Wait for Me by Mary Kay McComas Page A

as hell not to be her focal point. Her friends were staring at him. Not as if he had money hanging out of his ears, he knew that stare. This was different. They were inspecting him. They were testing him with their remarks and rejoinders. They were auditing his worthiness to be with her.
    Overall, he’d have to say that since his little discussion with Phil, he was feeling more and more like a serial killer—maladjusted, neurotic, and very dangerous.
    Holly, who’d never been tuned in to anyone the way she was to Oliver, could feel the muscles in her shoulders contracting as he grew more and more stiff-necked beside her. The tension between them was like a live wire, snapping and throwing off sparks whenever they made contact. Something was different. And in her experience the fastest way to get a man’s hackles up, to make him suddenly stiff and inflexible, was to wound his pride—which, unfortunately, was all too often connected in some way with his finances.
    He followed her lead, bided his time, and took a distracted interest in each new piece of art as they circled the room. “Amateur” carried a wide definition—from comical to good to exemplary works that could hang in any number of professional galleries. Phil’s, for instance, of two small children on their hands and knees exploring the life of a caterpillar, was remarkable. Stunning, really, if you knew the man who’d painted it.
    Holly, who’d seen the display earlier, was far more interested in Oliver. Before her eyes he had become the man she’d glimpsed. Cool. Aloof. Unapproachable. Someone not nice, as if Barbara Renbrook’s comment wasn’t too far off the mark. Someone she couldn’t like very much, and certainly wasn’t comfortable being around.
    When they’d gone far enough, she slipped her hand into his and pulled him through a metal doorway and into a hallway used by the hotel staff.
    “Okay,” she said, turning on him at once. “I know who you are, but I didn’t until I met your aunt in L.A. The plane threw me off; I figured you’d own your own,” she said in one breath. “Well, never mind that... By the time I did realize who you were, I didn’t think it really mattered. It certainly didn’t to me. But to make this perfectly clear, you’re welcome to make any donation you care to here tonight, but you don’t have to leave a penny and that wasn’t the reason I invited you. I’m not after your money. I don’t care about your money. And if you still think differently, you can leave now.”
    She had the door open and was halfway through before he could stop her.
    “You’re very direct,” he said, as surprised as he was glad to have it out in the open, for once not minding that she could read him like a book.
    “I don’t have time not to be, Oliver. I have a life and I want to call you a friend in it. But if you think I pick and choose my friends according to the amount of money they make, then you don’t know me, and I don’t have to waste my time proving myself to anyone.”
    Oliver felt like a whipped dog. It was too plain that she was speaking the truth, that she could take him or leave him at that point as easily as she might accept or reject the tuna salad at the buffet. Suddenly it was imperative that she take him.
    He snatched her into his arms and lowered his mouth over hers to shut her up, to keep her from telling him to go away. She resisted with her hands to his chest and angry noises in her throat, but he held on, his hands burning with the feel of silk and cool, soft flesh; his mouth filling with the sweet warmth of her; his mind fogged with the scent of her.
    And when her resistance weakened, when her arms went limp about his shoulders and her body grew heavy against his, he held her closer and deepened the kiss.
    Never had he needed to rely on a single kiss to make him feel important; to impress a woman; to prove to her that she could hold him near; to beg to be accepted in her life; to convince her that he