Unguarded

  Watching her, it occurred to him—not for the first time—that people would probably say she was too old for him. He didn’t know her exact age, but his best guess put her at somewhere around thirty-six or thirty-seven, years older than his own twenty-nine. But it didn’t matter to him, not when he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed having dinner with a woman this much.

  Besides, age had never been an issue to him when it came to women. While it was true that he’d never dated a woman more than one or two years older than him before, the idea didn’t bother him as it would some of his friends. For him, it was all about the chemistry, about how he felt when he looked at a woman, talked to her, touched her. If she interested him, that was enough, and Rhiannon—with all of her stops and goes, all of her contradictions and complications—interested him more than any woman had in a long time.

  Where else would he find a poised, sophisticated woman who was as interested in watching a slasher movie as she was in going to an art gallery? A woman who could discuss politics one minute and Willie Nelson and the city’s Keep Austin Weird campaign the next? Who cared if she was twenty-seven or thirty-seven or even forty-seven as long as there was a spark between them? And while he still wasn’t sure about Rhiannon’s side, he knew that on his there was a hell of a lot more than a spark going on.

  Now, if only he could get her interested in baseball, it’d be a match made in heaven.

  When they were finished eating, she insisted on helping him clear the table before he ushered her into the family room he loved. The back wall was all windows and it had an incredible view of the lake—at the end of a long day of writing, he liked nothing more than sitting on his sofa and watching the sun set over Lake Travis.

  “You know, we could set up a bar in the corner over there, along with a couple of food stations.” Rhiannon stood in the middle of the room, turning in a slow circle as she examined every nook and cranny. As she did, he wondered how she could stand there, surrounded by such an incredible view—the lights were still on outside and his entire backyard had a soft, mellow glow—and think only of work. Especially when it was the farthest thing from his mind.

  “Maybe a pasta station over here in this corner—very Mafia Times—and then in the center of the room, we could—”

  “Do you ever think about anything but work?” he interrupted her, simply to see what she would do.

  She didn’t even break stride. “—have prizes for the games. Or at least a prize booth where they could trade tickets in. Movie memorabilia, that kind of thing. I’m not sure how much it would cost, but I think it could be doable.” She finally paused for a breath. “How much are you thinking of budget wise? I started to ask you when we were outside, but we got sidetracked.”

  “I don’t know. What’s a reasonable number for this kind of party?”

  She named a price that had his eyes widening and his hand clutching at his wallet where it rested in the back pocket of his jeans. Beer and chips weren’t sounding so bad after all.

  “For a casual party?” he asked incredulously. “How much would the formal party have been?”

  “Probably about the same,” she admitted wryly. “If that’s more than you were wanting to spend, we can tone things down a bit. There doesn’t have to be—”

  He cut her off before she could gain any more momentum and launch into another spiel, partly because in the end he didn’t care that much—after all, he had the money—and partly because he could think of any number of more interesting things to talk about with her than the virtues of a party with a budget that just might rival the national debt of a small country.

  “Work up a budget for our next meeting, like you were planning on, and we’ll take it from there. Okay?”

  “Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I should probably be going then.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  Her brow was furrowed in confusion and he wanted nothing more then to step forward and smooth it out. But, despite the fact that she’d relaxed some over dinner, Rhiannon still had enough No Trespassing signs around her to stop a blind man in his tracks. “Why do you want to leave? You haven’t even opened your present yet.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You bought me a present?”

  “I did.” He crossed to the bar, pulled out the large, colorful bag he’d placed there earlier in the day, and held it out to her.

  She didn’t take it, didn’t do anything but stare at the gift—and him—like they were cobras poised to strike. In return, he stayed right where he was, not saying anything, not moving, barely even breathing as he waited to see what she would do.

  “Why would you do that? You barely know me.”

  “True, but I like what I do know of you. And as to why I bought the present—” He dangled it on a fingertip, watching as her eyes followed its back-and-forth motion as if hypnotized. “I saw it at the store today and it made me think of you. Besides, your education is sorely lacking in some areas and I thought this could even it out a little.”

  “Sorely lacking?” From the look on her face, he could tell she wasn’t sure whether she should be insulted or not. Which was fine with Shawn, as the confusion—and mild insult—propelled her across the room to him.

  “What’s in the bag?” she demanded, when she was only a few steps away.

  He extended his arm so that she only had to come a couple feet closer to look inside it. “Why don’t you look inside and find out?”

  She didn’t move for the longest time, and neither did he, though the waiting was killing him. He loved to give presents, loved to see how the woman in his life reacted when she got them, but he’d never had anyone react to a gift from him quite like Rhiannon was. Her suspicion made him a little sad—not to mention angry at the bastard who had hurt her enough that a simple foil bag could have her gnawing on her lip until she was close to drawing blood.

  “Whatever it is, it better be good,” she said finally, reaching for the bag with a touch of defiance. Her fingers rubbed against his and a little shock of electricity crackled through him, between them, as he felt her skin brush his. Her eyes darkened to a deep, molten chocolate and he waited for her to pull away. But she didn’t. Instead, she let her fingers linger for a few seconds, as if—in that moment—she was as curious about the feel of him as he was about her.

