Seduced: The Unexpected Virgin (8 page)

His transformation was just shy of miraculous. The first day they’d met, in his pricey cargo pants and five-hundred-dollar sunglasses, he looked like a star foolishly trying to blend in. Now, he looked like a different person.

“I…” she fumbled, still confused.

He said nothing, but his head gave a tiny nod toward her neighbor’s house and his eyes shifted in that direction.

She followed his gaze, only to realize Marla was walking up the path to her house—keys in hand, thank goodness—and was shooting curious glances their way.

Ward leaned forward slightly. “Repeat after me, loudly.”

“What?”

“This is very unusual,” he whispered. “I never see clients at my house.”

Like an idiot, she stared blankly at him. Then glanced at Marla again, who had stopped and was staring at them both with her head tilted to the side. Even though it was dark, Marla had left the porch light on, allowing Ana a clear view of the other woman’s expression of curiosity.

Abruptly, she repeated his words, her voice sounding stiff.

He gave a brief nod, then fed her another line.

“But under the circumstances,” she added more loudly, “you can come in. I’ll see what I can do to help.”

His lips curved into a smile, giving her the impression her clumsy acting amused him. Figured.

“Gracias, señorita,”
he said. His Spanish had the flowing accent of a native speaker.

She swallowed her annoyance and stepped back to let him into her house. The moment when she could have refused to even let him in had passed in a blur of playacting and deception.

The second the door closed behind him, his shoulders straightened and the air of despair dissipated. He knocked his hat back an inch with his thumb and grinned like this was the most fun he’d had in months.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, annoyance struggling back to the surface like indigestion.

“You’re the one who said we should keep our relationship private.”

“You want to bring me to a red carpet event where there will be oodles of photographers, but you dress in this elaborate getup just to stop by my house?”

He shrugged as if admitting the absurdity. Still, he snagged
her wrist and reeled her in close, then trapped her there with his hands on her hips. “At the Hudsons’ party, no one will think twice about us being together in a professional capacity. But I don’t have any excuse to be at your house after nine on a weekday.”

He plastered his lips to hers, gently invading her mouth with slow, even strokes of his tongue. His hand slipped up to rest on the bare skin of her back, his fingers teasing the sensitive flesh he found there. Her resistance melted under his gentle persuasion.

She felt a groan of pleasure rising in her throat. He took one step, edging her back toward the sofa. And then abruptly lifted his head. “What’s that?”

Startled by his sudden absence, she blinked away her confusion. Then followed his gaze to where it rested on a giant close-up of his face. Her own face instantly flashed hot. Ah, crap.

“That’s, um…”

He pulled back and studied her face. “That’s me.”

W
ard’s tone sounded more amused than anything else.

Walking closer to the TV until the remote was within range and she could turn it off and bleep away the giant image of his face, she nodded with mock seriousness. “Yes. That’s you.” To cover her embarrassment, she added, “Come on in. I might as well offer you something to drink.”

He pretended not to notice her reluctance, but crossed to her sofa, lowered himself to the seat, and stretched his legs out in front of him. He crossed his legs at the ankles and said, “Whatever you’re having would be perfect.”

“It’s not fancy,” she blurted. And then immediately regretted it, because she didn’t know if she was talking about the ten-dollar wine or her used sofa. Or the fact that between the move and getting things set up at Hannah’s Hope, her future dining room was full of unpacked boxes and her bookshelves were still empty.

“Not fancy sounds just about perfect.”

By the time she returned with another glass of wine, she’d sufficiently pep-talked herself into believing that she did not
care what he thought of her house. And she did not care if her living room was smaller (and more cheaply furnished) than the powder room in his mansion. After all, a man who lived in a garage apartment hardly had room to complain. And she did not care that she’d changed out of the professional jacket she’d worn earlier and now wore a workout tank and ten-dollar, wide-legged yoga pants that made her Latin hips look big.

She wasn’t going to let herself be intimidated by his star status. The simple truth was, far more stood between them than her pedestrian taste in wine. She wasn’t and would never be Cara Miller. In the end, that was what would drive them apart. Not her curvy hips.

But she couldn’t help wishing that her heart hadn’t started thundering at the sight of him sprawled out on her sofa when she stepped back through the doorway.

He’d rested his head against the back of the sofa. His eyes were closed, his hands resting on his perfectly flat abs. Her gaze took in his appearance again, since he wasn’t looking. It was a good disguise, even if she didn’t appreciate his efforts. Even the hair hanging down from under his cowboy hat looked darker.

Then he spoke without so much as cracking an eye. “It’s flawless, isn’t it?” His eyes opened and she saw humor in his gaze. “It’s true what they say, the clothes make the man.”

Embarrassment washed over her. Why had she just stood there staring at him like an idiot? Or, rather, like a giggly fan. But before she could think of something to say to hide her embarrassment, her phone rang.

“Please tell me you’re not being held prisoner,” Marla demanded the second Ana answered.

