“Dance with me.”

Rhiannon smiled her agreement to Shawn’s request. He pulled her to her feet and onto the intimate dance floor. And as his arms closed around her, he inhaled as though breathing her in.

The song was a whisper and a plea. A promise made.

His right hand was on her waist, his fingers resting against the curve of her side while his left hand cradled her right. Heat emanated from him, working its way through her until he was all she could feel. In those long, intimate moments in his arms, all she knew was him.

She simply relaxed and enjoyed the sensations coursing through her. She remembered for a moment what it was like to be seventeen and feeling the sweet ache of desire for the very first time.

She never wanted the music to end.

Dear Reader,

I’m very excited to bring you Rhiannon’s story, a follow-up to my July 2010 Harlequin Superromance novel, Beginning with Their Baby. From the moment Rhiannon appeared, I knew I wanted to tell her story, and I’m so blessed to have an editor who told me to “go for it.” Writing this novel was bittersweet, as one of its themes—a woman recovering from violence—is a subject near and dear to my heart. When I was in college, I volunteered at a woman’s shelter and was absolutely horrified and astounded at what so many of the women had gone through to arrive there. Watching them heal was an incredible thing, and their bravery made an impact on me that has lasted ever since.

In this novel my heroine, Rhiannon, is recovering from a brutal rape that cost her her career, her marriage and her sense of self. She’s spent the past few years healing slowly, but it is not until she is confronted with Shawn—a handsome, talented, easygoing younger man—that she really begins to see herself as a healthy, strong woman again. The relationship between Shawn and Rhiannon was difficult to write, as it is complex and full of emotional ups and downs, but getting them (two people who so richly deserve it) to their happy ending was a thrill for me. I hope you enjoy reading Unguarded as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I love to hear from my readers—either by email at tracy@tracywolff.com or on my blog, tracywolff.blogspot.com. Stop by and say hello sometime.

All my best,

Tracy Wolff

Unguarded
Tracy Wolff

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks and has been known to forget where, and sometimes who, she is when immersed in a great novel. A writing and feminist literature professor at her local community college, she has spent years reading, teaching and writing about life as a woman in twenty-first-century America—with all its ups and downs. She is married to a wonderful man and is the mother of three terrific and rambunctious sons, who keep her on her toes. They make their home in Texas.

To Emily and Shellee

Thanks for all the fun,

friendship and collaboration

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER ONE

SHE COULD DO THIS.

She could do this.

Really, she could do this.

Rhiannon Jenkins repeated the mantra that had gotten her through so much in the past two years as she squared her shoulders and climbed slowly out of her car. Despite the pep talk she’d given herself all the way over here, she couldn’t help feeling like she was headed for the guillotine. Which was ridiculous, she reminded herself impatiently. It was just a business lunch, and she’d had hundreds of them over the course of her career. One more certainly wasn’t going to do her in.

Of course, she’d told herself the same thing three years before when she’d made the mistake of trusting a source for her newspaper article. That meeting hadn’t killed her, but it had come damn close—and taken a huge amount of her life with it. Including, she admitted with a grim sigh, her ability to confidently meet a man in a packed restaurant—even for a lunch date that was strictly business.

But she didn’t have a choice. She had to do this. The only other option—running back to her boss and best friend, Logan, and telling him that she’d been too chicken to even walk in the restaurant’s door—was somehow a million times worse. He’d taken a chance on her when she’d been all but paralyzed with grief and fear. She wouldn’t repay him by screwing up one of the biggest responsibilities he’d given her.

So what if it was the first time she’d pitched a party completely on her own since joining Logan’s firm two years before?

So what if the man she was supposed to have lunch with was young and sexy and a little bit intimidating?

So what, even if she was so scared she was literally quaking in the two-hundred-dollar boots she’d bought the night before to give herself courage?

She could do this. She would do this…even if it sent her careening over the edge of the sanity she clung to with battered fingertips. She was never going to get better, never going to get any sort of a life back, if she didn’t push herself. It was what she’d told Logan when he’d asked if doing this first meeting alone was really okay with her, and it was what she’d told herself in the bathroom mirror a hundred times that morning as she’d put on her makeup.

After gathering the briefcase and purse she’d almost forgotten in the car, Rhiannon headed straight toward the front door of the Mexican restaurant Shawn—the client—had chosen. As she walked, she did her best to banish the nerves that continued to assault her.

She’d spent her life around men—all kinds of men—so she felt ridiculous working herself up into this state just because he’d called the office and specifically requested her. Why wouldn’t he have? she asked herself viciously. She’d been the one he’d met at the party she’d coordinated on Saturday night, and it was her business card she’d handed him when he’d asked what company she was with. It only stood to reason that he would have asked for her when he’d spoken to the receptionist two days before.

Understanding the whys of how she’d gotten there didn’t make it any easier to open the restaurant’s door and walk inside. But then, nothing had been easy for nearly three years now. That didn’t mean she’d stopped doing things—it only meant that she had to go through this ridiculous freak-out in anticipation of every new or not-since-the-attack incident that came up. For a woman who had once been known for her intrepid and insightful newspaper articles, it was a hard thing for her to admit. And even harder for her to accept.

She spotted Shawn almost as soon as her eyes adjusted to the restaurant’s dim interior—he was sitting in a booth about halfway across the room, and her first glimpse of him had Rhiannon silently cursing like a sailor.

She’d wanted to get here first, had made sure to arrive ten minutes early so that she’d have a chance to get herself settled at the table before having to put on her game face. The fact that her plans were now ruined flustered her a lot more than it should have.

Telling herself to suck it up, she returned his welcoming wave and made her way toward him. Even the best-laid plans had to have some wiggle room, she reminded herself as she stopped next to his table. Today, now, was no exception.

“Rhiannon.” Shawn rose and extended his hand, his blue eyes warm and his smile welcoming. “I’m so glad you could make it today.”

“Me, too. I’ve been excited about hearing the details of this party you want to throw since you called the office on Monday.” It wasn’t a lie, she told herself, if she only told half the truth. She was excited about planning the party, so it was perfectly acceptable to leave out the fact that she’d been up half the night worrying about seeing him again.

Obviously, this was stupid, as he wasn’t looking at her with anything more than polite interest—the same interest he would show any woman charged with creating a fantastic party so that he could impress a bunch of Hollywood types. She must have imagined the way he’d looked at her the other night—which wasn’t much of a surprise. Her radar was way off when it came to men these days, and had been for much too long.

“I’m glad. I need someone who’s excited about this thing, since I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about throwing a formal party.”

She pulled out her laptop and booted it up so that she could take notes while they talked. “You don’t like formal parties?” she asked, culling about half of the options she’d come up with that morning from the mental list she wanted to run by him.

“I’m more a beer-and-nachos kind of guy. But I figure if I’m going to do this, I need to do it right—formal, sit-down dinner, monkey suit, the works.”

As if his way with words wasn’t enough to clue her in, just looking at him gave her a good idea as to why the formal approach probably wasn’t the way to go. With his shaggy brown hair and easy smile, Shawn Emerson looked like every footloose, slacker guy she’d ever run across—the kind who was more comfortable with a bat in one hand and a beer in the other than he ever would be in an office or behind a desk.

Even his meeting attire—a football jersey and a worn pair of jeans—screamed immature male out for a good time. It was just one of the many reasons she hated that her hand was still warm from where his had clasped it.

But then, she was an idiot when it came to men. Life had certainly proven that in the past three years.

“So, your usual party style is ultra-casual yet you’re thinking about throwing a completely formal gathering?”

“It’s actually my agent’s idea. He thinks I should have a really impressive gathering, kind of knock those Hollywood types’ socks off. I’m just trying to follow along with his suggestions.”

“What’s the occasion?” she asked, trying to gauge which direction he really wanted to go in. For some people, formal meant black tie, while for others, it was just a step or two above beach attire. She had him pegged for the latter.

“Endeavor Studios just optioned the rights to my graphic novels. They’re rushing to write a script based on the first two with hopes of starting filming in about eighteen months if everything goes as planned. A bunch of the guys involved in buying my project are going to be here in Austin for the film festival in March, debuting a new movie and Anthony thinks I should have a no-holds-barred party to welcome them to Austin and show my appreciation. It’s not every day a guy’s told his character is going to be made into a major motion-picture franchise, after all.”

So much for a step above bathing suits—she’d been wrong again. Big surprise. This guy was definitely in need of a party with a big wow factor.

