Unguarded (11 page)

R
HIANNON DRESSED
nervously for her date with Shawn. It was stupid, she knew, to get herself this worked up, especially considering the fact that they'd spent the better part of their free time for the past week and a half together.

But tonight was different—or at least, it felt different. Tonight wasn't about hanging out at his house in comfy jeans and sweaters. It wasn't about playing pinball and video games and gorging themselves on pizza any more than it was about him coming to her office where she drove him crazy trying to pin him down about specifics for his party.

No, tonight was their first grown-up date—no bats or batting cages allowed. He was taking her to Mr. D's, one of the fanciest piano bars and restaurants in Austin.

She'd dressed carefully, switching outfits more times than she cared to admit—even to herself. The one she'd finally settled on was pretty good, if she did say so herself, even if it didn't show any skin.

For a moment, she thought longingly of the closet full of short, flirty dresses she'd owned in what seemed like another life. Dresses that had celebrated her body instead of covered it up, that made her feel young and vibrant instead of matronly and boring.

Of course, the fact that she was dating a twenty-nine-year-old probably didn't help the fact that she suddenly felt every one of her forty years. Shawn was so handsome, so fun-loving, so young that sometimes she felt like a wet blanket next to him.

He never treated her like that, though, never made her feel like she was anything less than an interesting, attractive woman. But sometimes she couldn't help wondering what Shawn thought of her. How he saw her, in her pantsuits and turtlenecks, with her long hair and scars.

For the first time in a long time, it mattered to her what a man thought of her appearance. It was a strange feeling, this wanting to be sexy for a man after years of wanting nothing more than to blend in to the wallpaper. Even now, as she wore the only fancy set of underwear she owned—one she'd bought on impulse that afternoon as a sort of birthday gift to herself—she wondered what it meant.

Was she ready for sex with Shawn? Hell, was she ready for sex period? She'd only had sex with two men in her life, the first one a college boyfriend and the second one her husband of almost fifteen years—which meant that it had been well over seventeen years since she'd been with anyone but Richard. Even worse, it had been nearly three years since she'd had sex at all.

Oh, she and Richard had tried to make love after the attack, but each time had been an unmitigated disaster worse than the one before it. At first Richard had been understanding, but as months had passed and she'd remained unable to respond to him, he'd grown more and more impatient. One of his parting shots had been that
he couldn't stand living with a woman who recoiled every time he so much as looked at her.

She hadn't blamed him—or at least, she hadn't blamed him much. After all, they'd had a good, active sex life all the way up to the attack—was it any wonder Richard had grown frustrated at his wife's lack of interest in him?

Understanding only went so far.

And now, here she was, thinking of opening herself up to a man all over again. Of opening herself up to
Shawn,
who didn't have the history Richard had had with her. Who didn't know what her body had looked like when it had been young and unscarred.

What would he think of how she looked? she wondered, as she slipped a pair of sparkly earring into her ears. He'd told her to wear something pretty, something sexy, and though she'd done her best, she knew she was a far cry from the twentysomethings he was used to, with their firm, unblemished skin and their ability to have sex with him without spending hours upon hours psyching themselves up to do the deed.

But he hadn't asked any of the twentysomethings out to dinner, she reminded herself fiercely. He'd asked
her
out, had spent the past week and a half seeking out
her
company.

Surely that had to count for something. She just wished she knew how much.

A knock at the front door interrupted her self-reflection and panic spurted through her. She wasn't ready for this, wasn't sure she could take this step. Was afraid tonight would be yet another disaster. No matter how much she told herself it didn't matter, deep inside her she knew that it did. Not just because she was forty
today and the fact that she was unable to be intimate with a man was starting to really bother her, but also because she didn't want to mess things up with Shawn. No matter how much she told herself they were just having fun, just hanging out, just keeping things casual, she knew that she was lying to herself. She was falling for Shawn in a big way, and the idea that this might be their last date—that she might screw things up so bad this time that there would be no more chances—haunted her.

Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she took a deep breath. Tried to relax. Did her best to center herself despite the riot of emotions spinning around inside of her. Then with a quick prayer that the night wouldn't be a complete and total debacle, she went to let him in.

 

T
HE SECOND
R
HIANNON
opened the door, Shawn knew he was in trouble. And not just a little trouble like he'd originally feared, but trouble of the huge, irrevocable, inescapable variety. He'd been waiting for this moment all day, had spent more time thinking about her than he had Shadeslayer, and that was something that had never happened to him with another woman—particularly when he had a deadline fast approaching. But it had happened to him twice now with Rhiannon, and like the first time, she hadn't disappointed him.

She looked beautiful, all that crazy, techno-colored hair of hers falling straight and gleaming nearly to her waist. Unable to resist, he reached out and touched it, making sure he moved cautiously so as not to startle Rhiannon—the past ten days had taught him that she
would grant him all kinds of liberties as long as he moved slowly as he took them.

It felt as good as it looked—all cool, silky-smoothness. He wrapped a few strands around his fingers, relishing the way all the colors stood out against his skin. He wanted to raise it to his lips, to feel it slide over him like it did every night in his dreams.

His body hardened painfully at the reminder of how many nights he'd woken up in a cold sweat, his body aching from dreams of having all that cool silkiness wrapped around him while he made love to Rhiannon.

Pulling his gaze away from her hair, he looked into her bittersweet chocolate eyes and the uncertainty there made him both sad and angry. When she forgot to be self-conscious, Rhiannon was one of the most amazing women he'd ever met and he couldn't help wondering what she'd been like before whatever had happened had damaged her so severely. The fact that she didn't see how great she was—that someone had hurt her so bad that she was almost blind to her own worth—made him angrier than anything ever had. Angrier even than he'd been as he'd watched depression eat away at Cynthia until there was nothing left of her.

