Suddenly, he was all too aware of her very feminine body only a foot away from his. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to quell the urge to pull her fully into his arms. Unfortunately, that only drew in the scent of her. That warm cinnamon-vanilla smell that called to him so strongly. Again, an image of her flashed through his mind. Her hair loose about her shoulders, her neck arched back, exposing the long column of her throat to his lips.
Abruptly, he released his hold on her and stepped away.
Bringing her to CMF’s headquarters was the right thing to do. She needed the knowledge CMF could give her. And Hannah’s Hope needed her as well-educated as possible.
But bringing her to Charleston was the last thing he needed. He was too damned attracted to her already. Spending time with her would only make that worse. But what was he supposed to do? Walk away from someone who needed this help merely because he was having trouble keeping his zipper up?
Besides which, he’d told Rafe that he’d help. He kept his promises. And he would keep this one, even if it damn near killed him. He just wished he didn’t have to fight her as well as his own instincts.
He turned back to her, forcing a smile. “I’ll make you a deal. You come to Charleston with me and spend three days at CMF. When you get back, if you’re not convinced it was the right thing to do, I’ll personally donate enough money to cover whatever the street fair costs.”
She narrowed her gaze in suspicion. “I can’t let you pay for that.”
Of course she couldn’t. She’d bristled at forty bucks worth of muffins and coffee.
He quirked an eyebrow knowing it would irritate her. “You don’t think I’m good for it?”
“No.”
He couldn’t resist purposefully misunderstanding her. “I have plenty of money.”
“Obviously,” she scoffed. “That’s not what I meant. I can’t let you just give us the money.”
“It’s a donation.”
“It’s not a donation,” she countered. “It’s a bribe.”
He slung an arm around her shoulder, like a good buddy. The gesture backfired. Once again, the scent of her hit him. Beneath his hand, her shoulder felt both delicate and strong. Her posture was stiff and unyielding, like she didn’t quite trust his intentions. Smart lady.
’Cause yeah, he was just a good buddy. A good buddy who got rock-hard every time he caught a whiff of her hair. A good buddy who wanted to strip away all her layers of professional clothing to see the na**d body beneath. Hell, who wanted to strip away all her emotional defenses and see what was beneath those, too.
Yeah, that was just the kind of buddy she needed.
Nevertheless, like a good buddy, he gently guided her toward the table where one lone muffin still sat. He’d seen her eyeing the muffin earlier. “First rule of nonprofit—when an insanely rich donor wants to give you money, you accept it.”
“That’s not…” she sputtered. “I didn’t…” She threw up her hands in frustration. “You’re twisting my words.”
“I don’t think it’s your words I’m twisting.” He pressed a muffin into her hand.
She took a bite, despite the scowl on her face. She looked exactly like a recalcitrant toddler miffed at being talked into going to bed early on Christmas Eve. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a very difficult man to deal with?”
He grinned. “Second rule of nonprofits—don’t insult the insanely rich donors giving you money.”
She gave him a tight smile. “That wasn’t an insult. It was a question.” She broke off another bite of muffin and popped it into her mouth. Her voice dripped with mock enthusiasm when she asked, “Are there any other rules of nonprofits I need to know?”
“We’ll go over them on the plane.”
He still wasn’t sure how exactly he was supposed to spend a five-and-a-half-hour flight with her. He sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to sleep with her in the seat beside him.
The good news was, she didn’t look any more enthusiastic about it than he felt.
She forced a smile. “Yippee.”
After Ward’s comments Friday, Ana had fully expected him to make the trip with her. When he wasn’t in the car that came to pick her up, she assumed he’d meet her at the terminal. But he hadn’t shown up there, either. He’d sent Jess to explain that Rafe had rescheduled the board meeting for the following morning. When she’d offered to stay for the meeting herself, Jess quickly assured her that wasn’t necessary. Instead, she was hustled onto the plane, leaving her with the feeling that she was being “handled.”
Thirty-six hours later, at least one of her fears had been alleviated. She didn’t yet know if Ward doubted her abilities, but it was obvious from her treatment at CMF that he wasn’t angling to get her fired. Surely if he had been, the CMF employees wouldn’t have rolled out the carpet for her on such a grand scale.
Once the plane had landed in Charleston, she’d been whisked off to the hotel to freshen up and rest. Luckily, she’d been able to sleep on the plane and needed only a brief nap before her whirlwind tour of CMF. She’d spent a few hours shadowing the director of the charitable branch of CMF. The woman, Stacy Goebel, had been a friend of Cara’s and had been an executive at a marketing firm before Ward had offered her the job. That evening, Stacy had taken Ana to dinner at a local landmark before dropping her off at the hotel. The next day was more of the same, except at the incubator branch of the charity.
