Unguarded (12 page)

Dinner was delicious, though she couldn't have said what she ordered—only that she once again cleaned her plate. So caught up in conversation with Shawn, she hadn't paid any attention to what she was eating until the only thing left on her plate was the sauce and edible garnish. When she found herself studying the flowers, wondering if they were any good, she decided it was way past time to put her fork down.

“What do you want for dessert?” Shawn asked as the waiter cleared their plates away. “They have a molten chocolate cake here that's fabulous.”

“Are you kidding? I'm stuffed.”

“Aw, come on, we'll split one. You have to try it.”

She started to protest, but in the end gave in—because it was easier and because the idea of sharing something with Shawn, even something as simple as dessert, was too delicious a prospect to pass up.

But when the waiter brought the small, round cake a few minutes later, she realized with chagrin that it had a lit birthday candle in it. The band launched into a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” that many of the waiters—and patrons—joined in on. Her cheeks burned as she blew out the candle and when they were no longer the focus of half the eyes in the place, she hissed, “I can't believe you did that!”

“Hey, a fortieth birthday is nothing to sneeze at. You deserved to celebrate in style.”

Some of her pleasure in the evening dimmed as she realized that he hadn't set up this fabulous night just because, but to celebrate a birthday she was more than happy to let pass unheralded. But she was being stupid—it didn't matter why he'd arranged the date. The important thing was that he had.

“How did you know it was my birthday? I know I didn't tell you.”

“Logan let the cat out of the bag. But that begs the question, why didn't you tell me? Isn't that the kind of thing a guy should know about the woman he's dating?”

“Is that what we're doing?” she asked curiously. “Dating?”

“Well, we sure as hell aren't playing tiddlywinks,” he answered impatiently. “I certainly thought we were dating. And you're dodging the question again.”

“I don't know. I guess I wasn't too keen on pointing out the fact that I am now eleven years older than you.”

“Ten and a half, and who really cares?”

“Are you saying that even after all these weeks you don't care? At all?”

“Of course I don't. I care even less now than I did when I first asked you out, and you know I didn't care then. Why would that change?” He looked puzzled, and a little hurt. “Unless it's changed for you?”

“It hasn't, but—” She paused, tried to figure out how to get across what she wanted to say.

“But what?

“I think it must be easier not to care if you're the younger partner in the pair. I mean, my ex-husband
was six years older than I was and I never even thought about it. But now that I'm so much older than you—”

“Ten years is not that big a deal.”

“Ten and a half. And it's more than a decade, Shawn. That is a big deal.”

“Only if you let it be.” His eyes burned with an intensity that cut through the darkness of the restaurant. “Do you enjoy being with me?”

“Of course I do.”

“And do we have things in common? Do you like talking to me?”

“You know I do.”

“Then come on, Rhiannon. Don't you think we've both got more important things to worry about than whose birth certificate is older?”

Intellectually, she knew he was right. If they were both happy, what did it matter which one of them was born first? But emotionally, it wasn't that easy—maybe because she knew she came with a whole lot more baggage attached than Shawn did. Her age was just one more suitcase in a pile that was threateningly large.

She didn't say that, though, she couldn't. Because to do so would be to open up the door for a whole bunch of questions she didn't feel anywhere close to being ready to answer. So she just smiled and nodded. “You're right. It doesn't matter.”

He studied her for a minute, as if testing the sincerity of her words. He didn't look convinced, but in the end he let it drop, too—maybe because he didn't want to ruin her birthday.

Or maybe, the more cynical side of her nature said, because he'd already used all his best arguments.

“I got you something,” he said, before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a long, flat box.

“You didn't have to do that—”

“I wanted to.”

“Still, jewelry is—”

“Always a man's prerogative to buy for the woman he cares about.” He slid the box across the table. “Now, quit arguing and open the thing. I've been waiting all night to give it to you.”

Because it had been too long since a man had given her jewelry and because she was dying to see what Shawn had chosen for her, Rhiannon did as he said. Then gasped as she stared at the intricate gold charm bracelet that sparkled against the black velvet of the box.

The bracelet itself was a series of beveled links, and hanging from it were two finely wrought charms—one of a party hat, its polka dots made up of small, semi-precious stones and another of an ice cream cone with a perfect, ruby cherry on top.

Her throat clogged as she stared at it, shocked at how much thought had gone into the present. Surely a man who was just in a relationship for a little fun wouldn't spend so much time coming up with the perfect gift.

“Ice cream, huh?” she asked, as she held the bracelet up to the light and admired it. “Where'd you find a charm like that?”

