California Royale by Deborah Smith Page A

hundreth time. He and she had struck up a conversation by the pool yesterday, and he’d given her some advice on how to catch Steinberg’s attention. She’d looked aghast at some of his suggestions, but she’d obviously geared up her courage and used them. Duke had promised to give her some more pointers today.
    “Quit stalling and eat your cereal, Mr. Araiza,” a jovial female voice ordered over his left shoulder. “It contains all the basic grains.”
    The scent of Shea’s perfume tantalized him even before he swiveled his head. She looked down at him and his uneaten cereal with a sly expression of satisfaction.
She knows I hate this stuff
, he noted as he said, “Grain is for horses.”
    “Hmmm. Don’t stand up,” she instructed as he and the other two men started to their feet. “I can’t stay very long.” For one instant her slender, strong hand rested on Duke’s shoulder, urging him to remain seated. He settled back in his chair and wondered how her touch could be so affecting on a neutral area like his shoulder. He’d stayed away from her the past two days, letting her mull over what had happened between them in his cottage. Staying away had done nothing but make him crave the sight of her, the scent, the sound of her voice.
    “So you don’t like the cereal,” Shea noted. “Can I tell the waiter to bring you some poached quail eggs instead?” Her eyes beamed with challenge meant only for him to see.
    “Nope. I like my eggs scrambled.”
    “I can arrange that.”
    Duke wanted to shoot back a risqué remark, but he squelched the urge. “Thanks,” he answered primly. He swept a gaze over her short linen dress and matching white jacket. Red costume jewelry accented the outfit, and her hair was smoothed back in a neat French braid with a red bow at the back. She looked fantastic, like an ad from
Vogue
.
    “You look too clean,” he told her with a mischievous smile. “Like a … yeah, like a palomino all fixed up to go in the show ring. How can you stay so perfect and get any work done, Palomino?”
    “You’ll be happy to know that I’ll be performing real work this afternoon,” she answered. “One of our regular massage therapists had to fly home because her mother’s sick, so I’m taking her clients.”
    “Which therapist?” Chip Greeson asked.
    “Marly.”
    “Damn,” Chip blurted. “She’s my favorite, and I had a two-thirty appointment. Whoops. Sorry, Shea, I’m sure you’re wonderful too.”
    Shea held up her hands. “Every finger full of poetry,” she deadpanned. She looked down at Duke again, and he met her self-assured violet eyes with a wink.
    “Well, have a good breakfast, everyone. Mr. Araiza, your cereal is getting soggy. Shall I have your waiter bring a fresh bowl?”
    “Nope. I like whole-grain mush.”
    Her mouth quirking in an involuntary smile, she glided away. Duke watched her as she moved among the tables in the large room, smiling, greeting other diners. His body hardened at the thought of the taut curves and fragrant skin concealed by her dress jacket. Hell, the outfit made her sexier; it added to a mystique that he couldn’t quite analyze. She carried herself regally, and Duke decided that the next palomino filly born on his ranch would be named Lady Shea in her honor. After she disappeared through a scalloped archway, he turned toward Chip.
    “I’ll trade you five candy bars for your massage appointment this afternoon,” Duke told him.
    A huge smile spread over Chip’s face. “It’s a deal.”
    The afternoon schedule for mud baths and massages was light; many of the guests were attending a Neiman Marcus fashion show in the estate’s main ballroom. Shea finished a massage on Dame Lydia McCall, an aging British character actress. Dame Lydia, her stately and rather large body swaddled in a white guest robe, her high-pitched voice breaking into yawns even as she tried to tell Shea one more old show-girl story, padded into a small solarium and lay