Seduced The Unexpected Virgin

Eight


Ward’s tone sounded more amused than anything else.

Walking closer to the TV until the remote was within range and she could turn it off and bleep away the giant image of his face, she nodded with mock seriousness. “Yes. That’s you.” To cover her embarrassment, she added, “Come on in. I might as well offer you something to drink.”

He pretended not to notice her reluctance, but crossed to her sofa, lowered himself to the seat, and stretched his legs out in front of him. He crossed his legs at the ankles and said, “Whatever you’re having would be perfect.”

“It’s not fancy,” she blurted. And then immediately regretted it, because she didn’t know if she was talking about the ten-dollar wine or her used sofa. Or the fact that between the move and getting things set up at Hannah’s Hope, her future dining room was full of unpacked boxes and her bookshelves were still empty.

“Not fancy sounds just about perfect.”

By the time she returned with another glass of wine, she’d sufficiently pep-talked herself into believing that she did not care what he thought of her house. And she did not care if her living room was smaller (and more cheaply furnished) than the powder room in his mansion. After all, a man who lived in a garage apartment hardly had room to complain. And she did not care that she’d changed out of the professional jacket she’d worn earlier and now wore a workout tank and ten-dollar, wide-legged yoga pants that made her Latin hips look big.

She wasn’t going to let herself be intimidated by his star status. The simple truth was, far more stood between them than her pedestrian taste in wine. She wasn’t and would never be Cara Miller. In the end, that was what would drive them apart. Not her curvy hips.

But she couldn’t help wishing that her heart hadn’t started thundering at the sight of him sprawled out on her sofa when she stepped back through the doorway.

He’d rested his head against the back of the sofa. His eyes were closed, his hands resting on his perfectly flat abs. Her gaze took in his appearance again, since he wasn’t looking. It was a good disguise, even if she didn’t appreciate his efforts. Even the hair hanging down from under his cowboy hat looked darker.

Then he spoke without so much as cracking an eye. “It’s flawless, isn’t it?” His eyes opened and she saw humor in his gaze. “It’s true what they say, the clothes make the man.”

Embarrassment washed over her. Why had she just stood there staring at him like an idiot? Or, rather, like a giggly fan. But before she could think of something to say to hide her embarrassment, her phone rang.

“Please tell me you’re not being held prisoner,” Marla demanded the second Ana answered.

Ana laughed. “Hi, Marla. No, I’m not being held hostage.” Ward quirked an eyebrow and she mouthed the words my neighbor to him.

“Are you sure?” Marla’s voice sounded high-pitched and edgy.

Ana set her wine down on the coffee table. When she glanced up, it was to find Ward watching her carefully.

Quickly, she turned away and crossed to the window facing Marla’s house. She pulled back the gauzy curtain. Across the gap between their houses, which was a mere fifteen feet, she could see Marla standing at her own window, framed by the light of her own lamp. She stood there, cell phone pressed to her ear with one hand. Home phone handset in the other. She jiggled it like she was tempting a cat with a toy.

“I can call the cops on the landline if you need me to. We need a safe word! If he’s there in the room with you and you can’t talk, say watermelon. No, wait! That’s too obvious. Say…‘I’ll see you in Sunday school.’”

“Marla, you’re a kook. But a very good friend. And you read too many mystery novels. I’m not being held hostage.”

“Are you sure? That guy looked a little dodgy.”

“He’s just a client,” Ana said in her most reassuring voice.

“But you never see clients at the house,” Marla protested.

“True. I haven’t seen clients here. But…”

Just as she was fumbling for a reason, Ward leaned forward and waved to get her attention.

“My son is the hospital,” he whispered.

“But his son is in the hospital,” she repeated. Then she added, “He doesn’t speak much English. The staff has him scared, even though he has nothing to be afraid of. It’s complicated.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She glanced in Ward’s direction only to once again find him watching her. To hide her discomfort, she rolled her eyes. “Thank you for checking up on me. And I’ll even call you tomorrow if it’ll make you feel better.”

