Unguarded

Rhiannon smiled her agreement to Shawn’s request. He pulled her to her feet and onto the intimate dance floor. And as his arms closed around her, he inhaled as though breathing her in.

The song was a whisper and a plea. A promise made.

His right hand was on her waist, his fingers resting against the curve of her side while his left hand cradled her right. Heat emanated from him, working its way through her until he was all she could feel. In those long, intimate moments in his arms, all she knew was him.

She simply relaxed and enjoyed the sensations coursing through her. She remembered for a moment what it was like to be seventeen and feeling the sweet ache of desire for the very first time.

She never wanted the music to end.

Dear Reader,

I’m very excited to bring you Rhiannon’s story, a follow-up to my July 2010 Harlequin Superromance novel, Beginning with Their Baby. From the moment Rhiannon appeared, I knew I wanted to tell her story, and I’m so blessed to have an editor who told me to “go for it.” Writing this novel was bittersweet, as one of its themes—a woman recovering from violence—is a subject near and dear to my heart. When I was in college, I volunteered at a woman’s shelter and was absolutely horrified and astounded at what so many of the women had gone through to arrive there. Watching them heal was an incredible thing, and their bravery made an impact on me that has lasted ever since.

In this novel my heroine, Rhiannon, is recovering from a brutal rape that cost her her career, her marriage and her sense of self. She’s spent the past few years healing slowly, but it is not until she is confronted with Shawn—a handsome, talented, easygoing younger man—that she really begins to see herself as a healthy, strong woman again. The relationship between Shawn and Rhiannon was difficult to write, as it is complex and full of emotional ups and downs, but getting them (two people who so richly deserve it) to their happy ending was a thrill for me. I hope you enjoy reading Unguarded as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I love to hear from my readers—either by email at tracy@tracywolff.com or on my blog, tracywolff.blogspot.com. Stop by and say hello sometime.

All my best,

Tracy Wolff

Unguarded

Tracy Wolff

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tracy Wolff collects books, English degrees and lipsticks and has been known to forget where, and sometimes who, she is when immersed in a great novel. A writing and feminist literature professor at her local community college, she has spent years reading, teaching and writing about life as a woman in twenty-first-century America—with all its ups and downs. She is married to a wonderful man and is the mother of three terrific and rambunctious sons, who keep her on her toes. They make their home in Texas.

To Emily and Shellee

Thanks for all the fun,

friendship and collaboration

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER ONE

SHE COULD DO THIS.

She could do this.

Really, she could do this.

Rhiannon Jenkins repeated the mantra that had gotten her through so much in the past two years as she squared her shoulders and climbed slowly out of her car. Despite the pep talk she’d given herself all the way over here, she couldn’t help feeling like she was headed for the guillotine. Which was ridiculous, she reminded herself impatiently. It was just a business lunch, and she’d had hundreds of them over the course of her career. One more certainly wasn’t going to do her in.

Of course, she’d told herself the same thing three years before when she’d made the mistake of trusting a source for her newspaper article. That meeting hadn’t killed her, but it had come damn close—and taken a huge amount of her life with it. Including, she admitted with a grim sigh, her ability to confidently meet a man in a packed restaurant—even for a lunch date that was strictly business.

But she didn’t have a choice. She had to do this. The only other option—running back to her boss and best friend, Logan, and telling him that she’d been too chicken to even walk in the restaurant’s door—was somehow a million times worse. He’d taken a chance on her when she’d been all but paralyzed with grief and fear. She wouldn’t repay him by screwing up one of the biggest responsibilities he’d given her.

So what if it was the first time she’d pitched a party completely on her own since joining Logan’s firm two years before?

So what if the man she was supposed to have lunch with was young and sexy and a little bit intimidating?

So what, even if she was so scared she was literally quaking in the two-hundred-dollar boots she’d bought the night before to give herself courage?

She could do this. She would do this…even if it sent her careening over the edge of the sanity she clung to with battered fingertips. She was never going to get better, never going to get any sort of a life back, if she didn’t push herself. It was what she’d told Logan when he’d asked if doing this first meeting alone was really okay with her, and it was what she’d told herself in the bathroom mirror a hundred times that morning as she’d put on her makeup.

After gathering the briefcase and purse she’d almost forgotten in the car, Rhiannon headed straight toward the front door of the Mexican restaurant Shawn—the client—had chosen. As she walked, she did her best to banish the nerves that continued to assault her.

She’d spent her life around men—all kinds of men—so she felt ridiculous working herself up into this state just because he’d called the office and specifically requested her. Why wouldn’t he have? she asked herself viciously. She’d been the one he’d met at the party she’d coordinated on Saturday night, and it was her business card she’d handed him when he’d asked what company she was with. It only stood to reason that he would have asked for her when he’d spoken to the receptionist two days before.