By noon, her mind was reeling from how much she’d learned. Things she hadn’t even thought she needed to know. Stacy had scheduled a lunch with CMF’s on-staff lawyer, who was able to recommend a lawyer in San Diego that could work with Hannah’s Hope. Then it was back to CMF for the afternoon. By the time they ended for the day, Ana could hardly think straight.
Once again, Stacy had planned to take her out to dinner. Waiting for Stacy in the front lobby, Ana occupied herself by gawking. Until now, she’d been carted from meeting to meeting at such a brisk pace that she hadn’t had much of a chance to look around. Now that she did, she felt another burst of giddy, fan-girl excitement.
CMF’s lobby was decorated with trophies from Ward’s music career. The main reception desk sat in the middle of the room, a small waiting area was off to the side. Gold and platinum albums covered so much of the wall that it almost looked like wallpaper.
Stacy made it into the lobby just about the time Ana had reached the back wall where a beat-up Alvarez Yairi acoustic guitar sat on a stand encased in glass. Its burled mahogany back and sides gleamed a rich brown under the lights. The solid cedar front was worn and scuffed.
“Ah, I see you found the gallery.”
“It’s an impressive collection.” It was a fitting tribute to Ward’s extraordinary career. “It seems…I don’t know. Out of place, maybe. Ward doesn’t seem the type to be quite so ostentatious.”
“He’s not,” Stacy quickly defended her boss.
Ana hid her cringe. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“No, honestly. Ward doesn’t like this room at all. The decorator suggested it. Ward’s never comfortable here, but even he admits that it’s a hit whenever we host fundraisers here. Donors love it.”
Ana nodded. That did seem like Ward. Willing to flaunt his fame only when it got him what he wanted. In this case, money for CMF.
“What do you think?” Stacy asked when she saw Ana staring at the guitar.
“That’s not the Alvarez, is it?”
Stacy grinned gleefully as if she could fully appreciate the reverence in Ana’s voice. “It is. The Alvarez.”
There was a certain breed of rock star that delighted in destroying expensive guitars. They abused them as a sign of their decadence. Ward had never been that kind of musician. He’d been playing music on the same beat-up Alvarez guitar he bought used from a store in Memphis when he was fifteen. One of the many bits of trivia any fan would know. The guitar had become legendary. As much a part of his mystique as his gravelly voice and trademark fretwork.
Standing beside her, Stacy sighed. “You know, Cara and I had been best friends for years when she started dating Ward. I was completely in awe when I met him. The first time I saw this guitar—” she rolled her eyes as if amused by her own silliness “—I couldn’t stop staring at it. I cried the first time I heard him play it in person.”
Ana could certainly understand that. Her fingers practically twitched with the urge to touch it. They probably kept it behind glass to keep greedy fan fingers off it.
“What’s in its place when the Alvarez isn’t here?” she asked.
Stacy shrugged, sorrow crossing her face. “The Alvarez is always here.”
“How is that possible? From what I’ve read, that’s the only guitar he composes on. That’s his guitar.”
She broke off, suddenly aware of how obsessive she sounded.
Stacy seemed not to notice. “We opened our doors about four months after Cara died. As far as I know, the only people who ever touch it are the nightly cleaning crew.”
“He never…” Ana prodded.
“No,” Stacy answered the unasked question. “He never does.”
Her throat closed over her emotions. “That makes me very sad,” Ana admitted.
Stacy smiled ruefully. “Me, too.”
Ward kept his career and his talent behind carefully constructed glass, away from the dust, away from most eyes and away from any touch, especially his own.
Shaking off the sad mood, Stacy turned toward Ana and smiled. “So, did you decide the trip was worth it after all?”
Ana shot the other woman a surprised look. “Excuse me?”
Stacy smiled slyly. “When you first showed up, you seemed…hesitant. Or maybe suspicious.”
Ana had to smile in return. “I guess I’m not as good at hiding my feelings as I thought.” She brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen loose from the twist, and tucked it behind her ear. “Suspicious about sums it up. I’d been floundering a bit at Hannah’s Hope. I honestly didn’t believe coming all the way out here would help when there was so much work to be done back home.” And then she laughed at her own foolishness. “And I thought maybe Ward was just trying to get me out of the way so he could call a board meeting without me.”