But a huge Hollywood-style party meant pulling out all the stops and the film festival was only—she pulled the website up on her computer—six weeks away. He wanted her to do a major party like this in six weeks? Was he kidding?

Trying to get her thoughts straight, Rhiannon pulled up a list of questions she needed to ask, then turned to him with the first one. “Who is Shadeslayer?”

Shawn grinned, an excited, happy smile lighting up his whole face and causing a weird flip-flopping in the pit of her stomach. Rhiannon did her best to ignore the feeling—the guy was at least ten years younger than her—probably closer to fifteen. Just the idea that his smile was directed at her specifically was absurd, not to mention pathetic.

“I was hoping you’d ask.” He reached down to the seat beside him and picked up a few thick comic-book-style novels that he slapped on the table between them. “He’s the superhero I created when I was in college. Now, he’s the star of my twice-yearly graphic novels.”

She blinked at the garish covers staring up at her. All three had a strong, muscle-bound guy in a gray-and-black superhero suit looking out of them, although he was in a different kind of peril on each cover. The artwork was absolutely gorgeous, but— “You write comic books for a living?”

“Graphic novels. It’s not quite the same thing.”

“Right, of course.” She couldn’t help wondering what the difference was, but didn’t want to ask, in case the question offended him. He had made a point of correcting her when she’d called them comic books, after all. “What does Shadeslayer do?”

“All kinds of things, but mainly he keeps shades—dead people who are trapped on Earth—from using their powers to enslave humans.” He held the books out to her. “Here, take them. They’re for you. I figured they’d give you a sense of who I am, what the deal was about.”

“Oh, okay. That’s very nice of you.” She reached out to take the books, her hand trembling just a little as it brushed against his.

She had no idea what she was supposed to do with three comic books, but it was a sweet gesture. She opened the cover of the first one, began to flip through it and was shocked when she came to the title page. Scrawled between the title and his name, were the words, “To Rhiannon, because a party is so often just the beginning. Shawn Emerson.”

She stared at the inscription a moment, unsure what to make of it. Were the words a threat? A promise? A suggestion? Her back stiffened and she closed the books without comment, even as she tried desperately to figure out Shawn’s agenda.

“Do you like them?” he asked, and she looked up to find him watching her closely.

“Of course I do,” she answered, ignoring the confusion inside that told her very clearly that she wasn’t sure how she felt about the books—or about the man who had given them to her. “They’re an interesting gift.”

Interesting? Nice? SHAWN barely suppressed a shudder. Obviously, he’d struck out big time with his gift—he’d been an idiot to think Rhiannon would be interested in his graphic novels. He almost hadn’t brought them—he didn’t give them away very often anymore, and rarely signed them now that he was no longer busting his ass on self-sponsored book tours to promote the things—but this morning he’d been struck by a sudden desire to show her what he did. To give her a glimpse of himself, and of Shadeslayer, the greatest character he’d ever created.

But from the way she placed the books on the table like they were a cross between poison ivy and rotting meat, he figured he probably should have gone with flowers instead—for some reason, women always seemed to like those more. Leaning back in his chair, he studied Rhiannon and tried to decide what kind of flower she was.

Not a rose, though she was long-stemmed, beautiful and surprisingly fragile, if the delicate hand she’d put in his was any indication.

Not a daisy, because she was much too quiet and self-possessed for the cheerful white-and-yellow flowers.

Carnations were boring, and while she was doing her best to blend into the woodwork in her bland gray suit and white blouse, he had a feeling she was anything but boring underneath. Not with those intense coffee-colored eyes and that fiery red hair.

No, carnations would never do—and neither would orchids. They were too temperamental. Which left him drawing a blank. He shoved the dilemma to the back of his mind, with a quick reminder to get back to it later after they’d talked more. Because he’d meant what he’d said when he’d signed those books—this party was just the beginning. He’d been thinking about her since they’d met Saturday night and couldn’t wait for a chance to get to know her.

The waitress chose that moment to come up for their orders, and he watched as Rhiannon smoothed a self-conscious hand over the tight bun of her hair. He wondered if she ever let it down.

“You know, they make a killer margarita here. I’m partial to their plain ones, but Lissa swears by their sangria margaritas.” He deliberately brought up the name of his best friend Robert’s wife to put her at ease—Lissa was the one who had introduced them at the party the other night, and it had been obvious she and Rhiannon liked each other very much. “I swear, she can drink three or four of those in a sitting.”

She stared at him. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“One-fifteen, actually,” he corrected her, reaching for a chip.

“Either way.” Her voice was drier than the martinis his mother used to make—and gulp down by the half dozen. “I try not to drink during business hours.”

“Right. Business. I can see that about you.”

That got her attention. She looked away from the waitress, eyebrows furrowed, lips pulled into a deep frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just that you seem like a really responsible person.” He barely succeeded in hiding his grin as Rhiannon’s teeth snapped together with an all but audible click.

“Well, we can’t all have the intellectual and emotional makeup of a thirteen-year-old boy. More’s the pity.”

“Touché.” He inclined his head, offering her the verbal point. As he did, he let his eyes linger on her full upper lip and the dimple that kept flirting with her left cheek. He’d been fascinated with both from the first time he’d seen her—and the story they told.

Even at the party, she’d looked so prim and proper. Long sleeves, long skirt, blouse buttoned up to her throat. He’d wondered at first if she was channeling someone’s maiden aunt. But then she’d opened her mouth and that voice—low and smoky and incredibly sexy—had curled around him. And he’d wondered how he could have ever failed to see the fire.

He saw it now, as she turned to the waitress and ordered a glass of water with a twist of lime. Plain, boring, expected—with just a little kick to keep things interesting. It was that little kick, all those tiny contradictions, that had had him calling her in the first place.

Yes, he needed a party planner, but the artist in him—who was he kidding, the man in him—wanted to unravel her a bit. To see what was underneath the sensible shoes and simple pearl earrings. To see if she lived up to the promise of that voice, that hair and the incredible body she kept so tightly under wraps.

He ordered a beer, and then settled back to study her while she looked over the menu. He couldn’t help himself. She was a series of stops and goes that would probably drive a normal man crazy. But he was a far cry from normal and he’d always loved a puzzle. There was just something cool about piecing together bits and pieces of a person until he had the whole picture assembled.

Rhiannon was one hell of a picture and one hell of a puzzle. It would be a lot of fun finding out how all her contradictions, all her jagged pieces, fit together. After all, the journey was always so much more fun than the destination.

“See anything you like?” he asked after silence had stretched between them for several minutes. When she didn’t immediately answer, he reached out and trailed a finger down the back of her hand.

Those brown eyes flew up from the menu to meet his, a hint of temper flaring in their depths as she very deliberately moved her hand away. He filed away the knowledge that she didn’t like to be touched—at least not by business acquaintances—and waited for her to answer.

“I was thinking of the pollo diablo,” she answered as she set her menu aside. “It was delicious the last time I came here.”

He couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. The most buttoned-up woman in the place was ordering the spiciest dish on the menu. Oh, yes, unraveling her layers would be a huge challenge. One he was suddenly looking forward to very much.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER THEY’D ORDERED, Shawn watched as Rhiannon made a concerted effort to get the business meeting back on track. There was no more talk about margaritas or spicy food or whether or not she was a responsible person, but that was okay with him. He had time. Planning this party was going to take weeks, and he planned on being very involved in the details.

“So, according to their website, the film festival is in town from Wednesday through Sunday of the last week in March,” said Rhiannon as she surfed the Net, no longer even bothering to look at him. “What night were you thinking of having the party?”

He wondered if he should be offended that she appeared to have so little interest in him, when most women went out of their way to attract him—and his Shadeslayer fortune. But he found her attitude kind of refreshing, especially since the thing she was focused so intently on was his party, and therefore still related to him.

He hadn’t been joking when he’d said that his parties tended toward the spur of the moment and ultra-casual. The most planning he ever put in was picking up the phone and dialing half a dozen of his friends a couple hours before a game started. Which meant if he was going to do this thing right—the way his agent wanted it done—he was going to need all the advice she could give him.

“Probably Thursday night. Friday and Saturday nights are booked with premieres and industry parties.” He grabbed a chip, popped it in his mouth.

“Okay.” She clicked a few computer keys, adding that information to some database, he presumed.

“For how many people?”

“I don’t know. What do you suggest?”

