Seduced: The Unexpected Virgin (2 page)

Longing stabbed at him, so sharp it nearly sucked the air out of the room. The combination was both homey and exotic. Welcoming and erotic.

It was a damn inconvenient time for his body to respond so strongly to a woman.

At least he didn’t have to worry about getting his heart involved, as well. As he’d sat at Cara’s deathbed, he’d made a promise to himself. He’d never love again.

Cameras snapped the instant Ward stepped outside. As a recent denizen of Hollywood, Ana was no stranger to the buzz of gossipmongers. If there was one thing her four years in the movie biz had taught her, it was that celebrities came alive in front of the camera and lived for the attention of the press.

Ward’s attitude only reaffirmed that impression. She barely had a chance to acclimate to the horde of reporters stewing on
the street. And, good Lord, where had they all come from? She would have sworn they arrived in clown cars, rather than SUVs.

However, Ward was already smiling with practiced ease and answering questions with a rakish smile.

“No, today is just a business meeting,” he was saying. He started to gesture toward Ana.

She had an instant of hoping he’d steer the questions toward Hannah’s Hope. Readying herself to step forward and talk, she gave her slim skirt a tug, secretly longing for the familiarity of the more flamboyant clothes she wore when she wasn’t trying to look so professional. But then a brunette from the back of the crowd edged her way forward. Ana recognized Gillian Mitchell, a reporter from the local paper, the
Seaside Gazette.
She called out a question. “I heard you’d booked time at a recording studio up in L.A. Are you working on a new album?”

“Of course, there’s always a possibility I’ll return to my recording career.” He rolled up onto the balls of his feet.

With his hands tucked into his pants pockets, he exuded a sort of good ol’ boy, aw-shucks enthusiasm that implied that
possibility
was more of a reality. “But for now I’m just producing an album with a local musician, Dave Summers, who just signed with my label. It’s important for me to let other young musicians have the same opportunities that I had.” Then he leaned a little closer and winked at the reporter. “But a songwriter is always a songwriter. I still have stories to tell.”

Ana tried to resist rolling her eyes. Her lips felt stiff from the forced smile, her teeth brittle from biting back her sarcasm. Sneaked in the back, indeed. He’d probably engineered this whole thing. What a jerk.

Finally, just as some of the reporters were starting to drift off, he said, “But it’s my work for charity that brings me here today. Let me tell you about Hannah’s Hope….”

Ana tried to smile with more enthusiasm now. The charity he’d started in honor of his wife, the Cara Miller Foundation, was world-renowned for its work with underprivileged children. Though CMF had no formal relationship with Hannah’s Hope,
Ward was a board member for both organizations. He was known for his philanthropic works, and was reclusive enough that any appearances piqued the public’s interest. At the appropriate moment, she said a sentence or two about the services Hannah’s Hope provided and their mission statement. She’d barely had a chance to rattle off the web address when the first of the cars loaded up and pulled out.

As the last of the reporters wandered off, she turned to look at Ward. His expression was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line of strain. For a second, she wondered whether this had been harder on him than he’d let on. But then he caught her looking at him and he smiled.

That smile, so up close and personal, seemed to suck the air right out of her lungs. She felt that same heady breathlessness she had when he’d introduced himself earlier. Like her blood had suddenly warmed by a few degrees.

“That went well,” he said, flashing those white teeth at her like the barely tamed big bad wolf his press kit made him out to be.

She caught herself wanting to simper in response. Self-consciously, she ran a hand over her hair. She dropped her hand to her side as soon as she realized what she was doing. She would not be distracted by him. No matter how charming he was.

“Just great,” she said with forced cheer.

He raised his eyebrows, his steady gaze unnerving her. “Is it all celebrities you don’t like or is it just me? Because if you have a problem with me, I’d rather know it now.” After a moment, he cocked his head toward her just slightly, lending a sense of intimacy to the hushed conversation. There had been a subtle sexual undercurrent to all his words. The gentle teasing, the low voice, the heat of his hand on her neck.

She’d seen stars do this before. Manipulate and coax people into doing exactly what they wanted. With female stars, it came across as a sort of chummy friendliness. A subtle “Let’s be best buds!” vibe. With men, there was always a sensual promise to the overtures. An “I’ll take you to bed and pleasure you beyond your wildest imaginings” implication.

