The Senator’s Daughter (51 page)

A gilt-framed mirror over the alabaster sink showed her color was high. Taking deep breaths, she smoothed her blond hair, wind-blown from the terrace, over her shoulders. Then she washed her hands and pressed a damp paper towel to the sides of her neck. Noting the décolletage of her small breasts in the sequined dress, she tugged at the neckline and blushed at the folly of wearing it to make Rory see what he'd missed out on.

Could it be true that he'd invited her tonight? A flush darkened her already pink cheeks at the memory of his steady regard when he spoke of them being prisoners of their inheritance. Yet, if Davis had been the one to include her on his guest list, as he'd implied, he might have hoped inexperience would loosen her tongue. Prying questions delivered so casually from the Senator could have been engineered to start her bragging about Grant's plans. Then Davis would know where to place his chips against his rival when the next package of raw land came up for bid. The question was whether Rory would have begun his own sly exploration had they not been interrupted on the terrace. If her own dedication to her family company was any yardstick, his allegiance to DCI must run deep.

Freshening her lip gloss, Mariah debated leaving, but she refused to be driven away so early in the evening. The last thing she wanted was for Rory's father to believe he'd gotten the better of her.

She returned to the party, head high and smiling.

As she moved from group to group, she saw that Davis kept up with her movements, watching those with whom she spoke and often drawing near enough to eavesdrop. In turn, she noted the people he cultivated. A young and eager state representative, a florid older gentleman who was current head of the Bay Area Regional Planning Commission, and there was Thaddeus Walker, Grant Development's usually lugubrious, big-eared banker at First California. Mariah moved closer, but was unable to hear what he and Davis discussed with such animated camaraderie.

She also watched Rory. Standing easily on the balls of his feet, he seemed to fit here in his father's house. Could he be trusted, or had he grown into a man cut from the same cloth as Davis and the Senator?

As if he felt her looking at him, Rory turned and met her eyes with a peculiar emphasis that seemed to charge the air. After a moment that had her breathless, he took two glasses of champagne from a caterer's tray and came toward her. “Thirsty?” Pinpoint bubbles of effervescence welled in the crystal flute.

Torn between suspicion and the rekindled magnetism between them, she reached for the stem. “I suppose I should thank you for the fine food and wine, that is, if you did invite me.”

Before she could take the glass, Davis appeared beside them with a striking twenty-something beauty who snagged it ahead of her.

Mariah recoiled.

Sylvia Chatsworth, the Senator's daughter and the latest woman linked with Rory in the tabloids, lifted the champagne and drank. In her twenties, with a spill of sleek black hair over bronzed shoulders, she had what Mariah's high school art teacher would have called “good bones.”

While Davis beamed as though he'd found a match for his son, Sylvia kissed Rory, missing his mouth and leaving a smudge of crimson on his cheek.

He swiped at his face. “Mariah …”

She had had enough. As violent as her reaction to seeing him again was, she must put a stop to this. He might have the gift of transforming a woman's bones to putty, but she refused to get caught in the Campbell web again.

“Lovely party,” she announced coldly, looking toward the mammoth carved doors where she had come in from the front courtyard. With a false smile curving her lips, she walked blindly through the foyer toward the exit.

From behind, she heard Rory call for her to wait. For the barest instant, she hesitated, but too many unanswered questions sent her on into the spring night.