“Nope.” Ana smiled, satisfied that she’d sufficiently thrown Christi off track.
At the door, Christi paused for a second. “You seem to be getting along better with Mr. Fabulous.”
Ana feigned a casual shrug. “He’s not so bad.”
Christi winked. “Glad to hear it. I thought for sure you’d go ballistic when you heard about that red carpet thing.”
And with that, Christi was gone and Ana was left staring at the open doorway with her mouth open. To the empty room she asked aloud, “What red carpet thing?”
The room did not answer.
She considered calling Christi back, but for what? She could only badger her employee so much and right now she feared coming off like a lunatic. If Christi had expected her to go ballistic over it, then it couldn’t be good.
She fished her cell phone out of her purse and called Ward, then left a message when he didn’t answer. After a few minutes of tapping her fingers on the desk and fuming silently, she dug out Jess’s number and called him, too.
“Great!” he said as soon as he answered. “I was trying to get ahold of you.”
He couldn’t have been trying very hard, since neither her cell phone nor her office phone had rung in the past thirty minutes. It didn’t seem wise to point that out. “Oookay,” she said blankly.
“Do you want the limo to pick you up at Hannah’s Hope or at your house?”
“The limo?” she asked.
“Sure, the limo.” Jess kept talking, oblivious to the warning tone in her voice. “Ward thought maybe it should pick you up at Hannah’s Hope. Protect your privacy. And he was worried you wouldn’t have an appropriate dress.”
“A dress appropriate for what?” she spoke slowly, trying to rein in her temper. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Ward hadn’t called her himself to ask her out to this supposed red carpet thing, she had to hear about it from his assistant.
“The second annual Hudson Pictures Breast Cancer Research Fundraiser. Ward is going to have a dress sent over.”
“I…” She fumed, stumbling over her words in surprise. The Hudsons owned one of the most prestigious studios in Hollywood. They represented the glamorous world of old Hollywood. For decades, they’d hosted a Valentine’s Day ball. Lillian Hudson, the matriarch of the family, died a few years ago after battling breast cancer. Since then, the Hudsons had retooled the Valentine’s Day party as a fundraiser for breast cancer research. The invitations were highly coveted and almost impossible to come by. “Why would I need a dress for the Hudsons’ Party?”
Finally, Jess picked up on her shock and confusion. “Ward hasn’t talked to you yet, has he?”
“No.”
“Ah, crap.” Jess started talking rapidly. “I’ve bungled this. He intended to talk to you first. When you called me, I just assumed—”
“Stop,” she cut Jess off midbumbling explanation. “Why don’t you just tell me where I can reach him and I’ll talk about it with him.”
“I can’t do that,” Jess said meekly.
“You can tell me I’m being sent an appropriate dress for some event I’m supposed to go to with him, but you can’t tell me where he is?”
“Oh, I can tell you where he is,” Jess hastened to correct her, as if to prove his worth as an assistant. “You’re just not going to be able to talk to him.”
She blew out a long, frustrated sigh. “And why is that?” she asked slowly.
“Because he’s at the recording studio.” Jess’s tone sounded sheepish. “Look, Ana, I know it’s awkward when you can’t get ahold of him.”
“Awkward. That about covers it.”
“But trust me,” Jess continued. “Ward is planning a very romantic evening.”
And that’s when Ana went ballistic. Quietly and internally, but still she went ballistic. Because not only was their secret relationship no longer secret, but it had gone from a passionate fling to something that included romantic evenings, limo rides and red carpets. Which felt like something much more complicated that mere sex.
By nine o’clock that evening, Ana was about halfway through her glass of wine and flipping through the channel guide on her television when she saw a VH1 program that would ruin her attempts to put Ward firmly out of her mind. If she tuned in she’d have the very surreal experience of watching on her flat screen a man she’d been kissing less than twenty-four hours ago.
She stared for a long minute at the name of the show on her screen. Instead, she found a movie playing, and settled down to watch that. Two minutes in, with a hefty gulp of wine, she changed the channel to VH1. Forty minutes later, she’d given up all semblance of being a casual watcher. Feeling voyeuristic and just a tad obsessive, she’d scooted to the edge of her seat and sat with her elbows propped on her knees. They’d already covered Ward’s rapid rise to stratospheric fame and were now analyzing his distinctive musical style, how his detailed fret work on an electrified acoustic guitar combined with his gravelly voice to create a sound unlike any other musician.
