But she supposed this was what she got by invading the home of an icon.
There was only one thing in the foyer more shocking than the millions of dollars worth of art. Sitting on the console right beside the front door, nestled beside a three-foot-tall, orange glass vase, sat a pair of oversize Burberry sunglasses. Exactly like the ones Cara Miller had been famous for wearing.
As if Cara Miller had walked through the front door a few minutes earlier and dropped them there on her way past.
Ana looked from the sunglasses to the disapproving housekeeper, who returned her gaze with a steely obstinacy. Even if Ana hadn’t seen countless photos of Cara in similar sunglasses, she could have guessed to whom these belonged.
In general, housekeepers didn’t leave their sunglasses on the console by the door. And this was not the sort of woman to wear a two-hundred-dollar accessory.
The sight of those sunglasses sent a fissure of unease skirting down her spine. She shouldn’t have seen them. There was something far too intimate about seeing Cara Miller’s glasses. They were such tangible proof of Ward’s grief. She had invaded his privacy as clearly as if she’d walked in on him half-naked.
She shouldn’t have come here.
But damn it, this was his fault, too. If he’d taken her call earlier, she wouldn’t have come. If he’d had the common decency to talk to her and explain what she’d done to irritate him, then this all could have been avoided.
She swept her gaze around the rooms once again, searching for any signs Ward might be there. She found none. The house was meticulously maintained, but there was a sterility about it. Other than the sunglasses, there were no signs that anyone might have been here in the past year, let alone the past few hours. There were no keys by the door. No half-opened mail. No dog-eared novel on the table beside the sofa. All the furniture sat at precise right angles.
Propping her hands on her hips, she turned back to the housekeeper. “I suppose you were telling the truth. Ward really isn’t here.”
The housekeeper shook her head and something sad flickered across her face. “He doesn’t stay at the house anymore when he comes to town.”
As the woman spoke, her gaze darted to the glasses by the door. It was enough. Ana could read between the lines. Ward may still own this house, but he hadn’t lived here since Cara died.
Ana nodded. “If you talk to him, ask him to call me.”
She’d climbed back into her car already and was backing up, when she happened to glance down the driveway that ran alongside the house. In the back, set away from the house, was a two-story garage. She would guess at some point in the house’s long history, it had been a carriage house. Now, it was a garage with an apartment above it.
“He doesn’t stay at the house,” Ana repeated the housekeeper’s words. Not, he doesn’t stay here. But he doesn’t stay at the house.
On a hunch, Ana turned her car into the driveway and drove past the house. She parked her car in front of the broad carriage house doors and climbed out. A flight of stairs led up the outside of the building to a second-story door. She knew instantly her instincts had been right. She paused at the top of the stairs before knocking. Music drifted through the closed door. She recognized the sultry guitar of blues musician Keb Mo, an artist she started listening to after reading an interview in which Ward listed Keb Mo as being on his current playlist.
She knocked. And then after a minute, knocked more loudly to be heard over the music. A second later, she heard a phone ringing and then the music was turned down. When Ward opened the door, he still held his phone in his hand. But she barely noticed that. Because he was shirtless.
His chest was lightly sprinkled with hair, his skin tanned and lean. Not bulky or over-muscled. Just… She blew out a breath. Just…yummy. There was no other word for it.
She knew plenty of men who waxed their chests. She’d lived in L.A., where every man strove to look like a Ken doll. Men took such pride in those perfectly smooth, almost boyish chests, seemingly unaware of how emasculated they looked.
There was nothing emasculated about Ward. Not. A single. Thing.
For the first time in her life, she understood the feeling other women had described of itching to touch a man’s chest.
Her fingers practically twitched with the urge to touch and explore. To taste. To lick. To…
Oh, crap. Was she drooling?
She clenched her hands tightly in front of her, choking back her more primitive urges.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how she looked at it—Ward pulled a sweater over his head and tugged it down, removing temptation. He gave a quick rub to his hair. Only then did she realize it was damp. Which explained why he’d been shirtless. Not that she’d been complaining.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said into the phone just before ending the call. He shot an exasperated look at her. “That was my housekeeper warning me you were here.”
He stepped aside to let her in. At least he had the good grace to look chagrined. As if he half expected her to give him a hard time for having his housekeeper give her the rigmarole.
But she figured she had enough to give him hell about without bringing that to the table. So instead she stayed quiet for a moment, taking stock of her surroundings.