Ana laughed. “Hi, Marla. No, I’m not being held hostage.” Ward quirked an eyebrow and she mouthed the words
my neighbor
to him.

“Are you sure?” Marla’s voice sounded high-pitched and edgy.

Ana set her wine down on the coffee table. When she glanced up, it was to find Ward watching her carefully.

Quickly, she turned away and crossed to the window facing
Marla’s house. She pulled back the gauzy curtain. Across the gap between their houses, which was a mere fifteen feet, she could see Marla standing at her own window, framed by the light of her own lamp. She stood there, cell phone pressed to her ear with one hand. Home phone handset in the other. She jiggled it like she was tempting a cat with a toy.

“I can call the cops on the landline if you need me to. We need a safe word! If he’s there in the room with you and you can’t talk, say watermelon. No, wait! That’s too obvious. Say…‘I’ll see you in Sunday school.’”

“Marla, you’re a kook. But a very good friend. And you read too many mystery novels. I’m not being held hostage.”

“Are you sure? That guy looked a little dodgy.”

“He’s just a client,” Ana said in her most reassuring voice.

“But you never see clients at the house,” Marla protested.

“True. I haven’t seen clients here. But…”

Just as she was fumbling for a reason, Ward leaned forward and waved to get her attention.

“My son is the hospital,” he whispered.

“But his son is in the hospital,” she repeated. Then she added, “He doesn’t speak much English. The staff has him scared, even though he has nothing to be afraid of. It’s complicated.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She glanced in Ward’s direction only to once again find him watching her. To hide her discomfort, she rolled her eyes. “Thank you for checking up on me. And I’ll even call you tomorrow if it’ll make you feel better.”

“First thing in the morning. Promise?”

“I’ll call you at seven.”

“Hmm,” Marla paused. “Nine would be better. I mean unless you need something. No, seven’s fine. I mean, whenever.”

“Thank you, Marla,” Ana said before disconnecting.

“Your friend seems very…safety conscious.” Ward chuckled.

“She’s a good neighbor.” She propped her hands on her hips, feeling suddenly protective of Marla, who, despite being a kook, was the best kind of neighbor and the first new friend she’d made
since moving back to Vista Del Mar. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Ward held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t say there was. It’s nice. Refreshing, actually, to know there are still places where people watch out for each other.”

Which was exactly how she felt about Vista del Mar. But even as she was considering launching into yet another lecture about the importance of Hannah’s Hope, he nodded toward the TV. “So, you learn anything new?”

“Not much. They weren’t very thorough. They didn’t even mention Orange Kitty.”

His eyebrows shot up. “How’d you know about Orange Kitty?”

“I lived in New York during college. I made it to a few Orange Kitty shows.”

That had been the height of his career. Before Cara got sick. He’d toured most of the year, and split the rest of the time between their home in Charleston and their apartment in Manhattan. Whenever all the band members were in New York at the same time, they’d play in local venues, to small audiences under the name Orange Kitty.

He shook his head ruefully, a surprised smile on his face. “You must have been a hard-core fan to actually get out to an Orange Kitty show.”

The Orange Kitty shows had never been publicized, being spur of the moment. And that wasn’t the point, anyway. People either showed up by accident or heard about them by word of mouth.

“I once spent an entire night hitting bars all over Lower Manhattan because my friend had heard Orange Kitty was playing.”

There was a hint of nostalgia in his smile. “And were we?”

“Not that time.” Suddenly, her embarrassment spread and she felt as though she’d revealed far more than she’d meant to. She busied herself putting her remote away and fluffing a pillow. “I bet half the people in New York have stories like that.”

He grabbed her hand and tugged her closer. She found herself
looking at the topmost button of his ragged shirt, with far more intensity than such a bland pearlescent button deserved.

Slowly he tipped her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Until now, you’ve acted like you weren’t a fan at all. Why?”

She wanted to pull herself out of his arms, but instead forced herself to look him fully in the eyes. “That’s obvious, right?”

“Not to me.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t want you to think I was just some desperate fan-girl. That’s…” she searched for the right word “…creepy.”

“It’s never creepy knowing someone has enjoyed my music.”

There was a quiet sincerity to his voice. And she found herself pouring out the question she’d been holding back since Charleston. “So why don’t you write music anymore? Why don’t you play?”

He dropped his hand and leaned back, his expression suddenly distant.

“How do you know I don’t?”

His tone was as cold as his gaze, but she pressed on. She was too far past the line for it to matter now. “I saw the Alvarez. At CMF. It’s the only guitar you ever composed on. You may have been carrying around your friend Dave’s guitar, but I can’t imagine you composing on it.”

He turned away from her and scrubbed a hand through his hair. For a moment, she was certain that he was either going to lie outright or tell her to mind her own damn business.

Instead, he leveled an assessing gaze at her and said, “Why don’t you tell me your theory.”

