Cavanaugh's Woman. Marie Ferrarella

to share with any of the members of his family—Shaw paused to pick up his second weapon. He took the safety off before approaching the front door.

      The towel slid a little and he secured it again before turning his attention back to his unexpected, uninvited guest.

      “Who is it?”

      “Your shadow.” The woman’s voice on the other side of the door was flippant.

      Shaw lowered his gun. He didn’t need any more identification than that. Half expecting one of his siblings to turn up on his doorstep after what had gone down last night, he still knew it wasn’t one of his sisters who was standing there now. It was her.

      Biting off a curse, he yanked open the door and glared at Moira McCormick. God, but he hated being right sometimes.

      “What the hell are you doing here?”

      Swallowing my tongue at the moment, she thought.

      Wow.

      It was the only word that even began to cover what her eyes took in. Magnificent was a close second.

      The jacket Cavanaugh had worn yesterday had given her the impression of wide shoulders, but like as not, coming from the land of illusion the way she did, she knew the silhouette could have been just as much a credit to the tailor who had fashioned the article of clothing as it could have been to time spent in the gym, working out.

      Seeing drops of water gleaming on his smooth, muscular chest and more droplets sliding invitingly down to the towel he had haphazardly draped around his waist—a towel that looked as if it were ready to break away at the very next large breath he took in—Moira was hard-pressed to come up with a time when she’d seen a better specimen of manhood.

      “Absorbing you,” she finally murmured in response to the question he’d snapped at her.

      She looked incredibly casual, he thought. Gone were the four-inch heels and the miniskirt, along with the carefully styled hair. She wore jeans, a baggy shirt that still wasn’t baggy enough to hide the fact that the lady was well endowed, and on her feet she had on a pair of comfortable sneakers. Her hair was needle straight and loose about her shoulders, a wayward blond cloud.

      Looking at her made his body tighten, as if he were on the alert to spring into action at any second. With effort, he exercised as much control over himself as he was able.

      “What?” he asked, confused.

      Moira tossed her hair back over her shoulder and cleared her throat before she laughed.

      “Sorry, I’m not used to having almost naked men opening the door for me.” She tried to force her mind onto other things and found that it didn’t want to leave. “I came because I wanted to be there from the beginning of your day to the end of it.”

      He blew out a breath as he closed the door behind her. “And that’s going to help you how?”

      She decided that maybe it would be better if she observed her surroundings rather than his attributes. The man kept a messy apartment. There were no female touches anywhere. Which meant that he lived alone. That was good. She didn’t want to be walking in on a man in a relationship. She had no desire to make waves for Cavanaugh, just pick his brain.

      “Subtle nuances,” she told him, still looking around, “things to keep in mind—you’d be surprised.”

      Shaw was already surprised. Nobody had said anything about the woman showing up on his doorstep at the crack of dawn. “Look, I didn’t sign on for this.”

      He didn’t bother adding that he hadn’t signed on for any of it, that he would have rather spent three weeks undercover in a sewer without benefit of a shower than to have to dance attendance to some gorgeous, overpaid, spoiled Hollywood airhead who was accustomed to having her every whim catered to.

      Cavanaugh was still resisting, which was good, but she didn’t want it to be a major issue. She needed to get the research under her belt. She’d already sped-read her way through several books on the subject, but nothing took the place of feeling the action firsthand. She wanted this week to be eye-opening for her. Every movie she made, she was determined that it would be better than the last one. This movie was no exception.

      Wandering over to the bookcase that stood to the right of his twenty-seven-inch television set, she scanned the titles quickly. The space was shared by CDs, books and a handful of videos. None of her movies were among them. Instead, she noticed that each one was a rendition of a Shakespeare movie brought to the screen. Now that was a surprise. The Hunk Who Liked Shakespeare. Might make a good title for a mystery, she mused.

      “Just go about your business.” She turned around to look at him, her eyes sweeping over his torso in full appreciation. He’d lowered his weapon. Other things remained at attention. A smile spread across her lips. “Feel free to put away your gun. Pretend like I’m not here.”

      As if he could. Shaw looked at her, feeling as if he’d just been dared.

      “Okay.”

      He placed his secondary weapon beside his service revolver on the shelf just above her head. As he reached up, he was so close to her, their bodies all but touched. Then, stepping back, he pulled his towel free of the knot that held it precariously in place. He had the satisfaction of seeing the pupils of her eyes dilate as her mouth fell open.

      Shaw turned on his heel and started to walk back to the bathroom, his towel in his hand.

      The inside of her mouth had turned to sawdust at the same time that her pulse sped up. The man looked incredible, coming and going. She had to remind herself to breathe.

      “What—” Moira cleared her throat, trying to find the slightest evidence of saliva. There was none. The rest of her words dragged themselves along a bone-dry tongue. “What are you doing?” she finally managed to get out.

      He glanced over his shoulder before walking into the bathroom. His voice might have been innocent, but his expression wasn’t.

      “Doing what you told me. Pretending like you’re not here.”

      “Oh.”

      The moment she heard the bathroom door close, Moira spun on her heel and headed for his kitchen. She needed a glass of water.

      Badly.

      Chapter Four

      After the performance he’d just given, Shaw was pretty confident that his uninvited guest would be gone by the time he finished showering and dressing.

      She wasn’t.

      The woman wasn’t anywhere in sight when he first opened his bathroom door, but there was a definite aroma in the air that hadn’t been there before.

      Eggs and coffee.

      The aroma became stronger the closer he got to the kitchen.

      So did the scent of her perfume. It was light and airy, yet very potent, which didn’t make any sense to him, but he could detect it separately from the tempting aroma of food.

      It surprised him that another, deeper hunger stirred, but then, he was only human, only male. And every so often, the fact that he wasn’t in anything that could even remotely be called a relationship did rise up to take a bite out of him.

      Talk about rotten timing.

      The last person in the world he would want to suddenly feel male around was a movie star. As far as he was concerned, they were, by definition, a shallow breed in need of adulation and constant reaffirmation. That wasn’t within his job description.

      He’d never been a joiner per se and signing up to be part of Moira McCormick’s fan club was as out of character, as foreign for him, as suddenly growing feathers and flying south for the winter.

      He came into the kitchen. Not only did she have something going on the stove, but she seemed to be doing something with his refrigerator that involved a sponge and the garbage