“Have you?”
He tilted his head to study her. “Why the doubt?” Anger or something close to it put the flush back in her cheeks. She gripped the rail with her free hand, and he got the distinct impression doing so kept her from wrapping it around his throat.
“I saw a picture of you at the Las Ventanas gala. You didn’t look lonely.”
“You determined my mindset by a single picture?”
“Yep,” she clipped the word and took another drink.
He stared out at the darkening horizon for a moment, trying to recall all the pictures he’d posed for and which one would bother her. Nothing sprang to mind. “As host, I interacted with a lot of people that night. You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“No. I don’t. This conversation is over.”
She tried to shift away from him, but he didn’t give an inch. He kept her hemmed in, kept the pressure on, because something had lit the fuse on her temper and he intended to find out what. “This conversation is just getting interesting. Let’s see, the two people I spent the most time with that evening were my father and my…” He almost said sister, but bit the word back because everything suddenly fell into place. “…date.”
She’d seen the picture of him and Arden. He sipped his drink to hide a smile. Chelsea wasn’t angry, she was jealous. A better man wouldn’t find so much pleasure in her suffering.
A better man would remember just how badly that particular emotion burned, and come clean. But jealousy meant she cared. She wanted a claim to him, and maybe if he pushed her she’d admit it instead of continuing to insist she was happy keeping things casual. The situation gave him the upper hand, and he didn’t plan to put his cards on the table until he’d won.
“I don’t want to talk about the party.” She turned on him, her dark eyes glittering in the purple-tinged dusk. When he didn’t back up, she added, “I’m going inside. I’m cold.”
“You’re not cold.” He brushed his hand over her furiously hot cheek.
Those dark eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Fine. I’m bored. This entire topic bores me.”
“And yet you brought it up, which makes me think you’re actually very curious—aching with curiosity. What do you want to know?”
Her entire body stiffened. “Nothing.”
Aware he risked bodily harm, he leaned in and put his mouth close to her ear. “Would you like to know who she is?”
“No!” A slender hand found the center of his chest and pushed him away with more strength than he would have given her credit for. She stalked down the deck, then swung around and faced him again. “It’s none of my concern. Date whomever you want. I don’t care.”
The last three words slapped at him like a challenge. One he desperately wanted to accept. “Who are you trying to convince, Chelsea, me or yourself?” He took a step toward her. She took a step back. “You seem a little jeal—”
Her tumbler whizzed past his head and crashed against the deck chair behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to assess the damage because her bare feet made glass shards a hazard, but the heavy crystal broke rather than shattered. He turned back to her. Wide, shell-shocked eyes locked on the glass as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d just thrown it. Those eyes shifted to him when he closed the distance between them. “To finish my sentence, you seem a little jealous. Shall I get you another?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Not a chance.”
She planted a hand on his chest to push him away again, but he simply wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her to him.
“Hey—”
He didn’t let her finish, just slammed his mouth down on hers, pried her lips apart and swallowed her words until the fist against his chest curled into his sweater and fingernails raked along his neck and into his hair. Her wrap fluttered to the floor. He backed her up against the wall and hauled her into his arms. Slim thighs clamped around his hips and her needy moan slid over his tongue. And then something trickled into the seam where their lips met. Something salty. Tears.
God damn him. He drew back, cupped her face in his hands, and exhaled slowly. When he had himself under some semblance of control, he said, “She’s my sister.”
Liquid brown eyes stared into his for a good five seconds. “Your sister?”
“Yes. The woman in that picture is my sister. And for the record, you are the most stubborn woman on the face of the planet.”
“Your sister,” she repeated and made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“Arden.”
“Arden. Not a friend, business associate, or lover.”