“What would you gentlemen like to drink?” Joyce asked. Sebastian dropped her hand and turned his attention to her mother. He and Leo had Glenlivet on the rocks, and while Joyce poured, she said she thought scotch sounded like such an excellent choice that she’d join them. Clare stuck with wine.

After a half hour’s discussions of the weather and the latest world events, they moved to the formal dining room. There, among the holly and tapered candles, they feasted on the Wingate traditional dinner of glazed ham, potatoes grandmere, candied sweet potatoes, and green beans with cashews and tarragon. In Clare’s great-great-grandmother’s individual crystal compotes, Roman punch was served next to each plate.

As the oldest male, Leo had been given the chair at the head of the table, with Sebastian to his right and Joyce on the left. Ever the etiquette stickler, Joyce had insisted that Clare sit next to Sebastian. It would not be right to have both females on the same side of the table. Normally it would not have been a problem and Clare would have exerted herself to engage the guests in conversation. But tonight she couldn’t think of anything to say to the man who’d given her three orgasms the night before, nor to Leo, who had always been a father figure to her. She felt sure she had a big neon Had Crazy Hot Sex Last Night sign above her head, and was afraid that if she did or said the wrong thing, everyone would notice.

She was so new at sex without commitment-or at least without a nice dinner and a movie date first. She wasn’t exactly embarrassed-or not as much as she probably should be, especially given the oral aspect of their shower-but just didn’t know what to say or do. She felt completely out of her element. Thank God no one seemed to notice.

Sebastian didn’t appear to labor under such uncertainty. He relaxed in the chair beside her, charming her mother with little stories about all the places he’d traveled and asking questions about her various clubs and charities. He was used to no-strings sex, and Clare had to admit that she was somewhat irritated by his composure. It seemed only right that he be as rattled as she was.

“I’ve been trying for years to convince Claresta that she needs to become involved in my Ladies of Le Bois club,” Joyce said as she tipped back her Glenlivet. “Through various benefits, we raised more than thirteen thousand dollars this year. We were especially excited to have Galvin Armstrong and his orchestra play for us at the Grove. I know Clare would enjoy herself if she’d just get involved.”

Galvin Armstrong was older than Laurence Welk, and Clare needed to change the subject before she suddenly found herself involved in next year’s benefit. “Sebastian ate a monkey.” Leo and Joyce abruptly turned their attention to Sebastian, who stared at her with the fork halfway to his mouth. “And a horse,” she added for good measure.

“Really, son?”

“Oh.” Joyce set her glass on the table. “I don’t think I could manage a horse. I had a pony as a child. Her name was Lady Clip Clop.”

Slowly, Sebastian turned his head and looked at Clare. “I’ve eaten a lot of different things. Some were good. Some not so good.” He smiled. “Some I wouldn’t mind trying again.”

The memory of him feathering her navel with warm kisses popped into her head. I think you’re going to like this, he’d said last night as he worked his way south. It’s a little something I learned from a French lady in Costa Rica. And she had liked it. A lot.

“But at the moment I’m hungry for Christmas ham.” Sebastian turned his gaze across the table as he placed his hand on Clare’s thigh. “This is wonderful, Mrs. Wingate.”

Clare glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as he slowly pulled up her skirt.

“Please call me Joyce.”

“Thank you for inviting me tonight, Joyce,” he said, the poster child of choirboy politeness as his fingers gathered her skirt.

Clare wasn’t wearing nylons, and she reached beneath the table before he could touch bare skin. She carefully grabbed his wrist and removed his hand.

“I received a Christmas card from your father’s sister,” Joyce announced, looking across the table at Clare.

“How is Eleanor?” Clare sank her spoon into her punch. As she placed the rum slush in her mouth, Sebastian flipped her skirt above her knees and replaced his hand on her now bare thigh. Startled by the warm contact, she jumped a little.

“You okay?” Sebastian asked, as if inquiring about the weather.

Clare pasted a strained smile on her face. “Fine.”

Oblivious, Joyce continued, “Apparently, Eleanor has discovered religion.”

“’Tis the season.” She placed her hand over Sebastian’s, but his grasp tightened. Short of wrestling his hand off her and drawing attention to what was taking place under the table, there was nothing she could do.

