Unguarded (3 page)

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

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

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

“Can I see you again?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come later then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Second date?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really? What's his name?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a clue.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, I'm the same age as you.”

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

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

“Oh, excuse me.”

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

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

“Nothing.”

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

“No. It's nothing like that.”

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

“Of course not.”

“Why don't I believe that?”

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn't exactly call it minor.”

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

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

“Definitely rich.”

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

“More like ten or twelve—”

“You're not helping.”

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

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

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

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

She was too afraid of what she might see.

“You're a beautiful woman, Rhiannon.”

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

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

“Logan, no!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His own or someone else's?”

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

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

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

“And you plan parties.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It smells delicious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Try and stop me.”

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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