Siren...or Sinner?

With her long blond hair and flowy skirts, Rhys Glover’s new neighbor is the sexiest woman he’s ever seen. He quickly learns she’s also free-spirited and impulsive—the total opposite of his own personality. They should be like oil and water. Instead, the chemistry between them is like oxygen and flame.

But when Rhys’s next assignment for Cobalt & Dane security leads him right back to Wren, Rhys begins to walk a very fine line between ethics and desire. He believes he can trust Wren, but can he trust himself when he’s with her? And if she is keeping her own dangerous secrets, will he be able to walk away?

Holy hell, he couldn’t seem to control himself around her...

“Lose the T-shirt.” Wren flicked her hand in Rhys’s direction. “It needs to come off.”

He hesitated for a moment, but the lust in her eyes urged him on. He peeled the soaked cotton up and over his head.

“The jeans, too,” Wren said, keeping her face straight. “They’re soaked.”

Rhys glanced down and saw a small dark patch where the denim had absorbed the water. They were hardly soaked. “You sure about that?”

“Let me help you.” She stepped forward and reached for the buckle on his belt.

Her fingertips grazed the bare skin of his stomach and he had to stifle a moan.

He might have started the fire, but she was fanning the flames...

Dear Reader,

I’m thrilled to be continuing The Dangerous Bachelors Club series with Harlequin Blaze. This means there will be plenty more steamy stories with a dash of suspense coming your way.

If you’ve been following this series, you may remember Rhys from A Dangerously Sexy Affair. In that book he plays a slightly antagonistic role and I wasn’t initially planning to give him a book. But that’s how it is with some characters—they get under your skin and beg to have their story told.

Who am I to say no to a character in need of a happy ending?

Rhys has a strong sense of what he believes in. Everything he does fits in with his personal motto, “tough but fair.” He lives via this rigid code, and everything he does is to the highest standard possible. Then the heroine comes along and makes his life messy in the best ways possible.

The relationship between Rhys and Wren is very much about finding balance and common ground. I love the idea of two people who seem so completely opposite coming together to see that they’re actually perfectly suited to one another. They’re like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

I really hope you enjoy Wren and Rhys’s story. You can find out what’s coming next by checking out my website, stefanie-london.com, or on Facebook at Facebook.com/StefanieLondonAuthor. I love chatting with readers, so feel free to drop me a line anytime.

With love,

Stefanie

USA TODAY bestselling author STEFANIE LONDON is a voracious reader who has dreamed of being an author her whole life. After sneaking several English-lit subjects into her “very practical” business degree, she got a job in corporate communications. But it wasn’t long before she turned to romance fiction. She recently left her hometown of Melbourne to start a new adventure in Toronto and now spends her days writing contemporary romances with humor, heat and heart.

For more information on Stefanie and her books, check out her website at stefanie-london.com or her Facebook page at Facebook.com/stefanielondonauthor.

A Dangerously Sexy Secret

Stefanie London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Dad,

for all the important lessons you taught me. For pushing me to be a good student. For fostering my creativity. And for sitting through all my ballet concerts. I know they were really long.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

1

WREN LIVINGSTON COULD MULTITASK, there was no doubt about it. But carrying four bags of groceries while walking up a flight of stairs in a maxi skirt and trying to deflect sisterly guilt was pushing it. Even for her.

Add to the mix the fact that her new and insanely hot next-door neighbor was coming down the hallway toward her, and Wren was at her limit. How was one supposed to carry on a normal conversation with all those muscles staring back at you? Impossible.

“Sis?” Debbie whined on the other end of the phone. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Uh-huh.” Wren watched as the guy stopped in front of her, his pearly smile gleaming bright against warm brown skin. The black tail of his headphones curved up from an armband sitting snugly over his biceps.

Oh yeah, muscles... Had she mentioned them? He had a lot.

“Can I give you a hand with those bags?” he asked, pulling one bud from his ear.

He must have been about to go for a run, if the gray shorts and navy cotton tank were anything to go on. The fabric hugged a solid chest and caught her eye, drawing her attention up until she set her sights on a sharp jaw, broad nose and sparkling warm brown eyes.

Sweet mother of...

“Oh.” She shook her head, cheeks fiery hot as she realized she must have been gaping at him. “No, I’m fine. Very fine. I mean...uhh...thank you.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely sure. One hundred percent.” A nervous giggle bubbled up in her throat that she tried to tamp down—and failed. The fizzy sound burst out and she cringed.

Total brain cell destruction in three, two, one...

“Okay, then.” His voice was rich and deep, smooth like satin sheets.

He stuck the bud back into his ear and gave her space to shuffle awkwardly past him in the tight hallway. Her shopping bags knocked against the wall and she almost tripped on the sweeping hem of her skirt.

Can you at least stay upright for the next three minutes so you don’t embarrass yourself? You’re walking like a drunk llama.

She told herself not to turn around and look back at him. But she couldn’t resist. Her mouth dried up when her gaze landed on the wide expanse of his shoulders as he jogged down the stairs.

“What was that all about?” Debbie asked, and Wren realized her sister was still on the phone. “Since when do you giggle like a little girl?”

“It’s nothing.” She wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder as she reached the front door of her new apartment. “Nothing at all.”

Let’s keep it at nothing—you’re not here to ogle men.

Her arm ached from carrying all the shopping bags in one hand, the burn in her muscles getting hotter as she fumbled for her keys. Sweat beaded at her hairline. What in the world had possessed her to move into a building with no elevator?

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Debbie...” Wren sighed as she pushed the door open with a grunt. “It was just my neighbor.”

“What’s he like?”

Delicious. The word sprang to her mind immediately. The guy from apartment 401 was definitely all that and a bag of chips, as her old boss used to say. So far she hadn’t done more than return his friendly hellos and now turn down his offer of help in a most embarrassing way. But she’d be lying if she said he hadn’t made an appearance in one—okay, two...at least—dirty dreams.

“He seems nice. Friendly.” She let out a silent gasp of relief as she set the bags on the kitchen counter. “Same as everyone else here.”

“And where is here, exactly?” Debbie’s tone was sharp. “You still haven’t told me where you’re staying.”

“I’m in New York.”

“New York is a big place. How about you narrow it down to a borough for me?”

Her sister was exactly the kind of person who would show up on her doorstep, wanting to “help” and be part of the action. But Debbie, while she was a great person and the shining star of the Livingston family, was not exactly street smart. Or subtle.

“I don’t want anyone else getting involved.” She turned and sagged back against the counter, pushing her hair from her eyes.

“You shouldn’t be involved,” her sister huffed.

Maybe. But her best friend, Kylie, had been attacked and she refused to talk about it.

Wren had a strong suspicion the incident had something to do with the gallery where Kylie had been working because anytime Wren mentioned it, Kylie went white as a ghost.

Originally they had both applied for the gallery internship, but only Kylie had been successful in gaining one of the coveted spots. Then, after she returned home, the gallery’s owner had called Wren to offer her Kylie’s old spot. Seems she’d been next in line.

And just like that, Wren had packed her bags and moved to New York.

“I still can’t believe you’ve gone on this vigilante mission,” Debbie continued. “Now I have to miss out on seeing my sister because you’ve once again taken on other people’s problems. I can’t even send you a goddamn Christmas card.”

“It’s not even June yet. Christmas is ages away and things will be back to normal by then... I promise.” She spoke the words with way more confidence than she felt. “As for Kylie—”

“I’ll look after her, I promise.” Debbie sighed. “Although I have no idea how I’m supposed to keep dodging her questions about where you’ve run off to. She knows something’s up.”

“We stick to the story—I’m away at an art retreat and they have a no-cell-phone policy, so she can’t call. But I’ll email her when I can. No one else needs to know what I’m doing, got it?”

Debbie grumbled her agreement. They lived in a small town where information had a way of traveling at the speed of light. The only reason she’d revealed more of her plan to Debbie was because her sister had caught her booking a flight to New York after she’d said the retreat was in California.

