Unguarded (10 page)

Annoyance—and maybe a bit of fear that he was right—made her voice sharper than she intended when she answered, “No. Of course not.”

“Why of course not?” Camille demanded, and not for the first time Rhiannon wished her friend wasn't so good at picking up on things.

“Because, as I was telling you before, Shawn's a client. He's just some guy I met through work, not someone I'm planning on dating.”

“Are you sure?” her brother demanded. “Because if you are, I have a friend who's a detective. I can get him to check this guy out—”

“No one is checking anybody out. There's nothing
to
check out.”

Camille elbowed Matt and he ran a frustrated hand over his face before turning back to Rhiannon. “Look, I'm not trying to tell you what to do, I just don't want to see you get hurt again.”

“First of all, nothing's going on, so I can't get hurt. And secondly, why do you assume I'm
going
to get hurt
again? Like I can't take care of myself because something crappy once happened to me?” she asked, unable to stop herself. While she was desperately afraid to get involved in another relationship, even a superficial one, it was terrible to realize that her brother might see just how badly off she really was, especially since she'd worked so hard to hide it from him.

“I don't, Rhiannon. I promise, I don't see you like that at all. It's just—” He paused, ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “After everything went down, you were a mess, Rhiannon, broken into so many pieces that I couldn't imagine you ever being able to fit them together again. I just don't want to see you end up back there again.”

“I'm not going back there, I promise. My life isn't what I expected it to be, but that doesn't mean I don't like where I'm at.” She mouthed the platitudes without thinking, but as she thought about them, she realized they were true. While there was still a bunch of things she wanted to change about her life, there were some things she would never mess with.

She liked being an event coordinator, liked planning strange and different parties. And she loved her family and friends. There might only be a few people that she trusted now, but she trusted them implicitly. Surely that counted for something.

She was tired of being a victim—in everyone's eyes. Sick to death of being “poor Rhiannon.” Sick to death of being the one everyone worried about or talked about at parties.

“I didn't mean that—” The very real agitation in Matt's voice had her leaning over and patting his cheek. It was a gesture that drove him nuts and there was
definitely still enough big sister in her to make the action worthwhile.

But later, as she was walking Cole around the back yard, cooing at him and making baby noises, her brother's words came back to her—along with her determination not to be a burden any longer.

She glanced around, trying to get a sense of where everyone was. Sarah and Reece were playing with their kids near the swimming pool while Matt and Camille were taking advantage of the time they had alone to cuddle on one of the loungers.

She'd been about to return the baby, but stopped dead when she saw them. They looked so good together, so quiet, so peaceful, that she didn't want to disturb them. So she hung back for a few minutes, admiring the way they were content just to hold each other.

Rhiannon wasn't sure how long she stood there watching her brother and sister-in-law—probably only a few seconds. But it was long enough to recognize the envy tightening her stomach. She didn't begrudge Matt and Camille the happiness they had found, but she missed it. Missed that sense of being part of a couple. Missed the touching, the support, the feeling that there was somebody in the world she belonged with and who belonged with her.

Richard may have been less than kind in the end, but for much of their relationship he'd been a good husband, friend and lover. The fact that things had gone so terribly wrong at the finish didn't negate what they had once had. What she was only just now beginning to realize she would someday like to have again.

Out of nowhere, Shawn's face rose up in front of her. She'd spent the past week staring at the phone and
wondering if he would call. He never did, and while she told herself it had a lot more to do with her behavior than it did her scars, she wasn't so sure that was the truth.

She'd vowed to stop thinking of him numerous times throughout the week, but that didn't mean he didn't come to her—like now—in weird moments when she dropped her guard. Though this instant didn't seem like an ideal time for him to appear—at almost eleven years her junior, it wasn't like he was life-partner material.

And yet, she missed him. Missed the way he smiled at her. Missed the way he goofed around. Missed the way he was so much fun to be with. So much of her life was work—not just her job, but everything else, too.

More often than not, interacting with her friends and family was a chore because they either expected her to be completely healed or they wanted her to still be the victim they remembered from two and a half years before. She no longer felt like either, and trying to navigate the waters was exhausting at best.

Not to mention the fact that no matter how hard she tried, some days it was still nearly impossible to get out of bed in the morning.

