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‘You don’t have to worry about me, Loretta. I’m once bitten, twice shy where Lance Sterling is concerned.’
‘I know Bud will be relieved to hear that.’
‘I’ll be relieved to hear what?’ the man himself said as he came into the kitchen.
‘That Angie’s cured of Lance.’
Bud looked hard at his sister. ‘She’ll need to be, dressed as she is tonight.’
Angie bristled. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning Lance is not the sort of man to ignore the signals you’ve been giving out tonight, dear sister of mine. On top of that, he always did fancy you.’
‘Come on, Bud, you’re living in the past. And give me a break. I’m twenty-four years old now, not fifteen. I think I can handle myself where men are concerned—Lance included.’
Brave words, girlie, that voice mocked inside her head again. Want to put them to the test?
Her brother sighed. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m being paranoid. Lance seems to have changed too. He was very quiet just now—not at all like his old self. I think that marriage must have knocked the stuffing out of him.’
‘Where did you put him?’ Loretta asked.
‘In the main guest-room. He’s having a shower. I’m supposed to be mixing him a Scotch and dry and taking it up to him. Since you’re so cured, Angie, you can do that. I really should get back to my other guests. You should, too, Loretta. You’ve been in this kitchen long enough.’
Panic claimed Angie immediately. She wanted to scream out that she wasn’t that cured yet, but the idea of taking Lance up a drink while he was in the shower did have a certain perverse appeal. Who knew what she might accidentally see?
Memories of their swimming together in the creek at home came back in a rush. Lance had such a great body. A swimmer’s body. Wide of shoulder, slender of hip, with long, tapering muscular legs. He’d been a champion swimmer at university, only missing out on the Olympics because he would never take training seriously.
That had always been a problem with Lance. He’d never taken anything really seriously. But that had been part of his attraction too. Serious-minded, deep-thinking Angie had been intrigued by someone who didn’t seem to plan or worry about much.
Not that he had to. He’d been born clever and handsome and rich—the rich part being the most influential in forming Lance’s attitude to life. Everything just fell into rich people’s laps, it seemed. Everything had certainly fallen into Lance’s lap—females included.
This last thought brought a sour grimace to Angie’s face. She threw together a whisky and dry which would have made the heroine in Raiders of the Lost Ark finally slide under the table, and carried it upstairs, wondering what her motivation was in mixing such a stiff drink. Was she trying to anaesthetise Lance, or prime him for seduction later on?
She gasped with shock at this last thought, grinding to a halt on the top landing. But the shock quickly changed to defiance. Hadn’t she promised Vanessa that if a suitable candidate showed up at the party tonight she would give him a chance to become her first lover? Who better than the man she’d wanted to be her first lover all along?
God, maybe she was drunk after all. How many glasses of wine had she had before Lance arrived? Two? Three? No, only two. She wasn’t drunk, but she also wasn’t acting like her usual sensible self either, as Lance had so accurately pointed out at the door. Suddenly she felt even more reckless than she had earlier, and just a little bit wild. Wild as in angry.
Oh, yes, she was angry. Angry at Lance. He had no right to show up here tonight and spoil everything for her again. It wasn’t fair! He would have to pay. She would make him pay. With his body!
She didn’t knock, just bowled straight on in. But as luck would have it, Lance was out of the shower and almost dressed. He still looked very inviting, with his shirt open to the waist, giving her a splendid view of his golden and gloriously hairless chest.
His eyes snapped up at her abrupt entry, glaring his disapproval at her as he finished buttoning his shirt and then his cuffs. ‘I’m sure your mother taught you to knock before entering a gentleman’s room,’ he said sharply, tucking the shirt into the waistband of his trousers.