“If I get in trouble here I don’t want to drag anyone else into my problems.”

“Don’t you mean Kylie’s problems?”

“Come on, Deb.” She sighed. “Kylie is like our sister. I have to find out what happened to her. Anyway, my reputation is already ruined at home... What do I have to lose by trying to do something good for a friend?”

“Your reputation is not ruined. A few uptight old biddies think you’re a bit wild, so what?”

“They called me a sexual deviant.” Her humiliation still burned as brightly as a newly lit flame. “And a blight on their community.”

“It’s not true. You’ve helped out so many families at the community center, you’ve painted faces at the summer fair,” Debbie said, and Wren could practically see her sister ticking the items off her perfectly manicured fingers the way she always did when she was mad. “You’ve made cupcakes for almost every bake sale and your stuff is always the first to sell out, you’ve—”

“Enough.” She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. Never in her life would she admit how much it hurt that Charity Springs had ostracized her, and hearing her sister point out all she’d done was only making it worse.

She may not be the biggest fan of the small town—or its residents—but it was still her home.

“Debs, please. Can we not rehash this again? I know you’re upset with me for leaving and I’m sorry. But I need to do this.”

“You ‘need’ to run around fixing other people’s problems, do you? All right, I guess you do.” It was as close to acceptance as Wren was going to get, so she’d take it. “What are you supposed to do, spend your days playing spy?”

“I’m working at a gallery and I’m painting. It’s not exactly a hard life.” She didn’t bother to mention the recon activities she was planning, like trying to break into her new boss’s email account.

Details. You’re doing the right thing by your friend—that’s all that matters.

Debbie made a scoffing sound on the other end of the line. “You’re so full of shit.”

“And you swear way too much for a girl who’s going to be an upstanding pillar of society.” Wren began to unpack her groceries. Flour for her pizza base, some fresh kale, tomatoes, basil and a delicious-looking knob of buffalo mozzarella.

“Upstanding pillar of society?” Debbie snorted. “Spare me. And I’ve noticed that your little list of activities doesn’t involve screwing your hot neighbor.”

Heat crawled up Wren’s cheeks. Thank God she’d decided not to video chat with her sister, because she was sure her face would be flaming tomato red right about now. “I never mentioned he was hot.”

“That heavy breathing did all the talking for you.” Her sister cackled. “Not to mention the fact that you seemed to forget how to string a sentence together as soon as he came near you.”

Usually, she didn’t engage in her sister’s teasing, but right now she was grateful that the conversation had turned away from her secret mission. “Okay, he’s good-looking. So what? That’s not reason enough for me to sleep with him.”

“Isn’t it? When was the last time you got laid? And if you tell me that you haven’t had sex since you broke up with Christian, so help me...”

For someone who was supposedly a “sexual deviant,” she’d actually been quite conservative when it came to sex. There’d been no one in the six months since she’d broken up with her ex—because now all the men in town either thought she was easy or bad news. Neither of which was true.

Sucking on her lower lip, she concentrated on continuing to unpack the groceries. Milk, eggs, butter, vanilla extract.

“Wren?”

A spring-form pan, parchment paper, confectioners’ sugar. “Yeah?”

“Really?”

“You said not to tell you if I hadn’t...”

“Are you serious?”

“The only guys interested in me now are the ones I don’t want.” She slammed the box of granola down on the counter harder than necessary. “And I’m not ready to try opening up to anyone else, not after the way Christian humiliated me.”

“You’re never going to be ready until you take a risk. You have to put yourself out there. Listen to me, I’m a doctor.”

Wren gritted her teeth. “First, you don’t get to say you’re a doctor until you finish med school. Second, why do you care so much about my sex life?”

“Because you’re my sister and you deserve to have a sex life. You’re twenty-six, for crying out loud, not a hundred and six. But if you don’t get some action your vagina will dry up like an old prune.”

Despite herself, Wren let out a burst of laughter.

“It’s a fact. A medical fact. Trust me, I’m a doctor.” This time Debbie said the words through her own giggles. “Do you want a pruney va—”

“Shut up.” Wren shook her head and bundled up the empty plastic bags. “I’m not having sex with the first guy I see just for the sake of it.”

“Seriously, you need to stop hiding away because a few people said bad, untrue things. You deserve to live a full life. Orgasms included.”

“How do you know my neighbor will be good enough to give me orgasms?” Flashes of her dream from last night came back to her—Mr. 401’s large hands roaming her body, his full, wide mouth covering her breasts.

Dammit. It wasn’t right to fantasize about a guy without knowing his name.

“Judging by the crazy way you were giggling, I think he will.” Debbie sounded smug as hell, the evil little thing. “Trust me, you won’t regret it. Sex is a very natural and healthy part of life. It’s good for your brain and your heart. You’re really doing your health a disservice by not having sex.”

“Is that another medical fact?” She grinned in spite of herself and shook her head. Her sister knew exactly how to push her buttons and get under her skin, but they always looked out for each other. No matter what.

“Yep, I’m sure it’s in one of my textbooks. I have to go. I’ve got a study session planned and the last person there has to buy coffee.” She paused. “I miss you, Birdie.”

At the sound of her childhood nickname, Wren smiled. “I miss you, too. I’ll be home soon. I promise.”

“You’d better.”

She hung up the phone and steadied herself against the countertop. Debbie had a point. Her life had been filled with nothing but stress the last few months; maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to live a little.

So long as living doesn’t involve any promises or commitment. You’re done with that crap!

Totally done. She’d trusted her ex, had even flirted with the idea of getting hitched in the late darkness of night when she’d curled up against him. But it turned out that she hadn’t really known him at all...and he clearly hadn’t known her.

She wouldn’t put herself in a position to be ripped apart like that again. But she could still have some fun...right?

Wren drew a knife from the wooden block next to her stove and placed it on her cutting board. She didn’t have to make any decisions right now. She would be in New York for at least a month, so she could take her time. Maybe talk to Mr. 401 a little more before she made a move.

But first she had a pizza to make; she wasn’t in the habit of doing any serious thinking on an empty stomach.

* * *

RHYS GLOVER ROUNDED the last corner of his run, dodging a couple with linked arms as he pounded his feet into the pavement. He loved nothing more than getting fresh air on the weekend, be it running, biking or otherwise. He put long hours into his job—which he wouldn’t trade for anything—but it didn’t exactly make for an active or healthy lifestyle during the week.

So Saturdays and Sundays were all about getting out of the house. Getting his blood pumping and his heart racing. Getting his sweat on.

You might be able to do a few of those things indoors if you had the stones to ask Blondie on a date.

He shook his head as he slowed to a stop in front of his walk-up, detouring to collect his mail. Blondie—aka the smoking-hot fox who’d recently moved into the apartment across from him—occupied far too much of his headspace lately. But, try as he might to evict her image from his mind, the waist-length hair that shimmered like spun gold and those long limbs tempted him beyond belief. Rhys prided himself on being a man of solid self-control, but one glance at her and he was as horny as a teenager.

Chiding himself, he shoved the key into his box. A small stack of letters sat inside, mostly bills. A bright blue envelope caught his attention. It bore his stepbrother’s neat, utilitarian print and the childish scrawl of his niece. A happy face decorated one corner. They insisted on sending him a real birthday card, even when he told them he was happy with an email or phone call. A wave of jealousy ghosted through him.

It wasn’t fair to resent his stepbrother, Marc, for the perfect, happy life he’d been gifted. But it was hard not to compare. Or compete. They were the same age and had grown up together as best friends before their parents had gotten hitched. He’d always envied how easily everything came to Marc—grades, girls, sports. Everything.

And now, as adults, Marc still had the edge. He’d given their parents two grandchildren and he had a beautiful wife whom he adored. Marc often joked that he envied Rhys his bachelor lifestyle, but Rhys didn’t believe it for a second.