But being with Shawn wasn't like that. It wasn't work. It wasn't simple—certainly not as simple as she had first thought—but it wasn't difficult, either. It was just nice.

When she closed her eyes at night, she could still see the way he'd looked at her arms that night at the batting cage. But as she gained a little distance, and a little perspective, she was beginning to realize that the look on his face hadn't been disgust so much as shock and concern. And while she'd had enough of
both of those emotions from her husband and family and friends through the last long years, she couldn't fault Shawn for his feelings. Her scars were a startling sight.

Cole chose that moment to cry and both Camille and Matt turned at the interruption. “Is he fussy?” Camille asked, rushing over.

“I think he's tired. We played for a bit and he started yawning to beat the band.”

“His afternoon nap was cut short today. He's probably exhausted.” Camille cradled the baby in her arms and murmured soothingly to him. He quieted instantly and again Rhiannon felt a small pang.

“Go relax. I'll be down as soon as I get him to sleep.”

Two hours later, Rhiannon was still thinking about Shawn as she walked down her brother's driveway to her car. No question about it, she owed him an apology for her bizarre behavior the other night—and since. And while she could probably do it in a phone call, or maybe even an email, she turned her car toward the lake. It wasn't that late and there was no time like the present. Besides, she'd probably lose her nerve if she waited too long.

She tried to figure out what to say without revealing too much of her past. She imagined Shawn apologizing for some indiscretion, a charming grin on his face and a bouquet of flowers in one hand. Or a box of candy. Or—

She turned into a local ice cream parlor, ran in and got pints of her two favorite flavors. Surely he couldn't resist a heartfelt apology and the best ice cream around.

Rhiannon tried to tell herself it was no big deal, that she was just going to stop in for a couple of minutes, deliver her apology and then head for home. But even as she had the thought, she knew it was a lie. If Shawn accepted her apology, if he invited her in, she would stay. And in doing so, open up a whole part of herself that she had buried so deep and so well that she had almost forgotten it had existed.

Still, when she got to his house she didn't linger in the car, no matter how much she wanted to. Better to just jump in with both feet and figure out how this thing was going to play out. If she spent any more time thinking about it, she would go crazy.

Making her way to the front door, she clutched the bag of ice cream in one hand and knocked with the other. He didn't immediately answer and as she stood there, a sense of overwhelming foolishness assailed her. Had she really thought he would be home? It was Saturday night and he was a young, attractive guy. He was probably out at a local bar, trying to pick up a more receptive woman.

Or maybe he had already found one, she thought with dawning horror. He could be on a date right now, or worse, in the house with the woman, having an intimate dinner that would end much better than the one he'd attempted to have with Rhiannon the week before.

She headed back toward her car at nearly a dead run. She'd almost made it when she heard Shawn's front door swing open and his very surprised, “Rhiannon?”

She turned around, more than aware of the fact that her face had gone as red as her hair—not her most becoming color, to say the least. And her first look at
Shawn had her blushing even more. He was dressed in an old pair of jeans with holes at the knees and what looked like absolutely nothing else. He was shirtless and the jeans' top button was undone, revealing only more skin where she would expect to find underwear.

And dear God, did he look good. She'd known he was well-built from the way his clothes had fit—and from the hard muscles she'd felt when he'd stood so close to her at the batting cage. But nothing had prepared her for the fact that without his shirt, Shawn was absolutely gorgeous.

His torso was long and lean, the muscles of his stomach forming a tight six pack beneath his smooth, tanned skin. A light dusting of hair started under his belly button and disappeared beneath the heavy denim of his jeans. Add in the shaggy, too-long brown hair and piercing blue eyes, the strong jaw and cut-glass cheekbones, and he was completely stunning.

And the way he was looking at her—all confused interest and tight control—was fascinating. Intriguing. Arousing. For the first time in literally years, Rhiannon found herself responding to a man. Her breath quickened as her nipples tightened beneath the heavy material of her sweater.

God, she would die of mortification if he had another woman in there, some young beautiful blonde with a perfect, unblemished body.

“What are you doing here?” He took the steps leading up to his door two at a time until he was standing only a few inches away from her.

She tried to think of something clever to say, something smart and funny and completely off-the-cuff, but she was too frazzled to do much more than stare.