  And then she was pulling away, the connection between them severed, though heat lingered in the air between them. Shawn stared at her, wondering what she was thinking. What she was feeling. Whatever it was, she had a poker face and projected nothing but a calm serenity he knew she couldn’t be feeling, not while the gift bag she now held was rustling with each tremor of her fingertips.

  After a minute, she broke eye contact and started rummaging through the bag, pulling out the tissue paper he’d crumpled up and shoved in the top a few hours before. After laying it neatly on the bar, she finally reached in and pulled out his present. For a second, she didn’t react at all, just stared at his gift in silence. And then she started to laugh—not a small, tinkling giggle like he’d heard before but a warm, full-bodied laugh that filled up the entire room around them.

  He felt himself grow hard at the sound, and at the sight of her so free and uninhibited. So unselfconscious. He watched her, fascinated by the transformation, and wondered—which was the real Rhiannon? This woman with the big laugh and dancing eyes, or the sedate woman who always dressed in neutrals and rarely made a move she hadn’t thought out?

  The contradictions were driving him insane, the edges of the puzzle refusing to fit together in his mind no matter how hard he tried to find the right angle. There were too many missing pieces, too many stories left unsaid. Tonight he’d gotten one of those pieces. He’d have to wait and see what other ones showed up in the next few days and weeks.

  “You bought me slasher movies?” she asked, a little incredulously.

  “Not just any slasher movies. I will have you know that you are holding the Saturday Night Cinem
a Special in your hot little hands—the trifecta of slasher movies. The greatest slasher movies of all time, bar none.”

  “According to you.”

  “According to anyone who has taste. I’m telling you, if you’re as big a fan of the genre as you say you are, then it is an absolute travesty that you haven’t seen those movies.”

  “A travesty you just had to remedy?”

  “Well, obviously. And look—” He pointed at the large cardboard tub the movies had been resting in. “I even got you popcorn and an extra-large chocolate bar.”

  “I’m more of a gummy-worm girl myself.”

  “Who isn’t? But the store was out of gummy worms, so I had to improvise. Next time, I’ll go with the gummy eyeballs.”

  “There’s going to be a next time?”

  He sighed with exaggerated patience, loving the spark that came to her eyes. “Of course there will be. I have an entire wall of horror films and I won’t rest until you’ve seen them all.”

  “That’s quite a sacrifice you’re making there.”

  “It’ll be tough, but someone’s got to do it.”

  “I just bet.” Rhiannon leaned back against the bar, more relaxed than he had ever seen her. It made his blood boil and his erection throb and he was seized by a nearly overwhelming urge to kiss her. But he hadn’t come this far to blow it when he was so close to the prize.

  For Rhiannon was a double-edged sword, one that required a very careful balancing act. Normally that would be enough to make him run in the other direction—after Cynthia had killed herself, he’d made a point of sliding through life with a wink and a smile, steering clear of any major complications or entanglements.

  But this was different, this energy that pulsed between Rhiannon and him whenever they got too close. It was sweet yet exciting, sexy yet comfortable—as much a mystery and a contradiction as Rhiannon was herself. Even knowing that she was a risk—that he might very well end up on his ass six weeks from now, watching as she zoomed off into her own sunset—couldn’t keep him from wanting her.

  “So, I suppose you want to watch these movies with me?”

  “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

  “I appreciate the gift—I really do. It was incredibly thoughtful. But…” She paused and he waited for the brush-off he could tell was coming. It upset him, because he knew, deep down, that they could be good together. But she had to know it, too, or at least suspect it. Otherwise, it didn’t do him any good to stand around mooning over her.

  “You know it can only be business between us, Shawn.”

  And there it was, the line he’d been waiting for. “Why?”

  “Because you’re a client, one whose event is going to bring in big word of mouth for my firm. I can’t afford to get tangled up with you.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged. “You’re fired, then. Problem solved.”

  Her eyes widened. “The problem is definitely not solved. I can’t afford to let you fire me. My boss would kill me.”

  “Well, then, what do you suggest we do? Because I’m not willing to just forget being with you, talking to you, simply because I hired your firm to do my party.”

  “It’s a conflict of—”

  “Don’t give me that tired old line about conflicts of interest.” He moved closer to her, crowded her just a little bit even as he told himself it was the wrong move.

  But he couldn’t help it. He wanted to be near her, wanted to feel the silky soft brush of her skin against his again. Wanted to smell her sweet honeysuckle scent. He didn’t touch her—he still had enough control not to do that—but he couldn’t make himself take that step back, no matter how much he knew he should.

  “Because if you feed me that line, it means one of two things. Either you’re not interested in me and you’re looking for a convenient excuse to step back gracefully, or you are interested and I should just eliminate the conflict so that we can move forward.” He took a deep breath, inhaled her into his lungs. “So which one is it, Rhiannon? Do you want to go on a third date with me or don’t you?”