She raised an eyebrow at him over the laptop screen. “I don’t know who’s going to be in town or how many of them you want to impress. If you could give me a ballpark figure, I could get an idea of the best way to put the party together.”

“Sure.” In his head, he went over the list his agent had given him and then added a number of his friends in town. “Probably about a hundred people, give or take.”

“Okay. So you said Thursday night, but there are screenings going on until ten o’clock. Do you want a late supper, after the showings are over?”

“That’s what I was planning on. But you don’t sound all that enthusiastic.”

“No, that kind of party would be lovely—”

“But?”

“But I think that it’ll blend into the hundreds of other parties that your VIP guests have been to.”

“That’s the last thing I want. I want to do something they’ll remember, something that will stand out later from their week here. Something that will really rock.”

“Well, then you’re going to have to step outside your comfort zone. Or into it, as the case may be.”

“I like the sound of that.” He grinned at her.

She took a sip of her water and went back to perusing the film festival’s website, ignoring his smile. Which, of course, only made him more determined than ever to get her attention.

Part of him felt like he was back in elementary school, pulling the pigtails of Mary Louise Elkins, the girl who had sat in front of him every year from kindergarten through fifth grade. It had driven her nuts, but he hadn’t been able to help it—negative attention from her had been way better than no attention at all.

He paused at the realization, a chip halfway to his mouth. Maybe Rhiannon was right about his emotional development being slightly arrested. He should probably work on that if he expected her to see him as more than a potential client.

“So you’ve told me the kind of party you usually throw. What’s your favorite kind of party to attend?” Rhiannon asked, finally setting the laptop aside.

“Same thing—beer, chips, football. It’s all good.”

“Well, if that’s really the case, why are we throwing such a fancy party? Why don’t we throw one you might actually enjoy?”

He laughed. “It’s March—no football.”

“That’s not what I meant. What if you throw a really relaxed party—jeans, casual food, games. It would be totally different than they’re used to, and it could be a lot of fun.”

“What, you mean, like a barbecue?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t gotten that far yet. But a barbecue could work.”

“I know it’s a sin to live in the South and say this, but I’m not a big fan of charred meat and potato salad. The whole barbecue culture gene kind of passed me by.”

“You know, barbecue doesn’t have to mean beans and brisket next to an open fire. A good steak could be classified as barbecue.”

He shook his head. “That’s not really my point. Changing the type of meat served doesn’t change the barbecue culture. I’m not into it.”

“All right then. I get it. No barbecue.” She went back to the computer, clicked a few times. “So are you opposed to the idea of a casual party altogether, or just one that involves ‘charred meat and potato salad’?”

He was about to shoot her idea down in its entirety, though it pained him to do so—in his experience, women weren’t at their friendliest after a man told them he thought their plans were less than impressive. And there was little he wanted more than to have Rhiannon in a friendly mood.

But her idea was so far from what he’d been thinking—and from what Anthony expected—that he didn’t feel like he had a choice. But then she turned the computer around and pointed to a couple of menus that were as far from a typical Texas barbecue as you could get, but that were a lot more interesting than the fancy hors d’oeuvres he was used to getting at parties like the one his agent expected him to throw.

“You can do gourmet pizzas on the grill?” he asked skeptically.

“Caterers can do just about anything on a grill these days—including dessert. Don’t you ever watch the Food channel?”

“I don’t, no. I’m more partial to movies myself. Give me a good horror movie and I’m happy.”

Her smile was slow coming, but when it finally arrived, he’d felt as if he’d scaled Mount Everest. It was a real smile, one that warmed her eyes and brought her dimple out in full force, and it made him happy just to watch how it lit up her face. He had a feeling Rhiannon didn’t smile much—at least not out of genuine amusement. It felt good to be the one to put a smile on her face.

“I’m partial to slasher films myself.”

“Oh, yeah? Which ones?” He felt his curiosity pique. It was the first personal bit of information Rhiannon had revealed about herself.

She named a couple of movies he’d enjoyed enough to buy on DVD, and they spent the next few minutes talking about them—debating level of gruesomeness and special effects and story line. Rhiannon was surprisingly knowledgeable about the genre, which made him wonder if he’d misread her reaction to his novels. Any woman who liked the films she did also had to be partial to a good superhero story. That same suspension of disbelief was a requirement for any true action movie fan.

He was about to invite her to a movie that was opening on Friday night when she once again steered the conversation back to business. “So, if I come up with a casual menu that is also impressive, will you consider having a less formal event?”

“Sure. If you can come up with a really great idea, one that’s fun and casual and impressive all at the same time, we’ll try your route.”

“Fun, casual and impressive all at the same time, hmm? You don’t ask for much.”

“Oh, Rhiannon.” He shook his head, shooting her a wicked grin. “I’ve barely gotten started on the list of demands I have for you.”

SHE NEARLY CHOKED on her water. As it was, the slightly tangy liquid went down the wrong pipe, burning from the back of her throat all the way to her lungs. Her eyes watered and her chest ached, but she did everything she could not to cough—it so wouldn’t do to let Shawn know how blatantly he affected her. He was already cocky and charming and full of mischief—the last thing she wanted was to encourage him.

Liar, a little voice inside of her said. There was a small part of her that wanted to do exactly that, that wanted to say to hell with logic and responsibility and fear. God knew, he’d been flirting with her since she’d sat down. Would it be so terrible if she responded in kind? It’s not like the world would end if she showed some interest.

The very thought robbed Rhiannon of her recently recovered breath, had her heart beating in a stressed-out syncopation. Who was she kidding? She could barely handle meeting new clients in the middle of a bustling party—how did she think she’d manage flirting with a gorgeous, younger man when the two of them were on their own?

It was too absurd to even contemplate.

And if her baggage wasn’t bad enough, trying to step out of her self-imposed cocoon with a man whose event could spark a rush of business for Parties by L.K. was just asking for trouble. When it went bad, when she quickly made a total and complete fool of herself because she couldn’t handle the pressure—and there was little doubt in her mind that she would freak out eventually—how humiliating would it be to still have to see him? To still have to work with him and pretend that she was anything but the basket case she was? Or worse, to run into him at other parties. The upper-crust Austin social scene was a relatively small one, and she really didn’t want to spend the next few months worrying about whether or not Shawn was going to be at one of the events she was planning.

She drew a couple discreet breaths in through her nose, praying he wouldn’t notice her distress—or the pain that was ripping through her upper torso because she was too stubborn to cough. He didn’t say a word as she struggled, and she began to hope he hadn’t noticed how he’d affected her. But when she finally made it on the road to recovery, it was to find Shawn watching her with amusement. “You okay there?”

So much for discretion. Was it too much to ask to sink through the floor before she died of total and complete humiliation?

“Fine, thanks.” Her eyes were still watering and her voice was hoarse, but at least she’d gotten the words out.

“Good. I’d really hate for something to happen to you before the big night.” He winked, and as she stared into his wicked blue eyes, she suddenly wasn’t at all sure he was still talking about the party.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I never meant to imply that you couldn’t.”

“So, Shawn.” Rhiannon took a deep breath and contemplated the best way to steer the conversation back toward the party. “Have you thought about what venue you want to use? Austin has a number of great places—”

“I just figured we’d use my house. It’s plenty big.”

“For a hundred people to mingle comfortably?” Where did the man live? The only houses in Austin big enough for that were on the Lake, and surely his graphic novels didn’t pay enough to make that a reality—

“I’ve got two acres on Lake Travis. I bought it a couple years ago as an investment, but it’s a perfect place to entertain. The house is huge and there’s a gigantic yard that overlooks the lake.”

Two acres? On Lake Travis? Obviously the graphic novel business was a much better proposition than she had ever imagined—even before the film rights. She thought of her own fifteen-hundred-square-foot condo, of how she’d struggled to pay for it after the divorce a couple of years before. Amazing to think that a man who was so much younger than she was had already achieved so much. Amazing and disheartening. But then, starting over at close to forty often was.

Richard had offered to help her, but by the time the divorce had been finalized, she’d wanted nothing from him. Nothing from any man. It still amazed her that he’d been able to just walk away from their fifteen-year marriage, as if everything they’d built together—everything they’d meant to each other—had never existed. Sometimes when she was lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling and praying for the insomnia to go away, she wondered if he’d left—if he hadn’t been able to deal—because she’d gotten too good at playing the victim. But with family and friends crowding in from every side, it had been hard to be anything else.

“So, do you want to see it?”