“Rhiannon, are you okay?” He reached for her, but stopped himself before he actually touched her. His hand fell to his side and with it, so did the hopes Rhiannon barely allowed herself to have.

He knew. Or if he didn't, he certainly suspected. And now he would treat her just like everyone else—like a freak who could wig out at any second instead of a woman he was interested in getting to know.

Of course, could she blame him? She'd already wigged out on him, twice. It was a wonder he hadn't turned around and barred the door against her.

“I'm fine. I just stopped by to apologize. And bring you some ice cream.” She held up the bag.

“Ice cream?” If possible, he looked even more puzzled.

“Yeah. Anyway, I'm sorry to bother you. I should have called first. I'll let you get back to whatever it is you were doing.” She started backing toward her car.

“Hey. Hold on for a second.” The weirded-out look was slowly fading, to be replaced by the sexy smile she was used to.

“Umm, sure.”

“First of all, I was just working. I have a book due in a few weeks and I'm trying to get it done. Besides, I'd rather see you. And second…” His voice trailed off.

“Second?” Was that really her sounding so breathless? What had happened to the Ice Queen, the woman who had absolutely no interest in men?

“You forgot to give me the ice cream.”

“Oh. Right.” She handed him the bag. “Here you go.”

“So, what flavors did you get?”

She stared at him blankly, shocked to realize that for
a moment, she couldn't remember what flavors she'd gotten. It would sound stupid to admit it, but the truth was her brain kind of short-circuited when he looked at her.

“Flavors, Rhiannon?” Shawn repeated. “I've found you can tell a lot about a woman by the kind of ice cream she eats.”

She was intrigued despite herself, the need to flee fading in the face of his obvious pleasure in seeing her. “Really? Like what?”

“Why don't you come on in? I'll dish up a bowl and tell you all about it.” His wicked grin made the invitation sound anything but innocent.

S
HAWN HAD BEEN SHOCKED
to find Rhiannon at his front door, but now that she was inside the house, he was really glad she'd decided to come. He'd spent the past week avoiding her as he tried to figure out just what he could take—and what he couldn't—and he'd missed her. Probably more than he should have. It had been a very pleasant surprise to find her on his doorstep, bearing ice cream and acting delightfully nervous.

Was it wrong of him to enjoy the fact that he made her nervous? he wondered as he pulled out two bowls and an ice cream scoop. Probably, but since she didn't seem to be afraid—only aware of him on a whole new level—he wasn't going to beat himself up over it.

She was dressed in a long-sleeved pink sweater and a pair of jeans that lovingly hugged her slight curves, and not for the first time, he realized that she was too thin. How long had she been suffering? he wondered. How long had she been wasting away because of something some monster had done to her?

He'd spent hours on the internet in the past few days, trying to ferret out what had happened to her, but nothing new had turned up since that first day. The not knowing what had happened to her was eating him up inside. Driving him crazy. The idea that someone had
hurt her upset him more than anything had in a very long time—maybe ever.

“So, tell me about this theory you have about ice cream flavors,” Rhiannon said as she settled onto the same barstool she'd occupied the last time she'd been there.

“What kind did you get?” he asked, reaching into the bag to pull out one of the containers.

“Uh-uh. That's not fair. You have to tell me your theory and then we'll see if you're right.”

Her voice was low and teasing and he felt himself hardening in response. Her nervousness was still there, but it was countered with a sultriness that had him thinking of hot sex and endless nights in bed. He knew he was rushing things in his head—she was too skittish for either of those things just yet—but that didn't stop his fantasies any more than it stopped the need rushing through him.

Part of him wanted nothing more than to cross over to her, pull her into his arms and kiss her. But he was interested enough in her to put on the brakes, to take things as slowly as Rhiannon needed him to. In the meantime, he would content himself with remembering what her body had felt like against his, what she had tasted like as his mouth had explored hers.

“Well, I've found that there are three types of ice cream—and a certain type of woman enjoys each kind.”

“Do tell.” She leaned back on the stool, arching a brow in that way he loved.

“The first kind is the one who loves pure flavors, ice cream with nothing added to it like vanilla or chocolate, strawberry or mango.”

“And what type of woman likes that kind of ice cream?”