Rhys knew part of the reason he felt compelled to settle down was because it was the one thing Marc had over him. In their parents’ eyes, he’d achieved the dream. Happy wife, two healthy kids...and Rhys was still lagging behind, as always.

But it was hard to have a relationship when he didn’t even put himself out there. He was just too busy with work to meet people.

“You don’t even know if Blondie’s single,” he muttered to himself as he started up the stairs.

But she hadn’t looked at him the way a woman in a committed relationship would when they’d almost bumped into one another earlier.

The pink blush that had crept into her cheeks had done crazy things to him. The kind of crazy things that were not so easily concealed in a pair of running shorts.

The fourth floor was deserted, and Rhys couldn’t stop himself from glancing at number 402 as he walked up to the door of his own apartment. Maybe he should formally introduce himself? It would be the neighborly thing to do.

He glanced down at his sweat-soaked tank and shorts. It might be the neighborly thing to do, but he wasn’t exactly going to make a great impression if he knocked on her door smelling like a locker room.

Tomorrow.

Satisfied that he’d committed himself to an action, he pushed open the door to his apartment with his free hand. Toeing off his sneakers, he hung his keys on their designated hook and placed the letters into the inbox he kept on the bureau near his desk. All except the blue envelope, which he tore open as he walked into the living area.

Inside the brightly decorated, homemade card—which looked like an insane craft teacher had thrown up all over it—were messages from his stepbrother and sister-in-law, his eldest niece and a proxy message from the little one. They’d even drawn on a paw print to represent the dog.

He put the card on his entertainment unit, next to his new fancy universal remote—the birthday present he’d gifted himself since his family didn’t really get his love of technology. The card looked totally out of place in what Marc jokingly referred to as “the computer nerd’s bachelor pad.”

By the time he reached the bathroom he was itching to get out of his workout clothes. He pulled off the soaked cotton. A light ache had spread through his muscles, a sign he’d pushed himself hard today and he’d need to spend some time on the foam roller to ease out the knots.

He’d been tighter than usual the last few weeks. Stress, his trainer had said. Lack of stretching, according to the remedial masseuse. Working too hard, his buddies at the security company admonished. But he knew it wasn’t any of those things.

Dissatisfaction. A lack of purpose. He’d felt it burrowing slowly under his skin, creating an incurable itch that niggled at him in the quiet portions of his day. In the dead of night. In the dark corners of his dreams.

He shook off the troubling thought and stepped under the running water, sighing as warmth seeped into him. As he lathered up, the scent of soap filled his nostrils. Perhaps it might be a good idea to put himself out there again. After all, his life couldn’t be all work and no play.

Tomorrow.

The promise rolled around in his mind, and just like that Blondie popped back into his head, soothing all his worries away. God, she was gorgeous. Fair skin and rich golden hair, bright blue eyes. And perky breasts that seemed to often be uninhibited by a bra. This morning he’d noticed the way the pert mounds moved beneath her white tank top, the stiff little peaks of her nipples pressing forward against the fabric.

He was hard as stone just thinking about it. He wondered if those nipples would be golden like the rest of her, or would they be rosy and pink? Would she have a dusting of hair between her legs or smooth, silky skin?

He’d gone way too long without sex and now all the carnal thoughts had piled up like traffic on a highway. But a knocking sound snapped him out of the fog of arousal. He rinsed off the last of the soap suds and shut off the water. Another sharp knock rang through the apartment.

“Hang on!” he called out as he wrapped a soft gray towel around his waist, knotting it to conceal the still-raging erection he was sporting.

His wet feet skidded on the floorboards as he hurried to the door. Who on earth would be dropping by without calling first?

Grasping the knob, he pulled the door open and was greeted with the very object of his fantasies. Blondie.

There she was in all her golden glory, long hair tangling around her shoulders and spilling down her body. Eyes wide and blue and bright. It wasn’t until he saw the wad of blood-soaked tissue in her hands that he realized something was wrong.

2

“UH...HI,” HE SAID, his eyes darting down to her hands and widening.

Crap. This was really not how Wren had imagined their first conversation would go. Especially not after Debbie had gotten the idea of having sex into her head. But he was topless, and boy, oh boy, had her dreams failed to do his body justice. His muscles had muscles of their own, and the gray towel he’d knotted at his waist hid very little. A spark of arousal flared low in her belly.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, his eyebrows crinkled.

“Oh yes. I, uh...cut myself.” A nervous laugh bubbled up in her throat but she pushed it down. No need to do anything else to convince him that she had a screw loose. “I don’t have any bandages in my house and I was wondering—”

“Of course. Come in.” He held the door and let it swing shut behind her. “Let me grab my first-aid kit.”

“Thank you.” Only then did the throbbing pain start to push through her giddy state. “I’m sorry I interrupted your shower. I should have thought to buy some bandages at the grocery store today.”

But, as usual, she’d gone without a list. Or without any idea of what she needed or wanted to buy. Wren usually let the ingredients inspire her as she shopped—allowing her to make up her dinner menu on the fly—and that meant that important purchases like bandages and antiseptic lotions were often forgotten.

He pulled a small white tin down from the top of his refrigerator and opened it up. The inside was neat and tidy, like a perfect Tetris arrangement of adulthood. Band-Aids, antiseptic wipes, burn lotion, cotton balls and gauze bandages all neatly packed in a way that made her feel slightly inadequate.

“Show me.” He held out his hand and she gingerly removed the wadded-up kitchen towel.

Blood immediately pooled in the slice along her palm, trailing along the crease in her skin and rushing toward the edge of her hand. She dabbed at it, but the paper was soaked through.

“Let’s get that hand under some running water.” He led her to the bathroom sink, her skin sparking at the comforting way he touched her arm. “You’ve done a number on yourself. Thankfully, it doesn’t look too deep. You shouldn’t need stitches.”

He held her hand under the running tap, the blood washing over her fingers and staining the water pink before it swirled down the drain. In the confines of the small room—which mirrored her own except for the simple gray shower curtain that hung in place of her own chaotic rainbow version—he was incredibly close. The scent of soap on his skin filled her nostrils and made her giddy.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he pulled her hand out from under the water to inspect the cut. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

“No.” She shook her head. Thankfully, she could blame the wooziness on the blood—although the truth was it didn’t bother her in the slightest. She’d never been the squeamish sort. “I’m fine.”

Mr. 401 disappeared for a moment and returned with the necessary first-aid items. Within moments, she was patched up and almost as good as new.

“Thank you so much, uh...”

“Rhys.” He stuck out his hand and she shook it as best she could with her injury.

“Rhys,” she repeated, weighing the name in her mouth. It suited him—strong, masculine. Direct. “I’m Wren.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Wren.”

She inspected the expertly applied bandage. “You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

“I do a little downhill mountain biking. Cuts and scrapes come with the territory.” When he smiled Wren felt like she was staring directly into the sun.

“Well. I’m very grateful you’re so prepared.”

“You make me sound like a Boy Scout.” His honey-brown eyes twinkled.

Judging by the way her mouth had run dry and her heart galloped in her chest, Boy Scout was the last thing she would compare him to. Man Scout wasn’t a thing...was it?

“That doesn’t seem to fit you,” she said, shocking herself with the flirty tone that came out of her mouth. God, if she didn’t watch herself she’d be twirling her hair around her finger and batting her eyelashes like some giddy schoolgirl.

Get a grip, Livingston. He’s just a man...a hunky, incredibly well-defined, thrilling man.

He chuckled, the low sound rumbling deep as thunder. It made her skin tingle. “What gives you that impression?”

“Boy Scouts don’t usually have six-packs, do they?” Her tongue darted out involuntarily to moisten her lips.

What alien had taken over her body?

He didn’t seem in the least bit self-conscious of his near-naked state. Wren, on the other hand, might as well have been in her birthday suit for how exposed she felt. Funny, since the naked form appeared often in her artwork...but this didn’t compare with brushstrokes on a canvas. He was far too real, far too alight with sexual energy.

