Seduced The Unexpected Virgin

Five


A few minutes later, she steered her car out of CMF’s parking lot, aware of Stacy’s car not far behind her. But as soon as Stacy’s car turned to get on the highway, Ana steered her own car into the parking lot of a nearby strip mall. Once she killed the engine, she pulled out her cell phone. She tried Ward’s number first, then left a message when it rolled over to voice mail. Since she didn’t hold out high hopes that he would call her back, next she dialed Emma’s number.

“Okay,” she grumbled, after they got the normal greetings out of the way. “What’s the deal with Ward?”

Emma let out a bark of laughter. “What do you mean?”

“I know he’s supposed to be one of Chase’s best friends, but I’ve got to say he’s being very difficult to work with.”

“What’s he doing? I mean, I know he has that artistic temperament argument to fall back on, but Chase swears he’s a perfectly sane, normal person.”

“Hmm,” Ana grunted thoughtfully. “So then it really is just me.”

“Just you what?”

“Just me that he doesn’t like.”

“No. I’m sure you’re imagining it.”

“I’m not,” she insisted. “Stacy, the director of CMF, said he normally comes in to work every day he’s in town, but he’s been avoiding the office since I’ve been there. I can understand him not coming out on the same flight, because of the board meeting yesterday, but—”

Emma interrupted her. “There wasn’t a board meeting yesterday.”

“There wasn’t? Because Jess said that was why he didn’t fly out when I did. That Rafe had rescheduled a board meeting for the morning.”

“Oh,” Emma said blankly. Even she had run out of arguments.

“Look, I want to talk to him. Apparently, he’s avoiding me like I’m some sort of crazed member of the paparazzi.” She’d almost said like a crazed fan, but that might be a little too close to the truth. “Can you ask Chase for his address?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Emma said with a sigh.

Ten minutes later, Ana typed a new address into the rental’s GPS. Following the gadget’s directions, she headed deeper into Charleston, to a neighborhood dotted with old houses and even older churches. The tourist map from the rental agency described the neighborhood as Harleston Village. All of the houses on the block had been painstakingly restored and maintained, like well-loved family heirlooms. The multistory homes were nestled close together with only the width of the driveway separating the various buildings. Ward’s house sat in the middle of the block with nothing to distinguish it. If she hadn’t gotten the address from Emma, she would never have guessed it was the home of a rock star.

She parked her car on the street, wedging it in the narrow space between two of the driveways. The house was right on the street and after quickly mustering her courage, she left the car and went up the steps to the front door. She gave the knocker a quick bang, then waited, her heart pounding in her chest.

A long moment passed during which she wondered if she was making a huge mistake. After all, what did it really matter if Ward didn’t like her? If he wanted to go to great lengths to avoid her, why should she let that bother her? After all, rule number three of nonprofits was probably “if a billionaire donor wanted to act like a reclusive nutcase, let him.”

But before she could change her mind, the front door swung open. Instead of Ward, Ana found herself facing a thin middle-aged woman with a pinched, severe expression.

The woman scowled at her and pointed to a sign by the door. “No solicitation,” she grumbled, as if Ana couldn’t read.

“I’m looking for Ward Miller,” Ana explained.

The woman’s expression tightened. Then she schooled her features into strained blankness. “Who?”

“This is his house, isn’t it?” Ana asked.

“No solicitation,” the woman repeated, starting to shut the door.

Ana wedged her foot in the door, wincing as it slammed into her foot. “I got his address from Chase Larson.”

The pressure on her foot eased up a little, but the suspicion didn’t leave the woman’s gaze. “So?”

“I’m Ana Rodriguez. I’ve been working with Ward and CMF for a charity called Hannah’s Hope out near San Diego. He’s on the board.” The shrew seemed to be wavering, so Ana added, “I only need to talk to him for a few minutes. Why don’t you ask him if he’ll see me?”

“He’s not here,” the woman said reluctantly.