She’d spent too long in Hollywood to be fooled by such tactics. Despite that, she felt a stirring of heat deep in her belly. Her body responding to the promise her mind knew was just a ruse.

And maybe that irritated her most of all. She knew better, yet despite all her big talk, she was still vulnerable. She still felt the powerful pull of attraction to him. The part of her that had grown up as a Ward Miller fan desperately wanted him to like her. Moreover, that part of her desperately wanted him to be likable. Despite the fact that she knew how unlikely that was.

She had to muster her indignation.

“You’re right. I don’t like celebrities. And what happened out there is a perfect example why. If you’re going to talk about Hannah’s Hope, then talk about the program.” She stepped forward, closing the distance between them and then immediately wishing she hadn’t. Dang, but he smelled good. “Don’t use us as a platform for launching your comeback. The work we do is too important. There are people who really need our services and if you climb over them to get into the limelight, then you’re—” She stumbled then over her words, her tirade foiled by her own expectations. Swallowing past the last remnants of her fantasies, she forced out her words. “Then you’re not the man I thought you were.”

A
t the height of his career, when he’d traveled more than two hundred days a year, Ward had been able to float between time zones with only an extra shot of caffeine to get him going. Either he was getting older or his time out of the circuit had changed him. He’d flown into San Diego from visiting a charity in Texas that CMF was involved with. However, despite the fact that he was only two time zones away, he woke up at four local time and couldn’t go back to sleep.

So he’d rolled out of bed, dressed for a jog on the beach, and had headed out in the early-morning gloom before getting so much as a whiff of coffee. He knew he’d feel the effects of getting less than six hours sleep later in the day, but he figured getting up was better than lying there tormenting himself.

He dressed quickly in sweatpants, a T-shirt and his jogging shoes.

His condo in Vista del Mar sat on a deserted stretch of beach. His assistant, Jess, had come out for a couple of days the previous week to rent the modest one bedroom condo. Though many larger rentals had been available, Ward had opted for compact
and close to the water, glad to have the excuse to put Jess and Ryan up at the hotel rather than having them stay with him. He valued his privacy too much to want them underfoot. This time of morning, only the most stalwart of beachgoers would be out. By the time he was jogging along the beach, the faintest hint of light was creeping over the horizon chasing away the night. It would be another hour before the sun rose. For now, he was alone with the sand under his pounding feet, the surf roaring in his ears, and the breeze biting his cheeks. Still, it wasn’t quite enough to block out the memory of her words.

Not the man I thought you were.

There was enough punch in that one sentence to cripple a man.

He’d disappointed a lot of people in his life. People who’d relied on him. People he’d loved. Was it really too much to ask of himself that he not disappoint this one, fiery-tempered do-gooder?

Hell, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if it was merely his inconvenient and unexpected attraction to Ana Rodriguez that kept him awake. Sexual attraction came and went. It was a simple truth in his life that women were—and always had been—plentiful. There’d even been times, before Cara, that he’d indulged in the cornucopia of femininity that his career presented him with. He’d learned enough restraint since then that merely being attracted to Ana didn’t bother him.

The real problem was, some tiny part of him feared that Ana looked right through him to his very soul and saw the truth. That he really wouldn’t live up to her expectations. He never did.

He could shove aside everything else. He was good at burying his emotions these days. But he couldn’t make himself forget that.

When Cara died, he’d lost himself briefly in his grief. He’d managed to fight, tooth and nail, to get back to himself. To climb out of his despair and rebuild his life without her. But the truth was, he’d done it by following one simple principle. Keep moving.

It was like jogging. You just put one foot ahead of the other.
You never give yourself permission to think. You just move. You forget the pain streaming through your muscles. Forget the blisters forming on your heels. Forget the anguish of watching a loved one being eaten alive by cancer and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it. You just move.

And if you’re fast enough and you don’t ever stop, you somehow manage to stay in front of it.

For the past three years, he’d worked eighteen-hour days getting the Cara Miller Foundation started and running smoothly. He’d contacted every wealthy or influential person he’d ever met and hit them up for support or donations. He’d found work that he was passionate about and he’d devoted himself to doing it.

He’d visited other charities. He’d studied the way they were run. He’d learned from them, revamped their models. And started over again. Never staying in any one place long enough to catch his breath. He’d worked tirelessly. He’d done it in honor of his wife’s memory. But he’d also done it because it helped him forget her.