His eyes swept over her with a languid slowness, smoothing over her hips and breasts and hair. “No, I guess they don’t.”

“Can I offer you some dinner?” she blurted out. “I was making pizza when I cut myself and I’d like to thank you for coming to the rescue.”

“There’s no need to thank me. That’s what neighbors are for, right?”

At that moment she kind of hoped neighbors were for wild, hot, no-strings sex. “Please. I’m new and I’d love to have a friend in the building.”

“Well, when you put it that way.” He grinned and Wren was quite sure her panties were about to melt into a puddle at her feet. “I’d love to. Give me a few minutes to change and I’ll come over.”

“I’ll see you when you’re ready.” She returned his smile and headed back toward the front door, forcing herself not to bounce up and down with pent-up excitement.

It’s just a dinner, you goof. A friendly, neighborly meal between two adults. It doesn’t have to lead to orgasms.

But the throbbing between her legs would mark her a liar if she said she wasn’t already fantasizing about it. Rhys showed her out, his broad shoulders blocking the door frame as he waited for her to make it back inside her apartment. She risked a glance behind her as she stepped inside and he was still there, the heat in his gaze unmistakable.

A tremor ran through her, excitement and fear mixing in a strange, delicious medley of emotion. The fact that her body was reacting so strongly was a good sign. After what had happened in her hometown, the very thought of sex or nakedness had filled her with guilt and shame.

But now her blood was pumping through her veins hard and fast, her heart fluttering with anticipation. Tonight, she was going to shake off the past and have a little fun.

* * *

RHYS CONSIDERED HIMSELF a logical guy. Computers were his world and binary made him feel comfortable. Even the one-two pound of running appealed to his logical side. But right now a little part of him was enjoying the thrill of a situation outside his control.

And things could go wrong if he slept with Wren and it didn’t work out. They’d have to face each other in the hallway each day, making politely awkward small talk. There’d be guaranteed cringe-worthy moments if either one of them ever brought a date home and the other happened to see. The old Italian lady in 403 was also a huge gossip. Plus, there was a possibility that they wouldn’t be compatible in the bedroom.

“Who are you kidding, man?” he muttered to himself as he whipped off his towel and proceeded to get dressed. “There’s no way you have chemistry like that without it transferring to the bedroom.”

And, if his still-aching erection was anything to go on, his body wholeheartedly agreed. Besides, the only way he’d ever have the chance of finding the right woman was if he actually went on dates. And dinner counted as a date...didn’t it?

He pulled a fresh T-shirt over his head and fished out a pair of black boxer briefs from his bedside drawer. By the time he’d added jeans and sneakers to the mix, he’d also decided to take a bottle of wine with him.

When he knocked on her door, a thrill ran through him at the thought of seeing her again. Reality didn’t disappoint. She opened the door with a flourish and a tinkling laugh. Long blond waves tumbled over one shoulder, and she’d thrown an apron over her white tank and floor-length flowy skirt.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” she said, gesturing with a pair of tongs like a grand magician. “It’s a little sparse at the moment. But I can assure you my pizza will make up for it.”

“I have no doubt.” He stepped in and took in the surroundings, placing the wine down on the kitchen counter as she grabbed two glasses.

She hadn’t been kidding about it being sparse. Other than a small table with two chairs, a battered couch and an overturned cardboard box acting as a coffee table, the room was empty. He’d expected to at least see boxes with her belongings dotted around, but there wasn’t a single one in sight.

“It’s very...minimalist,” Wren said. She poured the wine and handed him a glass, holding her own out so they could clink them together.

The wine was good, not too sweet and not too dry. The flavor danced on his tongue, and he wondered what it would taste like on her lips. Her tongue. The fantasy rushed up, tracking along his muscles until his whole body felt coiled and tight.

This is what happens when you leave it too long between drinks.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying,” she said. “So I didn’t want to waste money on getting lots of furniture.”

Disappointment stabbed at him, but he brushed the feeling aside. There was no sense worrying about the future of their relationship when they hadn’t even had one meal together. “Not sure if you’re a fan of New York yet?”

“It’s more that I’m not a fan of long-term decisions.”

He cleared his throat. “Where did you move from?”

“Somewhere you’ve probably never heard of.” She stuck the tongs in a large silver bowl filled with a colorful salad. “I’m a small-town girl.”

“Living in a lonely world?” he quipped.

She grinned. “I appreciate a man who knows his Journey lyrics. Sadly, my life is far less fabulous than the song would have you believe.”

“Is that why you moved to New York?” He leaned against the counter and inhaled the aromas of their dinner. Fresh basil, melting cheese, a hint of something spicy.

“I’m here for work.” Her answer was carefully worded. Guarded. “But it’s not a permanent position, which suits me fine.”

Message received, loud and clear.

But he still wanted to get to know her better, even with her line in the sand. Perhaps “not permanent” was exactly what he needed right now. No pressure, no expectations. Like a dry run for reentering the dating world.

He could always come back to his life plan later.

“Are you a New York native?” she asked.

“I moved from Connecticut a few years ago. I’ve always wanted to live here, enjoy the bright lights and all that.”

“Do you like it?” She whisked the salad dressing in a bowl, then plucked a teaspoon from a drawer to do a taste test.

“I do. Especially when I have such interesting neighbors.”

She smiled, her cheeks flushing a vibrant shade of rose pink. “You mean clumsy neighbors who can’t figure out how to slice an avocado without hurting themselves?”

“Same, same.”

She moved about the kitchen with ease, her long skirt swirling around her feet with each dance-like step. There was an airiness to her, a whimsy that was so different from the serious women he was usually attracted to. She bent to open the oven and heat wafted up into the air, carrying with it the scent of her cooking.

“That smells incredible.” His mouth was already watering, and he’d had some of the best pizza in all of New York. “Don’t tell me you’re a professional chef.”

“No, just an amateur one. But I did make the base from scratch.” She slid on an oven mitt and pulled out the tray containing their dinner. “I really enjoy cooking. It relaxes me...well, when I’m not cutting myself.”

“Tell me that doesn’t happen too often.”

“Thankfully it is a rare occurrence.” She placed the tray down on the stove and Rhys could see she was relying on her uninjured hand to hold the weight.

“Do you need a hand slicing it up?”

“No, I’ll be fine. If you could take the wine to the table, that would be great.”

Moments later they were seated, steaming slices of pizza resting on large white plates in front of them. But the way Wren looked at him made him hungry for something else. A sensual smile curved on her lips.

“Eat up,” she said, gesturing with her hands. “It’s best when it’s hot.”

“I like it hot,” he said, picking up the slice and blowing at the steam shimmering off the pizza’s surface.

“I can see that.”

“Are you flirting with me?” He bit into the pizza and moaned as the hot, cheesy goodness hit his tongue.

“What if I was?” She took a bite of her slice and flicked her tongue out to catch a stray droplet of sauce. “Are you open to a little neighborly flirting?”

She folded both of her feet under her so that she sat cross-legged on top of the chair, tangling the frothy layers of her skirt around her legs. Realizing that she was still wearing her apron, she reached behind herself and untied it. As she pulled the apron over her head, her tank top rode up, revealing a slice of lightly tanned skin and smooth, flat belly.

She scrambled to tug the fabric back down, her cheeks flushing, but Rhys carried on the conversation, pretending he hadn’t almost choked on his pizza. “Flirting is fine by me. In fact, I’ve been looking for someone to practice my flirting skills on.”

“Is that so?” She reached for her wine. “Are you a little rusty?”

“That’s for you to judge.”

“Go on, hit me with your best pickup line.” Her eyes sparkled and a smile twitched on her lips.

This was about to go downhill. Fast. Pickup lines weren’t really his style. In fact, he excelled at meeting women in unconventional ways...like having them turn up at his apartment, bleeding.

He shook his head, laughing, as he took another bite out of his pizza. “I prefer a more casual approach.”

She planted her fists on her waist and flapped her elbows up and down. “Buck, buck, buck.”

