Unguarded

CHAPTER ONE

SHE COULD DO THIS.

She could do this.

Really, she could do this.

Rhiannon Jenkins repeated the mantra that had gotten her through so much in the past two years as she squared her shoulders and climbed slowly out of her car. Despite the pep talk she’d given herself all the way over here, she couldn’t help feeling like she was headed for the guillotine. Which was ridiculous, she reminded herself impatiently. It was just a business lunch, and she’d had hundreds of them over the course of her career. One more certainly wasn’t going to do her in.

Of course, she’d told herself the same thing three years before when she’d made the mistake of trusting a source for her newspaper article. That meeting hadn’t killed her, but it had come damn close—and taken a huge amount of her life with it. Including, she admitted with a grim sigh, her ability to confidently meet a man in a packed restaurant—even for a lunch date that was strictly business.

But she didn’t have a choice. She had to do this. The only other option—running back to her boss and best friend, Logan, and telling him that she’d been too chicken to even walk in the restaurant’s door—was somehow a million times worse. He’d taken a chance on her when she’d been all but paralyzed with grief and fear. She wouldn’t repay him by screwing up one of the biggest responsibilities he’d given her.

So what if it was the first time she’d pitched a party completely on her own since joining Logan’s firm two years before?

So what if the man she was supposed to have lunch with was young and sexy and a little bit intimidating?

So what, even if she was so scared she was literally quaking in the two-hundred-dollar boots she’d bought the night before to give herself courage?

She could do this. She would do this…even if it sent her careening over the edge of the sanity she clung to with battered fingertips. She was never going to get better, never going to get any sort of a life back, if she didn’t push herself. It was what she’d told Logan when he’d asked if doing this first meeting alone was really okay with her, and it was what she’d told herself in the bathroom mirror a hundred times that morning as she’d put on her makeup.

After gathering the briefcase and purse she’d almost forgotten in the car, Rhiannon headed straight toward the front door of the Mexican restaurant Shawn—the client—had chosen. As she walked, she did her best to banish the nerves that continued to assault her.

She’d spent her life around men—all kinds of men—so she felt ridiculous working herself up into this state just because he’d called the office and specifically requested her. Why wouldn’t he have? she asked herself viciously. She’d been the one he’d met at the party she’d coordinated on Saturday night, and it was her business card she’d handed him when he’d asked what company she was with. It only stood to reason that he would have asked for her when he’d spoken to the receptionist two days before.

Understanding the whys of how she’d gotten there didn’t make it any easier to open the restaurant’s door and walk inside. But then, nothing had been easy for nearly three years now. That didn’t mean she’d stopped doing things—it only meant that she had to go through this ridiculous freak-out in anticipation of every new or not-since-the-attack incident that came up. For a woman who had once been known for her intrepid and insightful newspaper articles, it was a hard thing for her to admit. And even harder for her to accept.

She spotted Shawn almost as soon as her eyes adjusted to the restaurant’s dim interior—he was sitting in a booth about halfway across the room, and her first glimpse of him had Rhiannon silently cursing like a sailor.

She’d wanted to get here first, had made sure to arrive ten minutes early so that she’d have a chance to get herself settled at the table before having to put on her game face. The fact that her plans were now ruined flustered her a lot more than it should have.

Telling herself to suck it up, she returned his welcoming wave and made her way toward him. Even the best-laid plans had to have some wiggle room, she reminded herself as she stopped next to his table. Today, now, was no exception.

“Rhiannon.” Shawn rose and extended his hand, his blue eyes warm and his smile welcoming. “I’m so glad you could make it today.”

“Me, too. I’ve been excited about hearing the details of this party you want to throw since you called the office on Monday.” It wasn’t a lie, she told herself, if she only told half the truth. She was excited about planning the party, so it was perfectly acceptable to leave out the fact that she’d been up half the night worrying about seeing him again.

Obviously, this was stupid, as he wasn’t looking at her with anything more than polite interest—the same interest he would show any woman charged with creating a fantastic party so that he could impress a bunch of Hollywood types. She must have imagined the way he’d looked at her the other night—which wasn’t much of a surprise. Her radar was way off when it came to men these days, and had been for much too long.

