Книга - Seduced: The Unexpected Virgin

Seduced: The Unexpected Virgin
Emily McKay


‘I will have you’Nothing could tempt widower Ward Miller from his self-imposed seclusion. Until the private celebrity met his new ‘handler,’ the beautiful, no-nonsense Ana Rodriguez. While he’d only stepped back into the spotlight for the worthy charity Ana ran, having her by his side was the benefit he truly wanted.She claimed she’d never fall for a musician – being star struck wasn’t her style. But that wouldn’t stop Ward. Ana made him want things he hadn’t wanted in much too long. So he’d pursue her…and with one kiss turn the tables on this innocent…The Takeover For better, for worse. For business, for pleasure. These tycoons have vowed to have it all










‘I don’t want you falling in love with me and then one day waking up and realizing I’m not the man you wanted me to be.’

‘So where does that leave us?’ she asked, her tone tinged with defiance.

He shrugged. ‘We’ll still work together.’

‘I meant where does this leave us personally? You’re convinced I’m some delicate flower who can’t handle being involved with you. But you’re wrong. I can handle anything.’

He smiled at her bravado. And her choice of words. He should probably just calmly walk away from that innuendo, but, damn it, he couldn’t.

‘Am I to assume you want to handle me?’


Dear Reader,

It’s always a thrill to work on a continuity. For starters, it’s a huge honour to work with so many of the authors whose work I admire. Working on a continuity also helps me stretch and grow as a writer. For example, the hero of this story, Ward Miller, is a musician. Rock star is not a profession I would have picked for a hero all on my own, yet I ended up having a blast writing about Ward.

I live near Austin, Texas, which is known as the Live Music Capital of the World. One of my favourite local musicians is a guitarist and singer named Monte Montgomery. When I gave a voice to Ward, it was Monte’s music that I heard in my mind. If you want to hear Ward … um, I mean Monte, check out ‘Love Come Knockin’ ‘ or ‘When Will I.’ They’re all available on iTunes.

I hope you enjoy this book and the whole continuity. As for me, I can’t wait to read all the books in the series!

Emily McKay




About the Author


EMILY McKAY has been reading romance novels since she was eleven years old. Her first Mills & Boon


novel came free in a box of Hefty rubbish bags. She has been reading and loving romance novels ever since. She lives in Texas with her geeky husband, her two kids and too many pets. Her debut novel, Baby, Be Mine, was a RITA


Award finalist for Best First Book and Best Short Contemporary. She was a 2009 RT Book Reviews Career Achievement nominee for Series Romance. You can hang out with her online at the Mills & Boon


site, JauntyQuills.com or her website, www.EmilyMcKay.com.


Seduced: The

Unexpected

Virgin



Emily McKay














www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is—quite naturally—for all the musicians whose music I love and listen to obsessively in the final stages of writing my books. In particular, Nancy Giffith, for her poignant lyrics and her ability to tell a story with more emotional resonance in three minutes than I can tell in two hundred and forty pages. And Monte Montgomery, for giving a sound and voice to Ward.


Don’t miss a single book in this series!

The Takeover

For better, for worse. For business, for pleasure.

These tycoons have vowed to have it all!

Claimed: The Pregnant Heiress by Day Leclaire

Seduced: The Unexpected Virgin by Emily McKay

Revealed: His Secret Child by Sandra Hyatt

Bought: His Temporary Fiancée by Yvonne Lindsay

Exposed: Her Undercover Millionaire by Michelle Celmer

Acquired: The CEO’s Small-Town Bride by Catherine Mann




One


The last thing Ana Rodriguez needed in her life was another preening, self-indulgent star. Mere weeks ago, she’d walked away from her successful career as a costume designer in Hollywood for precisely that reason. So when her best friend, Emma Worth, had suggested she apply for the job as the director for a charity starting up in her hometown of Vista del Mar, Ana had jumped at the chance.

A fresh start was just what she needed. Away from the drama of Hollywood. Away from stars who would make her life miserable just because she didn’t put out.

Since then, she’d found out she’d be working with Ward Miller, a musical superstar who glowed brighter than anyone she’d known in Hollywood. In her experience, the bigger the name, the bigger the ego. Only now, instead of merely dressing the megalomaniac, she had to pander to his every need, listen to his opinions, take his advice and generally make sure he was thrilled to be the celebrity face of the charity, Hannah’s Hope.

With a critical eye, she scanned the charity’s humble front office. As their mission statement said, they provided “mentoring and resources for disadvantaged individuals.” Which was a fancy way of saying “We help poor people.” In general, Ana wasn’t fond of fancy ways of saying things.

“You’re stewing,” a friendly voice chided.

Ana looked over her shoulder to Christi Cox, her assistant director. “I’m not stewing. I’m mulling.”

Which was just a fancy way of saying “stewing.” Ana uncrossed her arms to toy with the delicate trio of golden loops that comprised her earrings.

The furnishings of the front room were clean, but strictly utilitarian. Functional worktables supplemented with used chairs and bookshelves she’d picked up on Craigslist. The conference room, offices and kitchen in back were even less chic. She’d sent Omar, Hannah’s Hope’s third employee, out to the grocery store to buy coffee. But she doubted even the most gourmet of brews would impress Miller.

She’d dressed up the front room as best she could, with some throw pillows, a floor lamp—to soften the glare of overhead fluorescents—and a bright throw rug, all items she’d had at home. They reflected her eclectic style and added a touch of comfort to the room, but no elegance.

In short, the facilities for Hannah’s Hope looked exactly like what they were: fifty percent meeting space, fifty percent classroom, one hundred percent last, best hope for its clientele. Zero percent schmooze room for spoiled celebrities.

She couldn’t shake the fear that Miller would walk in here and turn his nose up at all they’d done. But underneath that was a deeper fear. That he’d walk in here, have one conversation with her and realize she was a fraud who lacked the skills to make Hannah’s Hope really soar.

If anyone could see through her, it was Miller. He wasn’t just a musical god, he was also legendary for his charitable work on behalf of the Cara Miller Foundation, an organization he’d started after the death of his wife. He’d donated and raised countless millions. He sat on the board of more charities than she could count, including the newly formed board of Hannah’s Hope.

And the truth was, she’d gotten this job only because Emma also sat on the board. Growing up with Emma was practically her sole qualification for being the director of Hannah’s Hope.

