Seduced The Unexpected Virgin - By Emily McKay Page 0,35

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?”

Startled by his sudden absence, she blinked away her confusion. Then followed his gaze to where it rested on a giant close-up of his face. Her own face instantly flashed hot. Ah, crap.

“That’s, um…”

He pulled back and studied her face. “That’s me.”

Eight

Ward’s tone sounded more amused than anything else.

Walking closer to the TV until the remote was within range and she could turn it off and bleep away the giant image of his face, she nodded with mock seriousness. “Yes. That’s you.” To cover her embarrassment, she added, “Come on in. I might as well offer you something to drink.”

He pretended not to notice her reluctance, but crossed to her sofa, lowered himself to the seat, and stretched his legs out in front of him. He crossed his legs at the ankles and said, “Whatever you’re having would be perfect.”

“It’s not fancy,” she blurted. And then immediately regretted it, because she didn’t know if she was talking about the ten-dollar wine or her used sofa. Or the fact that between the move and getting things set up at Hannah’s Hope, her future dining room was full of unpacked boxes and her bookshelves were still empty.

“Not fancy sounds just about perfect.”

By the time she returned with another glass of wine, she’d sufficiently pep-talked herself into believing that she did not care what he thought of her house. And she did not care if her living room was smaller (and more cheaply furnished) than the powder room in his mansion. After all, a man who lived in a garage apartment hardly had room to complain. And she did not care that she’d changed out of the professional jacket she’d worn earlier and now wore a workout tank and ten-dollar, wide-legged yoga pants that made her Latin hips look big.

She wasn’t going to let herself be intimidated by his star status. The simple truth was, far more stood between them than her pedestrian taste in wine. She wasn’t and would never be Cara Miller. In the end, that was what would drive them apart. Not her curvy hips.

But she couldn’t help wishing that her heart hadn’t started thundering at the sight of him sprawled out on her sofa when she stepped back through the doorway.

He’d rested his head against the back of the sofa. His eyes were closed, his hands resting on his perfectly flat abs. Her gaze took in his appearance again, since he wasn’t looking. It was a good disguise, even if she didn’t appreciate his efforts. Even the hair hanging down from under his cowboy hat looked darker.

Then he spoke without so much as cracking an eye. “It’s flawless, isn’t it?” His eyes opened and she saw humor in his gaze. “It’s true what they say, the clothes make the man.”

Embarrassment washed over her. Why had she just stood there staring at him like an idiot? Or, rather, like a giggly fan. But before she could think of something to say to hide her embarrassment, her phone rang.

“Please tell me you’re not being held prisoner,” Marla demanded the second Ana answered.

Ana laughed. “Hi, Marla. No, I’m not being held hostage.” Ward quirked an eyebrow and she mouthed the words my neighbor to him.

“Are you sure?” Marla’s voice sounded high-pitched and edgy.

Ana set her wine down on the coffee table. When she glanced up, it was to find Ward watching her carefully.

Quickly, she turned away and crossed to the window facing Marla’s house. She pulled back the gauzy curtain. Across the gap between their houses, which was a mere fifteen feet, she could see Marla standing at her own window, framed by the light of her own lamp. She stood there, cell phone pressed to her ear with one hand. Home phone handset in the other. She jiggled it like she was tempting a cat with a toy.

“I can call the cops on the landline if you need me to. We need a safe word! If he’s there in the room with you and you can’t talk, say watermelon. No, wait! That’s too obvious. Say…‘I’ll see you in Sunday school.’”

“Marla, you’re a kook. But a very good friend. And you read too many mystery novels. I’m not being held hostage.”

“Are you sure? That guy looked a little dodgy.”

“He’s just