“I have my ways.” The look he gave her was surprisingly serious considering the fact that she was obviously thrilled with his gift. “I wanted to give you happy memories for your birthday, a reminder of good times to take away from the darkness of whatever it is in your past that you can't talk about. We can add to it as new
memories creep up, until there's nothing left of the bad ones to hurt you.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and when she wanted to talk, there was a giant lump in her throat, one that no amount of throat clearing was going to get rid of.

How could he have done this for her, without even knowing what bad memories she was running from? How could he have known, instinctively, that this was what she needed—a tangible reminder of everything good in her life—when she hadn't had a clue herself?

How could he have known her that well?

She was still asking herself that question when Shawn dropped her back at her condo a little over an hour later. “Do you want to come in?” she asked as she fumbled for her keys. “I can make some coffee—”

“If I come in, it won't be for coffee, Rhiannon.”

The keys hit the ground with a thud. “Oh, right. Okay.”

He bent down and retrieved them, found the key to her front door and slowly inserted it in her lock. A second later, he had opened her front door, though he made no move to cross the threshold.

“So, do you want to come in?” she asked again, holding her breath as she did so, knowing the invitation she was extending and only hoping she could follow through on it.

His eyes blazed and she swore she could see every one of his muscles tighten. He searched her face for long seconds, and though she didn't know what he was looking for, she tried her best to give it to him—even as the voice in the back of her head came back with a vengeance.

What are you doing?
it screamed.
You aren't ready
for this—not even close. You're going to end up making a fool of yourself all over again.

Part of her struggle must have shown in her face, because Shawn sighed, one second before the tension melted from his muscles. “I think I'll pass tonight.”

“Why? Don't you want to—”

“I want to very much.” He reached for her, letting his hands settle softly around her waist. When she didn't move away, he pulled her toward him slowly until she was fully in his arms, held so tightly against him that she could feel the rapid beating of his heart and the burning hardness of the erection he didn't even try to hide. “But, as I said before, I'm in no rush. I can wait until you're ready.”

“Shawn, it's okay. Really. You gave me such a lovely birthday—”

His eyes cooled considerably. “I'm glad you enjoyed it. But I'm not in the habit of making the women I take out pay me back in sexual favors.”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“I know. But when I finally make love to you, Rhiannon Jenkins, you're going to do a hell of a lot more than grit your teeth and bear it.” He lowered his mouth to within an inch of hers. “Now kiss me, so I can get out of here before I change my mind.”

His lips were firm and cool against hers and still her head spun dizzily.

“What would it take to change your mind?” she asked as he let her go reluctantly.

“The desire in your eyes outweighing the fear.” He kissed her again, briefly, then took the steps back to the street, two at a time.

“What if that never happens?” she called after him, no longer the least bit surprised at his perception.

“Oh, it'll happen,” he answered.

“How do you know?”

“Because if it doesn't, we both just might die of sexual frustration.”

“I
GOT MY INVITATION
yesterday,” Robert said as he swooped around Shawn and slam-dunked the basketball. “Classy.”

Shawn rebounded, then took the ball up the court. His best friend started crowding him, his big body making it nearly impossible to get a shot off.

“I know,” Shawn grunted, doing some fancy foot-work in an effort to evade him. “Rhiannon's doing a fabulous job with the whole thing. It's great—all I have to do is point to a few things on a sheet of paper and then show up the night of the party. I should have thought of this party planner thing a long time ago.”

“Yeah, because in the past it was so hard to buy a six-pack and open a bag of tortilla chips.”

Shawn ignored him as he set up for a basket, let it sail and then watched in frustration as Robert popped up and caught the ball seconds before it sailed through the hoop. A quick run down the court with Shawn on his heels and Robert slam dunked the thing again.

“You know, I'm beginning to think we need to try a new game,” Shawn panted as he ran the ball back up the court for what felt like the millionth time.

“Why? I like this one.”

“Well, of course you do. You're built like a damn
mountain.” He feinted left, went right and finally sent the ball soaring into the basket for three points.

“Listen to you whining.” Robert was up the court in a flash, moving fast for such a big man. “Careful, Shawn, you might break a nail.”

Shawn flipped him off, then positioned himself under the basket, bracing for impact. Robert might be tall and big, but he was also pretty much a one-trick pony—with his size, he'd never had to be anything else. Sure enough, he barreled up to the basket, jumped and prepared to dunk the ball just as Shawn shot his hand up and sent the ball flying wildly down the court.

They scrambled after it and spent the next few minutes trash-talking each other companionably, before Robert finally called a halt.

“All right, all right. Time for a beer.”

“What, you getting old or something, man?”

“Or something. I was up all night and I'm tired.”

“Problems at work?” Shawn grabbed the ball and they started the short walk back to his house from the park.

Robert's grin was sly. “Not exactly. It was more of a personal thing.”