  “This isn’t a date,” she protested, but it was weak and he could tell she knew it.

  “Yeah, well, it sure as hell isn’t a business dinner.” He glanced at the clock. “At least, not exclusively a business dinner.”

  “It was supposed to be.” Her voice sounded desperate, and her big coffee-brown eyes pleaded with him to let the subject drop.

  He didn’t want to. He wanted to follow the thing through, to figure out where they stood once and for all. But she was looking a little panicked and he couldn’t ignore that—not when he’d made certain, his entire life, never to deliberately make a woman uncomfortable.

  “All right, then.” He forced himself to ease back, but it was a lot harder than it should have been. “Business, it is. For now.”

  He nodded to the gift bag still in her hands. “Enjoy the movies. Start with the top one—it’s the best.”

  Tension throbbed between them, though he did his best to alleviate it by walking around the bar and putting the width of the thing between them. He poured himself a whiskey, then asked, “Do you want anything?”

  “No. I’m driving.”

  “Right. Of course you are.”

  “Don’t be mad, Shawn.”

  “I’m not mad. I don’t play that game. I’m just…disappointed.”

  “Why?” she asked, and he could tell she was talking about a lot more than the fact that she’d turned him down. The vulnerable look in her eyes said she was asking why he was interested in her to begin with.

  “Don’t you feel this thing between us, Rhiannon? You have to, right? I can’t be in this alone, not when it feels so incredibly right to be near you. To listen to you talk. To try to make you smile, which isn’t very easy, by the way. To watch you—”

  She cut him off by leaning across the bar and pressing her lips against his own.

  It was over almost before it began, as Rhiannon broke the kiss off and backed away.

  He followed her, forcing himself to walk around the bar instead of jumping over it as his suddenly rampaging libido had him contemplating.

  “I think,” she said unsteadily, “that we should both concentrate on making this party successful.”

  “I’m a great multitasker. I can concentrate on more than one thing at once.” The tension between them stretched taut as a fishing line and he took another step closer to her. He wanted to taste her, wanted to feel her lips against his one more time before she walked away.

  Rhiannon swallowed convulsively and her hand came up to rest on his chest. At first he thought she meant to push him away, and he started to back up, ruthlessly squelching the surge of disappointment that swept through him.

  But then her fingers twisted in his shirt, clung. And he knew he had her—even if it was just for this moment.

  “Let me touch you, Rhiannon.” He murmured the request softly, not wanting to spook her. Still, if he didn’t kiss her soon—really kiss her—he was afraid he might embarrass himself for the first time since he was a teenager.

  “You are touching me.” Her voice was even softer than his.

  “Actually, you’re touching me.” He brought his head lower, until only a breath separated them. “Let me kiss you.”

  Her eyes widened, the pupils dilating against the dark brown of her irises, and he felt her fear—and her arousal—in every cell in his body. “I want—”

  “I won’t hurt you. I promise.” He stroked her cheek soothingly. “I just want to know what you feel like. What you taste like.”

  She was trembling, from fear or desire he didn’t know. The idea that he had inadvertently frightened her upset him, and he started to back away, but once again, at the last possible second, she leaned forward and closed the distance between them. Her mouth brushed against his—once, twice—as tentative as a hummingbird. As sweet as a flower petal.

  He wanted to let her control the kiss the first time, to let her take him instead of the oth
er way around. But as her lips parted in a warm, sweet sigh, he lost everything but the driving need to taste her.

  Sliding his hands around to the back of Rhiannon’s head, he tangled his fingers in her hair, then brought her in closer until his lips were a steady pressure on hers.

  His tongue stroked across her mouth, exploring the funny little indention in the center of her upper lip, the plump fullness of her bottom lip.

  Toying with the upturned corner of her mouth.

  Licking over the scar that ran to the right of her dimple.

  She tasted delicious, exotic, like roses and pomegranates and the darkest, richest honey. He wanted to savor her like the finest cognac, to take her slowly and enjoy every nuance of her heady flavor.

  He also wanted to gobble her up like the tastiest of treats, to rush to the end zone and then start all over again at the zero yard line.

  In the end, he did a little of both. He played with her lower lip, pulled it between his teeth and nipped gently. She moaned and the fingers that were still tangled in his shirt dug deeper as she returned his exploration with her own.

  It was his turn to groan as need all but overwhelmed him. His hands swept down her back, enveloped her, pulled her in closer. Her mouth opened on a sigh and he took her breath deep inside of him, then slipped inside her to explore her warmth.

  He licked over the top of her mouth, stroked his tongue along her cheek and the inside of her upper lip. He’d just begun to wonder how Rhiannon felt about making love against the wall when she wrenched herself away from him.

  She stood there for long seconds, breathing hard. Her lips were swollen, her hands curled into fists. And her eyes—her eyes were more turbulent than he had ever seen them. And more empty.

  “Rhiannon.” He reached for her, but she was already turning across the family room, through the foyer, out the front door to her waiting car. He let her go, because he wanted—too badly—to stop her.