The Care and Feeding of Unmarried Men by Christie Ridgway

prominent names in print. Those she talked about welcomed her in order to start a buzz going or keep a buzz humming along.
    Téa had once remarked that she figured Eve evaded being the target of gossip herself by becoming the one who talked about others. Smart woman, her sister. Nobody asked Eve about being a mob boss’s bastard daughter when they wanted to tell her all about themselves instead.
    Realizing she’d wandered onto the deserted poolside terrace, Eve forced herself to turn around and head back toward the action. Overcrowded rooms could bring on the claustrophobia that plagued her, but she couldn’t afford to let that bother her tonight. She gazed across the large screening room that was serving as the dance floor and through the archwayleading to the living room, taking in the faces of the newly arrived guests. And suddenly, there he was—Vince Standish.
    The man whose secrets would keep her out of jail.
    His gaze flicked to hers, and an odd dread clamped around the back of her neck like a frozen hand. She frowned, quickly dismissing the sensation as nothing more than craven cowardice.
    Go. Move toward Vince.
    With a breath, she stepped in his direction. Then a hand at her elbow halted her movement.
    Gasping, Eve jumped, champagne sloshing down her fingers and onto her wrist. Her head whipped left. “Jemima.” She transferred the glass and tried shaking her hand dry. “You startled me.”
    Leaning against a dark wall, the waif-actress, dressed in gauzy layers of violet chiffon punctuated with sequined flowers, grimaced. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were so—”
    â€œFocused on someone across the room,” a deep voice filled in.
    Eve lifted her gaze. The darkness she’d registered as a wall behind Jemima was no wall at all but Nash Cargill, looking seven feet tall and solid and almost domesticated in a dark suit and a matching dark shirt, open at the throat. He looked…good.
    Her mind flashed to that night in the bar. He’d looked good then, too, in a pair of faded jeans, a white knit sweater, his cowboy boots. She thought of him carrying her out the French doors, his lean hips between her thighs, his muscled arms around her waist, her hands resting on his heavy, wide shoulders.
    Now her gaze focused on his mouth, and she remembered him nipping her bottom lip with hisstrong white teeth. The cold hand on her neck turned hot, and she tried tonguing away the memory of his kiss.
    Except then he smiled, as if he knew what she was attempting to do, and she felt that delicious hurt all over again.
    â€œGreat dress,” Jemima said. Tonight she was trying out yet another accent. German, maybe? “Where’d you get it, mein freund ?”
    Eve couldn’t look away from Nash’s face. “At a c—” Dear God. She’d almost said consignment shop, which was the truth. She’d traded three of her own dresses from last season for this one, which she could only hope hadn’t first belonged to another of the party’s guests. “At a cute little boutique. I’ll take you there sometime.”
    â€œIf I ever catch you wearing something like that, Jem, I’ll tan your fanny.”
    Jemima gave a dramatic eye-roll. “Not again. First you wouldn’t let me come to this party by myself and now this. I’m not a baby, Nash.” And as if to prove it, she pivoted and strode off after a white-coated waiter carrying a sterling platter of champagne flutes.
    Leaving Eve alone with Nash. If she thought—hoped—he’d hie after his sister to make sure the waiter carded her before handing over a drink, she was disappointed. Or maybe not, because he was still looking at her dress. More specifically, her body in her dress. She glanced in the direction of Vince. She should march over to him right this instant, but then she’d surrender this delicious moment with Nash.
    Kisses she couldn’t forget