Shawn’s words interrupted her self-castigation and she looked at him blankly as the words sunk in.

“See it?”

“My house? Maybe it could help you get a feel for the best way to do this party.”

“I thought you said on the phone you didn’t have time to run back home today. If you want to take me back to your house, why did we bother meeting here to begin with?”

“So I could buy you lunch.” He reached over and nicked the check the waitress had dropped onto the edge of the table as she passed by.

“You don’t have to do that. You’re the client.” She held her hand out for the bill. “It’s my responsibility to—”

“Do you always play by the rules?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say no, that for long years she’d barely paid attention to the fact that there were rules, but instead, said, “Yes. It’s safer that way.”

“Safer.” He lifted an eyebrow.

“Better,” she amended hastily. “It’s better that way.” She tugged self-consciously at the long sleeve of her shirt.

He threw a couple of twenties down on the table, then stood. He held out a hand to her. “Come on, let’s go to my place. I’ll show you my gazebo.”

“Is that an updated version of the old etchings line?” she asked as they walked toward the front door.

The look he shot her was brimming with laughter. “You caught me.”

“Yes, well, I’m throwing you back. I’ve got another appointment in less than an hour, so I can’t run all the way out to the lake right now.”

“Another appointment? Are you cheating on me already?”

“Yes, with a tall, blond lawyer who has a corporate expense account.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to take them back. There was no use encouraging him and his flirtatious behavior. Not when it couldn’t go anywhere.

“Beaten out by a lawyer? I’m not sure how I’ll survive that indignity.”

“I’m sure you’ll muddle through somehow.”

“Can I see you again?”

Her heart skipped a beat, then crashed against her ribs. She ignored it—and the terror racing through her. “Of course. We’re working on this party together, aren’t we?”

“That’s not what I meant.” He took a step closer, until his body was only a few inches from hers. She didn’t move away. “But you already knew that.”

“I did.” What am I doing? she wondered, shocked at her odd behavior. What the hell am I doing?

“Come to my house on Friday. I’ll show you around, take you down to the lake.”

“I have appointments all day—and a party at night.”

“Saturday, then.” His eyes were darker than they’d been earlier, a deep sapphire-blue that seemed to see into the very heart of her. But that was impossible. No one had gotten in her head for longer than she could remember. It was absurd to think that this man, this boy—with his ready smile and silly banter—had been able to do so after one lunch.

“Saturday is our busy day. I’ve got a morning brunch and than an afternoon garden party.”

“Come later then.”

“I probably won’t get out of the last event until after seven.”

“How will I manage to stay awake that late?” he teased. “Come on, Rhiannon. The sooner you see the house, the sooner you can decide what kind of party to have. Come see me Saturday night.”

“It’ll be too dark to see the grounds.”

“There’s this great, newfangled invention called electricity. Surely you’ve heard of it? My backyard is wired better than the landing strips at the airport.” His smile was bigger now, as if he was just waiting for her next objection so he could shoot it down, too.

Charmed despite herself, Rhiannon smiled. “Okay, fine. You’ve convinced me. Saturday night at seven-thirty.”

“Excellent. Our second date—I can’t wait.”

“Second date?”

He took another step toward her and suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

“This was business.” She forced the words out through a throat so tight she had to fight for air. “And so is our appointment on Saturday.”

“We had food, flirtatious banter, fun. Feels like a date to me.”

“I drove myself, researched the film festival on my computer, and any flirtatious banter was completely one-sided. Feels more like a business meeting to me.”

He reached out, stroked his hand softly down her cheek. As he did, she could feel the calluses on his fingers from years of drawing. “And this?” he asked as his thumb smoothed over her lips. “What does this feel like?”

She was still struggling for an answer when he leaned in and his lips brushed, but just barely, against her own.

CHAPTER THREE

“HEY, BEAUTIFUL. How’d the consult go?” Rhiannon looked up from her computer in time to see Logan Kelly breeze into her office with a cup of coffee in each hand and curiosity rife in his gaze. “Did you nail it?”

“I think so. He wants to meet Saturday after the Henderson event so that I can see his house. He thinks it will make the perfect venue for the party. Which he wants to have during the big film festival.”

“That’s only six weeks away—how big of a party are we talking about?”

“A hundred people, with full-scale entertainment and food.”

“That’s a pretty big order, Rhiannon. You sure you can handle it on your own?”

No, she wasn’t even close to being sure she could handle it. But she was determined to anyway. She owed it to Logan to step up to the plate—after all, he was one of the few people who’d been willing to take a risk on her when she’d wanted to change careers after almost fifteen years as a journalist.

Since she’d joined his firm nearly two years before, he’d been giving her the simple jobs, letting her ease back into the world at the speed she was comfortable with. But she was getting pretty good at the whole event-planning thing and she wanted to try her hand at something bigger—something like Shawn’s party. Besides, she couldn’t hide behind what had happened to her forever. The rape had taken almost everything from her—her husband, her career, her sense of self. She wasn’t going to let it take her professional pride, too. It was the only thing she had left.

She forced a smile. “I can do it. After all, I’ve been watching you make the impossible happen for a year now.”

“And flattery will get you everywhere.” He settled into the chair across from hers and took a long sip from his coffee. “So, where’s his house?”

“On Lake Travis. He says he’s got two acres up there.”

“Seriously?” Logan let out a long whistle. “Who is this guy? Some rich Austinite looking to break into Hollywood?”

“Not quite. Actually, he already got that break. He just sold film rights to his novels or something.”

“Really? What’s his name?”

“Shawn Emerson. I’ve never heard of him, but obviously someone in Hollywood has—”

“No way! Shawn Emerson? Of Shadeslayer fame?”

Rhiannon stared at him, shocked. “Yeah. He mentioned Shadeslayer while we were at lunch today. Have you read any of the books?”

“Are you kidding me? I’ve read them all. Shadeslayer’s one of the greatest superheroes ever written. Surely you’ve seen him somewhere. He’s a really dark hero, dresses all in gray and black, including his mask. Walks a thin line between right and wrong.”

“Yeah, no, pretty sure I’d never heard of him before today.” She reached into her purse and pulled out the books Shawn had given her. “You’re talking about these comic books, right?”

“They’re graphic novels, not comic books. There’s a big difference.”

“So I keep hearing.” She watched in amusement as Logan picked up the top book with uncharacteristic awe. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked reverently.

“I don’t know. What do you think it is?”

“A first edition of Shadeslayer’s Revenge.” He opened the cover. “Signed! Do you have any idea how much this is worth?”

“Not a clue.”

“A lot—I bet you could get a few thousand for it easy on eBay.”

“Seriously? For a comic book? I mean, I understand Spiderman or Batman, but this is some new hero no one’s ever heard of.”

“A lot of people have heard of him. And I told you, it’s not a comic book. Graphic novels are kind of a cross between regular novels and comic books. Shadeslayer has been around for five or six years now, with two books coming out each year. There’s a huge Slayer counterculture that gets really excited every time a new book is set to come out.”

“And you’re not part of that counterculture?” she asked archly.

“No. I mean, yeah, I buy his books as soon as they hit the shelves, but I don’t dress up like characters from the books or anything.”

“And for that, I’m sure we’re all grateful.”

Logan ignored her. “So, when is the movie coming out? Will there be a sequel? Which book are they scripting? How many—”

“Whoa!” Rhiannon felt like she’d fallen into an alternate universe. “Does your wife know about this little obsession of yours?”

“Sandy likes the books, too. So does Mike.”

“Well, I can understand how Mike would. Your kid’s twelve years old. But you’re nearly forty.”

“Hey, I’m the same age as you.”

“Exactly my point. You don’t see me going gaga over some comic-book character.”

“Graphic novel character, thank you very much.” He grinned.

“Oh, excuse me.”

“I don’t know if you should be excused. You managed to land this guy when I’d give my left arm to work with him.” Logan flipped open the second book, then the third, pausing when he got to the dedication Shawn had written for Rhiannon.

He stopped flipping pages and pinned her with a look that made her flush immediately. Gone was the aging fan boy and in his place was her too-shrewd best friend. “What’s going on, Rhiannon?”

“Nothing.”

“This doesn’t sound like nothing. ‘The party’s just the beginning?’ Is he bothering you?”

“No. It’s nothing like that.”

“Nothing like what?” Logan’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Has he come on to you?”

“Of course not.”

“Why don’t I believe that?”