“But this is his house, isn’t it?”

The woman’s gaze narrowed, but finally she nodded.

“Can you tell me when you expect him back?”

“That’s easy,” the woman said with a faint sneer. “He’s not coming back.”

“What?” The woman’s smug tone grated on Ana’s nerves. She narrowed her gaze and edged her shoulders through the gap in the door, refusing to be bullied. It took more to intimidate her than a mere disapproving scowl. “Look, I know he’s in town. So you might as well tell him I’m here.”

The woman seemed to waffle, then released her hold on the door so it swung open. Ana grabbed the chance while it was there and slipped through the front door.

The house was as lovely on the inside as it was on the outside. The foyer opened to a living area on one side and a dining room on the other. Directly in front of the door, stairs led up to the second floor. Dark hardwood floors gleamed underfoot. The walls were painted a rich cream that complemented the pristine ivory upholstery. All of which was the perfect backdrop for the stunning collection of abstract art that graced the walls. She tried not to gape. And she definitely didn’t ask about them. She didn’t really want to know if that was an original Kline. And she really, really didn’t want to know if that was a Pollock.

But she supposed this was what she got by invading the home of an icon.

There was only one thing in the foyer more shocking than the millions of dollars worth of art. Sitting on the console right beside the front door, nestled beside a three-foot-tall, orange glass vase, sat a pair of oversize Burberry sunglasses. Exactly like the ones Cara Miller had been famous for wearing.

As if Cara Miller had walked through the front door a few minutes earlier and dropped them there on her way past.

Ana looked from the sunglasses to the disapproving housekeeper, who returned her gaze with a steely obstinacy. Even if Ana hadn’t seen countless photos of Cara in similar sunglasses, she could have guessed to whom these belonged.

In general, housekeepers didn’t leave their sunglasses on the console by the door. And this was not the sort of woman to wear a two-hundred-dollar accessory.

The sight of those sunglasses sent a fissure of unease skirting down her spine. She shouldn’t have seen them. There was something far too intimate about seeing Cara Miller’s glasses. They were such tangible proof of Ward’s grief. She had invaded his privacy as clearly as if she’d walked in on him half-naked.

She shouldn’t have come here.

But damn it, this was his fault, too. If he’d taken her call earlier, she wouldn’t have come. If he’d had the common decency to talk to her and explain what she’d done to irritate him, then this all could have been avoided.

She swept her gaze around the rooms once again, searching for any signs Ward might be there. She found none. The house was meticulously maintained, but there was a sterility about it. Other than the sunglasses, there were no signs that anyone might have been here in the past year, let alone the past few hours. There were no keys by the door. No half-opened mail. No dog-eared novel on the table beside the sofa. All the furniture sat at precise right angles.

Propping her hands on her hips, she turned back to the housekeeper. “I suppose you were telling the truth. Ward really isn’t here.”

The housekeeper shook her head and something sad flickered across her face. “He doesn’t stay at the house anymore when he comes to town.”

As the woman spoke, her gaze darted to the glasses by the door. It was enough. Ana could read between the lines. Ward may still own this house, but he hadn’t lived here since Cara died.

Ana nodded. “If you talk to him, ask him to call me.”

She’d climbed back into her car already and was backing up, when she happened to glance down the driveway that ran alongside the house. In the back, set away from the house, was a two-story garage. She would guess at some point in the house’s long history, it had been a carriage house. Now, it was a garage with an apartment above it.

“He doesn’t stay at the house,” Ana repeated the housekeeper’s words. Not, he doesn’t stay here. But he doesn’t stay at the house.

On a hunch, Ana turned her car into the driveway and drove past the house. She parked her car in front of the broad carriage house doors and climbed out. A flight of stairs led up the outside of the building to a second-story door. She knew instantly her instincts had been right. She paused at the top of the stairs before knocking. Music drifted through the closed door. She recognized the sultry guitar of blues musician Keb Mo, an artist she started listening to after reading an interview in which Ward listed Keb Mo as being on his current playlist.

