Emily McKay – Seduced: The Unexpected Virgin (страница 3)
However, Ward was already smiling with practiced ease and answering questions with a rakish smile.
“No, today is just a business meeting,” he was saying. He started to gesture toward Ana.
She had an instant of hoping he’d steer the questions toward Hannah’s Hope. Readying herself to step forward and talk, she gave her slim skirt a tug, secretly longing for the familiarity of the more flamboyant clothes she wore when she wasn’t trying to look so professional. But then a brunette from the back of the crowd edged her way forward. Ana recognized Gillian Mitchell, a reporter from the local paper, the
“Of course, there’s always a possibility I’ll return to my recording career.” He rolled up onto the balls of his feet.
With his hands tucked into his pants pockets, he exuded a sort of good ol’ boy, aw-shucks enthusiasm that implied that
Ana tried to resist rolling her eyes. Her lips felt stiff from the forced smile, her teeth brittle from biting back her sarcasm. Sneaked in the back, indeed. He’d probably engineered this whole thing. What a jerk.
Finally, just as some of the reporters were starting to drift off, he said, “But it’s my work for charity that brings me here today. Let me tell you about Hannah’s Hope….”
Ana tried to smile with more enthusiasm now. The charity he’d started in honor of his wife, the Cara Miller Foundation, was world-renowned for its work with underprivileged children. Though CMF had no formal relationship with Hannah’s Hope, Ward was a board member for both organizations. He was known for his philanthropic works, and was reclusive enough that any appearances piqued the public’s interest. At the appropriate moment, she said a sentence or two about the services Hannah’s Hope provided and their mission statement. She’d barely had a chance to rattle off the web address when the first of the cars loaded up and pulled out.
As the last of the reporters wandered off, she turned to look at Ward. His expression was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line of strain. For a second, she wondered whether this had been harder on him than he’d let on. But then he caught her looking at him and he smiled.
That smile, so up close and personal, seemed to suck the air right out of her lungs. She felt that same heady breathlessness she had when he’d introduced himself earlier. Like her blood had suddenly warmed by a few degrees.
“That went well,” he said, flashing those white teeth at her like the barely tamed big bad wolf his press kit made him out to be.
She caught herself wanting to simper in response. Selfconsciously, she ran a hand over her hair. She dropped her hand to her side as soon as she realized what she was doing. She would not be distracted by him. No matter how charming he was.
“Just great,” she said with forced cheer.
He raised his eyebrows, his steady gaze unnerving her. “Is it all celebrities you don’t like or is it just me? Because if you have a problem with me, I’d rather know it now.” After a moment, he cocked his head toward her just slightly, lending a sense of intimacy to the hushed conversation. There had been a subtle sexual undercurrent to all his words. The gentle teasing, the low voice, the heat of his hand on her neck.
She’d seen stars do this before. Manipulate and coax people into doing exactly what they wanted. With female stars, it came across as a sort of chummy friendliness. A subtle “Let’s be best buds!” vibe. With men, there was always a sensual promise to the overtures. An “I’ll take you to bed and pleasure you beyond your wildest imaginings” implication.
She’d spent too long in Hollywood to be fooled by such tactics. Despite that, she felt a stirring of heat deep in her belly. Her body responding to the promise her mind knew was just a ruse.
And maybe that irritated her most of all. She knew better, yet despite all her big talk, she was still vulnerable. She still felt the powerful pull of attraction to him. The part of her that had grown up as a Ward Miller fan desperately wanted him to like her. Moreover, that part of her desperately wanted him to be likable. Despite the fact that she knew how unlikely that was.
She had to muster her indignation.
“You’re right. I don’t like celebrities. And what happened out there is a perfect example why. If you’re going to talk about Hannah’s Hope, then talk about the program.” She stepped forward, closing the distance between them and then immediately wishing she hadn’t. Dang, but he smelled good. “Don’t use us as a platform for launching your comeback. The work we do is too important. There are people who really need our services and if you climb over them to get into the limelight, then you’re—” She stumbled then over her words, her tirade foiled by her own expectations. Swallowing past the last remnants of her fantasies, she forced out her words. “Then you’re not the man I thought you were.”
Two
At the height of his career, when he’d traveled more than two hundred days a year, Ward had been able to float between time zones with only an extra shot of caffeine to get him going. Either he was getting older or his time out of the circuit had changed him. He’d flown into San Diego from visiting a charity in Texas that CMF was involved with. However, despite the fact that he was only two time zones away, he woke up at four local time and couldn’t go back to sleep.
So he’d rolled out of bed, dressed for a jog on the beach, and had headed out in the early-morning gloom before getting so much as a whiff of coffee. He knew he’d feel the effects of getting less than six hours sleep later in the day, but he figured getting up was better than lying there tormenting himself.
He dressed quickly in sweatpants, a T-shirt and his jogging shoes.
His condo in Vista del Mar sat on a deserted stretch of beach. His assistant, Jess, had come out for a couple of days the previous week to rent the modest one bedroom condo. Though many larger rentals had been available, Ward had opted for compact and close to the water, glad to have the excuse to put Jess and Ryan up at the hotel rather than having them stay with him. He valued his privacy too much to want them underfoot. This time of morning, only the most stalwart of beachgoers would be out. By the time he was jogging along the beach, the faintest hint of light was creeping over the horizon chasing away the night. It would be another hour before the sun rose. For now, he was alone with the sand under his pounding feet, the surf roaring in his ears, and the breeze biting his cheeks. Still, it wasn’t quite enough to block out the memory of her words.
There was enough punch in that one sentence to cripple a man.
He’d disappointed a lot of people in his life. People who’d relied on him. People he’d loved. Was it really too much to ask of himself that he not disappoint this one, fiery-tempered do-gooder?
Hell, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if it was merely his inconvenient and unexpected attraction to Ana Rodriguez that kept him awake. Sexual attraction came and went. It was a simple truth in his life that women were—and always had been—plentiful. There’d even been times, before Cara, that he’d indulged in the cornucopia of femininity that his career presented him with. He’d learned enough restraint since then that merely being attracted to Ana didn’t bother him.
The real problem was, some tiny part of him feared that Ana looked right through him to his very soul and saw the truth. That he really wouldn’t live up to her expectations. He never did.
He could shove aside everything else. He was good at burying his emotions these days. But he couldn’t make himself forget that.
When Cara died, he’d lost himself briefly in his grief. He’d managed to fight, tooth and nail, to get back to himself. To climb out of his despair and rebuild his life without her. But the truth was, he’d done it by following one simple principle. Keep moving.
It was like jogging. You just put one foot ahead of the other. You never give yourself permission to think. You just move. You forget the pain streaming through your muscles. Forget the blisters forming on your heels. Forget the anguish of watching a loved one being eaten alive by cancer and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it. You just move.
And if you’re fast enough and you don’t ever stop, you somehow manage to stay in front of it.
For the past three years, he’d worked eighteen-hour days getting the Cara Miller Foundation started and running smoothly. He’d contacted every wealthy or influential person he’d ever met and hit them up for support or donations. He’d found work that he was passionate about and he’d devoted himself to doing it.