“I’m glad. I need someone who’s excited about this thing, since I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about throwing a formal party.”

She pulled out her laptop and booted it up so that she could take notes while they talked. “You don’t like formal parties?” she asked, culling about half of the options she’d come up with that morning from the mental list she wanted to run by him.

“I’m more a beer-and-nachos kind of guy. But I figure if I’m going to do this, I need to do it right—formal, sit-down dinner, monkey suit, the works.”

As if his way with words wasn’t enough to clue her in, just looking at him gave her a good idea as to why the formal approach probably wasn’t the way to go. With his shaggy brown hair and easy smile, Shawn Emerson looked like every footloose, slacker guy she’d ever run across—the kind who was more comfortable with a bat in one hand and a beer in the other than he ever would be in an office or behind a desk.

Even his meeting attire—a football jersey and a worn pair of jeans—screamed immature male out for a good time. It was just one of the many reasons she hated that her hand was still warm from where his had clasped it.

But then, she was an idiot when it came to men. Life had certainly proven that in the past three years.

“So, your usual party style is ultra-casual yet you’re thinking about throwing a completely formal gathering?”

“It’s actually my agent’s idea. He thinks I should have a really impressive gathering, kind of knock those Hollywood types’ socks off. I’m just trying to follow along with his suggestions.”

“What’s the occasion?” she asked, trying to gauge which direction he really wanted to go in. For some people, formal meant black tie, while for others, it was just a step or two above beach attire. She had him pegged for the latter.

“Endeavor Studios just optioned the rights to my graphic novels. They’re rushing to write a script based on the first two with hopes of starting filming in about eighteen months if everything goes as planned. A bunch of the guys involved in buying my project are going to be here in Austin for the film festival in March, debuting a new movie and Anthony thinks I should have a no-holds-barred party to welcome them to Austin and show my appreciation. It’s not every day a guy’s told his character is going to be made into a major motion-picture franchise, after all.”

So much for a step above bathing suits—she’d been wrong again. Big surprise. This guy was definitely in need of a party with a big wow factor.

But a huge Hollywood-style party meant pulling out all the stops and the film festival was only—she pulled the website up on her computer—six weeks away. He wanted her to do a major party like this in six weeks? Was he kidding?

Trying to get her thoughts straight, Rhiannon pulled up a list of questions she needed to ask, then turned to him with the first one. “Who is Shadeslayer?”

Shawn grinned, an excited, happy smile lighting up his whole face and causing a weird flip-flopping in the pit of her stomach. Rhiannon did her best to ignore the feeling—the guy was at least ten years younger than her—probably closer to fifteen. Just the idea that his smile was directed at her specifically was absurd, not to mention pathetic.

“I was hoping you’d ask.” He reached down to the seat beside him and picked up a few thick comic-book-style novels that he slapped on the table between them. “He’s the superhero I created when I was in college. Now, he’s the star of my twice-yearly graphic novels.”

She blinked at the garish covers staring up at her. All three had a strong, muscle-bound guy in a gray-and-black superhero suit looking out of them, although he was in a different kind of peril on each cover. The artwork was absolutely gorgeous, but—“You write comic books for a living?”

“Graphic novels. It’s not quite the same thing.”

“Right, of course.” She couldn’t help wondering what the difference was, but didn’t want to ask, in case the question offended him. He had made a point of correcting her when she’d called them comic books, after all. “What does Shadeslayer do?”

“All kinds of things, but mainly he keeps shades—dead people who are trapped on Earth—from using their powers to enslave humans.” He held the books out to her. “Here, take them. They’re for you. I figured they’d give you a sense of who I am, what the deal was about.”

“Oh, okay. That’s very nice of you.” She reached out to take the books, her hand trembling just a little as it brushed against his.

She had no idea what she was supposed to do with three comic books, but it was a sweet gesture. She opened the cover of the first one, began to flip through it and was shocked when she came to the title page. Scrawled between the title and his name, were the words, “To Rhiannon, because a party is so often just the beginning. Shawn Emerson.”