“You did not just call me chicken.” Damn, the girl had sass.

“Let me hear your line, then.” She grinned.

“Oh, you’re on.” He reached his arms above his head, making a show of stretching his neck from side to side. Her eyes skated over him, wide and stormy. “I don’t have a library card, but do you mind if I check you out?”

“No!” She roared, throwing her head back and letting out a burst of laughter that was belly deep and totally disarming. Totally and richly at odds with the rest of her dainty, fairylike appearance. “That’s terrible.”

“Are you a fruit, because honeydew you know how fine you look right now?”

She gasped. “I didn’t think it could get worse—”

“Are you a parking ticket? ’Cause you’ve got fine written all over you.”

“Please.” She held up a hand, her shoulders heaving as laughter spilled out of her. The sound warmed him from the inside out. “Stop.”

“Your body is sixty-five percent water and I’m thirsty.” He pretended to brush the dirt off his shoulders. “I could go all night.”

“Okay, okay. You win.” She clapped her hands together and bowed. “You are the king of the worst pickup lines I have ever had the misfortune of hearing.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Fair. I promise to listen to you next time.” She drained the rest of her wine and immediately topped them both up. “I’m curious now. How do you usually pick up women?”

“I’m a bit out of practice.” He figured honesty was the best policy. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was talk about the sad state of his love life right now.

“Me, too.” She nodded to herself. “Looks like we’re in the same boat.”

Over the course of the next hour they finished the whole pizza and made a start on another bottle of wine. A delicious and languid feeling spread through him, loosening his limbs and his tongue. Maybe it was her incredible cooking, the good drink or some combination, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt as connected to another person as he did with Wren.

She unwound her legs and untangled her skirt, stretching her arms back and thrusting her breasts forward. His mouth watered as the fabric stretched, making it sheer enough that he could see the shadow of her nipples through the fabric.

Nope, that woman did not need to wear a bra at all.

* * *

“THANKS FOR SHARING the pizza with me,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I get a little excited when I cook and I always end up with way too much.”

“I’m open to helping you deal with any leftovers that might come up.” Rhys flashed another pearly white smile and Wren wondered how many times that smile had drawn women to him. “But let me at least do the dishes.”

“No way. You saved me from bleeding all over the building, trying to find bandages.” She held up a hand. “Dinner was my treat. The dishes can wait.”

“Well, thank you. It was delicious. You sure you’re really not a chef?”

“No, I’m an artist.” The words slipped out and brought with them an immediate sense of guilt. “Well, what I mean to say is that I work in a gallery.”

“That’s not what you said.” His dark eyes scanned her face, curiosity obviously piqued. “You called yourself an artist.”

Shit. She’d been so desperate to have that title for so many years that clearly the idea still floated around in her brain like a piece of flotsam waiting to trip her up. Being an artist was no longer her dream. And after she finished using her art as a cover to find out what happened to Kylie, it would be out of her life for good.

“I dabble,” she said eventually, waving a hand as if to dismiss the idea.

“What sort of art?”

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Painting.”

“I’m always fascinated by artists. I look at a painting and have no clue how the inspiration would have come to them, or how they would even know where to start.” He shook his head in wonderment and it was like a knife twisting in her chest.

Years of her life had been devoted to the inspiration that had clogged her head. More years had been spent perfecting her technique, channeling her passion. Years that were now a total waste.

“What do you do?” she asked, desperate to steer the conversation away from the part of her life she wanted to leave behind.

“I’m in IT for a security company. It’s like getting to solve a giant puzzle every day.” He laughed. “Nerdy but true.”

“People keep telling me that nerds will rule the world one day, if they don’t already.”

“I guess you could say that.” Darkness flickered across his face before the smile returned, bringing a cheeky glint to his eye. “I don’t suppose you want to show me any of your paintings? If they’re half as good as your pizza, I’m betting you’ll be the next Picasso.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, knotting her hands in her lap.

“About being Picasso or about showing me your work?”

Part of her balked at the idea of showing him her art—of showing anyone her art—but his face was totally earnest. His interest in her work appeared genuine, and besides, what harm could it do?

This is New York, not some tiny hick town that thinks a woman’s body is a product of the devil.

“I’m no Picasso, let’s be clear about that.” She pushed up from her chair and motioned for him to follow. “Come on, my work space is through here.”

Rhys’s presence filled the air around her as they walked, his steps mirroring her own. He said nothing as she pushed open the door to her bedroom. Her mattress rested on the floor since she hadn’t bought a bed frame yet. The quilt she’d been using as her duvet was draped over it, creating a white puddle of fabric around the edges of the mattress.

Early evening light filtered into the room, highlighting the stack of canvases that she’d leaned against the wall. She’d brought ten in total. Eight complete and two works in progress—though she hadn’t touched a brush to them in over six months.

The canvases had been a requirement for the portfolio portion of her interview at Ainslie Ave, the gallery where she now worked as an assistant and acted as a mentee slash intern to Sean Ainslie himself.

“These are just experiments,” she said, reaching for the first two in the stack. One was a vivid fall landscape and the other depicted a young student hunched over a writing desk. She’d modelled the girl on her sister, painting her long blond locks in wild swirling strokes, mimicking the fury of the student’s pen scratching across paper. “They’re nothing special.”

“Do you really think that?” His eyes never left the paintings. They darted and scanned as though he was committing the images to memory. She watched for some sign of judgment, but he simply stared at the paintings in a way that felt fiercely intimate.

And terrifying.

“This one was from my abstract phase,” she said, brushing off his question. The third canvas was a garden, but to the untrained eye the angular swipes of green paint could be anything at all.

A swamp monster, perhaps.

“And this one was a gift for my mom.”

Her mother had a thing for roses and her garden back home was filled with them. Wren had painted her a small canvas for their guest room. It showed a single American Beauty bloom, just like the flower that had won her mother first place in the county fair a few years back. It’d hung on the wall until Wren had sneaked it out one night after “the incident.” Nobody seemed to have noticed its absence.

“You’re very talented,” Rhys said, his gaze finally traveling back to her. “You’ve been blessed with some creative hands.”

“I’m sure my parents would rather I’d been blessed with a head for numbers.” The words came out stinging with truth. “My sister is going to be a doctor, so by comparison art is probably not the job they would have chosen for me.”

“But you’re working in a gallery, too?”

Wren dropped down onto the floor and sat cross-legged. After a moment, Rhys followed her. The rest of her canvases sat against the wall, facing away from them like a group of children who’d been sent to the naughty corner.

“Yeah, I’m an assistant for an artist who has his own gallery. I organize his appointments and manage his calendar. I also greet people who come to meet him at the gallery.” She toyed with the end of her long silk skirt, twisting the fabric around on itself. “Then I get to paint in his studio and he gives me critiques and tips. Plus, I learn about how the gallery is run and get to watch him with potential buyers. Stuff like that.”

“And you think you’re not an artist,” Rhys scoffed.

Con artist, maybe.

“It sounds weird to call myself that.” She shrugged. “I guess it’s a leftover doubt from my family always nagging me to get a real job and work in an office. Like you.”

“Working in an office does not mean you’ve made it in life.” He leaned back on his forearms and surveyed the room. “Trust me.”

His large form was so appealing laid out that way, a dessert for her eyes. All that sculpted muscle and sexual magnetism made her body thrum. And here he was, on her floor right in front of her. A gift for the taking.

Debs’s words floated around in her head: You won’t regret it. Sex is a very natural and healthy part of life.

She’d tried to enjoy sex with Christian, but it had been very repetitive. Her ex had only ever wanted to be on top and had complained when Wren had suggested they try other things. It was something he’d thrown back in her face when he’d discovered her secret paintings.

But something deep down told her that Rhys would be different. That being with Rhys would be different.

“You’re looking at me very intently, Wren.” His lips wrapped around her name in the most delicious way.

“I am.” Tension built inside her, filling her chest and stealing her breath. “Is that a problem?”

