiculous thoughts out of her mind and behave. “Your parents are wonderful people.”

“I like them.”

She was slim as a willow, he thought. A long-stemmed rose. He watched the lights play over her face, hardly aware he’d drawn her closer. Their bodies fit like two pieces of a complicated puzzle.

Her pulse quickened. Without thinking, she slid her hand over his shoulder so her fingers brushed the back of his neck. “Um …” What had they been talking about? “I’d forgotten how lovely Washington can be in the spring.”

“Uh-huh.” Desire snaked up his spine, circled in his gut. Where the hell had it come from? “I want to sketch your face.”

“Of course.” She hadn’t heard a word he was saying. She could only think that a woman could blissfully drown in those eyes. “I believe they’re calling for rain tomorrow.” A little sigh escaped when his fingers splayed over her back.

“Fine.” If he dipped his head, he could have that mouth, find out if the taste of it would soothe the edges on this sudden clawing need, or sharpen it.

Then the music ended. Someone bumped them and shattered the thin glass bubble that seemed to have surrounded them.

Both of them stepped back. Both of them frowned.

“Thank you,” Layna said, and her voice was carefully controlled again. “That was very nice.”

“Yeah.” He took her arm, keeping the contact very light, very impersonal. He wanted to get her back to the table, dump her and escape until his mind cleared.

More than willing to cooperate, Layna let herself be guided through. She wanted to sit down quickly before her legs gave way.