He stared hard at the bag for a second, trying hard to figure out what kind of ice cream Rhiannon had brought him. He would really hate to insult her—or worse, send her running again—by saying the wrong thing.

“One who knows her own mind. She's straight forward and uncluttered, speaks her mind and isn't afraid of a challenge. She's smart and very often what you see with her is what you get.”

Rhiannon watched him carefully. “That kind of person sounds a little boring to me.”

“I don't think so. There's something kind of refreshing about always knowing where you stand with her. I like women who know their own mind and aren't afraid to go after it.”

“I bet. And the second type of woman?”

“Oh, she's the kind who likes things a little more variety, whether it's ice cream or relationships. But who is so used to denying herself that she doesn't understand that low-fat frozen yogurt or sugar-free ice cream really isn't ice cream at all—just a poor substitute.”

“And this woman is into denial? You don't think that's complicated?”

He grinned. “I didn't say she was uncomplicated. But I'm pretty sure I can handle her.”

“You think so, huh?”

“I'm feeling relatively confident.” He reached for the bag a second time, but she stopped him.

“You haven't finished your analysis quite yet.”

“Wouldn't you rather eat ice cream?”

“Not even close. I'm spellbound.”

“All right then. The third type likes the everything-but-the-kitchen sink variety of ice cream. You know, triple chocolate chunk with pecans and caramel. Or peanut butter and fudge brownie with strawberry sauce.”

“Peanut butter and fudge brownie? With strawberry?” Rhiannon shuddered. “That sounds revolting.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I guess.” She looked doubtful, but finally asked, “And what fascinating personality quirks does the kitchen-sink woman have?”

“She's the woman who takes a long time to make up her mind, the one who doesn't know exactly what she wants until she tries it on for size. She's a little wild, not quick to be pinned down. An adventurer.”

“Sounds like she's a little over the top.”

“Maybe a little.”

“But you can handle her, too, right?” Rhiannon's eyes were laughing at him and as he watched her he realized it was the first time since they'd met that she seemed truly happy. Completely relaxed.

“I don't know about that—she might be a bit much for me.” He glanced at the bag she was still guarding. “Can I dish up the ice cream now?”

“If you think you can take it.”

“I'm pretty tough.”

She laughed. “For a guy who spends all day playing with superheroes, I'm sure you're very tough.”

“Hey, Shadeslayer's a complicated guy. He keeps me on my toes.” He reached into the bag, absolutely certain that he was going to be pulling out vanilla or strawberry or their equivalent. What he got, however,
was a tub of Turtle Brownie Fudge ice cream followed by one of Triple Berry Cheesecake.

Surprised, he glanced up to find Rhiannon watching him with a smirk. “So, what do you think of your Ice Cream Woman analysis now?”

He thought he was a much luckier man than he'd originally suspected. “It's never wrong, so I'm guessing there's a whole side of you I haven't seen yet.”

“Never wrong, huh? You've done some kind of scientific study on this?”

“I wouldn't
exactly
call it scientific.”

“So what would you call it?”

He shifted, tried to think of a nice way to put it. Finally, he said, “I've eaten ice cream with a lot of women in my life.”

She snorted. “I just bet you have.”

He scooped a couple of scoops of ice cream into each bowl, then grabbed them and headed into the family room. “Come on—it's more comfortable in here.”

“I'll say. It's downright hedonistic.”

He watched as she sank into one corner of his huge sofa, curling her legs up underneath her as she started in on her ice cream.

Shawn watched her for a few seconds, unable to look away. He liked seeing her here, in his favorite room. Liked having her here, curled up on his sofa, enjoying her treat with a sensual abandon that had him close to exploding with need.

But it was more than how sexy she was, more than the fact that she kept him on his toes. Despite their rocky start—or rather, starts—he liked her. Really liked her. She was smart, capable, resilient and, despite
everything, strong enough to stand against him when she needed to.

She was also fragile, and he found himself wanting to wrap her up, to keep her safe from whoever it was that had hurt her, from whatever it was that haunted her.

He was still a little skittish, still a little concerned with how much time he spent thinking about Rhiannon. How much time he spent trying to come up with a way to be with her. And even worse, a way to fix her. If he wasn't careful, he was going to end up falling for her, seriously, and anyone who knew him knew he didn't do serious. He wasn't about to start now, no matter how much Rhiannon interested him.