“First thing in the morning. Promise?”

“I’ll call you at seven.”

“Hmm,” Marla paused. “Nine would be better. I mean unless you need something. No, seven’s fine. I mean, whenever.”

“Thank you, Marla,” Ana said before disconnecting.

“Your friend seems very…safety conscious.” Ward chuckled.

“She’s a good neighbor.” She propped her hands on her hips, feeling suddenly protective of Marla, who, despite being a kook, was the best kind of neighbor and the first new friend she’d made since moving back to Vista Del Mar. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Ward held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I didn’t say there was. It’s nice. Refreshing, actually, to know there are still places where people watch out for each other.”

Which was exactly how she felt about Vista del Mar. But even as she was considering launching into yet another lecture about the importance of Hannah’s Hope, he nodded toward the TV. “So, you learn anything new?”

“Not much. They weren’t very thorough. They didn’t even mention Orange Kitty.”

His eyebrows shot up. “How’d you know about Orange Kitty?”

“I lived in New York during college. I made it to a few Orange Kitty shows.”

That had been the height of his career. Before Cara got sick. He’d toured most of the year, and split the rest of the time between their home in Charleston and their apartment in Manhattan. Whenever all the band members were in New York at the same time, they’d play in local venues, to small audiences under the name Orange Kitty.

He shook his head ruefully, a surprised smile on his face. “You must have been a hard-core fan to actually get out to an Orange Kitty show.”

The Orange Kitty shows had never been publicized, being spur of the moment. And that wasn’t the point, anyway. People either showed up by accident or heard about them by word of mouth.

“I once spent an entire night hitting bars all over Lower Manhattan because my friend had heard Orange Kitty was playing.”

There was a hint of nostalgia in his smile. “And were we?”

“Not that time.” Suddenly, her embarrassment spread and she felt as though she’d revealed far more than she’d meant to. She busied herself putting her remote away and fluffing a pillow. “I bet half the people in New York have stories like that.”

He grabbed her hand and tugged her closer. She found herself looking at the topmost button of his ragged shirt, with far more intensity than such a bland pearlescent button deserved.

Slowly he tipped her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Until now, you’ve acted like you weren’t a fan at all. Why?”

She wanted to pull herself out of his arms, but instead forced herself to look him fully in the eyes. “That’s obvious, right?”

“Not to me.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t want you to think I was just some desperate fan-girl. That’s…” she searched for the right word “…creepy.”

“It’s never creepy knowing someone has enjoyed my music.”

There was a quiet sincerity to his voice. And she found herself pouring out the question she’d been holding back since Charleston. “So why don’t you write music anymore? Why don’t you play?”

He dropped his hand and leaned back, his expression suddenly distant.

“How do you know I don’t?”

His tone was as cold as his gaze, but she pressed on. She was too far past the line for it to matter now. “I saw the Alvarez. At CMF. It’s the only guitar you ever composed on. You may have been carrying around your friend Dave’s guitar, but I can’t imagine you composing on it.”

He turned away from her and scrubbed a hand through his hair. For a moment, she was certain that he was either going to lie outright or tell her to mind her own damn business.

Instead, he leveled an assessing gaze at her and said, “Why don’t you tell me your theory.”

She considered for a moment, gazing at the blank TV screen where his face had been just moments ago. What was it he wanted from her? She’d thought their relationship to be pure sex. She hadn’t expected him to show up on her doorstep in the evenings. She hadn’t expected romantic dates. She hadn’t expected to be telling him her theories about anything.

But since he’d asked for it, she found herself musing aloud. The idea had come to her as she watched the show. And now she couldn’t bring herself to swallow her words, even though she knew it would be easier to keep her opinions to herself.