“Because you’re the most suspicious man I’ve ever met?”

“No, that’s not it. Maybe it’s because you’re the worst liar I’ve ever met. You keep twirling your pencil in your hair—that’s a dead giveaway. You do it only when you’re nervous. Or lying.”

She slammed the pencil she was holding onto the desk, nearly yanking a chunk of her hair out in the process. “I am not lying. He didn’t do anything overt. I just got the impression that he was…interested. But I don’t know. My radar’s all screwed up when it comes to men. You know that—”

“Your radar is just fine,” Logan said firmly. “One minor mistake doesn’t mean you can’t trust your instincts.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it minor.”

“You know what I mean. None of that was your fault, Rhiannon.”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it. This whole conversation is ridiculous. I mean, he’s obviously famous, and probably rich—”

“Definitely rich.”

She ignored him. “Plus he’s younger than I am, by at least five years.”

“More like ten or twelve—”

“You’re not helping.”

“Sorry.” He held up his hands, as if in surrender.

“Well, actually, maybe you are. Why would some twenty-some-year-old guy be interested in me?” Rhiannon breathed a sigh of relief, her stomach muscles un-knotting as she allowed herself to be convinced by her own words, despite the kiss. “He wouldn’t. So it’s no big deal, then. I was just reading the signals wrong.”

“Not to ruin the peace you seem to have found, but have you looked in a mirror lately?”

She stiffened, tried not to react to his words. She reminded herself that Logan meant them in a good way, but that didn’t seem to matter. Not when the answer was no—she hadn’t looked in a mirror. Not for years, or at least not for any longer than it took to apply a quick coat of lipstick and mascara before a party.

She was too afraid of what she might see.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Rhiannon.”

“Does your wife know you go around saying things like that to other women?” she asked, trying to divert his attention.

“Sandy agrees with me. She tells me regularly we should try to find someone to fix you up with.”

“Logan, no!”

“Relax, I’m not trying to get you to go out on a blind date. I wouldn’t do that. I just brought it up so you’d know that it’s not far-fetched that this guy could be interested in you.”

“I don’t want him to be interested in me.”

“Well, then, don’t worry about it.” Logan drained the last of his coffee, setting the cup on her desk like he always did. For two years now, he’d been making coffee and bringing her a cup, with the tacit understanding that she was in charge of cleanup. Since she made terrible coffee the situation worked perfectly for both of them. “If he makes a move on you, shoot him down. That should be enough to send him packing. And if it doesn’t, I’ll take over the account. It’d be no hardship for me to work with the genius who created Shadeslayer. As it is, I’m more than a little jealous that you get to.”

“Yeah, well, feel free to take over anytime.”

“Believe me, I would.” He headed for the door. “But somehow, I think Emerson would notice the last-minute substitution. My legs just aren’t nearly as good as yours.” He ducked out of the door just as the stress balls she kept on her desk went sailing across the room, smacking the door frame exactly where his head had been only moments before.

CHAPTER FOUR

FOR WHAT HAD TO BE the fifth time in as many minutes, Shawn stirred the pasta sauce he’d spent the better half of his afternoon making. Rhiannon was late. Not stand-him-up-late, or even kind-of-rude late—at least, not yet. But still, the seconds were crawling by, probably because he’d spent all day counting down to seven-thirty, only to have it come and go with no fanfare whatsoever.

Lifting the wooden spoon to his lips, Shawn tasted his maternal grandmother’s pasta sauce with a grin. Like always, it was delicious. He’d have to tell her so the next time they spoke.

He glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. She’d probably just gotten hung up at the party—it was her job to take care of things, after all. Besides, normally he wouldn’t even notice if his date was late—he’d be too engrossed in working on the latest adventures of Shadeslayer. But he hadn’t been able to write a word or draw a picture all day—he’d been too busy thinking about Rhiannon.

It was ridiculous, really, how excited he was about this date. He’d dated a lot of women through the years—since Cynthia had died, he’d made it a point not to get serious about any of them—so he couldn’t figure out why he was getting so worked up this time. Over this woman.

Sure, she was beautiful, but he’d learned long ago that beauty was often only skin deep. Cynthia had been absolutely gorgeous, yet when they’d been engaged, she’d made his life a living hell for longer than he cared to remember.

No, it wasn’t Rhiannon’s looks he was responding to so strongly. Maybe it was her cautious sense of humor, the one she kept hidden but that came out at the best moments? Or the fact that she was extremely cautious, yet had chosen to come here anyway. She might look fragile, she might even be fragile, but she was braver than he’d first given her credit for. And that he admired the hell out of her for.

The ringing of his doorbell had him all but leaping over the counter. Telling himself to chill—or he really would scare her away—Shawn headed through the entryway to the front door. He pulled it open, and couldn’t stop the smile that stretched across his face.

She looked good—really good—all dressed up from the afternoon garden party in a long-sleeved wrap-dress of navy silk. Her briefcase was slung over her shoulder and though he caught tantalizing glimpses of cleavage as she stepped inside, it was her smile that really caught his attention. Wide and happy, it transformed her whole face from sedately beautiful to breathtaking. If he looked closely, he could even see that small, peekaboo dimple in her left cheek. It made her look like a teenager.

“I’m sorry I’m late. The party ran long, and then the caterers took forever to clean up. Which ended up being nice, actually, because it gave the client plenty of time to gush about how great the party was. Seven of the guests walked away with my business card, promising to call early next week.” She laughed, a sweet, tinkling sound he’d never heard from her before. Which was a shame—she had a great laugh, though it sounded a little rusty, and it bugged him that she usually held herself back so much.

“Believe me, I understand how work can wreak havoc on the best-laid plans.” He rested a light hand on her lower back as he ushered her through to the kitchen. “I have a tendency to get lost in my own world when I’m working.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. I know all about you artistic types.”

Something dangerous flashed inside him, something he couldn’t name. Jealousy, maybe, that she’d been with some artistic type before him? But that was stupid—it wasn’t like there was anything between them. Yet. Still, he couldn’t resist asking, “Really? And how is it you’re so intimately acquainted with us artistic types?”

She paused at his tone, and he watched as her normal reserve came back. He could have kicked himself. “My whole family has an artistic bent of one type or another,” she said, all traces of levity gone. “My oldest brother’s an architect now, but when he was younger he had visions of being a great artiste. My mother was amazed he made it through adolescence without chopping off an ear.”

“His own or someone else’s?”

She inclined her head. “Either or. Matt was a handful when he was young.”

“Do you have any other siblings?” he asked, watching her look around his kitchen in admiration. It was stupid, but he felt his chest swell at the thought that she so obviously liked something that was such an intrinsic part of him.

“Twin sisters, who are also younger than I. One designs jewelry and the other designs clothes.”

“And you plan parties.”

Something flickered in her eyes. “Yes, not very artistic of me I must admit, but it pays the bills nicely. I figure that’s something.”

“It is,” he agreed, as he gestured for her to sit at the bar that ran along the center island of the kitchen.

“You’re cooking!” She stared at the stove as if she’d never seen one before. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“I figured you’d be hungry after going from one party to another today.” He poured some pasta into the pot of water boiling on the stove. “Have you already eaten?”

“Yes, I—” She shook her head at the skeptical look he shot her. “No, I haven’t. Not since my cup of yogurt this morning, anyway. I’d planned to grab something on the way here, but I was running late and didn’t want to be any later.”

“I could have waited a few more minutes, Rhiannon. But I’m glad you didn’t eat—it’s always nicer to cook for someone else.”

“It smells delicious.”

“It tastes even better. It’s an old family recipe.” He stirred the pasta sauce, then held the wooden spoon up to her lips. “Here, try.”

At first he thought she was going to refuse, but right before he lowered the spoon, she leaned forward and took a tentative lick, her eyes widening as she tasted the tangy mix of tomatoes, garlic and fresh herbs. “That’s really good.” She took another, bigger bite.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just, I’m not used to men who can cook that well.”

“You must be hanging out with the wrong kind of men.”

“You have no idea.” A shadow passed across her face, turning her already serious expression almost sad. Her brown eyes flickered and grew darker, and he couldn’t help wondering what had happened to her that had put that look on her face.

It set off an alarm deep inside him, had him thinking that maybe he should take a step back. Reserved was one thing, but the last thing he really needed was to get involved with another woman who was damaged. Surviving Cynthia had nearly killed him.