The hopes and dreams of the entire town rested on her shoulders. She didn’t dare let them down. Not when they needed her so desperately.

Besides, she needed this job. Not just because she’d quit her other one. Not because she’d invested all her savings in a tiny bungalow in one of Vista del Mar’s middle-class neighborhoods. But because after four years of draping fabric and making beautiful people look good, she needed to do something important. She needed to make a difference.

If only she had more time to get her feet under her before Miller showed up. It was bad enough that she felt so horribly unprepared for this job, why did she have to deal with him so early in her stint as director? Rafe Cameron, the charity’s founder, was an inattentive board member at best. Rafe—hometown bad boy turned corporate raider—was focused on taking over Worth Industries, the company that fueled the local economy. Rafe had started Hannah’s Hope to create goodwill within the community, but Ana suspected he was motivated more by public relations spin than true benevolence. Emma supported her one hundred percent. But Ward was the wild card. Would he swoop in and perform the kind of miracle he had for the Cara Miller Foundation? Or was he merely Rafe’s watchdog, sent here to judge her every misstep?

Besides, he was Ward freakin’ Miller. Musical superstar and the most recognizable do-gooder in the country. Oh, yeah. And he was hot.

Any one of those elements would be enough to intimidate a woman of her meager accomplishments. The triple whammy just might induce cardiac arrest.

Maybe she was even hoping he’d turn out to be a jerk. She’d been a fan of his since she hit puberty. Professional distance would be easier to fake if he ended up being just as obnoxious as … oh, say, Ridley Sinclair, the supposedly happily married movie star who’d relentlessly hit on her. Okay, so Ward didn’t have to be that bad. All she asked for was just a smidge of artistic temperament to help her establish some boundaries between her fantasies of Ward and the real-life man she was about to face.

Christi came to stand beside Ana. They stood shoulder to shoulder by their office door, trying to imagine the first impression the room would give.

Ana clucked. “It’s not fancy enough. It’s not elegant enough. We should have met at the Vista Del Mar Beach and Tennis Club like I wanted to.”

“His personal assistant said he didn’t expect any special treatment,” Christi reminded her.

Ana gave a guffaw of disbelief. “I’ve worked with a lot of famous people. They all expect special treatment.”

And she was so not good at pandering to celebrities. Inevitably, she tired of their nonsense and her temper got the better of her. Oh, it’s that fiery Latin temper, her friends would tease. Which only made it worse. She hated living down to that stereotype.

“Either they demand a particular kind of water, chilled to a precise temperature,” she continued. “Or they want a collection of seventeen different snacks that are all a shade of blue. Or they’re on some cleansing diet that requires them to snort freerange kelp up their nose five times a day.”

“I think,” Christi quipped, “I would have remembered it if his assistant had mentioned free-range kelp snorting.”

“What did the assistant mention?” Ana asked, unable to swallow her curiosity any longer. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

She wasn’t a groupie scanning the pages of Tiger Beat for the Jonas Brothers’ favorite color of M&M. This was professional interest only.

But it irritated her that she asked, because of course she was curious. What hot-blooded American woman between the ages of twenty and eighty-nine wouldn’t be? What woman her age hadn’t slow danced in some smoky bar to the sonorous rhythm of “Falling Hard”? Or sat in traffic singing along with “Caught You”?

He was her generation’s … well, Bono, Paul McCartney and Johnny Cash all rolled into one. A sexy bad boy with a heart of pure platinum and talent for writing songs so good they made your soul ache. He hadn’t performed or put out any new albums since his wife, Cara, had died of cancer three years ago. His absence from the public eye only added to his mystique. Die-hard fans still clamored for new songs. She certainly had her share of giddy excitement about meeting him. Maybe more than her share. But she’d worked really hard to bury it under a layer of professionalism. She just hoped she succeeded.

She glanced at her watch again. “And, he’s officially late. Very late.”

Then a voice came from behind her. “Not too late, I hope.”

It was the gravelly voice of a rock star, a voice she’d know anywhere. Hearing it made her stomach drop straight down to her toes.

She turned slowly toward the voice. And there he was. Ward Miller.

He stood just inside the hallway that led to the service entrance. He was taller than she expected, maybe just shy of six feet. He dressed in the ubercasual style of celebrities, with green cargo pants and a simple V-neck white T-shirt that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. He held mirrored aviator glasses in one hand and had on a Stingrays ball cap. Why did stars always think a simple hat would be enough to fool people? His dark, wavy hair was shorter than when he’d toured regularly, but still long enough to make him look scruffy and a little disreputable. His face was narrow, his lips thin, but neither feature made him look parsimonious, as they might have on another man. Instead, he looked soulful and sensitive. Though not entirely tamed. That edge of wildness surprised her. Magazine photos hadn’t captured that.

Perhaps most important, he didn’t look offended. Good thing, too. Hardworking do-gooders with liberal arts degrees were a dime a dozen, but mega rock stars willing to lend their name to a charity were so much harder to come by.

Face-to-face with all his star power, she suddenly felt a little light-headed. “Mr. Miller, you’ve surprised us by sneaking in the service entrance.” She hadn’t intended to let the note of censure creep into her voice. But maybe that was better than the alternative. She could all too easily imagine herself giggling like a schoolgirl.

“I hope you don’t mind. The paparazzi followed us from the airport. I’m sorry I’m late.” And then, he winked at her. “I didn’t even have time to pick up any free-range kelp.”

Ward waited for the enticing brunette to laugh at his teasing—after all, her quip about snorting kelp had nearly had him guffawing. He didn’t meet many people willing to laugh at his fame. It was refreshing.

Instead, her posture stiffened making her appear slightly taller than he’d first thought, though she still couldn’t have been more than five-six. She blushed, which made her skin glow a gorgeous peach. With her luxurious tumble of dark hair, her wide smile and her high cheekbones, she looked lushly exotic.

However, she was also simmering with anger.

“Sorry I had to sneak in the back,” he said, trying again to massage her into a more amiable frame of mind. “We made it all the way to the San Diego airport unnoticed. But Drew Barrymore and that guy from the Apple ads were there, flying off on some vacation. Unfortunately, they made it through security just as we were coming out, so there was already a swarm of photographers there.”

