The Rogue (The Moorehouse Legacy #4)(16)

Which was part of the problem, wasn’t it?

Mad blotted her lips, returned the damask napkin to her lap and realized that she’d crossed her feet together under her chair like a good little girl.

Oh, hell, no, she thought. If she was going to make it through this weekend in one piece, she needed to fight the urge to fall into place.

Feeling like a rebel, she eased up, cocked one foot under her butt, and sat back down with her leg on the chair.

“Isn’t that right, Madeline,” Richard drawled.

“Excuse me?” She deliberately played with the tassel on her loafer. Sure enough, Richard caught the movement and his eyes bugged out.

He opened his mouth as if he were going to scold her, but seemed to realize that would have been absurd.

As he cleared his throat, it seemed more curse than cough. “Penelope was commenting on the new Rubens exhibition at the Met. But I told her you wouldn’t have seen it because that kind of thing doesn’t interest you.”

“Oh…well, I didn’t know there was one.” She’d always liked Rubens. His colors had such depth, it was as if you could dive into his paintings, swim in them. “I haven’t been to the Met in a while.”

“Penelope goes all the time. She’s on the board.” Richard smiled over at the woman and their eyes held.

Penelope was dressed in something white and expensive. And had about forty-five pounds of pearls around her throat, but no wedding ring. Maybe the two were a couple?

Richard lifted his wineglass. “Yes, I’m afraid the Met is of no interest to Madeline. She didn’t make it through college and art seems to elude her. She likes boats.”

“Boats.” Penelope’s drawn-on eyebrows arched. “How lovely.” As if the interest were as inexplicable and unattractive as a flying pig.

Mad opened her mouth to try and do some damage control, but then shut it because she didn’t really care what Penelope of the pearl noose thought of her.

She picked up her salad fork and—

From out of nowhere, a deep, throaty growl reverberated into the room. The bass throbbing grew louder and louder, until it cut off all conversation. Then it stopped altogether.

One of the guests laughed to fill the silence. “Maguire, old man, is Newcomb using your lawn as a landing pad?”

“That helicopter of his is horrid,” a woman answered. “I mean, honestly.”

Conversation lit up with a vengeance, a spark catching fire and blazing as the guests talked about whoever the “Newcomb nightmare” was.

Mad heard a knocking at the front door, but went back to poking the endive on her little plate. She was definitely not interested in any new arrivals.

Abruptly, the table went completely quiet again. And then the butler said, “Miss Madeline’s guest is here.”

Mad’s head jerked up.

Spike was standing in the dining room’s entryway, six feet four inches of raw man in black leather. He had a motorcycle helmet dangling from his hand, that infamous half smile on his face and his hair was a jagged crown. At his side, the butler looked kind of pasty and worried.

Mad was dimly aware of dropping her fork as Richard hissed, “Who the hell is that?”

Spike’s yellow eyes scanned down the table until they found her. And his expression grew serious as he lifted his free hand in greeting.

“Spike!” one of the dinner guests exclaimed. “As I live and breathe!”

The man bolted up out of his chair and practically skipped his way around the table.

“Hey, Binder.” Spike clapped palms with the guy.

Binder, whoever he was, kept a hold on Spike and looked at Richard with admiration. “You didn’t tell me we were going to have a celebrity with us tonight.”

“I wish I’d known,” Richard muttered under his breath. Then he smiled. “Indulge me his credentials. As with all of my sister’s friends, I’ve never met the man.”

“This is one of La Nuit’s greatest chefs. Worked with Nate Walker.” There was a sudden chatter of approval from the guests and Binder went back to talking at Spike. “You two just opened a new restaurant in the Adirondacks. White Caps, right?”

“Good heavens,” another man said. “I ate there last summer. Fabulous food. Fabulous!”

“And it was written up in the Times,” someone else cooed.

The room started buzzing as if Spike were a rock star. Which was good. Because Mad was still trying to catch up with the fact that the man had evidently come after her and she was so not up to fielding questions.

As Binder continued to chatter on, Spike took off his leather biker’s jacket and tossed it casually to the butler. The other man sank from the weight of the thing.

When there was a break in Binder’s fawning, the butler said to Spike, “Do you have…bags with you?”

“My stuff’s on my Harley, but I’ll get it later. Thanks.”

Spike handed over his helmet and stalked down the length of the table, heading for Mad. Without skipping a beat, he picked up one of the chairs that was against the wall beside the sideboard and dropped the thing next to her, right on the corner. As he sat down, his big body blocked her view of Richard.

Spike looked at her, his gold eyes wary, but full of purpose.

“Hi, Mad,” he said softly. “Hope you don’t mind me crashing this shindig?”