The first awkward silence of the night descended as he popped the garlic bread in the oven. He waited for her to say something, but she didn’t, and the stillness stretched from awkward to downright uncomfortable.

“I’m no whiz, but I can follow my grandmother’s recipe pretty well,” he commented in an effort to get things back on track. “She’s a genius in the kitchen.”

“Evidently.” She grabbed on to the verbal life preserver with both hands. “But you’re obviously no slouch, if that sauce is any indication.”

“Thanks. Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Can I get you a drink while we wait?” He gestured to the bottle of red wine he had resting on the counter.

“Actually, a glass of water would be great. I’m parched from all the talking I had to do today.”

“Sure.” He filled a glass, handed it to her.

“I’d love to see your backyard—get a chance to look at the space.”

“Absolutely.” He led them through the family room toward the back door that would take them out to the large deck he and Robert had built the summer before last.

“Wow.” She glanced around the huge room, with its cinema-sized television and state-of-the-art sound system. “This is a great room for a party, too.” She wandered over to one of the arcade-sized pinball machines he had lined up against the side wall, ran a hand over it and took in the adventures of various famous superheroes painted on its sides.

“You really take this whole comic-book thing seriously, don’t you?”

“Graphic novels, and yeah, I do. Seeing as how it’s my job, I figure I’d better take it seriously.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not that easy to offend.” He smiled at her, then changed the subject back to the party. “Most of the downstairs can be used—it’s a giant circle, so all the rooms pretty much flow into one another.”

He flipped on the outdoor lights as he opened the door, gestured for her to precede him, then waited for her reaction. He didn’t have long to wait.

“Oh, my God, this is unbelievable. When you said you had two acres up here, I figured most of it would be wild and unusable. But this—” She held her arms out wide. “This is perfect. You could have twice as many people as we planned out here and still not be crowded.”

“You want to go explore?” He nodded toward the well-lit path that curved from the deck through the entire yard.

“Try and stop me.”

RHIANNON FELT A LITTLE like Alice in Wonderland as she combed through Shawn’s yard. Everywhere she looked there was something else to see—a tall, intricately carved gazebo that would comfortably seat twelve. An abundant rose garden with benches scattered throughout. Hidden alcove after hidden alcove, each perfect for a food station or intimate seating arrangement. And then there was the gigantic pool, hot tub and basketball court that took up a significant portion of the backyard near the wrought-iron fence, not to mention the view of the lake, which, even at night, was breathtaking.

When Logan had talked about Shawn having money, she’d assumed he meant normal money. Reasonable money. Not holy-cow-he-lives-like-a-pasha-on-his-own-estate money. All this before the movies for his superhero had even come out? Obviously, she’d severely underestimated the graphic-novel market.

It was disconcerting on a personal level, especially considering the fact that he’d called this their second date and had made her dinner. After talking to him at the restaurant and finding out what he did for a living, she’d managed to convince herself that he was just a little boy in a man’s body. She’d actually been happy about that—her unwitting attraction would die quickly under such circumstances.

She looked around the grounds. While all the toys and other things he’d had built made it obvious he liked to play, it was also becoming very clear that there was a lot more to Shawn than she’d originally thought. He had a beautiful, thoughtfully designed house, a career that he was obviously brilliant at and, despite it all, he was completely un-self-absorbed.

Most of the men she knew would have spent the whole time showing off the house, bragging about every little thing. But Shawn seemed more interested in learning about her than he did about impressing her. It was a little frightening, particularly since she found herself intrigued by his restraint.

It had been a long time since she’d been this interested in a man, and she didn’t know what to make of it, didn’t know how to act. Didn’t know, even, if she wanted to be interested. It was an odd conundrum to be in.

He wasn’t the first man to show interest in her since the attack, and he probably wouldn’t be the last. Normally she was overwhelmed by panic at the thought of a man’s attention and did her best to ignore them until they went away. She didn’t like the way they made her feel—afraid, helpless, hopeless and overwhelmed by doubts that she would ever be normal again.

She didn’t want to ignore Shawn. She didn’t have a clue what she did want to do with him, but she knew that she didn’t want to do that. Which was a problem in and of itself. Her old therapist would probably tell her that she’d chosen to be interested in him because he was safe. Unattainable.

Besides being way too young for her, he was also a client—at least, for the next six weeks. And the last thing she wanted was to get involved with a client. If she froze up, turned down his advances because she couldn’t handle them, it would be awful to still have to show up and do his party. Of course, it would be even more awful if he took his business somewhere else.

No, it was better if she kept these odd little twinges of interest to herself. The thought of disappointing Logan by screwing this up was bad enough, but she really couldn’t stand the idea of disappointing herself yet again.

Shoving her weird response to Shawn down deep inside of herself where she could forget it ever existed, Rhiannon did her best to focus on doing her job. Looking around the backyard, her ideas for the party exploded as she doubled—okay, tripled—the budget she’d had in mind. With a space like this, she practically had carte blanche as to what she could do. The challenge now would be to convince Shawn to let her run with her ideas—and his wallet.

The way the backyard was set up precluded one of her original ideas for a huge outdoor buffet—the seating was so sprawling it would be a huge trek to get back to the buffet table. But she could set up a bunch of small food stations, one in each of the alcoves… She began jotting a long list of notes as she wandered the grounds.

She stayed outside as long as she could, imagining one scenario after another. At one point Shawn murmured something about checking the pasta, but she didn’t notice him leave. She was too engrossed in planning the event of the year.

Standing where she was, with the lawn spread out in front of her and the lake in the distance, she could almost see the party. The lawn crowded with people in jeans and sundresses as they threw beanbags into a big clown’s mouth. Or—excitement thrummed through her as ideas flashed through her brain almost too quick for her to process—they could base the games on famous films that everyone knew and loved. Instead of pelting a clown with beanbags, it could be a giant shark’s mouth instead.

She had begun to scribble a note about Hollywoodizing the games when a hand fell on her shoulder. Her heart went into instant overdrive as her stomach tightened, painfully. Whirling around, hands clenched into fists, it took her a second to realize Shawn was standing there, staring at her like she’d lost her mind.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” To his credit, he backed up instantly, both hands in the air. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Rhiannon. You were off in your own little world.”

The fear that had slammed through her at his unexpected touch slowly dissipated, but she was left feeling awkward and embarrassed. What kind of event coordinator whipped around, looking for blood, the second her client tried to get her attention?

“Hey. You’re going back into your head again—stop it.”

Shawn’s voice was kind but firm, and this time when he placed a hand on her she didn’t flinch away. She just stood there, looking at him, and wondering what she could possibly say to make up for her idiotic behavior. Besides the truth—and the truth was the last thing she wanted to get into right now.

But Shawn was more of a gentleman than he looked. Instead of pushing her for some explanation, he just waited for her to figure out what she wanted to say.

Determined to get her head back in the game, she said, “Sorry. I was deep in thought about your party. I’ve come up with a bunch of different ideas.”

“Oh, yeah? Did you come up with any keepers?” He moved a little closer, surveyed the yard much as she had been doing before he’d interrupted her.

“Actually, I think I might have.” Though the fear was gone, her heart was still beating a little too fast and his proximity wasn’t making things any better. She took a few casual steps away from him.

“As I mentioned before, I’m not sure a huge, formal party is going to make the impression on these people that you’re hoping for. If they’re from Hollywood, they’ve probably been to a million of those. So what about if we do what we talked about the other day? We don’t try to compete with what they’re used to, but instead give them something else entirely? Maybe something more along the lines of a carnival?”

She spread her arms wide, gestured to all the different attractions he already had in place. “Your backyard is perfect for it. We can set up some big, brightly colored tents on the lawn, have people compete at games of chance for movie-themed prizes. You know, like carnival games—try to get three rings around a bottle, beanbag tosses, that kind of thing.

“And for food, we can set up different stations. Each station can be a takeoff of a famous Endeavor film. You know, like for Desert Bandits we can serve kabobs and other Middle Eastern finger foods. For Broken Vines, we can do a wine-tasting from some Central Texas vineyards with a bunch of gourmet breads and cheeses. Kiss and Tell can be the dessert tent, with a big chocolate fountain and sweets tables spread out all around it.”

She paused, took a breath. Tried to read his face. She was so excited about the idea that she would be totally bummed if he rejected it. It was his party, of course, but everything inside her screamed that this would be perfect.