He made light of it, but SUVs of camera-toting leeches had followed for nearly thirty miles. His driver had almost lost them in the maze of streets in the business district of Vista del Mar. In fact, his assistant and publicist had stayed in the car when he hopped out, both to speed things up and in hopes that the paparazzi would see the figures still in the back of the car and keep following it.

Since Ana didn’t seem amused by his joke, he flashed a smile at her companion. The woman returned his smile faintly. She had that fluttery look fans sometimes got.

He extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Ward Miller.”

“Hi,” the older blonde woman said in a breathy voice, before clearing her throat. “I’m Christi Cox. I’m the assistant director here at Hannah’s Hope.” As she slipped her hand in his, she gave a giggly squeak and elbowed Ana in the side. “See, he’s not pretentious or preening.”

Christi returned his wink with an exaggerated one of her own. Instantly, he liked her. He wasn’t going to have any trouble getting along with her. The jury was still out on the prickly other woman.

She stepped forward and extended her own hand along with a tight smile. “I’m Ana Rodriguez. The director of Hannah’s Hope.”

She shook his hand for only an instant before she pulled it back and tucked it close to her side. Good thing he hadn’t been expecting any more warmth in the greeting.

With a frown, she nodded toward the window. “It looks like you didn’t do such a good job shaking them after all.”

He looked out the front window at the street beyond. A white SUV sat in front of the building, parked at a haphazard angle. A second later, another SUV squealed to a halt beside the first. And then a third.

His cell phone vibrated and then hummed the seven-note bridge in the “Falling Hard” ringtone his aunt bought him for his birthday last year as a joke.

Ana’s brows snapped together in a frown at the sound of his phone ringing. Automatically, he glanced down at the caller ID. It was Jess, his assistant. “I better take this. He won’t be long.”

“Sorry, man,” Jess launched into speech without preamble or introduction. “We lost them at the hotel. I told Ryan we should keep driving, but he was eager to check in.”

“No worries,” Ward said into the phone, keeping his tone casual. Ryan, Ward’s publicist, could steamroll the pope. And since he was a believer in the old as-long-as-they-spell-your-name-right axiom, Ryan had probably demanded he and Jess check into the hotel precisely to engineer the press finding Ward. “You guys get settled in there. I’ll text you when I want you to send the car back.”

He ended the call and slid the phone back in his pocket with a pained smile. “Well, looks like they’re here to stay. Shall we go out and answer some questions?” He gave her shoulder a friendly clap. She looked at him with such surprise, he found himself leaving his hand there. “If we throw them a bone, maybe they’ll leave us alone.”

For a moment, he had the urge to slide his hand to the nape of her neck. Before he could stop himself, he did. With a gentle touch, he steered her toward the door. “Come on, let’s get out there.”

She skittered away from his touch. “Why should I go?”

“Free press is good press. Might as well make this work for Hannah’s Hope.”

“I—” Then she broke off, seeming to consider his words. “I guess you’re right.” With a shrug, she approached the door, carefully slanting her shoulders so she slipped through the door.

However, her thick, long hair nearly brushed his chest as she passed. Her hair smelled warm and fragrant. Like cinnamon left in the sun. A breeze drifted in through the open door, mixing her scent with the briny tang of the ocean. It was like eating snickerdoodles at the beach.

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. Selfconsciously, 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.”




Two


At 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 indent 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 brainstorming.”

“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 indent 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.

“It’s not that it’s a bad idea. But we still have so much real work to do to get Hannah’s Hope off the ground. I’m still working with our accountant to file our 501(c)(3) application. I don’t want us to get distracted planning something fun when there’s serious work that needs to get done.”

“This isn’t a distraction.” Emma’s tone showed her excitement. “Now that we’re up and running, how many people really know about us? We need to reach out to the community and let people see everything we have to offer, both to clients and to volunteers. This is the perfect way to do that.”

“I’m not saying a street fair won’t be fun, I’m just not sure it’s the best use of our resources.”

“That’s the beauty of getting local businesses to donate goods and services. And if Ward really can get some up-and-coming local act to perform, we’ll be golden.”

Omar was the one who had brought up the possibility of Ward performing. Ward had smoothly dodged the question by offering up the services of the musician whose albums he was producing.

“Yeah, great.” Here she was trying to play the taskmaster and get everyone to complete paperwork and Ward swept in with his fun ideas and yummy muffins. Was it any wonder she resented him for charming her staff so efficiently? Maybe she could more easily forgive him if she wasn’t so afraid of falling under his spell herself. Maybe she should be glad he wasn’t going to perform. She might not survive the excitement. “By the way, do you have any idea why he won’t perform himself? I’ve always wondered …”

“No, I don’t.” Emma gave a quick slice of her hand to indicate Ana should stop talking, then bobbed her head in the direction of the hall leading toward the back door. “Anyway,” she said loudly. “I’ve got to go. Lots of things to do. Favors to call in and whatnot.” She raised her eyebrows in silent question. “We’ll talk later?”

Ana pressed her lips together and nodded. Obviously, Ward was coming down the hall. What was it with him sneaking in the back door, anyway?

Emma excused herself just as Ward appeared in her doorway. Ana had hoped she wouldn’t have to see him again today. Certainly not alone. Weren’t lazy stars supposed to be whiling away the afternoon by the pool or something? For that matter, wasn’t he supposed to be a lazy star? Why couldn’t he just throw a temper tantrum or snort some kelp like she’d expected him to?

“Do you have a minute?” he asked but didn’t wait for her answer before entering her office and shutting the door behind him.

“Certainly,” she muttered, hoping her tone didn’t sound as false to him as it did to her. Her office was little more than a repurposed closet. Between her desk sitting flush against one wall and her bookshelf against the opposite wall, she barely had room for more than her desk chair and the chair she’d set by the door for guests.

He sat down in the extra chair, scooting it back as he did to stretch out his long limbs. She nudged her own chair back a couple of inches to keep from bumping into his legs. His sheer size seemed to swallow up the empty space of her office. Just as the very air seemed permeated by the woodsy scent of his … his what? It wasn’t strong or overpowering like a cologne. It was something more subtle. Maybe his soap. Or maybe his skin just naturally smelled like freedom and afternoons spent hiking in the woods. Like—

She gave her head a little shake, trying to free herself from the grasp of her senses. She realized abruptly that he was watching her, his gaze dark and mysterious. She felt awareness skitter across her nerve endings.