“No problem. I was only wondering if you’re planning on making a move.”

Was she? Shit. She’d told herself she had time to get to know him before she acted on her attraction, and then she’d cut herself. Now they were here. And she desperately wanted to find out if her theories about him were true.

“If you’re not...” His brown eyes were lit with fire. “I will.”

Please. Please, please, please.

She opened her mouth to respond when a crash shattered the quiet, halting her words. The stack of paintings behind Rhys had slipped, put out of balance by her removing the heavier ones that had been holding them in place.

“I’ll get them.” She scrambled to her feet in an attempt to prevent him from getting there first, but she accidentally leaned on her injured hand.

“It’s fine, I’ve got it.” He reached for the paintings, his frame stilling suddenly.

Wren’s face filled with heat. She didn’t need to guess which painting he’d discovered.

“Wow.” The word was so filled with shock that it made her stomach twist into a knot. “This is...”

“I wasn’t going to show you that one.” She walked over to the pile and started replacing them against the wall, flames licking her cheeks.

He held the painting in his hand—the one that had been the cause of her troubles back home and, most ironically, the one she secretly thought of as her best. It was of a woman, her legs open and her head thrown back in ecstasy. Eyes closed. Lips slack.

The shades of pink and red and brown blended together, raw and earthy. It was intensely sexual, so much so that Wren wasn’t sure how she’d painted it. At the time her brush had moved as if of its own accord. The painting wasn’t hers; it belonged to someone else. To something else.

“Please give it to me.” She held out her hand, hating the way her voice trembled when it should have sounded cool and unaffected. But those were two things that her tender heart had never been able to master.

She was always affected by what other people thought.

“Please,” she demanded, this time louder.

Rhys handed her the painting, a strange look on his face. It wasn’t outright disgust, as had been Christian’s expression. But she couldn’t handle even the mildest form of judgment right now. Not about this.

The only reason she’d even brought the damn thing with her was because Kylie had mentioned that Sean Ainslie had a thing for nude portraits.

Now the damn thing was humiliating her again.

“I think you should go,” she said, fighting back the wave of shame as memories assaulted her.

You’re depraved, Christian had said when he’d discovered this painting along with the twelve others in the collection. All nudes, all women. You’re a sexual deviant and you’re using me as a cover.

It wasn’t true. She had simply been fascinated by the idea of female sexuality. Enamored by it from an artistic standpoint...not that anyone in her damned hometown would understand that. All they had seen were things that should be hidden away.

“Wren,” he started. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed,” she lied. “I would just prefer it if you left now. Please.”

He hovered for a moment, his eyes, which had darkened to almost black, flicking between her and the canvas that she held tight to her chest. Protecting herself or the painting, she wasn’t sure.

“For what it’s worth, I think your paintings are incredible,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Thanks again for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.” Her voice was a whisper as he walked out of the room, leaving her alone to ponder why the fates had decided yet again to use her art to humiliate her.

“Maybe you should take a hint,” she muttered to herself as she placed the remaining paintings back where they belonged. “Listen to your parents and get a real job.”

She would. Just as soon as she figured out what had happened to Kylie, she would head home and enter the real world.

3

WREN SAT BEHIND the sleek chrome-and-marble desk that crowned the entrance to the Ainslie Ave gallery. Her boss was expecting a potential client for a private viewing, so he was locked away in his studio preparing, which left her with a few precious moments of solitude to do some digging.

Hopefully, the chance to snoop would not only yield some valuable information but also help her to keep her mind off Rhys. And how he probably thought she was a nut job after the way she’d ordered him out of her apartment last night.

She cringed. The whole evening had been going so well. They’d had a great rapport and she’d gotten definite vibes of interest from him. Heated glances, an invitation to make a move. Then she’d blown it.

“Rookie move, Livingston,” she muttered to herself as she clicked out of Sean’s calendar. “You don’t think before you act.”

It was a criticism that had been handed to her over and over by her parents. Most of the time it followed, “Why can’t you be more responsible, like your sister?” Wren had never been too good at plotting out her moves before she made them. Often guided by impulse, she’d landed herself in hot water on a few occasions and had earned herself a bit of a reputation—unfairly, in her opinion—for being a wild girl.

She wasn’t wild. Irresponsible, perhaps. Spontaneous, definitely. But certainly not wild in the sense that they meant it back home.

Not that anyone believed her.

Shaking off the well-worn thoughts, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Her self-loathing could wait. She’d been working here for exactly three weeks now and all her preliminary searches had turned up zilch. Well, unless you counted a snarky online review of an exhibition Sean had run two years ago...which she didn’t.

Sliding down from her stool, she padded quietly across the showroom floor. The place was silent save for the swish of her skirt against the polished boards. The other two interns, with whom she shared reception duties and a cramped studio space, were painting today. She’d gotten to know them quite well in the last few weeks—thanks to the assistance of her amazing chocolate brownies—although she could tell both girls believed Sean Ainslie was a god among men.

The paintings in the showroom had been switched around this morning after Sean’s conversation with the client. He’d since selected a shortlist of works that he thought would suit the client’s needs. The rest of the paintings were locked away in some specially designed climate-controlled room to which Wren had not yet gained access.

Sean Ainslie came from money; she knew that for sure. His wealth wasn’t due to his art, although he’d had moderate success with a collection of paintings depicting the burned-out carcass of the iconic New York yellow cab. Yet the paintings he had ready for viewing were entirely different in feel and style.

Wren studied a smaller canvas, which showed an ice-cream cone melting in the sun. The painting had a slight cubism feel to it, the shapes on the waffle cone exaggerated and angular. Sharp. The vibrant colors seemed at odds with Sean’s darker, grittier pieces.

“Why were you drawn to that one?” Sean’s voice echoed against the high ceilings and bounced around, causing Wren to jump.

“It’s different from your other works.” Wren pressed a hand to her chest and felt her heart beat wildly beneath her skin. Sean unnerved her, especially his ability to sneak up on her out of nowhere. “I was wondering what inspired it.”

“I used to visit Coney Island with my grandfather when I was a kid.” He came up behind her and stood close. Too close. “Everything about that place was so...plastic. It felt unreal to me, even back then. Like it was something I’d made up in my head instead of being a real place.”

The scent of stale cigarette on his breath made Wren’s stomach churn. She tried to subtly put some distance between them by pretending to look more closely at the painting. “I’ve never been there.”

“Don’t bother. It’s a cesspool.”

“Right.” She nodded.

“Have you got the coffee on?”

“Yes.” Taking the opportunity, she stepped away from him and returned to her post at the front of the showroom. “I’ve also put out the croissants. Mr. Wagner should be here in five minutes. Would you like me to stay in the room in case you need anything?”

Please say no, please say no, please say no.

Sean’s thin lips pressed into a line as he considered her question. The scar on his left cheek seemed to twitch as the muscle behind it moved. “No, leave Mr. Wagner to me. The last thing I want is him getting distracted by a beautiful young woman.”

Wren forced her expression to stay neutral, despite her lip wanting to curl at the sleazy way he was looking at her. “Very well.”

“Feel free to get some work done in the studio, but don’t go home. I’ll need you to clean up once Mr. Wagner has gone.”

“Of course.”

She retreated before Sean could make any more requests...or comments about her appearance. He seemed to do that on a daily basis. Wren certainly wasn’t averse to compliments, but her skin always seemed to crawl whenever he was around.

The other interns—a blonde named Aimee and a girl with a Southern accent named Lola—were painting in relative silence in the studio. Their stations were crowded with paints and tools, like chaotic rainbows of creativity. Her section, in stark comparison, was spotlessly clean.

If only her mother could see that for once she had the cleanest workstation in the room.

Sadly, this wasn’t due to a newfound love of tidiness...but more because her Muse had refused to show up. She’d taken on more reception duties to avoid her creative block, but Sean would expect her to produce something eventually. After all, she should be having the time of her life with an opportunity so many other artists would kill for.

