She blinked her eyes hard and wished she hadn't come. After all of these years, why had she given in to the impulse to see her sister tonight? Maybe if she hadn't felt so rootless and alone after that horrible scene at her Malibu beach house three days ago, she would have tossed Susannah's invitation into the trash where it belonged.
She had actually thought she'd found Mr. Right. He was a documentary filmmaker, and they'd been seeing each other for six months. She should have realized that he was more interested in having her finance his new film than in everlasting love, but she had steadfastly ignored all of the warning signs. God, she was stupid. She had even been planning a wedding in her head.
The bartender finally handed her a glass of champagne. She decided to cancel her plans and leave tomorrow for her new villa in Sardinia. She could spend some time with Luigi or Fabio or one of the other minor Italian princes who drank Bellinis with her at the Hotel Cervo's piano bar in the evening and accompanied her back to her villa to spend the night. She had bought five houses in the past three years, each time throwing all of her energy into renovations and decorating, certain that this was the house that would finally make her happy. But happiness was proving to be one commodity that the millions her father had left her couldn't buy.
The lobby was crowded, but she found a spot along the side wall of windows where she could study the other guests. The men had already begun to notice her, which was predictable. It never took long. She looked through the windows toward the parking lot. In the reflection of the glass, she saw one of the party's male guests break away from his friends and come toward her. He had wild-looking hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a knobby Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat. Terrific, she thought wearily. Just what she needed.
He planted the flat of his hand on the window next to her head, a cool operator leaving a big sweaty palm print on the glass. "I never forget a pair of beautiful eyes, and yours are gorgeous. My name's Kurt. Haven't we met somewhere before?"
"I doubt it, Kurt. I make it a practice never to talk to weenies."
He tried to smile as if she'd made a joke, but when her expression remained cool, his lips began to droop at the corners. "I, um, do you want me to get you a drink?"
She lifted her full champagne glass, making him feel even more awkward and stupid.
"Uh, how about some food? There's, uhm, some real good meat balls."
"No, thank you. But there is something you can do for me."
The muscles of his face lifted into an eager, puppy dog grin. "Sure."
"You can fuck off, Kurt. Would that be all right?"
He flushed and mumbled something before slinking away with his tail between his legs.
She bit down on the inside of her lip, making a little raw place. He had been harmless, and she could have let him down easily. When had she become so unforgivably cruel?
"Quite a performance." A crisp, male voice spoke from behind her.
She never forgot a handsome face, and it didn't take her long to place Mitchell Blaine. The day of her father's funeral had been a blur, but she could still remember him standing at Susannah's side. He was blunt-featured, good-looking. And proper. God, was he proper. She bet he had a drawer full of perfect attendance Sunday school pins stuck away at home.
"Glad you liked it," she replied.
"I didn't like it at all. He's a nice kid."
Screw him. Screw everybody. Not a bad idea, as a matter of fact. She drained her glass. "You want to get out of here and go to bed with me?"
"Not particularly. I like women in my bed. Not children." His eyes were light blue, cold and unsmiling.
Anger rushed through her. "You bastard. Nobody talks to me like that. Do you know who I am?" Her words echoed in her ears-petulant and obnoxious. She wanted to erase them so she could say different words, words that would turn her into someone else, someone sweet and warm.
"I imagine you're Paige Faulconer. I was told that you'd been invited."
She maintained her lofty bitchy pose. "And doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"Just that the gossip I've heard is true."
"What gossip?"
"That you're a spoiled, rude little girl who should have been turned over somebody's knee a long time ago."
"Kinky. Want to give it a try?" She gave him a phony, moist-lipped smile.
"I think I'll pass. I already have two children, and I don't need another."
She didn't let him see by so much as a flicker of an eyelash how humiliated she felt. Instead, she let her words drip with condescension. "You're married. How unfortunate."
"Why? I can't imagine what possible difference that could make to you."
She swept her eyes down over his body, then lingered for one long moment on his proper, gray-flannel-clad crotch. "I don't do married men."
To her astonishment, he laughed, a short bark of sound. "But I'll bet you do everybody else, don't you?"
His amusement infuriated her. Nobody laughed at her. Nobody. But before she could come up with a sufficiently cutting reply, he touched her chin with his index finger and said softly, "Ease up, honey. Life's good."
"Mitch?"
The expression that softened his blunt features as he turned his head toward the woman who had come up behind him was so warm and affectionate that Paige felt sick. She turned, too, and all the old emotions surged through her, making her bitterly regret giving into the loneliness that had led her here tonight.
She and Susannah had only seen each other a few times since their father's death, not enough for her to grow accustomed to the changes in her sister. Susannah's hair was shorter-barely reaching her jaw line-and her carriage was more relaxed. She looked free and funky, not at all like old uptight Miss Goody-Two-Shoes. Tonight she was wearing chunky gold hoops with a persimmon-colored blouse and beige slacks cinched at the waist with a fish-scale belt. But the expression on her face as she caught sight of Paige was the same as ever-tense, wary, overly conciliatory.
"Paige! No one told me you'd arrived. I'm so glad you came. Have you met my partner, Mitchell Blaine?"
"We've met," Mitch said.
Paige's lips curled in a sleek cat's smile. "I offered to go to bed with him, Susannah, but he turned me down. Is he gay?"
Susannah got that old tight look on her face, the one she use to wear every time Paige and Joel were trapped together in the same room. "Paige-"
"I'm not gay," Mitch replied. "I'm just discriminating." He brushed his lips against Susannah's cheek, squeezed her shoulder, and walked away.
"I wish you hadn't done that," Susannah said softly. "Mitch is a good friend-probably the best friend I have."
"If you don't want me to insult your friends, you shouldn't send me nasty little invitations."
"It got you here, didn't it?"
Paige lifted a glass of wine from the hand of one of the male guests who was passing and gave him a sexy smile as a reward. She tilted her head back toward her sister. "I don't think I've ever seen so many nerds gathered together in one place in my life."
"Talented nerds. Some of the most brilliant people in the Valley are in this room tonight."
"And you seem to fit right in. But then, you were always pretty much of a nerd yourself, weren't you, Susannah?"
Susannah smiled-patient, saintly Susannah. "You haven't changed, have you, Paige? You're still as tough as nails."
"You bet I am, sis."
"I wanted you to meet Sam, but he seems to have left."
Paige had avoided meeting Sam Gamble for six years, and she had no interest in doing so now. Besides, she had spotted him when she had first come into the lobby. He had been on his way out, and he had been surrounded by fawning people, just as Cal had been surrounded at the FBT reception. Although Gamble had acted as if he weren't aware of all the attention he was receiving, she hadn't believed it for one minute. Men like her sister's husband always knew exactly what they were doing. That's why they bored her.