It was a dichotomy he wasn’t sure he was ready to contemplate during a morning run on the beach. His muscles burned and his joints ached as his feet ate up mile after mile. But he still kept on jogging, slowly acknowledging that Ana was certainly right about one thing. Hannah’s Hope needed him, but it needed him for more than a quick stop off on the way to some other destination. If he was going to help Hannah’s Hope, it needed to be more than drive-by charity work.

Jogging was the one thing that cleared his head. The one thing that blocked out all the nonsense. Music had been that way for him once. Back before Cara got sick. But cancer had taken not only his wife but every musical urge he had. There’d been a time when he couldn’t go a day without playing the guitar. When songs had teased at the edges of his mind no matter what he was doing. All that was gone. Now all he had was jogging. But you couldn’t run forever. Sooner or later, you had to stop, catch your breath and turn around to go home.

So Ward slowed his steps. He stopped for a moment, braced his palms on his knees and bent over to suck in deep lungfuls of
salty air. Then he turned around and started for the condo. But he didn’t run there. He walked the rest of the way. By the time the condo was in sight, the sun was peeking over the rooftops across the street from the beach. He was just in time for the sunrise.

Ana arrived at Hannah’s Hope late the following day after a very discouraging meeting at the bank. Sure, they had plenty of money—for now—but more paperwork was the last thing she needed right now. Especially since the paperwork required involved signatures from board members. While Rafe was always willing to sign papers, it sometimes took days for him to get around to it. Since she needed the papers by morning, someone from Hannah’s Hope would have to drive over to Worth Industries and wait around for Rafe to actually get a pen in his hand during a free moment. And just now that felt like time she didn’t have to spare.

As she let herself in the back door of Hannah’s Hope, juggling her briefcase and purse, she called out, “I’m not really here. I’m just dropping off my laptop on my way over to…”

She let her voice trail off as she glanced around the back room and realized no one was there to hear her explanation. Where was everyone?

Usually by this late in the morning, both Christi and Omar were there. She stuck her head through the doorway of the office they shared, but found it empty. She set down her laptop on her desk chair and followed the sound of voices to the conference room.

She took in the scene before her in one rapid sweep. Christi and Omar were seated on the near side of the conference table. Emma Worth sat up at the head of the table, her own laptop open in front of her. One arm was still encased in a purple cast from a recent car accident, so she was typing one-handed. A bowl of fresh fruit sat in the center of the table, as well as a tray of pastries and muffins wrapped in the Bistro by the Sea’s signature bright blue papers. A box of their coffee sat on the bookshelf with a stack of paper cups. The divinely pungent scent of coffee filled the air, with the subtle undernotes of blueberry muffins.
Obviously, someone had decided to have breakfast catered in. And she suspected that same person was currently standing at the front of the room writing on the whiteboard.

Ward was dressed in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. His back was to her as he wrote, but she could tell by the way the fabric draped that it was unbuttoned. Probably to hang open over some muscle-sculpting T-shirt that would drive her to distraction. His wavy hair curled over the back of his collar, making her fingers itch to run through those curls.

She hissed out a breath through her clenched teeth. Prying her jaw open, she asked, “What exactly is going on here?”

Three heads swiveled in her direction. Christi and Omar smiled broadly. Emma’s gaze darted away nervously like she knew Ana wouldn’t approve.

Ward’s hand stilled midword. Then slowly he turned to face her. His smile was slow, lazy and just a bit smug.

And damn it, yep, there was the maroon, chest-hugging shirt. Just what she expected. It took a hell of a man to make mere denim, cotton and flannel look elegant, but somehow Ward pulled it off. Batman in a tux didn’t look this good.

“Good,” he said. “You’re just in time. We’re brain storming.”

“Where’d the food come from?”

“That little restaurant downtown. What’s it called?”

“The Bistro,” Emma said sheepishly.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Bistro by the Sea. Great little place. I brought the food in.”

“And the whiteboards?” she asked pointedly. Whiteboards had been on their want-to-buy-soon-but-not-yet-in-our-budget list.

His smile broadened. “Guilty as charged.”

There were two of them. They hadn’t yet been installed, but rested against four of the chairs that had been dragged in from the other room. At the top of one were the words
What we need.
On the other, the words
How to get it.
Funny, she didn’t see catered meals under either column.

“Wasn’t it nice of Ward to bring us muffins?” Emma asked, her tone overly bright.