She knocked. And then after a minute, knocked more loudly to be heard over the music. A second later, she heard a phone ringing and then the music was turned down. When Ward opened the door, he still held his phone in his hand. But she barely noticed that. Because he was shirtless.

His chest was lightly sprinkled with hair, his skin tanned and lean. Not bulky or over-muscled. Just… She blew out a breath. Just…yummy. There was no other word for it.

She knew plenty of men who waxed their chests. She’d lived in L.A., where every man strove to look like a Ken doll. Men took such pride in those perfectly smooth, almost boyish chests, seemingly unaware of how emasculated they looked.

There was nothing emasculated about Ward. Not. A single. Thing.

For the first time in her life, she understood the feeling other women had described of itching to touch a man’s chest.

Her fingers practically twitched with the urge to touch and explore. To taste. To lick. To…

Oh, crap. Was she drooling?

She clenched her hands tightly in front of her, choking back her more primitive urges.

Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how she looked at it—Ward pulled a sweater over his head and tugged it down, removing temptation. He gave a quick rub to his hair. Only then did she realize it was damp. Which explained why he’d been shirtless. Not that she’d been complaining.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said into the phone just before ending the call. He shot an exasperated look at her. “That was my housekeeper warning me you were here.”

He stepped aside to let her in. At least he had the good grace to look chagrined. As if he half expected her to give him a hard time for having his housekeeper give her the rigmarole.

But she figured she had enough to give him hell about without bringing that to the table. So instead she stayed quiet for a moment, taking stock of her surroundings.

From the outside, the carriage house was designed in the same style as the original house. Inside, however, they were completely different. The main house had been bright and well lit with a decor so crisp it bordered on institutional. As far as she could tell, the apartment consisted of a small living area and a tiny kitchenette. A hallway led to what she assumed was a bedroom and bath. A take-out box sat open on the kitchen counter, a bottle of Gran Patron Platinum and a tumbler next to it.

The furniture in the apartment was worn and a little shabby. The woods all exotic dark woods, the upholstery chocolate-brown and warm red batiks. Shelves lined the back walls, their surfaces stacked with books and knickknacks. Not the kind of things that a decorator would put out, but rather the sort that would be collected and displayed by someone who traveled a lot and collected memorabilia. Replicas of Greek Cycladic art sat side by side with bobble heads of famous musicians and composers.

There was little doubt. He may not stay in the house anymore, but he most definitely lived here.

As Ward shut the door behind her, she turned her attention back to him just in time to see him sliding his phone into his pocket. He was dressed in well-worn jeans and a gray V-neck sweater. The kind a woman automatically wanted to stroke and cuddle against.

He smiled faintly and, for the first time since she’d met him, looked a little self-conscious. “If he asks,” Ward said, “can you tell Chase I moved back into the house?”

His request was so unexpected, Ana could do little more than shrug. “I…sure, I guess. Is he going to ask?”

“He might. He gave me hell a year ago when he found out I’d moved out.”

What was she supposed to say to that? She’d never lost a spouse. So she could only imagine how he felt. How torn he must be, unable to move back into the house he’d shared with his wife, unwilling to sell it. Still, it wasn’t her business or her place.

“You should call me then.” He quirked an eyebrow in question, so she explained. “I’m a horrible liar. If you call me now, then I can at least tell him that and pretend I was never here.”


Ward nearly laughed at Ana’s statement. Her words were so blandly practical, he couldn’t help but be amused. And yet, the sentiment seemed perfectly in-line with everything he knew about her. Once again, her stunning combination of exotic lush beauty and straitlaced practical clothing was a dichotomy he found all too appealing.

She wore a black-and-white houndstooth jacket cinched tight around her waist. She had an oversize leather tote slung over her shoulder. Once the door was closed behind her, she loosened the belt of her jacket to reveal slim black pants and a white business shirt that looked slightly rumpled after a day’s wear. He found himself wanting to unbutton it to see what she had on beneath it.