She was used to being hit on by men. She had a voluptuous figure and a pretty-enough face. Men often had certain expectations about hot-blooded Latina women and loose morals. Never mind that she’d never once lived down to that stereotype, she was used to having strange men check her out. But this was different.

Ward’s stare wasn’t leering. He seemed to be assessing her personality rather than her flingability. She feared that if he was sizing her up, he’d find her lacking somehow.

And yet, underneath that, there was a spark of awareness. She’d almost swear to it. Of course, what was more disconcerting was her reaction to him. Why did his mere presence make her feel so much more aware of herself? Of the lock of hair that had slipped free of her clip and sat heavy against her neck. Of the way she’d kicked off her shoes when she’d first sat down and then scooted away from her desk without slipping them back on. Aware of her bare toes, with their silly blue nail polish, mere inches from his expensive leather loafers.

As if sensing her thoughts, he glanced down at her feet. He stared at them long enough to make her uncomfortable. And then swallowed noticeably. She jerked her feet under her chair and curled her toes under. He looked back up at her, his expression carefully blank.

When he spoke, his tone brooked no argument. “We need to talk.”

Ah, crap. He had been sizing her up. Here it comes. She was unprofessional. She was unqualified. She was disrespectful. He hated blue nail polish and her feet repulsed him.

She felt as though he could see right through her. As though any defense she might make would be fruitless. Not that he gave her a chance to state her case.

“There’s one thing I don’t tolerate,” he stated blandly. “That’s people who aren’t honest with me. You obviously don’t like me and I need to know why.”

She didn’t … what? She blew out a long breath, trying to process his words. He was worried she didn’t like him?

“It’s not—”

“Either you don’t like me or you don’t trust me. Something. Let’s get it out on the table right now. And don’t throw out that crap about not trusting celebrities. Because I don’t believe for a second that you’d let that get in the way of making Hannah’s Hope a success.”

She blew out a deep breath, trying to gauge just how honest she dared to be. Yes, she didn’t like celebrities. Ridley Sinclair had made her life horrible and she knew that most male celebrities wouldn’t think twice about acting that way. But in all honesty, nothing Ward had done since she’d met him indicated he was anything like those men. Which, somehow, almost made it worse.

She could dismiss someone like Ridley Sinclair. But hardworking, straight-talking Ward? He was much harder to ignore.

Since she couldn’t admit any of that aloud, she grasped at straws and pulled the first one that came away in her hand.

“Okay,” she said. “For starters, I don’t like the way you’ve stormed in here and taken over. You’ve been in town less than a day and you’re already blowing our budget on whiteboards and catered fruit trays.”

“I didn’t spend the charity’s money on those things.”

“Oh.” He’d spent his own? She suppressed a groan. Hot and generous? She was so screwed. Still, he was looking at her expectantly. So she yanked out another straw. “You think that makes it better? That if you throw around money, the things you want will get done? “

He flashed a smile with just a tinge of charming chagrin. “Generally, that is the way it works.”

“Well, not in my experience it doesn’t. If we’re going to reach all of our goals, we need to be realistic and conscientious and—”

“Let’s cut to the chase, Ana. Are we going to have a problem working together?” His tone was cold, his gaze quietly assessing.

Alarm bells started jangling in the back of her brain again. She rubbed the sole of one foot across the top of the other. Remember the odds. One superstar. Eighty-nine million bleeding-heart liberals waiting to take her place if she screwed up this job.

But even as that refrain echoed through her brain, she realized it wasn’t about that. Not really. The truth was, she didn’t really want to be attracted to him. Didn’t want to like him.

Ana drew in a deep breath—wishing he wasn’t sitting quite so close—and then she exhaled slowly.

Was she going to have a problem working with him? Maybe. Would he ever know it again? No. Nope. Nada.

She forced a serene and welcoming smile. “No, Mr. Miller. We won’t.”

His gaze narrowed slightly at the use of his last name, as if her formality annoyed him. She clenched her hands together to keep herself from fidgeting.

“Did you know, Ms. Rodriguez, that I was twelve the first time I performed professionally on stage? “

Disconcerted by his direct stare, she reached her hand up to tuck aside that loose strand of hair. It was all she could do not to fan the back of her neck. “No. I didn’t know that.”

“I had my first record deal at fifteen. Signed with my first major label at nineteen.”

Maybe it was the slow, lazy way he spoke. Or maybe it was the attentive way he met her gaze. This wasn’t him bragging. It wasn’t him trying to impress her. He was making a point. She had the feeling that when he got there, she wasn’t going to like it.

“I’ve been in this business for twenty-four years. Which is almost as long as you’ve been alive.” He shrugged with a wry smile. “Almost as long as I’ve been alive, for that matter. In my years in entertainment—” he rocked his chair back onto two legs, steepling his fingers over his chest “—I’ve dealt with all kinds of people who tried to take advantage of me. I’ve dealt with people who claimed they wanted to protect me. Wanted to be my best friend. When you’re in an industry like this for that long, one of two things happens. Either you become one of those crazy people who snorts kelp up their nose five times a day, or you learn how to tell when someone’s lying to you.” He let the chair drop forward onto its front legs. “I don’t like kelp.”

She fought the urge to bite her lip. Dang it, did he have to be funny on top of it all?

“Basically,” he continued, “there’s only one thing I do better than play guitar and that’s know when someone’s lying to me. So why don’t we start over and you tell me exactly why you have a problem with me.”




Three


His blunt honesty knocked the wind out of her. What was she supposed to do with that?

It’s not like she could say, “Hey, I think you’re really dreamy. Oh, and it kind of pisses me off.” Or even worse, “I’m woefully underqualified for this job. I’m barely keeping my head above water here and if you knew how close I was to drowning, you’d get me fired.”

Instead, she decided the easiest way to show him where she was coming from was to tell him a story of her own. “I was twelve when my parents moved here from L.A. Even though it’s only an hour and a half away, there’s a world of difference. My father accepted a job as the Worths’ gardener. My mother as their housekeeper. I grew up above the Worths’ garage. We may have been the hired help, but they never treated us that way.”

He was studying her, elbows propped on his knees, expression intense. Under his gaze, her breath seemed to catch in her chest. It was disconcerting to have him watching her so closely.