Knowing his anger wasn't what she needed to see right now, he shoved it down deep inside of himself, then smiled lazily at her. “Hey, there.”

“Hey.” Her answering smile didn't quite touch her eyes.

“You look absolutely gorgeous.” She'd chosen a long-sleeved jumpsuit the color of dark, ripe cherries. While it covered most of her body—and wasn't that a shame—it was made of a soft, clingy material that
molded to every one of her mouth-watering curves. In the past couple of weeks, she'd been eating better and had put on a few pounds that had nicely rounded out her slender frame, pounds that her outfit showed off to their best advantage.

Add in the sexy, black stiletto sandals on her feet—along with the pretty silver toe rings—and it was all he could do to keep from barreling into her apartment, locking the door and having his wicked way with her.

“Thank you.”

“I'm serious. You should wear that color all the time. You look amazing in it.”

At his compliment, her cheeks turned the color of the pomegranates he devoured by the bucketful in the summertime, and he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and kiss every part of her.

Patience, he reminded himself, even as he shoved his hands in his pockets as a precaution. Eventually he'd be able to make love to her, be able to hold her in his arms as he explored every part of her. He just had to be patient—even if it killed him.

“You look wonderful, too.”

“Thanks. Are you ready to go?”

“Sure. Just let me get my purse.”

They drove to the restaurant in companionable silence, broken by spurts of conversation that he could barely hold his own in. A couple of times Rhiannon sent him strange looks, but it wasn't like he could help himself. She smelled so good, the honeysuckle scent he loved so much was magnified in the close confines of the car until he could barely keep his eyes—and his hands—off of her. The idea of waiting much longer to
have her was agony, but the last thing he wanted to do was spook her.

By the time they were seated in a big, comfortable booth against the back wall of the piano bar, he could barely keep his impatience to touch her in check. As soon as the waiter had taken their drink and appetizer order, he reached across the table for her hand, being careful to ask permission with a look before he actually took hold of it.

She'd gotten better about letting him touch her, but she was still edgy and he understood that, tried to account for it no matter how worked up she got him.

“Dance with me,” he murmured.

“What, now?” she asked, eyes wide. “We just got here.”

“I want to hold you.”

She smiled, a soft, sweet curve of her lips that made her look even more beautiful—and terribly vulnerable. Reminding himself of how delicate she was, Shawn pulled her to her feet and onto the intimate dance floor. And as his arms closed around her, bringing her long, slender body flush against his own, he closed his eyes and simply breathed her in. Then, they began to dance.

 

T
HE SONG WAS A LONG
, trembling sigh. A whisper and a plea. A promise made, then broken.

Rhiannon listened to the lonely call of a solo saxophone as it was joined by the slow throb of the drums and the tinkling rhythm of the black and white piano keys. It called to her, opened her up, made her remember what it was like to want. What it was like to need.

Shawn's 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. All she could see or smell or hear as he moved them smoothly across the dance floor.

She knew they weren't the only ones on the floor, had seen four or five other couples when she had allowed Shawn to pull her from the booth. But she couldn't have said where they were in relation to her and Shawn, any more than she could have described what they looked like. In those long, intimate moments when Shawn held her in his arms, all she knew was him.

The songs changed, going from a throb to a wail and back again, and still they danced. Shawn's hand slid from her waist to her hip to the curve of her bottom and she never said a word, never felt a twinge of the anxiety that normally came when a man got too close. Instead, she simply relaxed and enjoyed the sensations coursing through her. It had been so long since she'd felt them that they were almost foreign, nearly inexplicable, and she remembered, for a moment, what it was like to be seventeen and feeling the sweet ache of desire for the very first time.

And then even that memory faded away under the pleasure that came with being able to hold Shawn, to be held by him, without fear. She never wanted the music to end.

But eventually it did, and as the band took a break, Shawn escorted her back to their table. The pomegranate martini she had ordered was sitting there, along with his scotch and the crab-cake appetizer they'd ordered to share.

“You're a good dancer,” she said, as she lifted her drink to her mouth. The tangy sweetness of the martini hit her tongue and she marveled at how good it tasted. But then again, everything tasted good when she was with Shawn. After three years of food turning to sawdust in her mouth, it was a welcome surprise—and pleasure.

“Didn't step on your foot once. Which is a good thing, considering the shoes you're wearing.”

“You noticed my shoes?” she asked, surprised.

“Seeing as how they're the sexiest sandals I think I've ever seen in my life, yeah, you could say I noticed them.”

She couldn't stop the grin from spreading across her face. Shawn had called her shoes sexy. Admittedly, it wasn't he same as if he'd actually called her sexy, but still. She wasn't a total loser in the attraction department, it seemed—despite her inability to show off her body as so many of the other women in the room were doing.

“Thank you for bringing me here. I'm having a great time.”

“I'm glad.” Shawn reached across the table for her hand, squeezed it then brought it to his lips where he planted a lingering kiss on her palm. His thumb stroked over the back of her hand and he smiled. “I love how soft your hands are. Is your skin like this all over?”

She felt herself freeze at the question, her entire body turning to stone as she thought of the scars that criss-crossed so much of her body. They were thin, yes, but slick and slightly bumpy and they felt nothing like the skin of her hands, which she babied. They were one
of the few parts of her body he hadn't touched and she admitted to being more than a little vain about them.

Shawn didn't seem to notice her reaction or, if he did, he never said anything. Gradually, she found herself relaxing again, refusing to let anything ruin the wonderful evening Shawn had planned for them.