But honestly, she knew all that already. She’d been enough of a fan before he’d come to Hannah’s Hope that she knew much of his professional history. What held her riveted tonight was the footage of him on stage.
Of course, she’d seen him on stage before. Back when she’d been going to school in New York, she’d seen him perform more than once. But of course, things were different now. And the focused, tight angle shot of him sitting on an otherwise empty stage gave her a perspective she’d never before seen.
Usually his band included a drummer, a percussionist and a bassist. However, he had a few signature songs that he played alone. Just a guy on a darkened stage making one guitar sound as complex and layered as a whole band. Watching that footage now, she was blown away—all over again—by his sheer talent. By the tremendous amount of work that it must take to master any instrument with such skill. And by the intense concentration and sheer joy on his face as he played.
He was a genius. A virtuoso. And he’d given it all up.
Why?
Why would a man who—
Her doorbell rang, shattering her concentration. She guiltily leapt from her spot on the sofa like she’d been caught peeping. Her remote went flying. She caught it midair and punched Pause on her way to the door.
She flipped on her porch light and threw open the dead bolt. Her neighbor, Marla, a student at the local college had a habit of locking herself out of her house. But the person at the door was not Marla.
In fact, Ana had to stare at him for a solid minute before recognition set in. “Ward?” She gaped stupidly.
He looked completely different than he had any other time she’d seen him. Gone was the casually elegant rock star. He now wore a scruffy cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. His cowboy boots had seen better days and his stained and ripped jeans were one step away from the trash heap. But more than just his clothes had changed. There was an air of beaten-down resignation about him. Like he was down on his luck and one kick in the teeth away from desperation.
His transformation was just shy of miraculous. The first day they’d met, in his pricey cargo pants and five-hundred-dollar sunglasses, he looked like a star foolishly trying to blend in. Now, he looked like a different person.
“I…” she fumbled, still confused.
He said nothing, but his head gave a tiny nod toward her neighbor’s house and his eyes shifted in that direction.
She followed his gaze, only to realize Marla was walking up the path to her house—keys in hand, thank goodness—and was shooting curious glances their way.
Ward leaned forward slightly. “Repeat after me, loudly.”
“What?”
“This is very unusual,” he whispered. “I never see clients at my house.”
Like an idiot, she stared blankly at him. Then glanced at Marla again, who had stopped and was staring at them both with her head tilted to the side. Even though it was dark, Marla had left the porch light on, allowing Ana a clear view of the other woman’s expression of curiosity.
Abruptly, she repeated his words, her voice sounding stiff.
He gave a brief nod, then fed her another line.
“But under the circumstances,” she added more loudly, “you can come in. I’ll see what I can do to help.”
His lips curved into a smile, giving her the impression her clumsy acting amused him. Figured.
“Gracias, señorita,” he said. His Spanish had the flowing accent of a native speaker.
She swallowed her annoyance and stepped back to let him into her house. The moment when she could have refused to even let him in had passed in a blur of playacting and deception.
The second the door closed behind him, his shoulders straightened and the air of despair dissipated. He knocked his hat back an inch with his thumb and grinned like this was the most fun he’d had in months.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, annoyance struggling back to the surface like indigestion.
“You’re the one who said we should keep our relationship private.”
“You want to bring me to a red carpet event where there will be oodles of photographers, but you dress in this elaborate getup just to stop by my house?”
He shrugged as if admitting the absurdity. Still, he snagged her wrist and reeled her in close, then trapped her there with his hands on her hips. “At the Hudsons’ party, no one will think twice about us being together in a professional capacity. But I don’t have any excuse to be at your house after nine on a weekday.”
He plastered his lips to hers, gently invading her mouth with slow, even strokes of his tongue. His hand slipped up to rest on the bare skin of her back, his fingers teasing the sensitive flesh he found there. Her resistance melted under his gentle persuasion.
She felt a groan of pleasure rising in her throat. He took one step, edging her back toward the sofa. And then abruptly lifted his head. “What’s that?”