Unguarded. Tracy Wolff

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