Excerpt:

"So you're Mitch Brannigan?" She shifted the focus back to him. "The new golf partner Daddy talks about ad nauseam." A slight exaggeration, but her defense mechanism remained in overdrive.

Rather than take offense, Mitch took the barb in his stride. "I've enjoyed many a round with R.B. He's a damn good golfer." He sounded duly impressed. "I understand you play quite well yourself."

"I have a respectable handicap." She ran a critical eye up and down the length of him, mentally noting that not even cashmere could disguise his well-defined biceps. So this model of GQ chic was Mitch Brannigan. Who would have guessed? "I must say," she allowed with a modicum of irony, "you don't look like a golfer, weekend or otherwise."

"What does a weekend golfer look like?"

"Like a billboard for the latest in polyester and knickers fashions."

His rich laughter rang out. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You would," she muttered beneath her breath, curbing an impulse to tell him what he could do with his dual dimples. She could be jumping to conclusions about the man, but his overabundance of self-confidence annoyed her sensibilities. Stubbornly, she refused to admit why it annoyed her. "Just what are you doing here, anyway?"

"I told you. I was sent to pick up more food."

"Really?"

"You don't believe me?"

Harleigh shrugged. "I've deduced we're on the same guest list, but my mom is the consummate party planner. I can't imagine her forgetting something as obvious as the menu."

Mitch grinned. "I get it. I suspected you, now you suspect me. Fair enough, if it makes you feel better."

"So now you're implying I'm indulging in some childish game of retaliation"

"Don't be so hard on yourself."

Harleigh bit her lip. A strong desire to punch his lights out had her gripping the edge of the island with both hands. But the realization she kind of liked the way he looked at her effectively doused her impulse for violence. He accused her of acting like a child, but his sexy stare made her feel very much like a woman. Confused, she paused. Somewhere along the line, this sliver of awareness on her part had begun to cast him in a more favorable light. The concept did not elicit a great deal of enthusiasm. It only served to sour her disposition even more. "Mr. Brannigan, while I'd love to stay and trade insults with you, I dare say they're popping the champagne as we speak." She jammed her hands into her pockets and fixed him with an icy look. "So before my father's candles burn into oblivion, I'll excuse myself to get dressed."

Without missing a beat, Mitch gave an exaggerated wave of his hand to ensure this time he wouldn't impede her progress upstairs. He leaned forward so she wouldn't miss his husky murmur as she sailed past. "Don't keep me waiting long, sweetheart."

"Waiting for what?"

"The man with the money would consider it his honor and pleasure to drive you to the party."

"Let it go, will you? The joke's over. And, thanks, but I'm perfectly capable of driving myself."

"I'm sure you are, but allow me to insist."

When she saw he wouldn't budge, she retrieved her bag from the step and flung tartly over her shoulder, "Suit yourself. Far be it from me to deprive you of racking up more brownie points with R.B."

The receding sound of his insufferable laughter made her eyelids twitch.

Sweetheart. Twice he had called her that.

She hated to admit it, but it had a nice ring to it.