Seduced and Betrayed (2 page)

She leaned down, putting her lips close to the ear of the nearest person. "Have you seen Zeke?" she shouted, trying to make herself heard above the music. "Zeke Blackstone?"

The young man shook his head and offered her a hit of his joint in lieu of the information she'd asked for.

"No, thank you," Ariel said. "I'm looking for Zeke. Zeke Blackstone. He lives here. Have you seen him?"

"Try the kitchen."

Zeke wasn't in the kitchen, either, but one of his roommates was.

"Oh, Ethan, thank goodness," Ariel said, relieved to see someone she knew, even if it was someone she wasn't particularly fond of. "Have you seen Zeke anywhere?"

"He was around here a while ago." Ethan tipped a beer to his lips. "He was looking pretty bummed, too," he said, and smiled at her. "You guys have a fight?"

"No, not a fight, exactly," she lied, not liking Ethan's smile, or the way he looked at her. "I just need to see him. Do you know where he is?"

"He said something about the music giving him a headache." Ethan shrugged. "I think he went to bed." His smile changed into a smirk. "I'm sure you know where his room is."

Ariel whirled away, setting the strands of the beaded curtain that hung in the doorway swaying and clicking against each other as she passed through them.

The door to Zeke's room was closed and there was no light showing around its edges. Ariel put her hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly. "Zeke?" she said softly as she eased into the darkened room and closed the door behind her. "Zeke, are you asleep?"

Apparently, he was. Although how anyone could sleep with the raucous party going on in the next room was a complete mystery to her. She tiptoed toward his bed, her steps guided by memory and the dim moonlight shining in through the single, curtainless window.

"Zeke?" She bent over the bed and reached out to touch the lump under the covers. "Zeke, I—"

"What?" a female voice mumbled sleepily. "What's the matter?"

Ariel snatched her hand back with a muffled shriek. "I'm sorry. I was looking for Zeke Blackstone," she said, backing away from the bed as she spoke. If another pair of amorous party-goers couldn't wait until they got home, she didn't want to see it. "I—This is his room and somebody said he was in here. Obviously, he isn't. I'm sorry." She reached behind her for the doorknob. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"No problem," the woman said. "Zeke's right here. Hold on a sec and I'll see if I can wake him up. He was pretty blasted."

Ariel stood, stock-still, unbelieving, unable to move. That couldn't be Zeke in the bed with that woman. It couldn't be.

"Hey, Zeke. Come on, babe, wake up. You got company."

Ariel heard a grunt and then a muffled curse. A man's voice, certainly, but surely not Zeke's. Surely not. And then the gray lump in the bed separated into two distinct shapes and the bedside light came on.

"What the hell's going on?" Zeke demanded irritably. "Who the hell are—" And then he caught sight of Ariel, standing frozen by the door. "Jesus,
Ariel!"

They stared at each other for a second or two, both of them speechless with shock. And then Zeke uttered a vicious oath and scrambled out of the bed, uncovering the woman beside him in his haste.

She was naked.

And he was naked.

Ariel lifted one hand to her mouth, as if to hold back a cry, and groped behind her for the doorknob.

"This isn't what it looks like," Zeke said, grabbing for his pants as the woman in his bed pulled the covers back up over her. "Just let me get my jeans on and—"

With a muffled sob, Ariel turned away and yanked open the bedroom door.

"Dammit, Ariel, wait a minute. Don't go. I—"

But she was already gone, flying through the apartment out the front door. By the time Zeke got his jeans on and halfway zipped up, she was already racing down the hall to the courtyard entrance. He was just in time to catch the door before it swung closed. She swerved sharply, veering away from the drunk lying on his back in the shadow of an overhanging balcony, and then stumbled against the chaise longue, almost falling over the entwined occupants before she righted herself and ran on.

"Dammit, Ariel. Wait. Please. I can explain, I—" Zeke hit something with his foot and went down, sprawling over the drunk Ariel had managed to avoid.

He caught himself on his palms, pushing himself up to his knees, and then realized that he'd put his hands in something wet and sticky, and that the same something was seeping through the knees of his jeans. He lifted his palms, turning them toward the moonlight. It was blood.

Chapter 1

Zeke Blackstone followed the slender, miniskirted receptionist down the wide, plushly carpeted hallway with all the reluctance of a truant schoolboy on his way to the principal's office.

He barely noticed the tastefully extravagant bouquets of fresh flowers that bloomed atop slender marble columns placed at intervals along the hallway. Or the faint scent of orange blossoms and money that perfumed the air. Or the muted, lilting sounds of the romantic Bach concerto being piped in through hidden speakers. Or that many of the famous faces in the soft-focus wedding photographs hanging on the pale cream, silk-covered walls were of people he knew and worked with. He didn't even notice the deliberately swaying hips of the receptionist.

His gaze was riveted on the ornately carved door at the end of the hall, his entire attention focused on what—
who
—was
waiting for him on the other side. The expression in his dark eyes was identical to one a man might wear as he approached the judge's bench for sentencing—after having already been tried and found guilty of all the charges against him.

"You're the last one to arrive, Mr. Blackstone," the receptionist said, making sure she gave him her best side as she turned her head to smile over her shoulder. "But I doubt you've missed much."

"Missed much?" Zeke muttered, his eyes still on the door.