Plus, it was only the third big party she’d handled on her own since Logan had given her a job two years before—she’d handled a lot of smaller affairs, but until a few months ago the big ones had always gone through him. About six months ago he’d begun giving her bigger jobs—one of which was the party at which she’d met Shawn the previous Saturday—but she still worried about making mistakes.

About placing Logan in an awkward position, where he’d feel like he had to keep her because she was his friend instead of wanting to keep her because she did a kick-ass job.

About thinking too much like a journalist and not enough like an event coordinator. Old habits—and even some of her new ones—were turning out to be very hard to break.

“You know, I really like the idea.”

“You do?” she whispered, thrilled at the confidence boost his answer gave her.

“Yeah. It’s not the fancy thing I had originally planned on, but I can see where it could be a lot of fun. Plus, I know I’d enjoy a party like that a lot more than one where I had to sip champagne in a stuffy tuxedo.”

“Excellent. I’ll put some numbers together and work up a minimum budget for this kind of thing. But before I do that, do you have a basic idea of how much you want to spend? I should have asked you the other day but—”

“But you were so dazzled by my charm and wit that you couldn’t remember all the business details?” He grinned. “That’s okay, I’m used to it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I was going to say it was because you’d been hassling me incessantly with your God’s-gift-to-women persona and I just couldn’t work it into the conversation.”

“No, I don’t think so.” He tilted his head, as if actually considering the situation, but the expression on his face let her know he was only teasing. “I really do think you were just trying hard not to throw yourself at me. There’s no reason to be embarrassed. Like I said, it happens to me all the time.”

“I just bet it does.” She started to roll her eyes, but thought better of it. Hadn’t she just decided that she was going to keep things as businesslike as possible between them? Yet here she was, falling into a joking rhythm with him that was far easier to take part in than it should have been.

“Besides, I kind of like it.”

“Like what?”

“The fact that you get all frazzled and nervous around me.”

“Lissa didn’t mention that you were delusional when she introduced us. I’ll have to talk to her about that.”

“Yeah, well, best friends and their wives don’t know everything.”

They stood there, grinning at each other, for long seconds. An owl hooted, followed by the long, lonely sound of a coyote howling. When she was at her condo in the city, she couldn’t hear any of this. Couldn’t hear much of anything besides people, despite the abundant greenbelt around her complex. Was it because she hadn’t taken the time to listen in far too long? Because she couldn’t stand the sound of silence—of her own thoughts—anymore and always had the stereo going?

A gust of wind blew past her and she shivered. Shawn stepped close, blocking the cold air from hitting her head-on. “Are you ready to go in?”

Was she? Rhiannon glanced around the yard she had such high hopes for and tried to recapture the excitement—the warmth—she’d been feeling just a few moments before. But the sad, solitary cries of the coyote echoed within her, reminding her of just how long she’d been alone. Just how long it had been since she’d been able to reach out for or accept any kind of closeness—physical or emotional.

Maybe it was time to change that. She was sick of being alone, sick of always being on the outside looking in. Shawn was nice—really nice—not to mention sexy as hell. Maybe if she took things slowly, if she got to know him while planning the party, she could see where things took them. In six weeks’ time, when he was no longer a client, maybe she’d even be ready for a real date. One that ended in a real kiss and not just the glancing of his lips against her own.

It was an interesting idea, one she would have to consider for a while before she decided on it one way or another. But that was okay, because she had some time. Shawn wasn’t going anywhere for a while, and neither was she.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He started to reach for her hand, then stopped himself. She could see from the look in his eyes that he was remembering her jumpiness when he’d touched her shoulder. Terrific—now he thought he was saddled with a total freak for a party planner. So much for him wanting to kiss her when this whole thing was over.

The thought jerked her out of her funk and Rhiannon forced herself to concentrate on the present. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just cold.” She managed to work up the same carefree grin she’d used to fool her friends and family for months now.

“There’s a cure for that, you know.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” He was so close now that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. The air between them was suddenly charged, electric, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Part of her wanted to pull away, to shrink back inside the cocoon she’d built around herself and stay there. But another part of her, one that she barely recognized, wanted to stay right where she was. That part wanted to see what happened next.

But nothing happened next. Instead, he backed away with a relaxed expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A race to the house should cure your chills,” he said. “On your mark. Get set. Go.”

CHAPTER FIVE

SHAWN TOOK OFF BEFORE Rhiannon had registered his words, but kept his pace deliberately slow, conscious of her closing the distance between them. When she finally caught up to him, tossing him a cocky grin, he started to lay on the speed, but she looked so sexy with her hair streaming behind her and the navy dress molded to her curves that he let her pass just so he could enjoy the view of her running in front of him.

She hit the stairs a couple of seconds before he did, and shot him a look of mock-disgust over her shoulder. “Taking off without me like that was cheap.”

He shrugged. “You won, didn’t you?”

“You let me win—it’s not the same thing.”

“Do I sense a competitive spirit here?”

“What, does that surprise you?”

“A little bit. But that’s okay—I like surprises.” And Rhiannon was turning out to be the nicest surprise he’d had in a long time.

Tonight had only reinforced the idea he had had at the restaurant when he’d decided she was a contradiction, a puzzle. Rhiannon might look all prim and proper on the outside, but there was a lot more to her than met the eye. The fact that’d she’d taken up his challenge without thinking twice, the way she always had a zippy comeback for him, how she looked when she didn’t know he was watching her—it all added up to a woman who ran a lot deeper than her surface made it seem.

He liked that about her, liked the fact that he had to work to figure her out and couldn’t help wondering what she would be like if she ever really let go.

Stepping back, making sure not to crowd her, Shawn studied her for a moment and saw with satisfaction that the haunted look he’d noticed outside was gone from her eyes, and her pale cheeks were now flushed with color. He didn’t know what had happened out there, what had turned her so suddenly skittish, but he’d known it was bad—even before she’d drifted away from him. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m hungry.”

“You’re the one blocking the path to the kitchen.”

“Excuse me.” He moved to the side, gesturing for her to lead the way. Which she did with a flash of her dimple that told him, better than words, that she was trying to recover from what had happened outside.

Dinner was an almost relaxed affair, filled with talk of the party and a little bit of silly banter between them—initiated by him, of course. But Rhiannon kept up her end of the conversation, and he could tell by the gradual warming of her eyes that she was enjoying it almost as much as he was. He kept trying to make her laugh again, but her reserve had kicked in and the best he could get was an occasional quirk of her lips.

It wasn’t enough for him, but he made do—especially as sitting across from Rhiannon was no hardship. She looked sexily disheveled—her hair tousled from the run, her cheeks pink, her dress just a little bit askew. It was a good look for her, one that was as far from the woman he’d first met at Robert and Lissa’s party as she could get.

When it was her turn to talk, he got lost in the soft, melodic sound of her voice as she recounted some of her experiences as a party planner—including a few truly hilarious incidents that had him all but rolling on the floor with laughter. She complimented him on the food, again, and though it was one of his favorite meals, he barely paid any attention to it. He was too busy watching that crazy dimple of hers, cataloging the little laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, counting the freckles on her left cheek that formed a tiny star he wanted nothing more than to trace with his tongue.

Watching her, it occurred to him—not for the first time—that people would probably say she was too old for him. He didn’t know her exact age, but his best guess put her at somewhere around thirty-six or thirty-seven, years older than his own twenty-nine. But it didn’t matter to him, not when he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed having dinner with a woman this much.

Besides, age had never been an issue to him when it came to women. While it was true that he’d never dated a woman more than one or two years older than him before, the idea didn’t bother him as it would some of his friends. For him, it was all about the chemistry, about how he felt when he looked at a woman, talked to her, touched her. If she interested him, that was enough, and Rhiannon—with all of her stops and goes, all of her contradictions and complications—interested him more than any woman had in a long time.

Where else would he find a poised, sophisticated woman who was as interested in watching a slasher movie as she was in going to an art gallery? A woman who could discuss politics one minute and Willie Nelson and the city’s Keep Austin Weird campaign the next? Who cared if she was twenty-seven or thirty-seven or even forty-seven as long as there was a spark between them? And while he still wasn’t sure about Rhiannon’s side, he knew that on his there was a hell of a lot more than a spark going on.

Now, if only he could get her interested in baseball, it’d be a match made in heaven.

When they were finished eating, she insisted on helping him clear the table before he ushered her into the family room he loved. The back wall was all windows and it had an incredible view of the lake—at the end of a long day of writing, he liked nothing more than sitting on his sofa and watching the sun set over Lake Travis.

