Wildstar

"I don't intend to change my habits just because Riley finally made a strike."

"A pity. You could do with some loosening up."

Jess nearly strained the muscles of her jaw, she clenched it so hard. It was all she could do refrain from throwing the rest of the champagne in her glass at Devlin's hand­some face.

Dragging her gaze away, she glanced around the dining room. The elegant surroundings brought home more than anything else could the vast difference between her and him. This was Devlin's natural setting. A far, far cry from miners' fare at a communal dining table.

She couldn't keep the bitterness from her tone when she remarked, "If you're used to all this"—she gestured sweepingly at the surrounding elegance—"I guess I should be flattered you condescended to sit at my boarding table."

"It wasn't condescension. Even millionaires have to eat. And you're still the best cook in Colorado."

His compliment didn't mollify her; she knew her simple but hearty meals couldn't possibly compare to the gourmet cuisine they were about to indulge in.

"A shame you can't eat money," Jess muttered.

Devlin's lazy smile never wavered as he sipped his champagne, yet his gaze seemed to sharpen. "What do you have against money, anyway?"

"It's not money I object to. It's what money does to people."

"What does it do?"

"It gives them power that they only misuse."

"And you think everyone who has money misuses power?"

She understood the point he was trying to make, but her chin rose stubbornly. "Everyone I know does."

His eyes gleamed with mocking amusement. "But then, you don't know too many people of wealth."

Jess refused to look away, not forgetting how Devlin had paid her father fifty thousand dollars to ease his con­science. "I know at least one more millionaire than I ever wished to know."

Devlin acknowledged her gibe with a chuckle that was as charming as it was exasperated. "Ah, sweet Jessie, you do know how to cut a man down to size."

It was impossible not to feel the sexual awareness the husky velvet sound of his laughter aroused, but Jess tried to ignore it and returned his gaze, all seriousness. "At least people who work for their living aren't as likely to become corrupted."

"I do work for my living. I make money."

"Somehow I don't see making money as doing much to improve a man's character."

"Neither does poverty, necessarily." Reaching for the champagne bottle that had been left cooling in a bucket of ice, he refilled her glass. "And it's not only men who are corrupted by wealth, either. I was fifteen when I learned that lesson. That's when women began chasing me be­cause of who I was . . . or rather, who my father was."

Jessica heard the hard edge of contempt in his tone and bit back the retort that was on her lips. She was frankly shocked by what he had implied—for two reasons. First, it had never occurred to her that someone could actually see great wealth as a liability rather than as a weapon to be wielded. Second, that Devlin could actually believe that was why women chased him. Anyone who looked into his eyes could see that women were drawn to him for a much more basic reason than money and position, or even his stunning good looks. Beyond the aura of wealth and power, beyond the fallen-angel features and the devil smile, was a simple, primal appeal that was as old as Adam and Eve. Some fascinating, elusive quality that made a woman feel warm and alive, that made her want to catch and tame and hold this man in her arms, that simply made her want. It was raw, potent, twenty-four-karat mas­culinity that called to everything feminine and vulnerable in a woman. And even though Devlin had accused her of being unfeminine, of not acting the way a normal woman would, in this case she was entirely normal.

Their private conversation was interrupted then by the appearance of the first course—much to Jess's relief mixed with a frustration she tried to ignore. She had forgotten there was anyone else in the room but Devlin. When she caught her father watching her speculatively, she blushed and turned her attention to her food.

They dined on oysters on the half shell, pheasant casse­role, venison cutlets, sweetbreads, a julienne of garden vegetables, and several choices of dessert—Peach Char­lotte in brandy sauce, petits fours, and apple fritters. Clem refused to eat the oysters and warily eyed everything else but the fritters, which he bolted down like a starved wolf. He did, however, praise the cognac that was served later with coffee. Twice during dinner a violinist came to their table and serenaded the ladies. Jessica flushed, Flo sim­pered, and Devlin slipped the musician a silver dollar.

They were sipping after-dinner liqueurs when they heard a stir at a nearby table. Ashton Burke had walked in, a lovely lady on his arm—a lady whom Jess recognized as a Georgetown socialite, one Devlin recognized as the type of woman his ex-fiancée had been.

Burke oversaw the seating of his guest and then sur­prised them all by coming over to their table. Devlin rose politely, and Riley reluctantly followed suit. Clem sat there glowering until Flo kicked him under the table, making him lurch to his feet.

"I wasn't aware you patronized the Hotel de Paris, Mr. Sommers," Burke remarked.

"I wasn't aware you did, either," Riley returned.

The fair-haired Englishman smiled coolly. "I come here frequently after attending the theater. I like to check out the competition. I have similar establishments, you will re­call. In fact, perhaps you might join me one evening for dinner. Now that hostilities have ended, we could 'bury the hatchet,' as they say."

Riley looked at him warily, while Jess seethed. Burke was offering no apologies, no admission of guilt for all the trouble he had caused them. It galled her that he should walk away scot-free after nearly committing murder—and looking so unrepentant about it, to boot.