Seduced The Unexpected Virgin - By Emily McKay Page 0,21

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