Understanding the whys of how she’d gotten there didn’t make it any easier to open the restaurant’s door and walk inside. But then, nothing had been easy for nearly three years now. That didn’t mean she’d stopped doing things—it only meant that she had to go through this ridiculous freak-out in anticipation of every new or not-since-the-attack incident that came up. For a woman who had once been known for her intrepid and insightful newspaper articles, it was a hard thing for her to admit. And even harder for her to accept.

She spotted Shawn almost as soon as her eyes adjusted to the restaurant’s dim interior—he was sitting in a booth about halfway across the room, and her first glimpse of him had Rhiannon silently cursing like a sailor.

She’d wanted to get here first, had made sure to arrive ten minutes early so that she’d have a chance to get herself settled at the table before having to put on her game face. The fact that her plans were now ruined flustered her a lot more than it should have.

Telling herself to suck it up, she returned his welcoming wave and made her way toward him. Even the best-laid plans had to have some wiggle room, she reminded herself as she stopped next to his table. Today, now, was no exception.

“Rhiannon.” Shawn rose and extended his hand, his blue eyes warm and his smile welcoming. “I’m so glad you could make it today.”

“Me, too. I’ve been excited about hearing the details of this party you want to throw since you called the office on Monday.” It wasn’t a lie, she told herself, if she only told half the truth. She was excited about planning the party, so it was perfectly acceptable to leave out the fact that she’d been up half the night worrying about seeing him again.

Obviously, this was stupid, as he wasn’t looking at her with anything more than polite interest—the same interest he would show any woman charged with creating a fantastic party so that he could impress a bunch of Hollywood types. She must have imagined the way he’d looked at her the other night—which wasn’t much of a surprise. Her radar was way off when it came to men these days, and had been for much too long.

“I’m glad. I need someone who’s excited about this thing, since I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about throwing a formal party.”

She pulled out her laptop and booted it up so that she could take notes while they talked. “You don’t like formal parties?” she asked, culling about half of the options she’d come up with that morning from the mental list she wanted to run by him.

“I’m more a beer-and-nachos kind of guy. But I figure if I’m going to do this, I need to do it right—formal, sit-down dinner, monkey suit, the works.”

As if his way with words wasn’t enough to clue her in, just looking at him gave her a good idea as to why the formal approach probably wasn’t the way to go. With his shaggy brown hair and easy smile, Shawn Emerson looked like every footloose, slacker guy she’d ever run across—the kind who was more comfortable with a bat in one hand and a beer in the other than he ever would be in an office or behind a desk.

Even his meeting attire—a football jersey and a worn pair of jeans—screamed immature male out for a good time. It was just one of the many reasons she hated that her hand was still warm from where his had clasped it.

But then, she was an idiot when it came to men. Life had certainly proven that in the past three years.

“So, your usual party style is ultra-casual yet you’re thinking about throwing a completely formal gathering?”

“It’s actually my agent’s idea. He thinks I should have a really impressive gathering, kind of knock those Hollywood types’ socks off. I’m just trying to follow along with his suggestions.”

“What’s the occasion?” she asked, trying to gauge which direction he really wanted to go in. For some people, formal meant black tie, while for others, it was just a step or two above beach attire. She had him pegged for the latter.

“Endeavor Studios just optioned the rights to my graphic novels. They’re rushing to write a script based on the first two with hopes of starting filming in about eighteen months if everything goes as planned. A bunch of the guys involved in buying my project are going to be here in Austin for the film festival in March, debuting a new movie and Anthony thinks I should have a no-holds-barred party to welcome them to Austin and show my appreciation. It’s not every day a guy’s told his character is going to be made into a major motion-picture franchise, after all.”

So much for a step above bathing suits—she’d been wrong again. Big surprise. This guy was definitely in need of a party with a big wow factor.

But a huge Hollywood-style party meant pulling out all the stops and the film festival was only—she pulled the website up on her computer—six weeks away. He wanted her to do a major party like this in six weeks? Was he kidding?

Trying to get her thoughts straight, Rhiannon pulled up a list of questions she needed to ask, then turned to him with the first one. “Who is Shadeslayer?”

Shawn grinned, an excited, happy smile lighting up his whole face and causing a weird flip-flopping in the pit of her stomach. Rhiannon did her best to ignore the feeling—the guy was at least ten years younger than her—probably closer to fifteen. Just the idea that his smile was directed at her specifically was absurd, not to mention pathetic.

“I was hoping you’d ask.” He reached down to the seat beside him and picked up a few thick comic-book-style novels that he slapped on the table between them. “He’s the superhero I created when I was in college. Now, he’s the star of my twice-yearly graphic novels.”