Even so, he did his best to ignore the alarm his subconscious was sounding. Just because he found her fascinating didn't mean he was going to end up falling in love with her. He didn't do love, and even if he had wanted to try a real relationship on for size, it wouldn't be with a woman as emotionally devastated as Rhiannon. Cynthia had more than cured him of his need to play white knight years ago.

Uncomfortable with the direction his thoughts were taking, Shawn went over to the stereo in the corner and turned it on. Immediately the Dave Matthews Band filled the room between them.

“I love this song,” Rhiannon said as the opening chords of “Crash Into Me” came through the speakers.

“I do, too. I saw them live when they came through Dallas a few months ago—it was a really good time.”

“I bet. I planned on going to that show, but something came up. I missed a good one, huh?”

“It was awesome.”

He launched into a description of the concert, which led to a discussion of other concerts they had both attended. Before he knew it, an hour had passed and both of their bowls were empty.

“Do you want some more ice cream?” he asked Rhiannon, who looked down at her empty bowl in surprise.

“How do you do that?” she demanded. “I usually have trouble eating, but when I'm with you I can't seem to get enough food.”

“I like watching you eat.” He reached for her bowl. “Can I get you another scoop?”

“No way! I'm probably one step away from a sugar coma as we speak.”

“But what a way to go.”

“No doubt. I'll take chocolate, caramel and pecans any way I can get them. My brother used to tease me that I would eat Turtles out of a dirty shoe as long as I could get my caramel fix.” She glanced down at her watch. “I should probably get going.”

“Why? Do you turn into a pumpkin at 9:30 p.m.?”

She looked surprised. “I thought you did. I'm noticing a distinctly orange cast to your skin and wanted to leave before it got any more embarrassing for you.”

He burst out laughing, and that's when he had the first inkling that he just might be in trouble. But how was he supposed to keep from falling for her, when that deadpan sense of humor of hers kept sneaking up on him at the oddest times?

“I really like you, Rhiannon.” The words were out before he'd known he was going to say them, but as
they stretched between them he felt no desire to take them back.

The smile faded from her face. “Don't.”

He scooted over on the couch, until their knees were just touching. “Why not?”

“I'm a mess, in case you hadn't noticed. Definitely not good relationship material.”

Well, he certainly wouldn't be able to say she hadn't warned him. Of course, he'd already figured out the mess part for himself. Yet, as he looked at her in the rosy glow cast by the end-table lamp, he felt no urge to back away. The warning bells had gone silent, and while he didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad one, he had the feeling he was about to find out.

“So what are you doing here, then? You could have just kept sending me those boring emails of yours.”

“Those emails are efficient.”

“Those emails are insane. If they were any more impersonal, I would think they'd come from the Internal Revenue Service.”

“Ouch. Nothing quite like being compared to the IRS to cut a girl down to size.”

“You never answered my question.”

“No, I didn't.” She looked down at the bowl in her lap and all that luscious hair of hers fell over her face like a curtain.

“Hey.” He reached forward, took the bowl from her nervous hands and set it on the coffee table. “I can't see your face.”

“Is that such a tragedy?” She didn't look up.

“It is when I'm trying to get a straight answer from you.” He cupped her chin between his thumb and index
finger and tilted her head up, so that she had no choice but to look him in the eye.

What he saw in hers had his breath lodging in his chest. He didn't know how to describe it, didn't even know if there was a name for the look she gave him. All he knew was that the last time he'd felt like this, it had been after he'd crashed his motorcycle and hit the pavement so hard that every ounce of oxygen had been expelled from his lungs.

“So,” he murmured, his lips brushing across her forehead and down her cheek. “If you're such a mess, why did you come here tonight?”

She tilted her head to the side, and he kissed his way down her temple to her cheek, down her cheek to the corner of her mouth. “You're going to make me say it, aren't you?”

“Say what?” He nibbled along her jaw, reveling in the sudden catch in her breathing, the slight trembling of her body beneath his.

“I came here tonight because I like you, too. God knows, it'll probably end up being a train wreck—”

His mouth closed over hers, effectively cutting off the doom-and-gloom message she seemed so intent on delivering.