From the outside, the carriage house was designed in the same style as the original house. Inside, however, they were completely different. The main house had been bright and well lit with a decor so crisp it bordered on institutional. As far as she could tell, the apartment consisted of a small living area and a tiny kitchenette. A hallway led to what she assumed was a bedroom and bath. A take-out box sat open on the kitchen counter, a bottle of Gran Patron Platinum and a tumbler next to it.
The furniture in the apartment was worn and a little shabby. The woods all exotic dark woods, the upholstery chocolate-brown and warm red batiks. Shelves lined the back walls, their surfaces stacked with books and knickknacks. Not the kind of things that a decorator would put out, but rather the sort that would be collected and displayed by someone who traveled a lot and collected memorabilia. Replicas of Greek Cycladic art sat side by side with bobble heads of famous musicians and composers.
There was little doubt. He may not stay in the house anymore, but he most definitely lived here.
As Ward shut the door behind her, she turned her attention back to him just in time to see him sliding his phone into his pocket. He was dressed in well-worn jeans and a gray V-neck sweater. The kind a woman automatically wanted to stroke and cuddle against.
He smiled faintly and, for the first time since she’d met him, looked a little self-conscious. “If he asks,” Ward said, “can you tell Chase I moved back into the house?”
His request was so unexpected, Ana could do little more than shrug. “I…sure, I guess. Is he going to ask?”
“He might. He gave me hell a year ago when he found out I’d moved out.”
What was she supposed to say to that? She’d never lost a spouse. So she could only imagine how he felt. How torn he must be, unable to move back into the house he’d shared with his wife, unwilling to sell it. Still, it wasn’t her business or her place.
“You should call me then.” He quirked an eyebrow in question, so she explained. “I’m a horrible liar. If you call me now, then I can at least tell him that and pretend I was never here.”
Ward nearly laughed at Ana’s statement. Her words were so blandly practical, he couldn’t help but be amused. And yet, the sentiment seemed perfectly in-line with everything he knew about her. Once again, her stunning combination of exotic lush beauty and straitlaced practical clothing was a dichotomy he found all too appealing.
She wore a black-and-white houndstooth jacket cinched tight around her waist. She had an oversize leather tote slung over her shoulder. Once the door was closed behind her, she loosened the belt of her jacket to reveal slim black pants and a white business shirt that looked slightly rumpled after a day’s wear. He found himself wanting to unbutton it to see what she had on beneath it.
He wanted to close the distance between them and tug loose her hair so that it tumbled around her shoulders. He wanted to run his hands through it and bury his nose in it. He ached to find out if her skin still held that intriguing combination of vanilla and cinnamon. If she still smelled like snickerdoodles.
And more than any of that, he wanted to kiss her. To feel her lips, hot and wet beneath his. To kiss her until her irritation turned to surprise and then keep on kissing her until that turned to desire. Until she wanted him with the same deep pounding need that he wanted her.
But of course, the one thing he didn’t want to do was alienate her. Which kissing her would certainly do. Forget stripping her na**d and lavishing her body with kisses.
Now, she was looking at him suspiciously. Little wonder since he was taking so long to respond. Instead of replying right away, he crossed into the kitchenette and pulled another tumbler from the cabinet.
He held it up in a gesture. “Do you drink tequila?”
She gave him a you’re-an-idiot look, followed by a brief nod. “I mean, I don’t do shots on a regular basis or anything. But I’ve lived most of my life in Southern California. Pretty much everyone drinks tequila on occasion.”
“Good point.” He poured himself a finger and then one for her. He nudged hers across the counter.
She took a ladylike sip, a testament to her previous experience with Gran Patron. It was a sipping tequila.
He nodded in approval, then raised the glass in a silent toast and took a drink of his own, relishing the sharp burn down his throat. Then he set the tumbler down.
There was a part of him that wanted to tell her outright how much he wanted her. It was the same part of him that wanted to bend her over the table and plow into her right now. But he didn’t think either technique would fully satisfy him. Instead, he started talking. Doing what he did best. Seducing her with the sound of his voice and his ability to weave a story.
“When you’re a musician,” he began. “Everybody wants to buy you drinks. Club owners, fans, other musicians. Right or wrong, I’ve been drinking tequila since I was fifteen. A lot of it is pretty nasty stuff. It’s why you do shots, with salt and lime.” He picked up his tumbler again and held it up so the light from the pendant over the bar shone through the glass. The liquid was as clear as water. Only the astringent sting of it in his nose indicated its seductive power. “But Gran Patron, it’s the best sipping tequila in the world. You don’t drink it in shots. You linger over it. You savor it.”