He wanted to close the distance between them and tug loose her hair so that it tumbled around her shoulders. He wanted to run his hands through it and bury his nose in it. He ached to find out if her skin still held that intriguing combination of vanilla and cinnamon. If she still smelled like snickerdoodles.

And more than any of that, he wanted to kiss her. To feel her lips, hot and wet beneath his. To kiss her until her irritation turned to surprise and then keep on kissing her until that turned to desire. Until she wanted him with the same deep pounding need that he wanted her.

But of course, the one thing he didn’t want to do was alienate her. Which kissing her would certainly do. Forget stripping her naked and lavishing her body with kisses.

Now, she was looking at him suspiciously. Little wonder since he was taking so long to respond. Instead of replying right away, he crossed into the kitchenette and pulled another tumbler from the cabinet.

He held it up in a gesture. “Do you drink tequila?”

She gave him a you’re-an-idiot look, followed by a brief nod. “I mean, I don’t do shots on a regular basis or anything. But I’ve lived most of my life in Southern California. Pretty much everyone drinks tequila on occasion.”

“Good point.” He poured himself a finger and then one for her. He nudged hers across the counter.

She took a ladylike sip, a testament to her previous experience with Gran Patron. It was a sipping tequila.

He nodded in approval, then raised the glass in a silent toast and took a drink of his own, relishing the sharp burn down his throat. Then he set the tumbler down.

There was a part of him that wanted to tell her outright how much he wanted her. It was the same part of him that wanted to bend her over the table and plow into her right now. But he didn’t think either technique would fully satisfy him. Instead, he started talking. Doing what he did best. Seducing her with the sound of his voice and his ability to weave a story.

“When you’re a musician,” he began. “Everybody wants to buy you drinks. Club owners, fans, other musicians. Right or wrong, I’ve been drinking tequila since I was fifteen. A lot of it is pretty nasty stuff. It’s why you do shots, with salt and lime.” He picked up his tumbler again and held it up so the light from the pendant over the bar shone through the glass. The liquid was as clear as water. Only the astringent sting of it in his nose indicated its seductive power. “But Gran Patron, it’s the best sipping tequila in the world. You don’t drink it in shots. You linger over it. You savor it.”

In turn, she lifted her glass, took another sip and let it slide down her throat. He watched the delicate muscles in her neck shift beneath her skin as she swallowed. There was something innately erotic about watching her drink. Something about just being with her that soothed him.

Yes, she got in his face about Hannah’s Hope, but he never felt like she was desperate for a chunk of him, the way he sometimes felt with people. That only added to her appeal. Only reinforced the gut-wrenching desire he felt for her.

Since she didn’t say anything, he kept talking. “I’ve found women are a lot like tequila. When you’re a musician, there’s a lot of them around. Like cheap tequila, sometimes you indulge without lingering over them. Something you do just because it’s there and it’s available.” He rolled the tumbler between his palms. “I loved my wife and I never once cheated on her, I was never even tempted. Why would I drink a shot of cheap tequila just because someone handed it to me when I had something worth savoring back at home.”

He looked at her then, his expression darkening. He took another drink of the Patron and then asked as if it was only just now occurring to him, “Does that analogy offend you?”

She thought about it for a second, tilting her head to the side as she considered. While she could see how it might offend some people, it didn’t bother her. “My father used to say that women are like Eskimos. You’ve heard the myth about Eskimos having forty words for snow? He said women were like that. We have hundreds of words for emotions. But men don’t. They describe women like possessions because they have no other way to convey how desperately they need them.”

Funny, she hadn’t thought about that in a long time. Growing up, her parents lectured her endlessly about staying out of trouble. They were so afraid of her messing up her life and her future by doing drugs or having sex and getting pregnant. Her mother’s lectures had been frequent, redundant and sometimes infuriating. But her father’s words had stuck with her.