"Of the planning. Mr. Wescott and Ms. Fine always start the first meeting off with coffee and a little casual chitchat. To put everyone at ease, you know." She flashed him another twinkling smile, in case he'd missed the first one. "Here we are," she said brightly, reaching out to put her hand on the ornate gilt door handle.

Zeke reached out and grasped her forearm, halting her in midmotion. "Who's everyone?" he asked, stalling for time. He knew very well who "everyone" was. That was the problem.

The receptionist frowned prettily, managing to look puzzled without a single line creasing her smooth forehead. "Excuse me?"

Zeke nodded at the door. "In there. Who's everyone?"

"Oh." The frown disappeared, replaced by a look of eager helpfulness. "The bride and groom. The bride's mother. The maid of honor. And Mr. Wescott and Ms. Fine, of course." She smiled again, full face this time and giving it all she had. "Mr. Wescott asked me to show you in the minute you arrived."

"I'll show myself in," Zeke said, and let go of her arm to reach for the door handle himself. "Thanks," he added, giving her an absent nod of dismissal. "You've been very helpful."

Miffed at being so thoroughly ignored by such an infamous and internationally acclaimed lady's man, the receptionist turned on her heel and sashayed back down the hall to her desk. It was a stellar performance but a wasted one. Her audience of one was hardly paying attention.

Zeke stood in front of the door, his hand on the knob, paralyzed with what he could only describe to himself as an acute case of stage fright. Which was ridiculous, because he'd never suffered from stage fright in his life. He took a deep, steadying breath and reached up to loosen his too tight tie, only to realize that, as usual, he wasn't wearing one. He ran his hand through his hair instead, brushing the unruly waves back off his forehead, then took another deep breath, told himself to quit acting like an idiot, and pushed open the door. It got away from him, banging back against the gilt doorstop from the unintentional force of his inward thrust.

Conversation stopped abruptly at his noisy, unceremonious entrance. Six heads turned toward him. Six pairs of eyes widened in recognition and surprise.

"Sorry," Zeke mumbled sheepishly, careful not to look into any one pair of eyes. Or into one pair of eyes in particular.

For a second or two more the six people around the graceful, cabriole-legged conference table—delicate Limoges coffee cups or frosted petits fours halfway to their mouths—remained frozen in place, Zeke stood stock-still in the doorway, like an actor who'd forgotten his lines. The air crackled with a strange tension, ripe with anticipation, and everyone seemed to be holding his or her breath. And then a young woman put her coffee cup down and jumped up from her seat, breaking the strained silence.

"Oh, Dad. Dad, you're here! Finally." Cameron Blackstone flew across the room with her characteristic enthusiasm and threw herself into her father's arms, confident that she would be caught. "I was afraid you'd chickened out at the last minute and weren't coming," she said and hugged him. Hard.

Zeke Blackstone hugged her back, holding her close and pressing a kiss on the top of her head. "My plane was late. And the traffic was a mess." He lifted one broad Armani clad shoulder in an apologetic shrug. "I always forget how impossible L. A. traffic is, even when there's no earthquake damage to contend with," he said, gazing down into eyes nearly as dark as his own. He ran his hand lightly over her hair, noting, as always, that it was the same pale golden blond as her mother's. "I'm really sorry, honey. I hope it didn't cause any problems."

"No harm done," Cameron said, instantly forgiving him. "You're here now. That's all that matters." She tucked her arm into the crook of his, turning him toward the conference table. "Come and meet Michael," she said, her voice warm with love and pride as she drew her father across the room to meet her fiancé.

The young man in question was already on his feet. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, sir," he said and offered his hand. "Cami talks about you all the time." He flashed an easy grin, showing a glimpse of white, even teeth. "According to her, you practically hung the moon."

"Really?" Zeke cast a teasing sideways look at his daughter as he took the young man's hand.
Cami?
His daughter hadn't allowed anyone to call her by her childhood nickname since... well, since she was a child. "All I've heard for the last two months is how wonderful you are. Every time I've talked to her lately, it's been 'Michael this' and 'Michael that.' I've been expecting to meet a cross between Brad Pitt, Albert Einstein, and the archangel Gabriel."

"Oh, Dad," Cameron said, blushing slightly as she swatted her father on the arm. "I never said anything like that."

But Zeke ignored his daughter for the moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the young man who intended to marry his precious only child. He decided he liked what he saw. Michael Everett had calm, intelligent blue eyes, a confident, easygoing manner, and a firm handshake. But how did a father
really
know if a suitor was good enough to be entrusted with his daughter's happiness and well-being?

"If you ever hurt her," Zeke said, very softly, "I'll come after you with a loaded gun and a skinning knife. And you'll be begging me to use the first before I've finished with the second."

"Dad! For heaven's sake," Cameron protested. "What an awful thing to say. Michael doesn't know what a big tease you are," she chided gently. "He might take you seriously."

Zeke didn't shift his gaze from that of his prospective son-in-law. "Michael had better take me seriously."

"I do, sir. Very seriously." Michael's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed but his gaze remained steady. "And you don't have to worry, sir. I promise I'll take care of her," he vowed. "Always."

Zeke nodded, satisfied. "See that you do," he said, and released the young man's hand.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Cameron rolled her eyes. "Anyone would think I was some poor defenseless halfwit about to be handed over to Bluebeard or something."

"Your father just wants to be sure I'll take proper care of you," Michael said.

"Completely ignoring the fact that I can take care of myself," Cameron retorted, her tone hovering somewhere between amusement and feminine indignation. "And have been for a while now."