Winter Blockbuster 2012 (23 page)

“We’ll have to change that—raise the stakes.”

Yes, he was definitely flirting. If the intimate note in his voice hadn’t made it clear, the gleam in his eyes confirmed it. Laurel gave herself up to the heady rush. “I wouldn’t want to become addicted.”

“That can only happen if the stakes are higher than you can afford.”

“I’ll remember that.” She peeked at him through her lashes. “If I ever find myself in Vegas.”

The song came to an end. She was hot and thirsty, yet Laurel found she didn’t want the exchange to end. It was exhilarating. Fun. Yet risky. More than she’d ever banked on when she’d scrawled
Flirt with a stranger
on her list. The
weight of Rakin’s hand resting on her waist, the touch of his fingers against hers, the way his body had brushed against hers to the rhythm of the music was stealing over her senses.

“It’s warm in here,” she said, finally letting go of his hand and fanning her face. “I need a drink.”

“There’s a cool breeze outside,” Rakin responded readily, his hand sliding from where it rested at her waist to beneath her elbow. As they skirted the dance floor he picked up two brimming tulip glasses from a passing waiter with his free hand, before leading her to the open doors.

Laurel hesitated on the threshold. Outside, the balcony appeared to be deserted.

Her heart leapt as his hand touched the sensitive skin under her elbow. Rakin’s voice was deep and smooth as he said, “Come. It will be quiet and cool.”

And she couldn’t help wondering if she’d let herself in for more than she could handle as she stepped out into the Southern night.

There was a slight breeze and the balmy night air was redolent with the sweet scent of magnolia and jasmine.

Rakin led Laurel to the shadows at the end of balcony where the sultry throb of the jazz band was fainter. Under the glow cast by a wall sconce, he handed one of the long-stemmed glasses to Laurel, then leant back against the wide balustrade. She tipped the glass up to take a slow sip, and her gaze tangled with his over the rim.

Something—lust?—locked fast in the base of his stomach.

With her tall, slender figure wrapped in a column of moonlight silk, her magnolia skin, sparkling eyes and the crowning glory of her dark red hair, Laurel Kincaid was a very beautiful woman. Any man would be aroused by having the
full wattage of her attention switched on to him. And, to his chagrin, Rakin discovered he was no exception.

But he was interested in far more than the surge of attraction between them. Holding her gaze, he drank from his glass, savoring the dry bubbles against his tongue. Despite the millions he’d added to the Al-Abdellah fortune, his grandfather was threatening to toss him out of the family business if he didn’t marry soon. So far, Rakin had resisted—love was not on his agenda. But the battle of wills being fought between himself and Prince Ahmeer Al-Abdellah had now erupted into open war. Marriage to the right woman might be the lesser of two evils. Eli’s not-so-joking suggestion that Laurel might be the perfect bride to get Rakin’s grandfather off his back was worth serious consideration.

And love would not be a factor…

One look at Laurel and his wily grandfather would ask no further questions. What man in his right mind would pass up the chance to wed such a stunning creature? Her connection to the Charleston Kincaids only served to make the deal even sweeter. But first Rakin would have to sell the idea to Laurel—she was a Kincaid, there was no earthly reason for her to agree to help him out.

Except business…

“So you’d like to gamble in Vegas?” he asked, swirling the gold liquid in his flute.

“Maybe.”

He could hear the smile in her voice. Was she teasing him? He couldn’t read her expression. “You’ve really never been?”

“Only once—as a young child. But I don’t remember it, so it doesn’t count.”

“Such a lack is easy enough to remedy—but you shouldn’t go alone.”

“I only discovered recently that I wanted to go at all. A
few months ago I could’ve invited Lily or Kara along with me. But it’s too late for that—they’re both married now. You may not have heard, Lily and Daniel decided to solemnize their union in a very private service just a couple of days ago—Lily didn’t want to overshadow Kara’s wedding. They intend to have a bigger elaborate family affair in October after the baby is born.”

She spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, yet Rakin thought he detected a hint of loneliness in her voice. He was no stranger to loneliness. An only child, he envied Laurel the bond she shared with her sisters and brothers. The closeness among the Kincaids was evident in every look, every laugh.

