Seduced The Unexpected Virgin - By Emily McKay Page 0,20
he’s avoiding me like I’m some sort of crazed member of the paparazzi.” She’d almost said like a crazed fan, but that might be a little too close to the truth. “Can you ask Chase for his address?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Emma said with a sigh.
Ten minutes later, Ana typed a new address into the rental’s GPS. Following the gadget’s directions, she headed deeper into Charleston, to a neighborhood dotted with old houses and even older churches. The tourist map from the rental agency described the neighborhood as Harleston Village. All of the houses on the block had been painstakingly restored and maintained, like well-loved family heirlooms. The multistory homes were nestled close together with only the width of the driveway separating the various buildings. Ward’s house sat in the middle of the block with nothing to distinguish it. If she hadn’t gotten the address from Emma, she would never have guessed it was the home of a rock star.
She parked her car on the street, wedging it in the narrow space between two of the driveways. The house was right on the street and after quickly mustering her courage, she left the car and went up the steps to the front door. She gave the knocker a quick bang, then waited, her heart pounding in her chest.
A long moment passed during which she wondered if she was making a huge mistake. After all, what did it really matter if Ward didn’t like her? If he wanted to go to great lengths to avoid her, why should she let that bother her? After all, rule number three of nonprofits was probably “if a billionaire donor wanted to act like a reclusive nutcase, let him.”
But before she could change her mind, the front door swung open. Instead of Ward, Ana found herself facing a thin middle-aged woman with a pinched, severe expression.
The woman scowled at her and pointed to a sign by the door. “No solicitation,” she grumbled, as if Ana couldn’t read.
“I’m looking for Ward Miller,” Ana explained.
The woman’s expression tightened. Then she schooled her features into strained blankness. “Who?”
“This is his house, isn’t it?” Ana asked.
“No solicitation,” the woman repeated, starting to shut the door.
Ana wedged her foot in the door, wincing as it slammed into her foot. “I got his address from Chase Larson.”
The pressure on her foot eased up a little, but the suspicion didn’t leave the woman’s gaze. “So?”
“I’m Ana Rodriguez. I’ve been working with Ward and CMF for a charity called Hannah’s Hope out near San Diego. He’s on the board.” The shrew seemed to be wavering, so Ana added, “I only need to talk to him for a few minutes. Why don’t you ask him if he’ll see me?”
“He’s not here,” the woman said reluctantly.
“But this is his house, isn’t it?”
The woman’s gaze narrowed, but finally she nodded.
“Can you tell me when you expect him back?”
“That’s easy,” the woman said with a faint sneer. “He’s not coming back.”
“What?” The woman’s smug tone grated on Ana’s nerves. She narrowed her gaze and edged her shoulders through the gap in the door, refusing to be bullied. It took more to intimidate her than a mere disapproving scowl. “Look, I know he’s in town. So you might as well tell him I’m here.”
The woman seemed to waffle, then released her hold on the door so it swung open. Ana grabbed the chance while it was there and slipped through the front door.
The house was as lovely on the inside as it was on the outside. The foyer opened to a living area on one side and a dining room on the other. Directly in front of the door, stairs led up to the second floor. Dark hardwood floors gleamed underfoot. The walls were painted a rich cream that complemented the pristine ivory upholstery. All of which was the perfect backdrop for the stunning collection of abstract art that graced the walls. She tried not to gape. And she definitely didn’t ask about them. She didn’t really want to know if that was an original Kline. And she really, really didn’t want to know if that was a Pollock.
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