Seduced The Unexpected Virgin

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 center of the table, as well as a tray of pastries and muffins wrapped in the Bistro by the Sea’s signature bright blue papers. A box of their coffee sat on the bookshelf with a stack of paper cups. The divinely pungent scent of coffee filled the air, with the subtle undernotes of blueberry muffins. Obviously, someone had decided to have breakfast catered in. And she suspected that same person was currently standing at the front of the room writing on the whiteboard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’d the food come from?”

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

“The Bistro,” Emma said sheepishly.

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

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

His smile broadened. “Guilty as charged.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, what did she need?

More training.

More time to figure out how to do her job.

Less time with the sexy, but meddling rock star.

How to get it?

Under that column, she had nothing but question marks.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“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.”