He could be a good lawyer anywhere and might even be better suited at finding a woman who didn’t bore him if he weren’t still living in the same small society in which he’d grown up. Or at least find one that he trusted to like him for the man he was inside, not for the man who happened to have a few million in his bank account.
One thing was for certain. While there were ample numbers of women here who would be eager to wear his ring, not one of them was willing to sign a prenuptial agreement.
He knew. He’d made quite a reputation for himself a few years back when he’d been on the brink of proposing and had brought up the prenuptial subject as a way of leading into the proposal. He’d actually thought love drove the liaison that time. That the woman in question understood that unless Julie married, Colin’s inheritance would one day go to her.
He supposed it was lucky that he’d never made it to the proposal stage. He’d been saved from being married for his money. “A glass of Chateau Ste. Michelle Pinot, please?”
The voice, coming from just behind him on the left, seemed to pour over Colin’s shoulder and down his body. Smooth and cultured, like she’d attended one of those finishing schools that always seemed to take anything natural and real out of women. And yet...with a hint of husky, too. A hint that maybe this particular woman hadn’t been a complete success at that school.
He turned, expecting to see someone older, perhaps his mother’s age. An art lover up from LA. Or one who’d flown in from the East Coast, like Jaime had...
Blond hair came into his vision, flowing over the most perfect breasts... The glass in his hand dropped to the bar with such force he was embarrassed. His mouth would have dropped, too, if he hadn’t been so cultured himself.
She was most definitely not his mother’s age.
“Hello,” he said, making way for her to step up to the bar beside him.
“Hello.” Her East Coast accent wasn’t strong, but it was there. Another part of her the school couldn’t quite ameliorate?
“I’m Colin Fairbanks,” he said, holding out a hand to her.
He was a handshaker. It came with his job.
Her nails, conservatively longish and a sedate red, glistened as she returned his gesture. Her skin was surprisingly...not as soft as he’d expected, like she did her own gardening or, like Julie, had her hands in turpentine. Still, he wanted to hold on.
“I’m Chantel Johnson,” she said, pulling her hand back after a brief touch. And then, “Thank you,” with what had to be a heart-stopping smile to the bartender as he slid her wine toward her.
She took a sip, those glossy red lips managing to caress the edge of the glass without leaving any residual red paint behind.
“You in town for the auction?” He asked the obvious because for once in his life he didn’t have an interesting conversational tidbit to offer.
She turned that smile on him, and it was more potent than he’d imagined. The small shake of her head drew his gaze to where the blond curls were caressing her breasts.
Embarrassed, he immediately raised his gaze. She tilted her head. “Not much of a gentleman, are you, Colin Fairbanks?”
“I’m sorry.” He was mortified. “I don’t usually... Truth is, I haven’t... You aren’t in town for the auction, then?”
Some rainmaker he was.
More like opportunity-blower.
She shook her head again. His gaze stayed glued on hers.
“I’m here, tonight, for the auction, but I’m in town to stay. I’ve recently relocated.”
Hot damn. Chances were, since she clearly had an invitation to the night’s shindig, he’d be seeing more of her.
“Where are you staying?”
“In a hotel at the moment. Until I can find a place that suits me.”
He asked her what kind of place suited her and found out that she wanted something with beachfront—and property—but didn’t need anything overly large as she lived by herself.
Colin was grinning by that point.
“So what brings you to California?”
“I’m writing a book,” she told him. “My family is in publishing, and I want the book to be published, or not, based on its merits. I plan to submit it like anyone else would have to do and, knowing me, it’ll be easier if I’m not right there with everyone, having to make up stories about what I’m doing.
“Besides, until last week I had an office on the top floor—VP of marketing. If nothing else, that felt like a conflict of interest, though I can’t really say why. Marketing and editorial are separate entities...”
Publishing. Julie’s children’s books.
This was getting better and better.