Supposedly, anyway.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, old friend.” Wren stood in front of the canvas, which was mostly blank except for an angry-looking smudge in one corner. She laughed to herself in the quiet room, the sound rough and insincere. “And with friends like these, who needs enemies?”

Neither Aimee nor Lola glanced in her direction. But before Wren had a chance to pick up a brush, the sound of talking floated down from the showroom. Sean’s client had arrived, which meant he would be occupied for some time. That gave her a window of opportunity to check out the storage room and some of the other rooms at the back of the gallery where she didn’t normally go.

Tiptoeing out into the corridor, she listened to make sure that no one was coming her way. The storage room was at the very end of the building—which had once been a mechanic’s workshop that had lain abandoned for several years until Sean had purchased it. The storage room had been tacked on to the structure and fitted with a keypad to limit entry. Wren hadn’t yet been able to come up with an excuse that would allow her to request access from Sean.

She stared helplessly at the blinking keypad. It seemed strange to lock up a storage room so tightly. Even if it housed valuable paintings, why were the interns kept out? It didn’t make sense. Wren had worked in a small gallery a few towns over from Charity Springs. Sure, small towns were different from the Big Smoke, but she’d always had access to the gallery’s stock.

What had she been thinking turning up here without a plan? For the first time in three weeks, Wren felt the stupidity of her decision weigh on her. A naive part of her had assumed it would be easy to show up here, figure out what had happened and run back home, evidence in hand. Ready to reassure her friend that she would have justice, after all.

“That’s because you don’t think before you act,” she muttered to herself. Again.

“Wren?” A female voice caught her attention. “Are you free? I have a question.”

Wren spun to find Aimee peering out of the studio, her fair brows wrinkled. “What’s wrong, Aimee?”

“I need to put a note into the shared calendar about my day off this week and I couldn’t get in. Then I tried to reset the password and now I’ve locked us all out.” She threw her hands up in the air. “I don’t know why computers hate me so much.”

Wren tried not to roll her eyes. In the three weeks she’d been working at Ainslie Ave, Aimee had managed to lock herself out of the computer system at least four times. Clumsy fingers, she’d claimed, but Wren found that hard to believe considering the delicate and intricate portraits she painted.

“Can you help me?” the other woman pleaded. “I don’t want to disturb Sean again. He got very frustrated last time.”

“Sure.” Wren headed back into the studio and took a seat on the stool in front of the old laptop that served as their shared work computer.

Within minutes she’d located the problem—Aimee had made a spelling error when she’d created her new password, which explained why she hadn’t been able to use it to log in after the reset.

“Okay, that should do it.” Wren clicked over to their email program. “I’ve reset it again and tested that it works. I’ll leave a note on the desktop with the password this time so you don’t forget it.”

“Thanks.” Aimee had the decency to look mildly sheepish.

Wren was about to move away from the computer when she noticed something strange about the email inbox. A ton of unread emails had banked up from contacts she’d never seen before. Normally, the inbox the three women shared was filled with general requests from the website’s contact form. There might be the occasional email requesting information or dates of shows, but otherwise they didn’t get many direct emails from clients.

“Are you logged in to Sean’s email account?” Wren asked, looking up suddenly.

Aimee cringed. “Yes, but please don’t tell him. I needed to, uh...delete an email.” She fiddled with the end of her paint-splattered tank top, the chipped pink nail polish on her fingers glinting like shards of broken glass in the afternoon sun that streamed in from a large window beside them.

“How did you get into his account?” Wren could hardly believe Aimee was the password-cracking type.

“He keeps it written down.” She averted her gaze and spoke softly so that Lola couldn’t hear them. “Please don’t say anything.”

Wren knew for a fact that his passwords weren’t written down anywhere in the studio...after all, she’d looked. Which meant that Aimee had been places that Wren hadn’t, and from the expression on her face she wasn’t too comfortable sharing that information.

“I won’t, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to be logging in to his email account from our shared computer. You might get someone in trouble,” she admonished, feeling immediately hypocritical because she knew exactly how she was going to exploit this opportunity.

“You’re right,” Aimee said, knotting her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“I won’t say anything.” Wren turned the laptop back to herself. “And I’ll log out so I can check on the shared inbox and make sure we haven’t missed anything. You’d better get back to your painting in case he comes in.”

“Thank you.”

Perhaps it made Wren a horrible person to be admonishing Aimee while planning to use her lapse in judgment to scan through Sean’s emails. But Wren had learned a thing or two about morals in the last six months—they were not as black-and-white as she’d been led to believe. For example, in Christian’s mind it had been perfectly okay for him to make up stories about her because he felt she was a bad person for hiding her “depravity.”

Besides, she wasn’t hurting Aimee. She was simply making use of a happy accident to help her friend.

There was nothing suspicious in his emails. Time for plan B. Her nails clicked quietly against the keys of the laptop as she searched for the passcode to the storage room. Nothing. But she did manage to find his birthday, address and home phone number, which gave her something to work with. Wren wasn’t a master spy by any stretch, but she had sat in on an internet security session at the community center back home during one of her volunteering stints. At the time she’d thought it was boring as hell, but some of the stats had stuck with her.

Like how the majority of people use their birthdays as pin codes for ATMs and online banking. Perhaps that extended to locked rooms, as well.

Taking a second to check that no one was watching her, she logged out of Sean’s email and pocketed the note she’d scribbled with his details. Tonight, after everyone had left, she’d “accidentally” forget to set the alarm so she could come back and have a crack at the storage room lock without leaving a trail.

* * *

RHYS WASN’T THE kind of guy who ever had trouble sleeping. He pushed his body hard at the gym and he pushed his mind hard at work each day. Those things combined meant he was usually out the moment his head hit the pillow.

But not for the last three nights.

Stifling a yawn, he rubbed at his eyes and reached for the coffee on his desk. The nighttime hours had been ticking past slowly while Rhys’s eyes remained open in the darkness. All he could picture were flashes of Wren and her painting. Of the sexual energy mixed with her embarrassment.

He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her since that night...but that didn’t dull the vivid memory.

The painting had taken him aback. Not because he thought there was anything wrong with it—far from it. But he’d been shocked by how strongly his body had reacted to the desire and curiosity and abandonment in her work. Art was not his thing—numbers and data were. But she’d invoked a kind of visceral reaction that was totally foreign.

And then she’d kicked him out.

He wasn’t sure what to make of it. But one thing he did know for certain was that he wanted to see her again, despite understanding that she wasn’t planning to stay.

“Boss?” Quinn Dellinger poked her head into his office, her mass of dyed pink hair almost blindingly bright under the office lighting. “You got a sec?”

“Sure, sure.” He motioned for her to take a seat as he shoved thoughts of Wren from his mind. Work was his priority right now, not women. Not one woman, no matter how tempting. “What’s going on?”

Quinn’s chunky combat boots clomped on the floor. For a woman so petite she made a lot of noise. “I’ve been assigned a case but I need to do a site visit and none of the other guys are free to come with me.”

As a newly appointed junior security consultant, Quinn wasn’t yet cleared to do site visits on her own. She had another few months of shadowing the more experienced consultants before that could happen.

“I’m ready,” she added. “I can do it. I just need you to sign off.”

“You’re familiar with the policy, Quinn. Three months of supervision before you can fly solo.”

Her button nose wrinkled, causing the clear stud there to glint in the afternoon sunlight. “And it’s worth upsetting the client for some stupid policy?”

“It’s not a stupid policy. We have it for a reason.”

He didn’t need to repeat the story; everyone at Cobalt & Dane Security was well aware of what had happened when they’d sent a rookie in alone. One bad incident was all it took to make sure that new security consultants had the proper training and supervision so that they didn’t lose anyone else.

“I know how capable you are, Quinn. I wouldn’t have promoted you if I didn’t believe in your skills.” Rhys reached for his coffee and swigged, praying the caffeine would soon work its magic. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to bend the rules for you.”