She stared at the inscription a moment, unsure what to make of it. Were the words a threat? A promise? A suggestion? Her back stiffened and she closed the books without comment, even as she tried desperately to figure out Shawn’s agenda.

“Do you like them?” he asked, and she looked up to find him watching her closely.

“Of course I do,” she answered, ignoring the confusion inside that told her very clearly that she wasn’t sure how she felt about the books—or about the man who had given them to her. “They’re an interesting gift.”

* * *

Interesting? Nice? SHAWN barely suppressed a shudder. Obviously, he’d struck out big time with his gift—he’d been an idiot to think Rhiannon would be interested in his graphic novels. He almost hadn’t brought them—he didn’t give them away very often anymore, and rarely signed them now that he was no longer busting his ass on self-sponsored book tours to promote the things—but this morning he’d been struck by a sudden desire to show her what he did. To give her a glimpse of himself, and of Shadeslayer, the greatest character he’d ever created.

But from the way she placed the books on the table like they were a cross between poison ivy and rotting meat, he figured he probably should have gone with flowers instead—for some reason, women always seemed to like those more. Leaning back in his chair, he studied Rhiannon and tried to decide what kind of flower she was.

Not a rose, though she was long-stemmed, beautiful and surprisingly fragile, if the delicate hand she’d put in his was any indication.

Not a daisy, because she was much too quiet and self-possessed for the cheerful white-and-yellow flowers.

Carnations were boring, and while she was doing her best to blend into the woodwork in her bland gray suit and white blouse, he had a feeling she was anything but boring underneath. Not with those intense coffee-colored eyes and that fiery red hair.

No, carnations would never do—and neither would orchids. They were too temperamental. Which left him drawing a blank. He shoved the dilemma to the back of his mind, with a quick reminder to get back to it later after they’d talked more. Because he’d meant what he’d said when he’d signed those books—this party was just the beginning. He’d been thinking about her since they’d met Saturday night and couldn’t wait for a chance to get to know her.

The waitress chose that moment to come up for their orders, and he watched as Rhiannon smoothed a self-conscious hand over the tight bun of her hair. He wondered if she ever let it down.

“You know, they make a killer margarita here. I’m partial to their plain ones, but Lissa swears by their sangria margaritas.” He deliberately brought up the name of his best friend Robert’s wife to put her at ease—Lissa was the one who had introduced them at the party the other night, and it had been obvious she and Rhiannon liked each other very much. “I swear, she can drink three or four of those in a sitting.”

She stared at him. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“One-fifteen, actually,” he corrected her, reaching for a chip.

“Either way.” Her voice was drier than the martinis his mother used to make—and gulp down by the half dozen. “I try not to drink during business hours.”

“Right. Business. I can see that about you.”

That got her attention. She looked away from the waitress, eyebrows furrowed, lips pulled into a deep frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just that you seem like a really responsible person.” He barely succeeded in hiding his grin as Rhiannon’s teeth snapped together with an all but audible click.

“Well, we can’t all have the intellectual and emotional makeup of a thirteen-year-old boy. More’s the pity.”

“Touché.” He inclined his head, offering her the verbal point. As he did, he let his eyes linger on her full upper lip and the dimple that kept flirting with her left cheek. He’d been fascinated with both from the first time he’d seen her—and the story they told.

Even at the party, she’d looked so prim and proper. Long sleeves, long skirt, blouse buttoned up to her throat. He’d wondered at first if she was channeling someone’s maiden aunt. But then she’d opened her mouth and that voice—low and smoky and incredibly sexy—had curled around him. And he’d wondered how he could have ever failed to see the fire.

He saw it now, as she turned to the waitress and ordered a glass of water with a twist of lime. Plain, boring, expected—with just a little kick to keep things interesting. It was that little kick, all those tiny contradictions, that had had him calling her in the first place.

Yes, he needed a party planner, but the artist in him—who was he kidding, the man in him—wanted to unravel her a bit. To see what was underneath the sensible shoes and simple pearl earrings. To see if she lived up to the promise of that voice, that hair and the incredible body she kept so tightly under wraps.