“So generous, I hardly know what to say,” she muttered drily.

The skin around his eyes crinkled with barely suppressed humor, as if he read the subtle sarcasm she’d tried to keep from her voice. “You’re welcome.” He gestured toward the bounty on the table—more than any five people could eat in one morning. “Why don’t you pour yourself a cup of coffee and join us. We’re just getting started.”

“I can’t.” She held up the portfolio of documents. “I’ll be spending most of the day in Rafe’s office, so he can sign these papers by tomorrow. Actually, I need signatures from you two, as well.” She slid the folder toward Emma. “If you could sign it before I leave, that would be perfect.”

“I’m meeting Rafe for dinner tonight,” Ward said easily as he crossed to stand directly across from her on the other side of the table. “I’ll take the papers and have him sign them.”

Ana snatched up the portfolio before Ward could take it. “That’s not necessary.”

Still, he reached for it and grabbed the corner. “It’s not a big deal.”

Both of their arms stretched out across the table, each holding an edge of the folder. Suddenly, they were no longer debating which of them would ask Rafe to sign the papers. They were fighting over control of Hannah’s Hope. Letting him take the papers would be admitting she couldn’t do her job. Yet, fighting over it made her seem like a controlling bitch.

She was painfully aware of the others’ gazes bouncing back and forth between them. Aware of Ward’s easy, confident smile. And of the tight strain of hers. She’d already lost the battle.

“Great,” she said, pushing the folder toward him. “Just make sure I have it first thing in the morning.”

Ward set the portfolio down on the table and once again gestured to the empty chair at the table. “Take a seat. I’m eager to hear your thoughts.”

As she lowered herself to the chair, she noticed a crisp blank
writing tablet sitting in front of her, a new pen propped on top. A glance around the table showed her that everyone had pads. Christi and Omar had already started taking notes.

As the group tossed out more ideas, she carefully drew a line down the center of the top page and copied Ward’s two headings What We Need and How to Get It.

So, what did she need?

More training.

More time to figure out how to do her job.

Less time with the sexy, but meddling rock star.

How to get it?

Under that column, she had nothing but question marks.

A few hours later—after Ward had taken them all to lunch at the Vista del Mar Beach and Tennis Club—Ana was finally able to retreat into her office to sulk. She maintained no illusions. Sulking was precisely what she was doing. During lunch, Emma had been in her element. Ana had eaten at the club often enough that she was no longer intimidated by the elegant atmosphere and sophisticated food. However, Christi and Omar were duly impressed. She tried to tell herself that enjoying their food was not a sign of betrayal. Her overly sensitive emotions didn’t listen.

So by the time Emma knocked on the door and stuck her head into Ana’s office, Ana was feeling surly and disgruntled.

Immediately reading Ana’s mood, Emma asked, “Aren’t you pleased with all we accomplished today? It feels like things are really starting to take off.”

Ana shrugged noncommittally as she crossed her arms over her chest. And then quickly dropped them to her side. This was one of the disadvantages of working with someone who knew you so well.

Ana’s parents had worked for the Worths for years. She’d spent her teenage years living in the apartment over their garage. Though Ana’s family was hired help, Emma’s kindness and generosity meant they hadn’t been treated that way. Ana and Emma were practically sisters.

She tried not to be annoyed by Emma’s cheerful demeanor. Within the past month, Emma had fallen in love with Chase Larson, Rafe’s stepbrother. It certainly wasn’t Emma’s fault that she was practically glowing with the combination of love-infused happiness and pregnancy hormones. Of course she was happy for her friend. And yet, Ana couldn’t help but feel Emma’s new status as pregnant and soon-to-be-married only highlighted Ana’s own perpetual and permanent state as a singleton.

But none of that had any relevance to Hannah’s Hope.

Ana tapped her fingers on her desk. “It feels like a lot of big dreams that we aren’t going to be able to do anything about.”

Emma frowned at the unexpected censure. “Me, I’m thrilled.” She took a sip from the bottle of water that she seemed to carry with her constantly now that she was pregnant. “I think we came up with a lot of great ideas. What about the street fair? Surely you love that idea.”

Christi had thrown out the idea halfway through the brainstorming. Instead of hosting an open house next week on a weekday evening, they would host a street fair in downtown Vista del Mar at the end of the month. They could generate far more publicity as well as draw in plenty of passersby. Everyone else had loved the idea.