Shawn started to ask more when Robert's meaning hit him. “Lucky bastard.”

“Damn straight. Lissa's the best thing that ever happened to me. You should get yourself a real woman, Shawn, instead of those good-time girls you usually date.”

When Shawn didn't answer with his usual volley of insults, Robert's eyes narrowed speculatively. “Or have you already found one?”

“Don't go picking out wedding venues just yet,
Mom,” he joked as they let themselves into his house. “It's just a casual thing that's gotten slightly out of hand.”

They cruised into the family room, where he grabbed two beers from the bar fridge and tossed one to Robert. Why hadn't he made some joke about dating and simply moved past it? he wondered as he twisted off the bottle cap and took a long gulp of his beer. Robert was like a bloodhound—once he was on the scent of a story, it was almost impossible to get him off.

Sure enough, his best friend started in the second they were both sprawled on the couch, a baseball game blaring on the TV.

“So, who is this woman who has you thinking about settling down?”

The familiar discomfort assailed Shawn at his words. “I never said anything about settling down.”

“Yeah. But you didn't break out in hives, either, at the mere mention of the
R
word. I figure that's a hell of an improvement in a short time, so some woman must be responsible.”

“The
R
word?” Shawn asked incredulously. “What the hell is that?”

“You know.
Relationship.
”

“What are we, twelve? The
R
word? Really?”

“I didn't want to spook you. As mentioned above, you get freaked out when that word comes up in conversations.”

“It's not that I don't want a relationship, it's just…”

“That you don't want a relationship. I get it. Cynthia did a number on you and you've been carrying that
guilt around for years. Don't you think it's time you let it go and tried to be happy?”

“I am happy.”

Robert snorted. “You're unentangled. That's not the same thing.”

“It sure looks the same from over here.”

“Yeah, well, it's not. Consider the fact that the two longest—and most important—relationships in your life are with me and your agent. What does that tell you?”

“That I'm selective.” He eyed Robert balefully. “Oh, right, that can't be true. I
am
friends with you.”

It was Robert's turn to flip him off. “Go ahead and make fun, but you know I'm right. This Peter Pan complex of yours is getting a little old.”

He choked on his beer, nearly spewed it across the room. “Peter Pan complex? What the hell? I don't wear green tights and fly around Never Never Land.”

“You might as well. Ever since Cynthia died, you spend your days running from yourself. Running from commitment, responsibility, emotion. Don't you think it's time you moved on?”

“You act like I'm wearing a hair shirt and flogging myself twice a day. My life is great.” Shawn held his arms out wide, gestured to the room they were sitting in.

“Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be—it's completely superficial.”

A drop of sweat rolled down Shawn's back and he sprang to his feet, not sure how to respond to Robert's sudden attack. It wasn't like his friend to go on like this, to push him against a wall. He didn't like it.

“Let me ask you something. When's the last time
you connected with a woman? Really connected, I mean?”

Rhiannon's face rose, unbidden, before him and the cold sweat moved from his back to his entire body.

“Last night, actually.” He crossed to the fridge, grabbed another beer.

“I'm not talking about sex.”

“Neither am I!” He started to pace. “You act like I'm some kind of Lothario who uses women and then throws them away. I don't do that.”

“No, but you don't let them get close to you, either.”

“You know what?” he asked, eyeing Robert with ill-disguised hostility. “I think I liked you better before you got married and started a family. This whole psychoanalyzing thing is a bit much.”

“Sorry.” Robert held his hand up, as if calling a truce. “Look, I'll back off. It's just, Rhiannon's different than the other women you date. I like her and so does Lissa—I don't want to see you hurt her, even accidentally.”

“I never said I was dating Rhiannon.”

“No, but you've talked about her more in the past two weeks than all the other women you've dated in the past two years combined. It's not rocket science.”

“So why'd you ask who I was dating if you already knew?”

Robert shrugged. “To see if you'd fess up.”

“Look, it's no big deal. We're taking things slow, just seeing where they're going to end up.”

“Slow, huh? I didn't know that word was in your vocabulary.”

“Give me a break, will you? I'm still trying to figure things out myself.”

“Sure.” Robert turned toward the television. “Take all the time you need.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Shawn spent the rest of the day trying to ignore Robert's words and pretend that his friend didn't have a point. But the problem was, he knew he did.

He had run from commitment ever since Cynthia, had refused to get close to any woman in case she died. And emotionally fragile women, forget it. Cynthia—with her dark moods and rages and depressive funks—had been more than enough for one lifetime.