She rolled her eyes but a smile twitched on her lips. “You never bend the rules. For anything.”

“Tough but fair, you know the drill,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah.” She folded her arms across the front of her black skull-and-crossbones T-shirt. “So what should we do about the client, then? He said he wants us there today but everyone else is busy.”

“I thought Owen was in the office today.”

She shook her head. “He got an emergency call out to that private client we signed—the crazy stockbroker guy. He’s paranoid. I told Owen as much.”

“It comes with the territory. Doesn’t mean we can ignore the client’s needs.” Rhys tapped his fingers against the surface of his desk. “And Jin is still out sick?”

“Yep. Aiden’s around but he’s scheduled to do a visit to the data warehouse with Logan.” Quinn’s cheeks colored slightly despite the neutral expression on her face. She and Aiden had only told the team they were dating a few weeks back, and every time his name came up in conversation she blushed like a schoolgirl.

Rhys thought it was cute, but Quinn would probably throw something at him for saying so. “Okay, well, I guess it’ll have to be me, then.”

Perhaps a trip away from the office would do him good. He’d been staring at the same email for the last ten minutes and his lack of progress was starting to grate on his nerves. Fresh air and something to focus on might help him to get into the zone again.

“You never do site visits.” Quinn cocked her head. “Ever.”

“You seem to think I never do a lot of things.”

God, did everyone really believe he was that dull? Sure, he liked to follow the rules. He was a “by the book” kind of guy. What was so bad about that?

She shrugged, seemingly unaware of the questions her words had stirred. “Whatever works. I’d rather get out there today and keep this guy onside. He sounds like a bit of a control freak.”

“Let’s keep our insults about the client to a minimum, shall we?” Rhys pushed up from his chair and stuck his phone into his back pocket.

“Sure thing, boss. Whatever you say.” Quinn grinned at him as they fell into step.

After a quick pause at her desk so she could collect her things and confirm with the client that they would now be coming to complete the site visit, they were off.

“This will be fun. We haven’t had an excursion together in ages.” Quinn had a spring in her step as they walked through the office.

“That’s because you’re annoying.”

He didn’t mean it, but he and Quinn had that kind of relationship. There were no filters, no walking on eggshells. She was one of the first people he’d hired when he’d started as IT manager four years ago. They’d developed a deep mutual respect. She was whip smart and loyal to the bone, two qualities that were sorely lacking in the world.

“I’m annoying?” She pressed her hand to her chest and he noticed a small, heart-shaped ring on her finger. “Those are mighty words coming from Mr. Spreadsheet himself.”

He ignored the dig. “What’s with the ring? I’ve never seen you wear anything that didn’t have a skull on it.”

Her cheeks turned hot pink. “It was a gift.”

“Are you engaged?”

“No.” She laughed as if that were a ridiculous notion, but her voice sounded tight and a little strange. “It’s just a ring.”

“A ring from your boyfriend.” He nudged her with his elbow and she immediately swatted him. “Hey, I’m not judging. I’m happy you’ve found someone who puts up with you.”

“He’s man enough to handle me.” Her expression turned serious as they entered the elevator. “I know you two didn’t get off on the right foot, but he’s it for me. I love him.”

Rhys had been forced to hire Aiden because he was friends with the boss, Logan Dane. Given Rhys’s feelings about hard work and the need to prove oneself, it hadn’t been a great start to their working relationship.

“You’re getting all mushy on me, Dellinger,” he joked.

“It’s true. He’s a good guy, Rhys. I want you to respect him.”

Rhys didn’t point out that respect had to be earned instead of given out like candy. But Quinn was practically family to him, so he would keep his feelings to himself and take the high road. He always took the high road.

“I do respect him. He’s on my team now so I’ll treat him the same as I treat any other employee.”

She grinned. “Tough, but fair.”

“That’s my motto.”

“I appreciate it.” She laid a hand on his arm, the pink stone in her ring glimmering. “Honestly.”

He cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth, you deserve to be happy.”

“So do you, boss. Why don’t you ever seem to have any ladies hanging around?”

Probably because Rhys kept his work life and his love life totally separate. He’d never believed in mixing the two, though he accepted that not everyone agreed with him on that.

But that didn’t mean he could avoid the little stabs of envy he got watching his friends pair up and find happiness. Maybe it was old-fashioned, but he wanted that stability. He wanted a woman to come home to, wake up next to. To make him feel like he was valued. Needed.

“This is not appropriate conversation for a manager and his employee,” he said, reminding himself that the goal right now was to have fun with a woman and not worry about the future.

“Stick-in-the-mud,” she grumbled.

She might be right, but right now Rhys didn’t have anything that he wanted to share. Especially not with being so occupied by Wren and her painting. His whole body hummed as she drifted back into his mind. There was no way he’d be able to forget what he’d seen, so he’d just have to stage a meeting with her to clear the air. And maybe fulfill a few fantasies...

4

“YOU’RE AVOIDING SOMETHING, WREN.” Sean Ainslie’s voice cut into Wren’s thought process.

Her brush hovered over the same patch of blank canvas that she’d been attempting to start work on for the last half hour.

“Avoiding something?” She put the brush down onto her workstation and looked up. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes swept over the lackluster canvas. A few strokes of color decorated one of the bottom corners but it was clear she had no direction. She hadn’t sketched anything out, hadn’t planned what the painting would look like. Hell, she couldn’t even legitimately claim that she was too swept away by her Muse to do any of the preparatory work.

She had nothing, and as a result, the painting was nothing.

Oh, it’s something all right. It’s a hot freaking mess, is what it is.

“I saw so much inspiration in your portfolio, Wren. So much...” His hands fluttered in the air in front of him. “Passion. Creativity. Your paintings were bold and vibrant. This...” His hands dropped down to his sides. “I don’t know what this is. Do you?”

“I’m a little blocked,” she admitted.

Every time she tried to touch the paintbrush to the canvas she pictured Rhys’s expression when he’d looked at that painting. The memory filled her with a strange mélange of excitement and shame, anticipation and disgust. Part of her wished that she’d let him stay. If for nothing more than to see where they would have ended up. Visions of his deep brown skin and warm eyes filled her mind.

“Just paint whatever pops into your head right now.” Sean touched her shoulder and she jumped, startled as she reached for her brush almost involuntarily. “Whatever image is in your mind now, paint it. I want you to get over this hurdle, Wren.”

Biting down on her lip she shut her eyes and let the memory of Rhys gazing at the painting wash over her. His full lips, the wicked way they’d parted as his eyes had widened. The slight flare of his nostrils.

She started mixing paint as she let her mind wander. His pupils had grown as he’d looked at her canvas, his breath stalling in his throat. Her life had contained few moments as electric as that, as intensely intimate and vulnerable. Wasn’t that the purpose of art? Laying yourself bare?

Being open and receptive?

But that’s how she’d been hurt before. With her heart so open and unprotected, it was ripe for the picking. Her fingers tightened around her brush as she stopped midstroke. The faint sketch of a man’s face—the high points of his cheeks, the rough contours of his lips and the strong angle of his jaw—filled the canvas.

People can only hurt you when you let them. So don’t give them the opportunity.

Her hand hovered again, the moment lost like steam into air. Fear had crept back in and chased inspiration away. Sighing, she threw the brush down into the palette, flicking sienna paint across the carefully mixed palette of earthy flesh tones.

It was useless. She was useless.

Sean opened his mouth to say something but they were interrupted when Lola poked her head into the room. “Sean? I’ve got the security people from Cobalt & Dane here to see you.”

“Tell them I’ll be out momentarily,” he said. As Lola disappeared he turned back to Wren. “I want to see a complete painting next week. The whole point of you being here is to work on improving your art. I can’t help you with that if you don’t produce anything.”

“I understand.”

“If you’re not able to do that I’ll have to find another intern. It’s not fair for you to take a valuable position in my program if you’re not going to do the work. There are plenty of other artists who would eagerly step into your place.”

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