She was used to dealing with stars who only cared about your opinion when you were talking about them. But Ward seemed to actually be listening to her. Just like he’d listened to her staff during the brainstorming session.

Suddenly, the room felt tight and small. Like he simply took up too much space. She inched forward to shove her feet back into her shoes, then stood and nodded toward the door. “I’m going to go clean up the conference room. If you want to keep talking, come along. But if we leave that fruit out much longer, it’ll go bad.”

She knew he’d follow her, of course. It seemed like Ward rarely did what she wished he would. As they walked down the hall, she continued talking.

“I know it sounds like I’m just telling you my life story. But you have to understand, moving here from L.A., it saved my family. Not just my immediate family, but everyone. Once we moved here, aunts and uncles followed.”

His gaze narrowed slightly, obviously considering her words, but not yet fully understanding. How could he?

She turned to face him fully. “It may sound cheesy and cliché, but Vista del Mar is a special place. It’s not perfect. Sure we have our problems, but we also stick together. And we take care of our own. It was the perfect community to grow up in. To raise a family. At least it used to be. But now that Rafe Cameron has returned and bought Worth Industries …” She let her voice trail off as she realized how that sounded.

Ward must have keyed in on her tone of voice. “Can I assume you don’t wholly approve of Rafe?”

She ducked away from his appraising stare and studied the conference room. The detritus of their brainstorming session remained scattered throughout the room. She busied herself first with finding the lid to the fruit tray.

“I don’t want to speak badly of him.” She positioned the plastic lid in place and snapped it on with precise movements. “He’s your friend.”

Ward obviously didn’t share her sudden need for busyness. Instead, he lowered himself to the conference chair at the head of the table and stretched his legs out in front of him. “He’s also your boss.” There was a subtle edge to Ward’s voice. A word of warning, perhaps.

Okay. So that’s where the line was drawn. Good to know.

She nodded brusquely, ready to turn her attention to the muffin tray. There was only one muffin left. Banana nut chocolate. Her favorite. She left it out on the tray. She might need a healthy dose of chocolate later.

“Don’t get me wrong, I certainly appreciate all he’s doing with Hannah’s Hope.”

“Glad you appreciate the millions of dollars he’s committed to pouring into the community,” Ward said wryly.

Ostensibly, Rafe was head of the board of directors for Hannah’s Hope. But as far as she could tell, he wasn’t very invested in its success. He’d plopped Ward onto the board to be the face of the charity and then added in Emma, at Ronald Worth’s request. Plus, Emma was universally loved. So having her on the board buttered up the local community. Emma, who’d long been involved in other charities, certainly had the experience and the town’s goodwill, but Ana couldn’t shake the feeling that Rafe had included Emma solely to give the illusion of continuity between the Worth Industries that had been and the new regime to come.

Still, people in town were nervous. People who’d been at Worth Industries for years had been let go or were taking early retirement. Rumor had it, Rafe was bringing in his PR expert, Max Preston. Ana couldn’t help feeling suspicious about why a PR expert was needed.

She ignored Ward’s subtle dig and continued talking. “Since I’ve been back, I’ve noticed the whole feel of the town has changed. People are nervous. Worried. If Rafe closes down the factory, it would be disastrous for Vista del Mar.”

“I’m aware of that. But none of that has anything to do with Hannah’s Hope.”

“Of course it does. I could be more efficient at my job if Rafe were more involved.”

Ward frowned, not in an annoyed way, but more as if he was figuring out if he could help. “Involved how?”

“Just more involved.” She cleared away the last of the snack plates and grabbed a napkin with which to wipe down the table. “I’ve met the man precisely once and only for a handful of minutes when Emma brought me down for my official interview.” She resisted making air quotes around the word interview, but was unable to keep the disdain from her voice. Instead, she swiped the last of the crumbs into her waiting palm.

Her entire interview had consisted of waiting for over an hour, only to be led into his office, have him give her the once-over and return his attention to the laptop open in front of him. “Emma thinks you’ll do a good job. Don’t disappoint her.”

That had been the entire interview.

She dusted the crumbs off her palm and into the trash. There. That was better.

“You should be careful what you wish for,” Ward chided her. “Rafe can be an extremely demanding boss.”

She looked up to find him studying her with that intensity she found so unnerving. Funny, she’d thought it was the proximity that made him so nerve-racking. But it turned out he was disconcerting no matter how big the room.

“True though that may be, I would still appreciate a smidge more involvement from him.” She crossed to the chairs where the whiteboards were still propped. An eraser sat on one of the chair cushions, still in its plastic wrapper. “Other than the one time we’ve met, he’s only communicated via email. Every time I’ve sent him a question, he’s responded the same way.” She ripped the plastic off the eraser as she lowered her voice to mimic the way she imagined Rafe would sound if he were to take the time to actually pick up the phone and call her. “‘I trust your judgment.’ That’s all he says.” She rubbed the eraser across the slick surface of the whiteboard. It was oddly satisfying to strip away the evidence of the brainstorming session. If only all of her problems were that easily dealt with. “I’ve started to think he’s just copying and pasting from previous emails.”

“Or, he trusts Emma’s recommendation.”

While she’d been busy taking out her frustration on the whiteboard, Ward had stood and crossed to her side. She glanced up to find him standing far too close. Close enough for her to see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes. How had he moved so silently?

She sucked in a deep breath and was once again struck by the scent of him. So clean and crisp. When she spoke, her words came out almost as a whisper. “He barely knows Emma.”

She cleared her throat, annoyed with herself for being distracted. Ward’s gold-flecked eyes were the least of her worries. But … what were her worries again?

Right. The fact that Rafe didn’t know Emma well enough to trust her opinion. And he knew Ana even less well. Given her scanty qualifications, how could she view Rafe’s trust as anything other than negligence?

“But he’s known Chase for years. If his brother trusts Emma, then Rafe does, too.” Ward reached out a hand to her arm.

Obviously, he meant it to comfort her, but instead it sent tiny fissures of awareness coursing through her. And then she looked down at it. His hand was large. Strong and powerful. His fingertips rough against her skin. And just so … capable.

Her breath rushed out of her lungs. It hit her then. This wasn’t just the strong and masculine hand of an attractive man. This was Ward Miller’s hand. The hand he used to do all that fret work for which his songs were so famous.