He ordered a beer, and then settled back to study her while she looked over the menu. He couldn’t help himself. She was a series of stops and goes that would probably drive a normal man crazy. But he was a far cry from normal and he’d always loved a puzzle. There was just something cool about piecing together bits and pieces of a person until he had the whole picture assembled.

Rhiannon was one hell of a picture and one hell of a puzzle. It would be a lot of fun finding out how all her contradictions, all her jagged pieces, fit together. After all, the journey was always so much more fun than the destination.

“See anything you like?” he asked after silence had stretched between them for several minutes. When she didn’t immediately answer, he reached out and trailed a finger down the back of her hand.

Those brown eyes flew up from the menu to meet his, a hint of temper flaring in their depths as she very deliberately moved her hand away. He filed away the knowledge that she didn’t like to be touched—at least not by business acquaintances—and waited for her to answer.

“I was thinking of the pollo diablo,” she answered as she set her menu aside. “It was delicious the last time I came here.”

He couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. The most buttoned-up woman in the place was ordering the spiciest dish on the menu. Oh, yes, unraveling her layers would be a huge challenge. One he was suddenly looking forward to very much.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER THEY’D ORDERED, Shawn watched as Rhiannon made a concerted effort to get the business meeting back on track. There was no more talk about margaritas or spicy food or whether or not she was a responsible person, but that was okay with him. He had time. Planning this party was going to take weeks, and he planned on being very involved in the details.

“So, according to their website, the film festival is in town from Wednesday through Sunday of the last week in March,” said Rhiannon as she surfed the Net, no longer even bothering to look at him. “What night were you thinking of having the party?”

He wondered if he should be offended that she appeared to have so little interest in him, when most women went out of their way to attract him—and his Shadeslayer fortune. But he found her attitude kind of refreshing, especially since the thing she was focused so intently on was his party, and therefore still related to him.

He hadn’t been joking when he’d said that his parties tended toward the spur of the moment and ultra-casual. The most planning he ever put in was picking up the phone and dialing half a dozen of his friends a couple hours before a game started. Which meant if he was going to do this thing right—the way his agent wanted it done—he was going to need all the advice she could give him.

“Probably Thursday night. Friday and Saturday nights are booked with premieres and industry parties.” He grabbed a chip, popped it in his mouth.

“Okay.” She clicked a few computer keys, adding that information to some database, he presumed.

“For how many people?”

“I don’t know. What do you suggest?”

She raised an eyebrow at him over the laptop screen. “I don’t know who’s going to be in town or how many of them you want to impress. If you could give me a ballpark figure, I could get an idea of the best way to put the party together.”

“Sure.” In his head, he went over the list his agent had given him and then added a number of his friends in town. “Probably about a hundred people, give or take.”

“Okay. So you said Thursday night, but there are screenings going on until ten o’clock. Do you want a late supper, after the showings are over?”

“That’s what I was planning on. But you don’t sound all that enthusiastic.”

“No, that kind of party would be lovely—”

“But?”

“But I think that it’ll blend into the hundreds of other parties that your VIP guests have been to.”

“That’s the last thing I want. I want to do something they’ll remember, something that will stand out later from their week here. Something that will really rock.”

“Well, then you’re going to have to step outside your comfort zone. Or into it, as the case may be.”

“I like the sound of that.” He grinned at her.

She took a sip of her water and went back to perusing the film festival’s website, ignoring his smile. Which, of course, only made him more determined than ever to get her attention.

Part of him felt like he was back in elementary school, pulling the pigtails of Mary Louise Elkins, the girl who had sat in front of him every year from kindergarten through fifth grade. It had driven her nuts, but he hadn’t been able to help it—negative attention from her had been way better than no attention at all.

He paused at the realization, a chip halfway to his mouth. Maybe Rhiannon was right about his emotional development being slightly arrested. He should probably work on that if he expected her to see him as more than a potential client.

“So you’ve told me the kind of party you usually throw. What’s your favorite kind of party to attend?” Rhiannon asked, finally setting the laptop aside.

“Same thing—beer, chips, football. It’s all good.”