The closest he’d come to that kind of relationship was the friendship he shared with Eli—but neither of them talked much about family… or emotions. Sport, money and business were their main lines of communication. “Marriage won’t change the fact that they will always be your sisters.”

Laurel moved away from the light, to the end of the balcony. She raised her glass and sipped while she stared out into the night. At last she spoke, “I know that. But now they have priorities of their own. Both of them have husbands… and Lily is going to be a mother. The sisterhood will never be the same again.” Her voice held an echo of sadness. Then he caught the glint of startling white in the shadows as she turned her head and smiled. “Enough of that. I have plenty of friends with whom I can visit Vegas.”

Rakin didn’t doubt that for a moment. She was vivacious and breathtakingly beautiful. She’d have friends buzzing around her like bees at a honey pot.

“How did you come to be friends with Eli?” he asked.

It had puzzled him when Eli had first spoken about Laurel Kincaid back at Harvard. Initially, Rakin had thought the two must share more than friendship. With his upbringing
in the traditional society of Diyafa followed by all-boys schooling, envisaging a close friendship between a man and a woman had been foreign. But Eli had made it clear he and Laurel were nothing more than friends—very close friends. When the news had come that they were engaged, Rakin had not been surprised. At some point any friendship between a man and woman would have to cross into the sexual realm. Women and men were not created to be simply friends.

Laurel’s jilting of Eli, and Eli’s ready acceptance of it—and his wry joke that Rakin should marry her—had astonished Rakin. So, too, had the fact that Eli’s heart had not even been the slightest bit battered after Laurel’s desertion.

“Growing up, we were the same age—it seemed natural that we hung out together. Now, years later, with both of us still single and such good friends, we were invited everywhere together. I guess we were linked in everyone else’s minds as a couple long before the idea ever occurred to either of us.” She shrugged, and light glimmered on the pale slope of shoulders left bare by her silver-gray dress. “The next step was marriage. But clearly we’re better at being friends than lovers. There was no spark.”

And that would explain Eli’s philosophical acceptance of the breakup. Rakin put his glass down and took a step closer to Laurel; then he murmured, “You wanted spark?”

“Doesn’t every woman?”

Something leapt between them. Before Rakin could consider his actions, he lifted a hand and brushed a strand of the dark fire from her cheek. Her dewy skin was softer than any he’d ever touched—and it left him hungry to stroke again. Abruptly, he dropped his hand before he could give into the moment’s madness. “Everyone seeks that elusive flame—few are lucky enough to find it.”

“You mean love?”

“I don’t believe in love—I’m talking about what you called spark. A tangible force that connects two people in perfect harmony only a few times in a lifetime.”

She tipped her head back and drained the last of her champagne. The elegant column of her neck gleamed in the lamplight. “Spark sounds… interesting. I used to think I wanted love more than anything else in the world.”

“You don’t think so anymore?”

“Nope.” She giggled. “That should be ‘No,’ clearly and politely enunciated, of course.”

Rakin found himself grinning at that absurdity. The revelation that she wasn’t looking for some romantic notion of love eased his conscience. Business… and maybe some sparks… might be enough to persuade her to go along with his plan.

“Pardon my giggling.” Laurel moved back into the pool of light beneath the wall sconce. “There hasn’t been much to laugh about lately so this feels very good.”

“It must be the joy of a wedding.”

She raised her empty glass. “I suspect it may have something to do with the champagne, too.”

The forthright observation startled Rakin. Had he at last found a woman capable of distinguishing between realism and romance? Quite possibly. She was, after all, a Kincaid, a businesswoman. It was starting to look like he’d struck twenty-four-karat gold. “Can I get you another?”

“Not yet. I’ve had enough. I think I might be a little tipsy. I’m trying to remember how many glasses of champagne I’ve had. Three maybe.” She laughed again. “That’s a first.”

Straightening from where he leant, Rakin took the glass from her and set it down on the balustrade behind them. “You’ve never been tipsy?”

She shook her head and her hair swirled about her face.
“Never! My mother would be mortified, she would not approve.”

At the mention of her mother, Rakin said, “I was sorry to hear about your mother’s arrest—it must have been a difficult time for the whole family.”