Something giddy and girlish stirred within her. Something deeply feminine. She felt her breath coming in short bursts as warmth flowed over her.

She forced her gaze from that spot on her arm where his skin touched hers, only to find herself looking up into his eyes, again. Dang it. Those were some dangerous eyes. They were eyes she could lose herself in.

Which was so not good, seeing as how lost she already felt.

She shook her head to clear it and tried to remember what she’d been saying. Hannah’s Hope. Right. How overwhelmed she felt. “I just … could use a little guidance. More involvement. More hands-on.”

“Well, then. You’re going to love me,” he murmured.

Then her gaze darted once again to where his hand still rested on her arm. Why hadn’t he moved it yet? Why hadn’t she simply stepped away? She felt heat flood her cheeks and she jerked her arm away.

She forced a stern note into her voice. “This isn’t a joke. Hannah’s Hope is important. It’s not just a charity, it’s an opportunity to bring together the whole community.”

“I knew that already,” he said, his own tone devoid of charm or humor. “Rafe convinced me of that before I even came out here. You’re right about one thing.” He gently pried the eraser from her hand and began cleaning the second whiteboard. “You can’t depend on Rafe.”

She forced her attention away from the smooth confident movement of his hands, surprised at his bluntness. “But—”

“He’ll do right by Hannah’s Hope. I guarantee that. But it would be shortsighted of you to rely solely on him for financing. You need to get more money flowing in and you need to get the word out about what you’re doing. That’s what I’m here to help with.”

His voice had that low seductive quality again that beckoned to her. Made her all too aware of how vulnerable she felt. And made her wish she had more crumbs to clean up.

Thankfully, he seemed unaware of it as he continued, “The Cara Miller Foundation has a lot of good people working for it. If you don’t trust me or Rafe, then at least trust them to do their job.”

She clenched and unclenched her hands in front of her, hating how nauseated she felt at hearing her own concerns voiced aloud. “So you think bringing someone in from CMF to do my job would be better for Hannah’s Hope?”

“Whoa—” He held up his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “That’s not even close to what I said.”

“But you do think someone else could do a better job?” Resentment spiked through her. Who was he to criticize the way they were doing things? He was a musician. It’s not like he had any hands-on experience running a nonprofit … okay, so he did have hands-on experience. “I’m sure that when you started the Cara Miller Foundation, you hired all the best people in the industry and were able to get things up and running in nothing flat.”

She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. The Cara Miller Foundation was known all over the world for its work in early childhood healthcare. But she had no doubt that part of what had made the Cara Miller Foundation so successful was Ward. He’d brought the full force of his personality—not to mention his considerable wealth—to bear in the charity.

She released a deep breath, determined not to take out her frustration on Ward. Even if he was friends with Rafe, it wasn’t his fault that Hannah’s Hope was little more than an afterthought to Cameron Enterprises’ purchase of Worth Industries.

She paced to the far side of the conference room, but even that far away from him, she felt like his nearness was smothering her.

“You have to see where I’m coming from. The Cara Miller Foundation is a study in efficiency and effectiveness. The work you’ve done is …” She shrugged, looking for the perfect word. “Legendary.”

His lips curved in a faint smile, graciously acknowledging her compliment. “Thanks. CMF has a lot of great people working for it.”

“Exactly,” she agreed grimly. “And Hannah’s Hope has me.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He shook his head ruefully.

“I’m not one to pull my punches. Especially not when I’m dealing with my own failings.” She sighed, scraping her hair off her face, even though only a few locks had escaped. “I desperately wanted this job. And I desperately wanted to be great at it. And I’m just …” She floundered, finding it harder than she imagined it would be to put her own shortcomings into words. “I’m not as good at this as I expected. I thought the volunteer work I’d done in L.A. would be a solid groundwork for this. Plus, I’m smart. I’m hardworking, I’ve never failed at anything in my life. I thought that would be enough. But so far, it’s not. The sheer minutia associated with setting up a nonprofit is completely overwhelming me.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she snapped her mouth closed, wishing she could take them back. Jeez, of all the people to gripe to … Why’d she pick one of the two people who could summarily fire her? The board held her job in their hands. Emma would never vote to fire her, but if Ward persuaded Rafe, they’d have the majority.

But when she met his gaze, there was more understanding there than censure. His lips were twisted in a wry smile. His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not afraid of hard work. I’m not even afraid of failing. I just don’t want to disappoint others. In the four years I worked in Hollywood, I dealt with some of the most difficult personalities in the industry. After that, I was so sure I could handle anything.” Now she did laugh as she admitted, “God, I hate being wrong.”

He walked to where she was, then gently turned her to face him. “You weren’t wrong. You can do this.”

The fervor in his eyes, the sheer conviction nearly took her breath away. She was struck all over again by how handsome he was. By the fact that Ward Miller—Ward Freakin’ Miller—was here, mere inches away from her. Talking to her like a colleague. She shook it off. This was so not the time to wallow in his intense sexual appeal.

Abruptly, he dropped his hands and shoved them into his back pockets. “I remember all too well how hard it was to get CMF started. Sure, I had staff. I had hired the best people in the business, but I wanted to do most of it myself. I needed something to keep me busy.”

She found herself practically holding her breath. It had been three years since his wife had died. Still, she didn’t imagine that was something you ever got over.

She’d looked him up on Google when Emma first called to tell her he was the third board member. After carefully tucking all her girlish fantasies back away, she’d realized that she knew very little about what he’d been doing in life since he’d disappeared from the public eye.

The web had enough details about Cara’s death to satisfy the most morbidly curious, up to and including Ward’s last words to her.

She’d been so disgusted by the invasion of his privacy that she’d immediately closed the window, feeling a bit unsavory for reading even as much as she had. Losing a loved one was hard enough, but to have your grief splattered all over the tabloids for public consumption, that was … well, just unimaginable.

“It must have been extremely hard to lose her,” she said now.

He nodded, his expression patient, somehow accepting of her awkward, fumbling condolences. “If I could start CMF,” he continued, “then so can you. That’s why I’m here to help.”

But she shook her head. “It’s enough that you’re on the board, that you’re being the face of Hannah’s Hope. I’m certainly not going to ask you to do my job on top of that.”

“I’m not doing your job,” he argued. “I’m doing my job.”

“I don’t understand.”

He smiled at her obvious confusion. “You don’t know what CMF does, do you?”

