Trusting Ryan. Tara Taylor Quinn

didn’t lie. Or prevaricate. Or play games. He lived life by the rules. All of them.

      If you didn’t, people got hurt.

      He was also a risk taker. Came with the cop territory.

      He’d just never known such stark fear before when taking one.

      “I’m twenty-two.”

      He faced her, an unarmed firing squad of one, and knew by the look on her face as soon as he said the words that he’d risked as much as he’d feared—and lost.

      AT FIRST AUDREY THOUGHT he was joking. He had to be. She was not spending the weekend in bed with a twenty-two-year-old boy. Someone had paid him to say that. Except that Ryan wasn’t the type to play mean games—not even for money. Especially not for money. If there was one thing she was sure of, it was that Ryan Mercedes could not be bought.

      “Say something.” He wasn’t laughing.

      He wasn’t even smiling.

      Nor did he look nonchalant, as though he was playing with her. In fact, he looked about as sick as she was beginning to feel. Sick, and scared.

      And young.

      Oh, God, what had she done?

      “You’re twenty-two.” How could her voice sound like her when she’d just become someone she didn’t know at all?

      “Twenty-three in a little over seven months.”

      A young twenty-two. Not even twenty-two and a half. With numbers running quickly through her head, she stared at him, horrified.

      Suddenly the sparseness of his apartment was no longer admirable. It screamed at her of youth and college and just starting out. The new patio furniture didn’t make her feel warm and wanted, but rather, as though she’d come to a tea party with a child.

      And lying there, naked in his bed, she felt like a sex offender. What would this young man’s mother think of her?

      She had to get up. Get dressed. Get out. Except that she didn’t want him to see her naked. At twenty-two Ryan would be used to young, nubile, completely firm and unmarked coeds.

      Audrey had cellulite.

      And what in the hell did that matter?

      She did not want to attract this kid. Didn’t want him interested in her. At all. It was gross. She was gross.

      Besides, he’d already seen it all.

      When tears sprang to her eyes, she wanted to die.

      “Hey, Audrey, it’s not a big deal.” With her eyes closed against the wetness still squeezing its way out of them to slide down her cheeks, Audrey almost gave in to that voice.

      It had been the highlight of her life for weeks. It had brought her to life all weekend long, speaking to her of needs and a beauty that transcended all the trash their jobs brought to them. She’d responded to it like a flower to rain.

      “Sweetie…”

      Her heart calmed at the word. Knew a second of peace. Everything was going to be all right.

      Then the bed dipped beneath his weight.

      And she waited to feel the touch of his fingers on her face. Her neck. Needed to feel his heart beating beneath her cheek, his arms around her, keeping her safe…

      No!

      No! No! No! No! No!

      “Stop!” The scream was shrill. Not a sound she’d ever heard come out of her mouth before. “Don’t come any closer.” The tone was softer, but no less foreign.

      “Come on, babe, it’s not as if…”

      Audrey’s eyes flew open. Wide open. She held up a hand, silencing him. She knew now. Couldn’t get sucked in by that deep, reassuring tone. The sense of confidence. How could she possibly find emotional safety and security with a twenty-two-year-old child?

      Or almost child, she had to amend as she looked at the man sitting on the edge of the bed, concern shadowing his gaze. Concern and a caring so deep she almost couldn’t breathe.

      She knew the breadth of that chest intimately. Knew the strength in the bones and sinews. The gentleness and passion in his…

      No! What in the hell was the matter with her?

      His lack of chest hair wasn’t genetic as she’d assumed. It was a symptom of youth. He hadn’t grown any yet!

      Good thing she knew where the bathroom was. She might need to make a dash for it if the nausea attacking her got any worse.

      They’d showered together in there that morning. He’d soaped her back and breasts and…

      “Don’t babe me,” she said with more strength in her voice. And some venom, too.

      “You’re angry.” He sounded surprised, was sitting there wearing the most heart-wrenching frown. Compelling her to smooth it away with her fingers, followed by a kiss…

      What was she? His damn mother? Needing to take care of his woes?

      “Damn straight I’m angry.” Audrey swung out of bed with a heave worthy of a football team, taking the covers with her. She would not expose her old body to his young gaze again.

      Ever.

      How embarrassing. Humiliating.

      Wrong.

      “Why? I don’t get it.” He followed her around the bed to where her clothes were scattered all over the floor. Helped her pick them up.

      She snatched her bra from his fingers with a sharp “Give me that.” He shook his head.

      “What’s a few years’ difference in age, Audrey? We’re still the same people who’ve been making love in that bed for most of the past twenty-four hours.”

      How dare he remind her of that? Especially now?

      “A few years?” she screamed at him. Where had that voice come from? Taking a deep breath, she finished a little more calmly, “That’s what you call it?”

      “Last time I looked a few’s three to four,” he said, standing between her and the door—deliberately, she suspected. “I figure at the most we’re looking at five or six, so if you want to split hairs and worry about semantics, then it’s one or two more than a few.”

      His voice had lost some of its tenderness, though she detected no anger. Just distance. He was transforming from lover to detective again. From child to man. Audrey stared at him. She couldn’t help it.

      She had to leave. Had to get away and pretend this weekend never happened. To somehow rescue her heart from the debacle she’d created.

      She started to laugh incredulously.

      “Five or six years?” she asked, her voice, shaky with tears, still sharp. “That’s what you think?”

      He slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. A child his age had no right to look so damned mature doing that.

      So damned sexy.

      “Yeah,” he said with another frown. “You just took the bar exam. On average, a person graduates from college at twenty-one or -two, then does three years of law school. That puts him at twenty-five. But as smart as you are, and being a workaholic, I figured you probably didn’t take five years to do your undergrad, so there’s a good chance you were twenty or twenty-one when you finished your undergrad and twenty-three or -four out of law school, which made the difference in our ages not that great.”

      He’d given the matter a lot of thought. She didn’t really understand why the notion calmed her, but she welcomed the respite. However brief it might turn out to be.

      “I graduated from college at twenty,”