“It hasn’t been easy.” All humor drained from her face and Rakin found himself missing the pleasure of it. “The police are still no closer to finding a suspect. But thankfully Mom has been cleared.” Laurel shivered, and he knew it wasn’t with cold. “I keep replaying that last day through my mind. I was at the offices until late in the afternoon. I even made Dad a cup of coffee before I left. He glanced up when I set it down, I joked that it was hot and strong just as he liked it. He laughed—Dad didn’t often laugh—and thanked me, then he went back to the documents he was reading. That’s the last image I have of him. Daddy didn’t even see me wave goodbye as I exited his office.”

She broke off, and Rakin knew she was fighting back tears.

“But I keep thinking I should’ve have had some kind premonition—noticed something,” she said huskily. “I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Several of the staff were still there when I left—Brooke, RJ’s assistant at the time, was the last to leave.”

The memory was clearly upsetting Laurel. Rakin could make out the gooseflesh rippling across the fine, smooth skin of her arms.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she walked back to the end of the balustrade. “I can’t believe I never noticed anything.”

“You weren’t expecting anything to happen.”

She fell silent. Finally she turned her head and a band of moonlight fell across her face giving her skin the sheen of silvered silk. “Out of all of us, Brooke blames herself most.
In her statement to the police she mentioned while she was finishing up the filing backlog, Mom brought dinner to Dad that night. The police arrested Mom—she was the last person to see him alive and, until recently, she had no alibi. What makes Brooke feel even worse is the fact that she didn’t even think to mention that earlier in the afternoon it was pouring rain and she had her arms full of blueprints when she ran for the office to avoid being drenched. A man in a hat and raincoat held the door open for her. No one has any idea who he was. Security didn’t record his entry—they thought he was with Brooke. And, of course, she has no idea who he could’ve been. Detective McDonough thinks it’s possible he hid in the building until after everyone—including Mom—left.”

“And there’s still no clue about who it was?”

Laurel shook her head, causing her hair to ripple over her shoulders. “Video security footage from an adjacent lot puts Jack Sinclair’s vintage Aston Martin in the parking lot from late afternoon until around the time my father was shot—but he swears he was at his own office. Yet he never reported his car missing—or stolen.”

The odd note in her voice made Rakin probe further, “But you think Sinclair might have murdered your father?”

“I keep hoping not. Dad obviously loved Angela—he wanted to marry her, but his parents wouldn’t countenance it. Jack’s clearly bitter about the situation. Fact is, he may be the firstborn son, but he’s not a legitimate Kincaid. Dad tried to make it up to him—and to Angela. Yet despite the inheritance and power Dad gave him, he’s behaving like he has a major grudge against the family—which makes it hard to view Jack in any kind of positive way.”

“And you like to see the best in people?”

“I try.” The eyes that met his held the kind of honesty he’d given up hoping to find. “But I don’t always get it right. Let’s
talk about something else—I promised myself I wouldn’t let Jack Sinclair ruin tonight. It’s a celebration.”

“I want to talk about you.” With a sense of satisfaction, Rakin watched her do a double take. “Eli said you possess the kindest heart of anyone he knows.”

It had crossed Rakin’s mind in the past few minutes to throw himself at her mercy and ask her to help him out of a tight spot with his grandfather, but it went against the grain. Rakin never asked for favors. His pride would not allow it. All his decisions were based on considerations of mutual benefit—and hard profit.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “That makes me sound boring.”

“Kindness isn’t boring.”

“Well, it’s not very exciting either.”

Rakin’s eyebrows jerked up at that. “You want to be considered exciting?”

“I want a life.” It burst from her. She looked taken aback at her own ferocity. “Goodness, that sounded much more melodramatic than I intended.”

Maybe Laurel Kincaid didn’t express her own wants often enough, mused Rakin. Taking two steps toward her, he asked carefully, “How do you intend to achieve the life you want?”

Her gaze shifted out to the night. For a long moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer.

Then she turned her head, and her eyes glistened in the dappled shadows. “I’m going to do all the things I’ve never done. Things no one would expect of Laurel Kincaid, director of public relations of TKG, friend of the Library, patron of the Art Gallery—first person to join a committee for the next good cause.”