Holding the Dream by Nora Roberts Page A

champagne?”
    Kate scowled down into her glass instead. It was still half full. “No, I’m fine.”
    Byron contented himself by lighting a thin cigar. He knew Kate’s pride wouldn’t permit her to bolt. Normally, he wouldn’t have stayed with her any longer than manners dictated, but at the moment he was a little tired of people and understood that ten minutes with her would be more interesting than an hour with the party crowd. Especially if he could irritate her, as he seemed so skilled at doing.
    â€œThat’s quite a dress, Katherine.”
    She bristled, as he’d expected, at his use of her full name. Grinning around the cigar, he leaned back and prepared to enjoy the diversion.
    â€œI lost a bet,” she said between her teeth.
    â€œReally?” He reached out to toy with and tug up the thin strap that had slid off her shoulder. “Some bet.”
    â€œHands off,” she snapped.
    â€œFine.” Deliberately he moved the strap down again so that she was forced to pull it up. “You’ve got a good eye for real estate,” he commented and nodded at the surroundings when she frowned at him. “You steered Josh and Margo to this place, didn’t you?”
    â€œYeah.” She watched him, waited, but he seemed content to puff on his cigar and study the view.
    He was just the type she’d decided to dislike. Poster-boy gorgeous, she termed it derisively. Thick brown hair that showed hints and streaks of gold waved with careless attraction around a heart-stopping face. What would have been charming dimples in his youth had deepened to creases in his cheeks that were now designed to incite a woman’s sexual fantasies. The firm, hero’s chin, the straight, aristocrat’s nose, and those dark, dark green eyes that could, at his whim, slide over you as if you were invisible or pin you shuddering to the wall.
    Six two, she judged, with the long limbs and strong shoulders of a long-distance runner. And of course, that voice, with its faint, misty drawl that hinted of hot summer nights and southern comfort.
    Men like him, Kate had decided, were not ever to be trusted.
    â€œThat’s new,” he murmured.
    Caught staring and appraising as his sharp green eyes shifted to hers, Kate looked quickly away. “What?”
    â€œThat scent you’re wearing. It suits you better than the soap and talc you seem so fond of. Straight up sexy,” he continued, smiling when she gaped at him. “No games, no illusions.”
    She’d known him for months, ever since he had transferred from Atlanta to Monterey to take over Peter Ridgeway’s position at Templeton. He was, by all accounts, a savvy, experienced, and creative hotelier, one who had worked his way to the top of the Templeton organization over a period of fourteen years.
    She knew he came from money, polite southern wealth, steeped in tradition and chivalry.
    She had disliked him on sight and had been confident, despite his unflagging manners, that her feelings were reciprocated.
    â€œAre you coming on to me?”
    His eyes, still on hers, filled with humor. “I was commenting on your perfume, Katherine. If I were coming on to you, you wouldn’t have to clarify.”
    She tossed back the rest of her wine. A mistake, she knew, with a migraine lurking. “Don’t call me Katherine.”
    â€œThat always seems to slip my mind.”
    â€œLike hell.”
    â€œExactly. And if I were to tell you you’re looking particularly attractive tonight, that would be an observation, not an overture. Anyway . . . Kate. We were discussing real estate.”
    She continued to scowl. Even Margo’s favored Cristal champagne didn’t sit well on a nervous stomach. “We were?”
    â€œOr were about to. I’m considering buying a home in the area. Since my six-month trial period is almost over—”
    â€œYou had a trial period?” It