She considered for a moment, gazing at the blank TV screen where his face had been just moments ago. What was it he wanted from her? She’d thought their relationship to be pure sex. She hadn’t expected him to show up on her doorstep in the evenings. She hadn’t expected romantic dates. She hadn’t expected to be telling him her theories about anything.

But since he’d asked for it, she found herself musing aloud. The idea had come to her as she watched the show. And now
she couldn’t bring herself to swallow her words, even though she knew it would be easier to keep her opinions to herself.

“Well, I think that’s obvious. You don’t play anymore for the same reason you don’t live in the house in Harleston Village. You feel like your talent betrayed you. From the time you were a teenager, your talent got you everything you ever wanted. Fame, fortune, success. It was your path out of poverty. Not just for you, but for your mother, too.” She nodded toward the screen. “It even helped win you Cara’s love. But then, when you needed it most, it abandoned you. All the talent in the world couldn’t save her life. Your wealth didn’t matter. No amount of money could buy her a treatment, because nothing could cure her. Your gift betrayed you when you needed it most.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed, but she could read the shock on his face, as if the idea were repugnant.

“Is it?” she prodded, trying to at least keep him talking so the idea would have a chance to sink in. “Stacy told me you haven’t even picked up the Alvarez since Cara died. Before she got sick, it never left your side. You traveled with it everywhere you went. You wouldn’t even leave it at the studio overnight. Now, you can barely even be in the same room with it.”

“You’re talking about it like it’s a person. It’s just a guitar. A piece of wood and some strings and a few electronics.”

“You don’t really believe that. It’s more than just a guitar. It’s the living embodiment of your talent. It’s the heart and soul of your success as an artist. And you’ve turned your back on it just as clearly as it turned its back on you.”

“I don’t think that.” His tone was quiet, but with so little emotion, she knew he had to be straining to keep it from his voice. “That’s completely illogical.”

“Of course it is. I’m talking about feelings, not logic. You’re the one with the soul of a poet. You know better than anyone that there’s no logic in the heart.”

He met her gaze for a second, unnerved by the understanding he saw there. Damn, but she was perceptive. She’d pegged him so easily, it unnerved him.

Was she right? Was that why he hadn’t touched the Alvarez since Cara died?

He didn’t know. All he knew was that any desire he’d had to play the guitar had died with Cara. The bits of song that used to tease at the edges of his mind had disappeared. He’d even wondered if it was gone forever. Until he’d returned to California for this trip. But lately, while running on the beach or sitting in traffic, the music had started to come back to him. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that it was tied to Ana.

Abruptly, he turned away, shoving aside all his thoughts about music. “Look, about the Hudsons’ party, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you and talk to you first.”

“
That’s
what you’re sorry about?”

He purposely ignored the subtle emphasis she placed on
that’s.
For now he’d had more than enough of her poking at his wounds. “Yes, I’m sorry. I got the call early this morning about the fundraiser. Jack Hudson heard I was in town and he gave me a call. I thought you’d be excited.”

But her arms remained crossed firmly over her chest. “Why would I be excited about that? Ward, I hardly think—”

He could tell from her tone she was going to bring up the Alvarez. Instead of letting her, he deftly steered the conversation back to the party. “This is the first time I’ve gone in years, but it’s always a great party. It should be fun.”

Or maybe not so deftly, if the frown on her face was any indication.

After a second, she blew out a rough breath of air. “So that’s how it’s going to be?”

He knew exactly what she meant. Knew what she was asking for, and still he couldn’t bring himself to respond. How could he explain to her what he didn’t even understand himself?

She frowned, obviously distressed, but apparently willing to let him change the subject. “You forget, I worked in Hollywood for years. Those kinds of people don’t impress me.” Her voice sounded weary. Resigned to letting him manipulate the conversation.

“Have you met Jack and CeCe Hudson? They’re nice people.
Yes, it’s a red carpet, fundraiser thing. And I’m sure there’ll be some people there who aren’t wonderful. That’s true in any crowd. But you should at least try to be open-minded about them.”

She shot him a look of pure exasperation. “They could be Santa and Mrs. Claus and I still wouldn’t want to go to their fundraiser. You’ve missed the point. I told you I wanted to keep our relationship a secret. And then you turn around and accept this invitation without even talking to me first. And to make matters worse, you have your assistant make arrangements before I’ve even agreed to go.”

He found himself smiling despite her obvious ire. He kind of liked being chewed out by her. He crossed to stand in front of her and gently untangled her arms so he held both her hands in his.

“You’re missing the bigger picture.”

She gave a halfhearted tug to free her hands. The frown on her face softened slightly. “I think I see the picture pretty clearly.”

Once again, he got the feeling that she was too damn perceptive. That she saw straight through his bull and knew precisely why he’d steered the conversation away from his musical career and toward the Hudsons’ party.

“Do you? Because you must realize that this fundraiser is the perfect platform for talking about Hannah’s Hope.”