“Well, if that’s really the case, why are we throwing such a fancy party? Why don’t we throw one you might actually enjoy?”

He laughed. “It’s March—no football.”

“That’s not what I meant. What if you throw a really relaxed party—jeans, casual food, games. It would be totally different than they’re used to, and it could be a lot of fun.”

“What, you mean, like a barbecue?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t gotten that far yet. But a barbecue could work.”

“I know it’s a sin to live in the South and say this, but I’m not a big fan of charred meat and potato salad. The whole barbecue culture gene kind of passed me by.”

“You know, barbecue doesn’t have to mean beans and brisket next to an open fire. A good steak could be classified as barbecue.”

He shook his head. “That’s not really my point. Changing the type of meat served doesn’t change the barbecue culture. I’m not into it.”

“All right then. I get it. No barbecue.” She went back to the computer, clicked a few times. “So are you opposed to the idea of a casual party altogether, or just one that involves ‘charred meat and potato salad’?”

He was about to shoot her idea down in its entirety, though it pained him to do so—in his experience, women weren’t at their friendliest after a man told them he thought their plans were less than impressive. And there was little he wanted more than to have Rhiannon in a friendly mood.

But her idea was so far from what he’d been thinking—and from what Anthony expected—that he didn’t feel like he had a choice. But then she turned the computer around and pointed to a couple of menus that were as far from a typical Texas barbecue as you could get, but that were a lot more interesting than the fancy hors d’oeuvres he was used to getting at parties like the one his agent expected him to throw.

“You can do gourmet pizzas on the grill?” he asked skeptically.

“Caterers can do just about anything on a grill these days—including dessert. Don’t you ever watch the Food channel?”

“I don’t, no. I’m more partial to movies myself. Give me a good horror movie and I’m happy.”

Her smile was slow coming, but when it finally arrived, he’d felt as if he’d scaled Mount Everest. It was a real smile, one that warmed her eyes and brought her dimple out in full force, and it made him happy just to watch how it lit up her face. He had a feeling Rhiannon didn’t smile much—at least not out of genuine amusement. It felt good to be the one to put a smile on her face.

“I’m partial to slasher films myself.”

“Oh, yeah? Which ones?” He felt his curiosity pique. It was the first personal bit of information Rhiannon had revealed about herself.

She named a couple of movies he’d enjoyed enough to buy on DVD, and they spent the next few minutes talking about them—debating level of gruesomeness and special effects and story line. Rhiannon was surprisingly knowledgeable about the genre, which made him wonder if he’d misread her reaction to his novels. Any woman who liked the films she did also had to be partial to a good superhero story. That same suspension of disbelief was a requirement for any true action movie fan.

He was about to invite her to a movie that was opening on Friday night when she once again steered the conversation back to business. “So, if I come up with a casual menu that is also impressive, will you consider having a less formal event?”

“Sure. If you can come up with a really great idea, one that’s fun and casual and impressive all at the same time, we’ll try your route.”

“Fun, casual and impressive all at the same time, hmm? You don’t ask for much.”

“Oh, Rhiannon.” He shook his head, shooting her a wicked grin. “I’ve barely gotten started on the list of demands I have for you.”

* * *

SHE NEARLY CHOKED on her water. As it was, the slightly tangy liquid went down the wrong pipe, burning from the back of her throat all the way to her lungs. Her eyes watered and her chest ached, but she did everything she could not to cough—it so wouldn’t do to let Shawn know how blatantly he affected her. He was already cocky and charming and full of mischief—the last thing she wanted was to encourage him.

Liar, a little voice inside of her said. There was a small part of her that wanted to do exactly that, that wanted to say to hell with logic and responsibility and fear. God knew, he’d been flirting with her since she’d sat down. Would it be so terrible if she responded in kind? It’s not like the world would end if she showed some interest.

The very thought robbed Rhiannon of her recently recovered breath, had her heart beating in a stressed-out syncopation. Who was she kidding? She could barely handle meeting new clients in the middle of a bustling party—how did she think she’d manage flirting with a gorgeous, younger man when the two of them were on their own?

It was too absurd to even contemplate.