Yet, here he was again on the brink of something serious with Rhiannon. He might have downplayed it for Robert, but he knew very well that his feelings for Rhiannon were growing, evolving. Becoming more dangerous. It was a little disconcerting, as if the ground was shifting beneath his feet after years of remaining steady. He wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

Because if spending time with her for the past three weeks had taught him anything, it was that his first instincts had been right on—she was incredibly delicate, incredibly damaged, and he didn't want to be the man to break her any more than she was already broken.

Last night, when she'd invited him into her apartment, it had taken every ounce of willpower he had not to jump all over the invitation she'd issued—and her. He wanted her so badly, wanted to feel her moving beneath him as he sank into her, that restraining those feelings was torture.

On that, at least, Robert had been dead-on. Shawn wasn't used to denying himself, wasn't used to waiting
for what he wanted. For years, he had gone after whatever had caught his eye—in work and in personal relationships—and had usually wrapped it up in short order.

But Rhiannon was different.
He
was different when he was with her. Though most nights he was so frustrated he thought he would blow a gasket, for the first time in a very long time he was simply enjoying
being
with a woman. Enjoying holding her and kissing her and talking to her without always expecting more.

Did that mean he was serious about her? He didn't know. All he knew was that she meant more to him than anyone had in a very long time and that he would wait for her as long as it took.

He'd spent the past six years convinced he didn't have anything real left to give, certain that his ability to trust and love and commit had dried up the day he'd walked into the apartment he shared with Cynthia and found her hanging from the beam that ran straight down the center of their living room.

He had loved her, had spent two years helping her battle the bipolar disorder that had made her a whirling dervish one minute and unable to crawl out of bed the next. But nothing he'd done had made any difference, and in the end, his love hadn't been enough to keep her alive.

So he'd taken himself out of the game and it had worked fine for him for a long time. The fact that he was now back in the game—back where he'd started so many years before—caring about a woman who was far too fragile was scary as hell.

But he couldn't seem to stop himself. There was something about Rhiannon that got to him, that made
him feel more than he'd ever planned on. Too bad he had no idea what to do with those feelings, now that he had them.

 

“S
O HOW ARE THINGS GOING
with that handsome graphic-artist guy you told me about a few weeks ago?” Camille asked as she painted her toes an oddly becoming shade of blue. Rhiannon stared at them, bemused, as she tried to reconcile the brother she knew with the man who had married a blue-nailed artist with purple streaks in her hair and multiple tattoos. If she hadn't seen, personally, how happy they were together, she would never have believed it.

Rhiannon shrugged. “They're going fine.”

“Just fine? Hey, you aren't going to paint your toes that color, are you?”

“Why wouldn't I?” Rhiannon responded. “It's the same color I always use.” Still, she hesitated to open the bottle. It looked so boring next to Camille's periwinkle-blue polish.

“I know, I know. But why don't you shake things up, wear a color a little sexier? I can tell you on great authority that men like a woman with fancy toes.”

“Really?” Rhiannon shot her an arch look. “And dare I ask how exactly you know this?”

Her sister-in-law laughed. It was the low, throaty sound of a woman who knew exactly how much her husband desired her and again, a squeeze of envy tightened Rhiannon's stomach. What she wouldn't give for Camille's easy sexuality and her certainty that the man in her life loved her. Most days, Rhiannon couldn't be certain that Shawn even desired her.

Oh, he complimented her regularly, held her and
kissed her, but he never tried for more—even when she let him know she was receptive. His words echoed in her head regularly, about taking her when her desire outweighed her fear, but despite the fact that they'd seen each other almost every day for the past two weeks, he'd made no move to make good on that promise.

“Come on,” Camille cajoled. “Live a little, Rhiannon. Cutting loose every once in a while is good for you.”

“You really think the blue polish will look good on me?” she asked, dropping the familiar old peach one back in her purse. She felt a mild twinge, as if she was saying goodbye to yet another old friend. But she didn't change her mind—she'd decided more than once in the past few weeks that she was tired of being plain old Rhiannon, scared of her own shadow. She wanted more than that, was just coming to realize that she
deserved
more than that—if she was brave enough to take it.

“I'm not sure about that blue. Give me a second.” For several minutes, Camille rummaged around in the huge tackle box she used to hold her pedicure supplies, before finally coming out with two choices. One was a bright, electric purple and the other was a deep, rich turquoise.

“Either of these will look great with your complexion,” she said, holding the bottles out to Rhiannon. “Which one do you like?”

Rhiannon started to take the purple—at least it was close to a color that normal people might wear, but something stopped her at the last second. Maybe it was the fact that she was tired of blending in, tired of being the wallflower after having spent three years perfecting the look.

“Give me the turquoise.”

“All right! Rhiannon's taking a walk on the wild side. That's going to look fabulous.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so. And I'm an artist, so you should trust me.”

“You drive a yellow car.”