“Well, I think that’s obvious. You don’t play anymore for the same reason you don’t live in the house in Harleston Village. You feel like your talent betrayed you. From the time you were a teenager, your talent got you everything you ever wanted. Fame, fortune, success. It was your path out of poverty. Not just for you, but for your mother, too.” She nodded toward the screen. “It even helped win you Cara’s love. But then, when you needed it most, it abandoned you. All the talent in the world couldn’t save her life. Your wealth didn’t matter. No amount of money could buy her a treatment, because nothing could cure her. Your gift betrayed you when you needed it most.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed, but she could read the shock on his face, as if the idea were repugnant.

“Is it?” she prodded, trying to at least keep him talking so the idea would have a chance to sink in. “Stacy told me you haven’t even picked up the Alvarez since Cara died. Before she got sick, it never left your side. You traveled with it everywhere you went. You wouldn’t even leave it at the studio overnight. Now, you can barely even be in the same room with it.”

“You’re talking about it like it’s a person. It’s just a guitar. A piece of wood and some strings and a few electronics.”

“You don’t really believe that. It’s more than just a guitar. It’s the living embodiment of your talent. It’s the heart and soul of your success as an artist. And you’ve turned your back on it just as clearly as it turned its back on you.”

“I don’t think that.” His tone was quiet, but with so little emotion, she knew he had to be straining to keep it from his voice. “That’s completely illogical.”

“Of course it is. I’m talking about feelings, not logic. You’re the one with the soul of a poet. You know better than anyone that there’s no logic in the heart.”


He met her gaze for a second, unnerved by the understanding he saw there. Damn, but she was perceptive. She’d pegged him so easily, it unnerved him.

But she still sounded doubtful. And by the time he left, he wasn’t sure if she’d finally agreed because she really wanted to go with him or if the luster of dating a star was already starting to wear thin.


Ana knew she was in trouble the second the package arrived. No one had ever sent her a dress before. Still, she’d grown up watching old Doris Day movies and she’d seen enough of them to know that when a thirty-six by twenty-four inch box is couriered to your door, there’s a fancy dress inside. Or maybe a mink coat. But no one wore real mink anymore.

In the movies, the delivery of the dress always preceded one of those whirlwind dates, where the hero whisks the heroine off to some exotic locale with the intent to seduce her. Inevitably, he failed. She returned home, virginity intact, but her beauty and charm—and stalwart defense of said virginity—inevitably won the hero’s heart. That was the nice thing about being a movie heroine. You always came out on top. It was a good gig if you could get it.

But Ana had no illusions. She wasn’t Doris Day. She wasn’t even the Mexican-American Doris Day. And while she didn’t cling to her virginity with any particular sentimentality, she did have her standards. And the deep-seated fear that if she did let Ward sweep her off her feet, she might never again find solid footing.

And so when the dress box arrived on Friday morning, she accepted it with a grim smile, but resisted opening it. After all, she had a perfectly acceptable black dress hanging in her closet.

By the time she and Emma had met at the Bistro after work, she’d almost forgotten about the box sitting ominously on her bed. Emma’s wedding was in the morning and they were celebrating with nonalcoholic champagne. The ceremony would be quiet and small, with only family and a few close friends in attendance. Still, Ana couldn’t be happier for her friend.

And so, Ana really had forgotten about the dress by the time Emma came back by Ana’s house to check out the new digs. Emma hadn’t seen the house since Ana had moved in.

Naturally, when the impromptu tour reached the bedroom, the first thing Emma did was saunter over to the bed.

“What’s this?” she asked. With her good hand, Emma struggled to get enough leverage to pull off the lid.

“That’s nothing,” Ana hastily said. She quickly explained about the Hudsons’ Valentine’s Day bash that would take place the following evening.

“Holy cow!” Emma exclaimed, fluffing back the tissue to see the dress inside. “That’s not nothing.”

“I’m sending it back,” Ana rushed to explain.

“Why on earth would you send this back?” Emma pulled the dress from the box. Yards and yards of ocean-blue chiffon fluttered to the floor.

Ana, who hadn’t seen the dress until now, nearly gasped. She recognized the fabric before Emma had even pulled it from the box. She was intimately acquainted with the dress.