And if her baggage wasn’t bad enough, trying to step out of her self-imposed cocoon with a man whose event could spark a rush of business for Parties by L.K. was just asking for trouble. When it went bad, when she quickly made a total and complete fool of herself because she couldn’t handle the pressure—and there was little doubt in her mind that she would freak out eventually—how humiliating would it be to still have to see him? To still have to work with him and pretend that she was anything but the basket case she was? Or worse, to run into him at other parties. The upper-crust Austin social scene was a relatively small one, and she really didn’t want to spend the next few months worrying about whether or not Shawn was going to be at one of the events she was planning.

She drew a couple discreet breaths in through her nose, praying he wouldn’t notice her distress—or the pain that was ripping through her upper torso because she was too stubborn to cough. He didn’t say a word as she struggled, and she began to hope he hadn’t noticed how he’d affected her. But when she finally made it on the road to recovery, it was to find Shawn watching her with amusement. “You okay there?”

So much for discretion. Was it too much to ask to sink through the floor before she died of total and complete humiliation?

“Fine, thanks.” Her eyes were still watering and her voice was hoarse, but at least she’d gotten the words out.

“Good. I’d really hate for something to happen to you before the big night.” He winked, and as she stared into his wicked blue eyes, she suddenly wasn’t at all sure he was still talking about the party.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I never meant to imply that you couldn’t.”

“So, Shawn.” Rhiannon took a deep breath and contemplated the best way to steer the conversation back toward the party. “Have you thought about what venue you want to use? Austin has a number of great places—”

“I just figured we’d use my house. It’s plenty big.”

“For a hundred people to mingle comfortably?” Where did the man live? The only houses in Austin big enough for that were on the Lake, and surely his graphic novels didn’t pay enough to make that a reality—

“I’ve got two acres on Lake Travis. I bought it a couple years ago as an investment, but it’s a perfect place to entertain. The house is huge and there’s a gigantic yard that overlooks the lake.”

Two acres? On Lake Travis? Obviously the graphic novel business was a much better proposition than she had ever imagined—even before the film rights. She thought of her own fifteen-hundred-square-foot condo, of how she’d struggled to pay for it after the divorce a couple of years before. Amazing to think that a man who was so much younger than she was had already achieved so much. Amazing and disheartening. But then, starting over at close to forty often was.

Richard had offered to help her, but by the time the divorce had been finalized, she’d wanted nothing from him. Nothing from any man. It still amazed her that he’d been able to just walk away from their fifteen-year marriage, as if everything they’d built together—everything they’d meant to each other—had never existed. Sometimes when she was lying in bed at night, staring at the ceiling and praying for the insomnia to go away, she wondered if he’d left—if he hadn’t been able to deal—because she’d gotten too good at playing the victim. But with family and friends crowding in from every side, it had been hard to be anything else.

“So, do you want to see it?”

Shawn’s words interrupted her self-castigation and she looked at him blankly as the words sunk in.

“See it?”

“My house? Maybe it could help you get a feel for the best way to do this party.”

“I thought you said on the phone you didn’t have time to run back home today. If you want to take me back to your house, why did we bother meeting here to begin with?”

“So I could buy you lunch.” He reached over and nicked the check the waitress had dropped onto the edge of the table as she passed by.

“You don’t have to do that. You’re the client.” She held her hand out for the bill. “It’s my responsibility to—”

“Do you always play by the rules?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say no, that for long years she’d barely paid attention to the fact that there were rules, but instead, said, “Yes. It’s safer that way.”

“Safer.” He lifted an eyebrow.

“Better,” she amended hastily. “It’s better that way.” She tugged self-consciously at the long sleeve of her shirt.

He threw a couple of twenties down on the table, then stood. He held out a hand to her. “Come on, let’s go to my place. I’ll show you my gazebo.”

“Is that an updated version of the old etchings line?” she asked as they walked toward the front door.

The look he shot her was brimming with laughter. “You caught me.”

“Yes, well, I’m throwing you back. I’ve got another appointment in less than an hour, so I can’t run all the way out to the lake right now.”

“Another appointment? Are you cheating on me already?”

“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.