“Eleanor always was a trial,” her mother continued. “She was somewhat of an embarrassment, which is quite an accomplishment in that family.”

“How old is Eleanor?” Sebastian asked, his tone polite and curious as his hand crept higher. Skin on skin, heat spread warmth up Clare’s thigh, his touch calling forth physical memories of the night before. In her bed and shower, and of course on the antique sofa.

“I believe she is seventy-eight.” Joyce paused to spear her remaining green beans. “She’s been married and divorced eight times.”

“Once was enough for me,” Leo added with a shake of his head. “Some people never learn.”

“That’s the truth. My great-great-uncle Alton was wounded in a marital dispute,” Joyce confessed, uncharacteristically forthcoming regarding Wingate skeletons, thanks to her third glass of Glenlivet. “Unfortunately, he had a fondness for other men’s wives. Neglected his own, though. Typical.”

“Where was he wounded?” Sebastian slid his fingers to the front of Clare’s panties. Her gaze got a little fuzzy and she about melted off her chair.

“Bullet in the left buttock. He was running away with his pants down.”

Sebastian chuckled and his fingers brushed her through the spandex cotton blend. She squeezed her thighs and stifled a moan as the conversation continued without her. Leo made a comment about…something, and Joyce responded with…something, and Sebastian tugged at the elastic around the top of her leg and asked something…

“Isn’t that right, Clare?” Joyce asked.

Her eyes refocused on her mother. “Yes. Absolutely!” She shoved his hand from her crotch and stood, careful to make sure her skirt stayed down. “Dessert?”

“I don’t think so right now.” Her mother placed her linen napkin on the table.

“Leo?” Clare asked as she gathered her plate and flatware.

“None for me. Give me half an hour.”

“Can I take your plate, Sebastian?”

He stood. “I’ll take it.”

“That’s okay.” The last thing she needed was for him to follow and finish what he’d started. “You just sit and relax with my mother and Leo.”

“After a big meal, I need to walk around,” he insisted.

Joyce handed Clare her plate. “You should show Sebastian the house.”

“Oh, I don’t think he cares about-”

“I’d love to see it,” he interrupted her.

He followed her into the kitchen and they set the plates in the sink. He leaned a hip into the counter and ran the backs of his fingers up her arm. “Since I walked in the house tonight, I’ve been wondering if you had on some sort of bra under that thing. Guess not.”

She looked down at the two very distinct points in the front of her black satin halter. “I’m cold.”

“Uh-huh.” He brushed his knuckles across her left breast. Her lips parted and she sucked in a breath. “You’re turned on.”

She bit her top lip and shook her head, but they both knew she lied.

He sighed and dropped his hand. “Show me the damn house.”

She turned on the heels of her boots and left him to follow behind. Yes, the last thing she needed was for Sebastian to work his moves on her in her mother’s house. But there was another part of her, the new part that had just discovered the pleasure of meaningless sex, that wanted him to do that and more.

She showed him the parlor her mother used for an office, the main living room, and the library. He kept his hands to himself, which was almost as frustrating as when he’d touched her. “I used to spend a lot of time in here as a kid,” she said, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling rows of leather-bound books. The room was furnished with old leather chairs and several Tiffany lamps.

“I remember.” He walked along the built-in mahogany shelves. “Where are your books?”

“Oh. Well, my books are paperbacks.”

He looked across his shoulder at her. “And?”

“And my mother doesn’t think paperbacks belong with leather-bound books.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. You’re a member of her family. Much more important than depressed Russian authors and dead poets. Your mother should be thrilled to put your books in here.”

Well, she’d always thought so, or at least thought she should be given equal shelf space in her own mother’s house. To hear Sebastian say it stirred unwanted feelings in her chest. “Thank you.”

“For what? Does your mother know how hard it is to get a book published?”

But this was Sebastian. She could not allow herself to feeling anything for him but a mild friendship and a raging physical attraction. “Probably not, but it wouldn’t matter if she did. Nothing I ever do will be good enough, or exactly right, or perfect. She’s never going to change, so I’ve had to. I don’t kill myself to please her nor purposely irritate her anymore.”

“No.” He laughed quietly. “You just deflect attention off yourself and onto me.”

She smiled. “That’s true, but you really should suffer a little for eating poor Mr. Bananas.” She nodded toward the doorway. “I’ll show you upstairs.”