“Never mind that,” Emma kept talking, apparently in conversation with herself. She held the dress up, admiring it. “Forget where it came from. How could you afford it?”

“I couldn’t,” Ana said grimly. “It’s from Ward.”

Emma’s eyebrows shot up. “From Ward?” She drew the question out so that it was obvious she was asking about far more than merely the dress.

“Yes, from Ward,” Ana repeated.

“And he’s sending you clothes…why, precisely?”

Beneath Emma’s inquisitive gaze, Ana remained steadfastly silent.

“Oh, come on,” Emma protested. “You’ve got to give me something to go on! Taking you to the Hudsons’ party for work, I could buy that. But why is he sending you clothes? Are you dating?”

“Sort of. I don’t know.” Ana gave a frustrated tug at a lock of hair. Explaining her relationship with Ward was far too complicated. Besides which, she was pretty sure Emma would not approve of her plan to have a quick fling with Ward. She gestured toward the dress Emma still held. “So I don’t know what to think about this, damn it.”

Emma smiled smugly. “When a man sends me a generous gift, I rarely curse him for it.”

“It’s not the generosity that I have a problem with. It’s the dress itself that…”

She swallowed her curse of frustration, choosing instead to snatch the dress out of Emma’s hand. Some tiny part of her just wanted to rip the thing to shreds. But she didn’t dare. After all, she’d worked too hard on it.

“I made this dress!” She shook it, the gossamer fabric cascading from her hand.

“What?” Emma asked.

“The last movie I worked on.” She’d slaved over the dress, over several versions of it actually.

“That sword and sandals epic?”

“Exactly. This is the dress the female lead wore in the big finale when she was about to be sacrificed to Scylla.”

“Oh.” Emma’s eyes widened and then her brow furrowed into a frown. She moved closer to give the gown a better look. “How did Ward get it?”

“I have no idea.” With a sigh, she unclenched her hand from the delicate fabric and studied the dress. As fitted the story line, the gown was Grecian in style, all flowing fabric and delicate tucks. Rhinestones had been sewn on to the wide strap that draped over one shoulder. Though Ana was curvier than the actress who’d worn the dress originally, the other woman had some help in the chest department and the dress was loose about the hips, so the dress should easily fit her.

Emma ran her hand over the gleaming stones. “I didn’t know they had BeDazzlers in ancient Greece.”

“They didn’t have horrible sea monsters either. I don’t think they were striving for authenticity.” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine how he got ahold of it.”

“Ward does have a lot of connections.” Emma stood beside her to study the gown. Then she gave Ana a knowing smile. “But he must have gone to a lot of trouble to find it. Especially at such short notice.”

“Exactly.” That was what made her so uncomfortable. When she’d made the quip about regretting that she’d never had the chance to wear one of her creations, she’d never dreamed he’d go to these incredible lengths to let her live out that fantasy.

“Why does that bother you?” Emma asked.

She held up the dress again, struggling to put her concerns into words. “It’s a dress designed for a goddess. Literally. Don’t you think I’m a little ordinary for a dress like this?”

“You are a lot of things, my friend, but ordinary is not one of them.” Emma bumped her shoulder playfully against Ana’s.

“Don’t you think it’s a little—” Ana broke off, searching for the right word. “I don’t know. Extravagant?”

At this, Emma’s smile grew broad and self-satisfied. “Not at all. Chase said that Ward is very romantic. That when he was dating Cara, he did all kinds of crazy grand gestures for her. Why do you think he wrote so many songs for her?”

Hearing it put like that, all of the anxiety that had been brewing in Ana’s stomach coalesced into a tight ball of dread. She had expected their relationship to be all passionate sex. Instead, he was taking her on romantic dates and buying her presents. How was she supposed to stay emotionally uninvolved under these circumstances?

She forced a smile to cover her dread. Shaking the dress out with a flourish, she grabbed a hanger from the footstool by the bed. As she slipped the dress onto the hanger, she said cheerfully, “Well, if I’m going to this grand bash, I might as well make the most of it.”