“It provides healthcare for impoverished children.”

“That’s half of what the Cara Miller Foundation does.” His grin lit with mischief. Like he was about to share a secret. She felt herself leaning toward him. “When I started CMF, that was my intent. But along the way I realized how hard it was to start a nonprofit. I quickly realized that without the financial and personal resources I had, I never would have gotten anywhere. That’s why I started the other branch of CMF.”

She frowned. “The other branch?”

“Yes. Helping kids was Cara’s thing. But that’s not what really excites me.”

“What is?” Heat flooded her cheeks as she realized the double meaning behind her question. But she quickly forced her embarrassment aside. Yes, there seemed to be an attraction simmering between them, but he seemed determined to ignore it. And if he could, then she certainly could, too.

She forced her attention to the topic at hand. She’d thought she knew exactly what the Cara Miller Foundation did. She’d thought she knew exactly why he was here. Just to provide a glamorous face to promote Hannah’s Hope. Had she been wrong?

“I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

“A little bit,” she admitted, chagrined because he seemed to read her as easily as if she had thought bubbles dangling over her head.

“Let me back up. Have you ever heard the term business incubator?”

“I think so.” She’d read an article in the paper not too long ago about them. “They’re companies whose sole purpose is to help new companies get started, right? “

“Exactly. The secondary branch of the Cara Miller Foundation—the branch that doesn’t get a lot of publicity and isn’t in the news all the time—is a nonprofit incubator. We find people with great intentions and dedicated personnel and we help them get their nonprofit off the ground. We don’t do the work for people, we just provide them with the training and resources they need to get the job done.”

“I had no idea such a thing even existed.” Surprise—no, to be honest it was out-and-out shock—washed over her. “How did I not know this?”

“I don’t know.” For a second he looked as baffled as she felt. Then he quickly shrugged it off. “Rafe certainly knew. It’s why he asked me to be on the board.”

“Yes, and he’s been such a font of information,” she muttered drily. “If that’s why you’re here, I should have been told that before you showed up.” Her indignation crept into her voice. She didn’t like being kept out of the loop.

“I thought you were.”

“Well, I wasn’t and—” But she broke off, frowning as she tried to summon up exactly how the conversation had gone the night Emma had called with the information about Ward coming.

What had Emma said about Ward? Had she even really listened to Emma’s explanation? There’d probably been a solid thirty seconds during which Ana had dropped the phone and silently squealed in excitement.

And then, a few minutes later, it had really hit her. Ward Miller. Working with her. But working for Rafe.

Her excitement had given way to unease. All of her reallife knowledge of celebrities had slammed head-on into her fandom. To do her job, she’d have to bury her fantasies. To protect Hannah’s Hope, she’d have to be suspicious of his every action. She’d have to set aside everything she wanted to believe about him.

Throughout that epiphany, Emma had kept on talking, possibly explaining exactly everything Ward was bringing to the table. And Ana’s cynicism had made her miss it.

Now, she cringed. “It’s possible that Emma explained everything and I just didn’t hear her.” She sighed, massaging the tension in her forehead with her fingers. “That must be what happened. Emma wouldn’t have purposefully left it out.”

Emma put her heart and soul into her charity work. Which was why making sure Hannah’s Hope flourished was so important. Ana couldn’t bear to let Emma down. And knowing what she knew now, she didn’t want to let Ward down, either. If he wasn’t going to immediately kick her sorry butt to the curb, if he was going to give her another chance, she was going to grab it with both hands and never let it go.

Full of renewed resolve, she straightened. “Okay, Mr. Nonprofit Incubator, you’re the expert. Where do we go from here? “




Four


Ana’s question hung in the air between them. Where do we go from here?

He could think of about a dozen places they could go. Dinner. Some cozy restaurant where he could ply her with food and wine. Down to the beach where he could coax her into kicking off her shoes to walk with him on the sand. Where he could free her hair from that maddening knot she’d worn it in and bury his nose in the skin at the nape of her neck. Breathe in that intoxicating cinnamon scent.

Hey, he had a lot of suggestions. None of them were the least bit appropriate. Not for a woman he worked with.

So he buried his gut-level reaction and gave her the answer she really needed. “We go to Charleston.”

She blinked in surprise. “Come again?”

Ward nearly laughed at the sheer disbelief on Ana’s face. “Charleston,” he repeated.

“The city?”

“Yes, the city. I certainly wasn’t planning on taking you dancing.” A look of confusion flickered across her face and he added, “I have horrible rhythm.”

She narrowed her gaze, clearly unsure how to take his words. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“Honest to God. I can’t dance to save my life.”

She just shook her head, obviously deciding to ignore his teasing. “What’s in Charleston?”

“The Cara Miller Foundation headquarters. Once you see the kinds of things we do there—”

She didn’t let him finish but cut him off. “Are you insane?”

Again, she didn’t give him a chance to answer, and he let her talk, her impassioned words pouring out in a stream. “I admit that the street fair is a good idea, but between that and my normal work, I can’t possibly jaunt off to Charleston on a whim. Even if we had the money in our budget for such a trip—which we don’t—I can’t take the time away from work.”

Frankly, it impressed the hell out of him that she had the confidence to rant at him. Most people didn’t. She seemed to have the unique ability to forget that he was a superstar.

“This isn’t time away from work,” he pointed out. “I’m not suggesting you come to Charleston to go sightseeing. It’ll be a working trip. You can meet our lawyers and accountants. People who can make the work you’re struggling with here go twice as fast. Two, three days max. If we leave Sunday night I’ll have you back in San Diego in plenty of time to get ready for Chase and Emma’s wedding next weekend.”

She seemed to consider it for a moment. Then firmly shook her head. “I just don’t see how I could justify—”

He took that as a yes. She kept on talking as he pulled out his iPhone and dialed his assistant. He was midway through the conversation before she even noticed he wasn’t listening. She came to stand directly in front of him, hands propped on her hips, gaze narrowed in annoyance.

“Hang on, Jess,” he said into the phone before he lowered it. He cocked an eyebrow at her in silent question.

“Did I just hear you say ‘first class’?”

“It’s a long flight. At night. You really don’t want to fly coach.”

“I don’t want?” she repeated. “I don’t want to go at all.”

“I know that. But you’re going to have to trust me. The trip will be worth it.”