“You know, we could set up a bar in the corner over there, along with a couple of food stations.” Rhiannon stood in the middle of the room, turning in a slow circle as she examined every nook and cranny. As she did, he wondered how she could stand there, surrounded by such an incredible view—the lights were still on outside and his entire backyard had a soft, mellow glow—and think only of work. Especially when it was the farthest thing from his mind.

“Maybe a pasta station over here in this corner—very Mafia Times—and then in the center of the room, we could—”

“Do you ever think about anything but work?” he interrupted her, simply to see what she would do.

She didn’t even break stride. “—have prizes for the games. Or at least a prize booth where they could trade tickets in. Movie memorabilia, that kind of thing. I’m not sure how much it would cost, but I think it could be doable.” She finally paused for a breath. “How much are you thinking of budget wise? I started to ask you when we were outside, but we got sidetracked.”

“I don’t know. What’s a reasonable number for this kind of party?”

She named a price that had his eyes widening and his hand clutching at his wallet where it rested in the back pocket of his jeans. Beer and chips weren’t sounding so bad after all.

“For a casual party?” he asked incredulously. “How much would the formal party have been?”

“Probably about the same,” she admitted wryly. “If that’s more than you were wanting to spend, we can tone things down a bit. There doesn’t have to be—”

He cut her off before she could gain any more momentum and launch into another spiel, partly because in the end he didn’t care that much—after all, he had the money—and partly because he could think of any number of more interesting things to talk about with her than the virtues of a party with a budget that just might rival the national debt of a small country.

“Work up a budget for our next meeting, like you were planning on, and we’ll take it from there. Okay?”

“Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I should probably be going then.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Her brow was furrowed in confusion and he wanted nothing more then to step forward and smooth it out. But, despite the fact that she’d relaxed some over dinner, Rhiannon still had enough No Trespassing signs around her to stop a blind man in his tracks. “Why do you want to leave? You haven’t even opened your present yet.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You bought me a present?”

“I did.” He crossed to the bar, pulled out the large, colorful bag he’d placed there earlier in the day, and held it out to her.

She didn’t take it, didn’t do anything but stare at the gift—and him—like they were cobras poised to strike. In return, he stayed right where he was, not saying anything, not moving, barely even breathing as he waited to see what she would do.

“Why would you do that? You barely know me.”

“True, but I like what I do know of you. And as to why I bought the present—” He dangled it on a fingertip, watching as her eyes followed its back-and-forth motion as if hypnotized. “I saw it at the store today and it made me think of you. Besides, your education is sorely lacking in some areas and I thought this could even it out a little.”

“Sorely lacking?” From the look on her face, he could tell she wasn’t sure whether she should be insulted or not. Which was fine with Shawn, as the confusion—and mild insult—propelled her across the room to him.

“What’s in the bag?” she demanded, when she was only a few steps away.

He extended his arm so that she only had to come a couple feet closer to look inside it. “Why don’t you look inside and find out?”

She didn’t move for the longest time, and neither did he, though the waiting was killing him. He loved to give presents, loved to see how the woman in his life reacted when she got them, but he’d never had anyone react to a gift from him quite like Rhiannon was. Her suspicion made him a little sad—not to mention angry at the bastard who had hurt her enough that a simple foil bag could have her gnawing on her lip until she was close to drawing blood.

“Whatever it is, it better be good,” she said finally, reaching for the bag with a touch of defiance. Her fingers rubbed against his and a little shock of electricity crackled through him, between them, as he felt her skin brush his. Her eyes darkened to a deep, molten chocolate and he waited for her to pull away. But she didn’t. Instead, she let her fingers linger for a few seconds, as if—in that moment—she was as curious about the feel of him as he was about her.

And then she was pulling away, the connection between them severed, though heat lingered in the air between them. Shawn stared at her, wondering what she was thinking. What she was feeling. Whatever it was, she had a poker face and projected nothing but a calm serenity he knew she couldn’t be feeling, not while the gift bag she now held was rustling with each tremor of her fingertips.

After a minute, she broke eye contact and started rummaging through the bag, pulling out the tissue paper he’d crumpled up and shoved in the top a few hours before. After laying it neatly on the bar, she finally reached in and pulled out his present. For a second, she didn’t react at all, just stared at his gift in silence. And then she started to laugh—not a small, tinkling giggle like he’d heard before but a warm, full-bodied laugh that filled up the entire room around them.

He felt himself grow hard at the sound, and at the sight of her so free and uninhibited. So unselfconscious. He watched her, fascinated by the transformation, and wondered—which was the real Rhiannon? This woman with the big laugh and dancing eyes, or the sedate woman who always dressed in neutrals and rarely made a move she hadn’t thought out?

The contradictions were driving him insane, the edges of the puzzle refusing to fit together in his mind no matter how hard he tried to find the right angle. There were too many missing pieces, too many stories left unsaid. Tonight he’d gotten one of those pieces. He’d have to wait and see what other ones showed up in the next few days and weeks.

“You bought me slasher movies?” she asked, a little incredulously.

“Not just any slasher movies. I will have you know that you are holding the Saturday Night Cinema Special in your hot little hands—the trifecta of slasher movies. The greatest slasher movies of all time, bar none.”

“According to you.”

“According to anyone who has taste. I’m telling you, if you’re as big a fan of the genre as you say you are, then it is an absolute travesty that you haven’t seen those movies.”

“A travesty you just had to remedy?”

“Well, obviously. And look—” He pointed at the large cardboard tub the movies had been resting in. “I even got you popcorn and an extra-large chocolate bar.”

“I’m more of a gummy-worm girl myself.”

“Who isn’t? But the store was out of gummy worms, so I had to improvise. Next time, I’ll go with the gummy eyeballs.”

“There’s going to be a next time?”

He sighed with exaggerated patience, loving the spark that came to her eyes. “Of course there will be. I have an entire wall of horror films and I won’t rest until you’ve seen them all.”

“That’s quite a sacrifice you’re making there.”

“It’ll be tough, but someone’s got to do it.”

“I just bet.” Rhiannon leaned back against the bar, more relaxed than he had ever seen her. It made his blood boil and his erection throb and he was seized by a nearly overwhelming urge to kiss her. But he hadn’t come this far to blow it when he was so close to the prize.

For Rhiannon was a double-edged sword, one that required a very careful balancing act. Normally that would be enough to make him run in the other direction—after Cynthia had killed herself, he’d made a point of sliding through life with a wink and a smile, steering clear of any major complications or entanglements.

But this was different, this energy that pulsed between Rhiannon and him whenever they got too close. It was sweet yet exciting, sexy yet comfortable—as much a mystery and a contradiction as Rhiannon was herself. Even knowing that she was a risk—that he might very well end up on his ass six weeks from now, watching as she zoomed off into her own sunset—couldn’t keep him from wanting her.

“So, I suppose you want to watch these movies with me?”

“Well, since you asked so nicely…”

“I appreciate the gift—I really do. It was incredibly thoughtful. But…” She paused and he waited for the brush-off he could tell was coming. It upset him, because he knew, deep down, that they could be good together. But she had to know it, too, or at least suspect it. Otherwise, it didn’t do him any good to stand around mooning over her.

“You know it can only be business between us, Shawn.”

And there it was, the line he’d been waiting for. “Why?”

“Because you’re a client, one whose event is going to bring in big word of mouth for my firm. I can’t afford to get tangled up with you.”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “You’re fired, then. Problem solved.”

Her eyes widened. “The problem is definitely not solved. I can’t afford to let you fire me. My boss would kill me.”

“Well, then, what do you suggest we do? Because I’m not willing to just forget being with you, talking to you, simply because I hired your firm to do my party.”

“It’s a conflict of—”

“Don’t give me that tired old line about conflicts of interest.” He moved closer to her, crowded her just a little bit even as he told himself it was the wrong move.

But he couldn’t help it. He wanted to be near her, wanted to feel the silky soft brush of her skin against his again. Wanted to smell her sweet honeysuckle scent. He didn’t touch her—he still had enough control not to do that—but he couldn’t make himself take that step back, no matter how much he knew he should.

“Because if you feed me that line, it means one of two things. Either you’re not interested in me and you’re looking for a convenient excuse to step back gracefully, or you are interested and I should just eliminate the conflict so that we can move forward.” He took a deep breath, inhaled her into his lungs. “So which one is it, Rhiannon? Do you want to go on a third date with me or don’t you?”

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