Free A Case For Trust by Gracie MacGregor Page A

excited to meet him. The refreshments are over in the hall next door.’
    Pippa started her usual demurral, but Mr Jackson was having none of it, and his insistence on offering hospitality had her looking to Matt to add his weight to her excuses. Instead, he smiled at Mr Jackson and said, ‘Why not? We have nowhere else to be. I’m Matt Mason, Mr Jackson. Congratulations on your marriage.’
    Philippa was startled by the charm in his smile and his voice. Pity he never used that on her. She found her elbow gripped in his hard fingers and her feet steered out of the chapel and into the throng of well-wishers now congregating in the reception hall. The crush forced her close to Matt, close enough to catch the sophisticated, woody scent she recalled so vividly from their fierce encounter that morning. A waiter offered them drinks and Pippa reached for an orange juice, only to have a champagne flute thrust into her hand instead. Her startled protest was ignored.
    â€˜One won’t kill you,’ Matt murmured, and the unexpected brush of his lips against her ear was more intoxicating than the whisper of bubbles against her nostrils from the champagne she gingerly tasted.
    Something had changed. Pippa couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something different in his stance, in the hand that casually but firmly steadied her back as a teetering partygoer threatened to jostle her, in the hooded glance he didn’t redirect quite quickly enough from her face.
    What was he up to?
    She’d not allowed herself to think of Matt Mason throughout the ceremony. But it had been harder, today, to concentrate. Her mind had wanted to wander, to recall that rich voice throbbing alternately with anger and with superior disdain, to linger over its memories of his lean brown fingers spinning the steering wheel, to relive the moment when her tongue had touched his and her skin had caught fire. She’d dragged it back ruthlessly, focusing her attention with long practice on the sweet octogenarians she’d married.
    Now, though, as he stood beside her making polite conversation to strangers, she sipped her champagne and gave her thoughts free rein. What would it be like to have those hands wrapping around her body the way they had enfolded the leather wheel? Those harsh lips were softer now, and still. What would it be like to have them tracing her skin, nuzzling the nape where his clever fingers, as if conscious of her rocketing thoughts, now rested as he gently brought her attention to the conversation she’d only dimly been aware of?
    She’d missed the question the other guest had directed to her, but it didn’t seem to matter—he and Matt were already talking about something else. She lifted her glass to drain it, only to discover it was full once again. This time, the bubbles didn’t make her sneeze. Those caressing, teasing fingers were at her nape again, and she wilfully stopped herself from purring out loud, instead leaning a little against the muscular warmth that pressed against her. Matt’s fingers were now at her waist, slowly stroking, and she curved her own companionably around them.
    I wonder why I’ve never wanted to stay for my clients’ receptions? They’re really quite lovely.
    ***
    She was floating. There was soft music, and a cocoon of warmth; a low hum that occasionally shifted to a higher tone, and a spicy, woody, musky scent an inch or two from her nostrils. It was mostly dark. She was safe. Not quite sure of where she was, but safe. Something brushed her knee, and her eyes opened long enough to see a hand moving over the gearstick beside her leg. She knew that hand. Matt’s hand. She was with Matt. In Matt’s car. Matt was driving her home from the wedding. Mr and Mrs Jackson’s. She’d had a champagne or two, and it hadn’t made her sick at all. She hadn’t fallen down; hadn’t made a fool of herself; hadn’t been