She blinked at the garish covers staring up at her. All three had a strong, muscle-bound guy in a gray-and-black superhero suit looking out of them, although he was in a different kind of peril on each cover. The artwork was absolutely gorgeous, but— “You write comic books for a living?”

“Graphic novels. It’s not quite the same thing.”

“Right, of course.” She couldn’t help wondering what the difference was, but didn’t want to ask, in case the question offended him. He had made a point of correcting her when she’d called them comic books, after all. “What does Shadeslayer do?”

“All kinds of things, but mainly he keeps shades—dead people who are trapped on Earth—from using their powers to enslave humans.” He held the books out to her. “Here, take them. They’re for you. I figured they’d give you a sense of who I am, what the deal was about.”

“Oh, okay. That’s very nice of you.” She reached out to take the books, her hand trembling just a little as it brushed against his.

She had no idea what she was supposed to do with three comic books, but it was a sweet gesture. She opened the cover of the first one, began to flip through it and was shocked when she came to the title page. Scrawled between the title and his name, were the words, “To Rhiannon, because a party is so often just the beginning. Shawn Emerson.”

She stared at the inscription a moment, unsure what to make of it. Were the words a threat? A promise? A suggestion? Her back stiffened and she closed the books without comment, even as she tried desperately to figure out Shawn’s agenda.

“Do you like them?” he asked, and she looked up to find him watching her closely.

“Of course I do,” she answered, ignoring the confusion inside that told her very clearly that she wasn’t sure how she felt about the books—or about the man who had given them to her. “They’re an interesting gift.”

Interesting? Nice? SHAWN barely suppressed a shudder. Obviously, he’d struck out big time with his gift—he’d been an idiot to think Rhiannon would be interested in his graphic novels. He almost hadn’t brought them—he didn’t give them away very often anymore, and rarely signed them now that he was no longer busting his ass on self-sponsored book tours to promote the things—but this morning he’d been struck by a sudden desire to show her what he did. To give her a glimpse of himself, and of Shadeslayer, the greatest character he’d ever created.

But from the way she placed the books on the table like they were a cross between poison ivy and rotting meat, he figured he probably should have gone with flowers instead—for some reason, women always seemed to like those more. Leaning back in his chair, he studied Rhiannon and tried to decide what kind of flower she was.

Not a rose, though she was long-stemmed, beautiful and surprisingly fragile, if the delicate hand she’d put in his was any indication.

Not a daisy, because she was much too quiet and self-possessed for the cheerful white-and-yellow flowers.

Carnations were boring, and while she was doing her best to blend into the woodwork in her bland gray suit and white blouse, he had a feeling she was anything but boring underneath. Not with those intense coffee-colored eyes and that fiery red hair.

No, carnations would never do—and neither would orchids. They were too temperamental. Which left him drawing a blank. He shoved the dilemma to the back of his mind, with a quick reminder to get back to it later after they’d talked more. Because he’d meant what he’d said when he’d signed those books—this party was just the beginning. He’d been thinking about her since they’d met Saturday night and couldn’t wait for a chance to get to know her.

The waitress chose that moment to come up for their orders, and he watched as Rhiannon smoothed a self-conscious hand over the tight bun of her hair. He wondered if she ever let it down.

“You know, they make a killer margarita here. I’m partial to their plain ones, but Lissa swears by their sangria margaritas.” He deliberately brought up the name of his best friend Robert’s wife to put her at ease—Lissa was the one who had introduced them at the party the other night, and it had been obvious she and Rhiannon liked each other very much. “I swear, she can drink three or four of those in a sitting.”

She stared at him. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“One-fifteen, actually,” he corrected her, reaching for a chip.

“Either way.” Her voice was drier than the martinis his mother used to make—and gulp down by the half dozen. “I try not to drink during business hours.”

“Right. Business. I can see that about you.”

That got her attention. She looked away from the waitress, eyebrows furrowed, lips pulled into a deep frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just that you seem like a really responsible person.” He barely succeeded in hiding his grin as Rhiannon’s teeth snapped together with an all but audible click.

“Well, we can’t all have the intellectual and emotional makeup of a thirteen-year-old boy. More’s the pity.”

“Touché.” He inclined his head, offering her the verbal point. As he did, he let his eyes linger on her full upper lip and the dimple that kept flirting with her left cheek. He’d been fascinated with both from the first time he’d seen her—and the story they told.

Even at the party, she’d looked so prim and proper. Long sleeves, long skirt, blouse buttoned up to her throat. He’d wondered at first if she was channeling someone’s maiden aunt. But then she’d opened her mouth and that voice—low and smoky and incredibly sexy—had curled around him. And he’d wondered how he could have ever failed to see the fire.