Don’t sleep with a boy just because he says he loves you, he’d told her. That’s just a word boys will use to get you into bed. Wait for the boy who wants you enough that he’s willing to wait. Wait for the boy who can’t tell you how much he loves you. The boy who makes you believe it.

And she’d never met a guy like that. And so here she was, a virgin at twenty-seven. Honestly, she’d begun to doubt love like that really existed. Yes, her parents were daily proof that it did, but she knew their relationship was rare. Maybe even a throwback to a simpler time and place. Maybe her generation had lost the ability to love so completely. Maybe decades of rising divorce rates and instant gratification had bred it out of them.

But listening to Ward compare Cara to sipping tequila, for the first time she believed love like that was really possible.

This man standing before her had faced every temptation imaginable. He had to have had countless opportunities to be unfaithful, but he’d loved his wife too much. Even now, three years later, he loved her too much to live in the house they’d shared together. He couldn’t even discard her sunglasses.

How could that kind of devotion offend her, no matter what terms he couched it in?

She may not be able to understand the full depths of his grief. But she could respect it. And she certainly wasn’t going to judge him for it. She hardly knew him well enough to have an opinion on what was a healthy way for him to grieve for his wife.

Circling back to his earlier request, she said, “If you don’t want Chase to know you’re living in the carriage house, he’s certainly not going to hear it from me.”

He nodded slowly and smiled. “Thanks.”

But the smile looked sad. And a little rueful. Like he knew it was time to move on, but still wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

She buried a wistful sigh. Her reasons for coming now seemed so self-serving in the face of his obvious grief. “I’m sorry I invaded your privacy. I should have left you alone.” She set down the tumbler of tequila and headed for the door. He stopped her after only a step.

“Why did you come here?”

It sounded silly now. She had the unmistakable impression that the things he’d told her just now weren’t the sort of thing he shared with just everyone. So she’d probably been wrong. And if she hadn’t, so what? Why invade his privacy just to feed her insecurity? She’d worked with plenty of people she didn’t like in the past. She was professional enough to do it this time around.

Except, of course, that she did like Ward. Immensely. And that, of course, was part of the problem. She didn’t want there to be a likable person beneath the glamour of the megastar. But since there was, she’d have to figure out how to deal with him on her own.

Since Ward was still waiting for an answer, she smiled ruefully and said, “I thought you didn’t like me.”

However, when she looked up at Ward, she realized he’d gone completely still. He looked at her over the rim of his half raised tumbler with one eyebrow quirked. “What was that?” he asked, his voice pitched low.

That sultry tone sent a shiver down her spine, one she did her best to hide the effects of. She forced a nonchalant laugh. “It sounds silly now. But I thought maybe you’d been avoiding me.”

“Avoiding you?” he asked. There was note of humor in his words. Like she’d just unwittingly repeated some private joke.

“Yes,” she tried to keep her frustration out of her voice, but didn’t succeed. “Avoiding me. You took a different flight out to Charleston, even though there wasn’t really a board meeting. You haven’t been at CMF, even though Stacy assures me that you’re usually there every day that you’re in town.” His smile broadened, and her hands automatically went to her hips. “The other day at Hannah’s Hope, you totally got in my face about whether I had a problem working with you. So, what? I’m not allowed to do the same thing?”

Her irritation crept back into her voice. Dang it, what was it about him that got under her skin?

She blew out a sigh and gave her shoulders a little roll to relieve the kinks of tension before adding, “It’s not a big deal. I just thought I’d ask.”

He slowly lowered his tumbler and grinned. “Let me get this straight. You think I’m avoiding you? Because I don’t like you?”

She gritted her teeth for a second before answering. “Yes. And I don’t want it to affect my work at—”

But before she could finish her sentence, he rounded the island and crossed the room to where she stood. She nearly gasped in surprise as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.