Emma’s face blossomed with glee. She looked like she might very well have clapped her hands if her cast hadn’t prevented her. “Okay, we’ll need to start with a pedicure and manicure, then we’ll need to figure out something for your hair. I’m thinking something Grecian and piled on top—”

“Hold on there, fairy godmother,” Ana interrupted, as she propped open the door to her wardrobe and hung the dress from the edge. “I can handle that all on my own tomorrow afternoon after your wedding. And you’re the one getting married tomorrow. What I meant was, if I’m going to be hobnobbing with the rich and famous, I might as well find a way to drum up some interest in Hannah’s Hope.”

Emma’s expression went from excited to crestfallen. “Most people would sell their left foot to go to a party like this. On the arm of Ward Miller no less! And all you see is a chance to shill Hannah’s Hope? Do you ever stop working?”

“Nope,” Ana answered with a cheerful grin. “Can’t afford to. Too much work to do.” Then she jabbed Emma delicately in the ribs. “And admit it. If you were in my shoes, you’d do the same.”

Emma gave a good-natured grumble. “Would not.”

“Yeah, you would.”

Emma ignored her. “Well, for now you should concentrate on just meeting people and talking about Hannah’s Hope. Put out feelers. Maybe someone will be interested in coming to the street fair. Or…” Emma’s eyes lit up as she paused dramatically. “We could invite them all to a gala fundraiser.”

“Are we having a gala fundraiser?” Ana asked hesitantly.

“Well, we haven’t planned one yet.” Emma all but bubbled as she warmed to the idea. “But we should! Think about it. It just makes sense. You can talk up Hannah’s Hope tomorrow night at this Valentine’s Day thing. Ward can invite all the bigwigs he knows. Chase can, too, for that matter. We can host the event in a couple of months when we have some real successes to show off and—”

“How is Rafe going to feel about this?”

Emma’s gaze narrowed in fierce protectiveness. “Right now, I’m so not concerned about how Rafe feels about anything.”

“Oookay.” Apparently, Emma was still worried that Rafe planned to dismantle the company bit by bit. Ana knew Chase was doing everything in his power to convince Rafe to take a different approach, but if Emma’s reaction was any indication, he must not be making very much progress. Over drinks, Emma had mentioned that she’d done what she could to smooth over the rift between the stepbrothers, but apparently, her generosity of spirit extended only so far.

“Just think about it,” Emma continued. “You’ve been worried about funding anyway. This is the perfect way to secure funding for the charity.”

Ana was warming to the idea. “I don’t think anyone at Hannah’s Hope has the experience to organize something like this. Well, maybe you do.” She dropped her gaze to Emma’s belly. “But you’re going to have your hands full in the coming months. We’re going to have to hire someone to plan it.”

“Didn’t you say you’d recently been to a wedding where you were really impressed by the party planner?” Emma asked.

“Yes, I did.” She gave her temple a quick tap, trying to pull up the woman’s name. “She was just starting her own business and looking for work. She would be perfect for the job. Paige something. Adams maybe.”

Emma smiled triumphantly. “If she’s looking for work, this will be a dream job.”

“I’ll give her a call,” Ana agreed. “But first we should put out some feelers. See what the rest of the staff thinks.”

Emma, never one to give up a fight easily, reached over to finger the dress. “And the dress?”

“I’ll think about it.”

In fact, she was afraid she’d think about little else.

As they finished talking about the fundraiser, Ana gave the fabric of the dress one last touch. It was as light and airy as dragonfly wings.

Then she led Emma from the room and resolutely shut the door on the dress. She didn’t want Emma to know how heartsick the sight of it made her.

She just didn’t know how to feel about this new twist their relationship was taking. The Valentine’s Day party, the dress…it all seemed so intimate.

Emma wouldn’t understand. But then, Emma didn’t know about Cara’s sunglasses.