Before he could explain more, Jess started talking again and Ward turned his attention to him. He was listening to Jess’s reply as he felt a tap-tap-tap on his biceps. He glanced over to see Ana frowning at him, arms crossed over her chest.

Into the phone he said, “Call me back with the details on the flight. Thanks.”

As he slipped the phone back into his front shirt pocket, her scowl deepened.

“I can’t just run off to Charleston for the weekend.”

“Of course you can.”

“No. I can’t. In addition to all the paperwork—which I’m ridiculously behind on—” she gestured to the whiteboard behind her “—now I also have to plan a street fair.”

He laughed outright. “You’ve already said all of this. Now you’re just grasping at straws. Besides, you don’t have to do anything about the street fair.”

“Of course I do.” She threw her hands up in the air in obvious frustration. “Everyone here is excited about it and—”

He gently grabbed her arms. “Exactly. They’re excited about it. Let them handle it. You don’t have to be in charge of everything. Jess could do this kind of thing in his sleep. Presumably, your people have contacts here who can smooth the way. My PR guy, Ryan, is relatively new and still eager to prove he’s useful. Frankly, I haven’t had a lot for him to do yet. He’ll be thrilled to have something to keep him busy.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Her tone was heavy with accusation.

“It is easy,” he assured her.

For an instant, doubt flickered across her face. He was struck by how warm and solid her arms felt under his hands. Unlike so many of the women he knew in show business, Ana had meat on her bones. She certainly wasn’t overweight, but she wasn’t scrawny, either. Her arms were leanly muscled, her body curvy in all the right places. This was a hell of a time for him to notice it.

Suddenly, he was all too aware of her very feminine body only a foot away from his. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to quell the urge to pull her fully into his arms. Unfortunately, that only drew in the scent of her. That warm cinnamon-vanilla smell that called to him so strongly. Again, an image of her flashed through his mind. Her hair loose about her shoulders, her neck arched back, exposing the long column of her throat to his lips.

Abruptly, he released his hold on her and stepped away.

Bringing her to CMF’s headquarters was the right thing to do. She needed the knowledge CMF could give her. And Hannah’s Hope needed her as well-educated as possible.

But bringing her to Charleston was the last thing he needed. He was too damned attracted to her already. Spending time with her would only make that worse. But what was he supposed to do? Walk away from someone who needed this help merely because he was having trouble keeping his zipper up?

Besides which, he’d told Rafe that he’d help. He kept his promises. And he would keep this one, even if it damn near killed him. He just wished he didn’t have to fight her as well as his own instincts.

He turned back to her, forcing a smile. “I’ll make you a deal. You come to Charleston with me and spend three days at CMF. When you get back, if you’re not convinced it was the right thing to do, I’ll personally donate enough money to cover whatever the street fair costs.”

She narrowed her gaze in suspicion. “I can’t let you pay for that.”

Of course she couldn’t. She’d bristled at forty bucks worth of muffins and coffee.

He quirked an eyebrow knowing it would irritate her. “You don’t think I’m good for it?”

“No.”

He couldn’t resist purposefully misunderstanding her. “I have plenty of money.”

“Obviously,” she scoffed. “That’s not what I meant. I can’t let you just give us the money.”

“It’s a donation.”

“It’s not a donation,” she countered. “It’s a bribe.”

He slung an arm around her shoulder, like a good buddy. The gesture backfired. Once again, the scent of her hit him. Beneath his hand, her shoulder felt both delicate and strong. Her posture was stiff and unyielding, like she didn’t quite trust his intentions. Smart lady.

‘Cause yeah, he was just a good buddy. A good buddy who got rock-hard every time he caught a whiff of her hair. A good buddy who wanted to strip away all her layers of professional clothing to see the naked body beneath. Hell, who wanted to strip away all her emotional defenses and see what was beneath those, too.

Yeah, that was just the kind of buddy she needed.

Nevertheless, like a good buddy, he gently guided her toward the table where one lone muffin still sat. He’d seen her eyeing the muffin earlier. “First rule of nonprofit—when an insanely rich donor wants to give you money, you accept it.”

“That’s not …” she sputtered. “I didn’t …” She threw up her hands in frustration. “You’re twisting my words.”

“I don’t think it’s your words I’m twisting.” He pressed a muffin into her hand.

She took a bite, despite the scowl on her face. She looked exactly like a recalcitrant toddler miffed at being talked into going to bed early on Christmas Eve. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a very difficult man to deal with?”

He grinned. “Second rule of nonprofits—don’t insult the insanely rich donors giving you money.”

She gave him a tight smile. “That wasn’t an insult. It was a question.” She broke off another bite of muffin and popped it into her mouth. Her voice dripped with mock enthusiasm when she asked, “Are there any other rules of nonprofits I need to know?”

“We’ll go over them on the plane.”

He still wasn’t sure how exactly he was supposed to spend a five-and-a-half-hour flight with her. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to sleep with her in the seat beside him.

The good news was, she didn’t look any more enthusiastic about it than he felt.

She forced a smile. “Yippee.”

After Ward’s comments Friday, Ana had fully expected him to make the trip with her. When he wasn’t in the car that came to pick her up, she assumed he’d meet her at the terminal. But he hadn’t shown up there, either. He’d sent Jess to explain that Rafe had rescheduled the board meeting for the following morning. When she’d offered to stay for the meeting herself, Jess quickly assured her that wasn’t necessary. Instead, she was hustled onto the plane, leaving her with the feeling that she was being “handled.”

Thirty-six hours later, at least one of her fears had been alleviated. She didn’t yet know if Ward doubted her abilities, but it was obvious from her treatment at CMF that he wasn’t angling to get her fired. Surely if he had been, the CMF employees wouldn’t have rolled out the carpet for her on such a grand scale.

Once the plane had landed in Charleston, she’d been whisked off to the hotel to freshen up and rest. Luckily, she’d been able to sleep on the plane and needed only a brief nap before her whirlwind tour of CMF. She’d spent a few hours shadowing the director of the charitable branch of CMF. The woman, Stacy Goebel, had been a friend of Cara’s and had been an executive at a marketing firm before Ward had offered her the job. That evening, Stacy had taken Ana to dinner at a local landmark before dropping her off at the hotel. The next day was more of the same, except at the incubator branch of the charity.





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