He saw it now, as she turned to the waitress and ordered a glass of water with a twist of lime. Plain, boring, expected—with just a little kick to keep things interesting. It was that little kick, all those tiny contradictions, that had had him calling her in the first place.

Yes, he needed a party planner, but the artist in him—who was he kidding, the man in him—wanted to unravel her a bit. To see what was underneath the sensible shoes and simple pearl earrings. To see if she lived up to the promise of that voice, that hair and the incredible body she kept so tightly under wraps.

He ordered a beer, and then settled back to study her while she looked over the menu. He couldn’t help himself. She was a series of stops and goes that would probably drive a normal man crazy. But he was a far cry from normal and he’d always loved a puzzle. There was just something cool about piecing together bits and pieces of a person until he had the whole picture assembled.

Rhiannon was one hell of a picture and one hell of a puzzle. It would be a lot of fun finding out how all her contradictions, all her jagged pieces, fit together. After all, the journey was always so much more fun than the destination.

“See anything you like?” he asked after silence had stretched between them for several minutes. When she didn’t immediately answer, he reached out and trailed a finger down the back of her hand.

Those brown eyes flew up from the menu to meet his, a hint of temper flaring in their depths as she very deliberately moved her hand away. He filed away the knowledge that she didn’t like to be touched—at least not by business acquaintances—and waited for her to answer.

“I was thinking of the pollo diablo,” she answered as she set her menu aside. “It was delicious the last time I came here.”

He couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face. The most buttoned-up woman in the place was ordering the spiciest dish on the menu. Oh, yes, unraveling her layers would be a huge challenge. One he was suddenly looking forward to very much.

CHAPTER TWO

AFTER THEY’D ORDERED, Shawn watched as Rhiannon made a concerted effort to get the business meeting back on track. There was no more talk about margaritas or spicy food or whether or not she was a responsible person, but that was okay with him. He had time. Planning this party was going to take weeks, and he planned on being very involved in the details.

“So, according to their website, the film festival is in town from Wednesday through Sunday of the last week in March,” said Rhiannon as she surfed the Net, no longer even bothering to look at him. “What night were you thinking of having the party?”

He wondered if he should be offended that she appeared to have so little interest in him, when most women went out of their way to attract him—and his Shadeslayer fortune. But he found her attitude kind of refreshing, especially since the thing she was focused so intently on was his party, and therefore still related to him.

He hadn’t been joking when he’d said that his parties tended toward the spur of the moment and ultra-casual. The most planning he ever put in was picking up the phone and dialing half a dozen of his friends a couple hours before a game started. Which meant if he was going to do this thing right—the way his agent wanted it done—he was going to need all the advice she could give him.

“Probably Thursday night. Friday and Saturday nights are booked with premieres and industry parties.” He grabbed a chip, popped it in his mouth.

“Okay.” She clicked a few computer keys, adding that information to some database, he presumed.

“For how many people?”

“I don’t know. What do you suggest?”

She raised an eyebrow at him over the laptop screen. “I don’t know who’s going to be in town or how many of them you want to impress. If you could give me a ballpark figure, I could get an idea of the best way to put the party together.”

“Sure.” In his head, he went over the list his agent had given him and then added a number of his friends in town. “Probably about a hundred people, give or take.”

“Okay. So you said Thursday night, but there are screenings going on until ten o’clock. Do you want a late supper, after the showings are over?”

“That’s what I was planning on. But you don’t sound all that enthusiastic.”

“No, that kind of party would be lovely—”

“But?”

“But I think that it’ll blend into the hundreds of other parties that your VIP guests have been to.”

“That’s the last thing I want. I want to do something they’ll remember, something that will stand out later from their week here. Something that will really rock.”

“Well, then you’re going to have to step outside your comfort zone. Or into it, as the case may be.”

“I like the sound of that.” He grinned at her.

She took a sip of her water and went back to perusing the film festival’s website, ignoring his smile. Which, of course, only made him more determined than ever to get her attention.

Part of him felt like he was back in elementary school, pulling the pigtails of Mary Louise Elkins, the girl who had sat in front of him every year from kindergarten through fifth grade. It had driven her nuts, but he hadn’t been able to help it—negative attention from her had been way better than no attention at all.

He paused at the realization, a chip halfway to his mouth. Maybe Rhiannon was right about his emotional development being slightly arrested. He should probably work on that if he expected her to see him as more than a potential client.

“So you’ve told me the kind of party you usually throw. What’s your favorite kind of party to attend?” Rhiannon asked, finally setting the laptop aside.