Tracy Wolff: Unguarded

“Rhiannon.” Shawn rose and extended his hand, his blue eyes warm and his smile welcoming. “I’m so glad you could make it today.”

“Me, too. I’ve been excited about hearing the details of this party you want to throw since you called the office on Monday.” It wasn’t a lie, she told herself, if she only told half the truth. She was excited about planning the party, so it was perfectly acceptable to leave out the fact that she’d been up half the night worrying about seeing him again.

Obviously, this was stupid, as he wasn’t looking at her with anything more than polite interest—the same interest he would show any woman charged with creating a fantastic party so that he could impress a bunch of Hollywood types. She must have imagined the way he’d looked at her the other night—which wasn’t much of a surprise. Her radar was way off when it came to men these days, and had been for much too long.

“I’m glad. I need someone who’s excited about this thing, since I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about throwing a formal party.”

She pulled out her laptop and booted it up so that she could take notes while they talked. “You don’t like formal parties?” she asked, culling about half of the options she’d come up with that morning from the mental list she wanted to run by him.

“I’m more a beer-and-nachos kind of guy. But I figure if I’m going to do this, I need to do it right—formal, sit-down dinner, monkey suit, the works.”

As if his way with words wasn’t enough to clue her in, just looking at him gave her a good idea as to why the formal approach probably wasn’t the way to go. With his shaggy brown hair and easy smile, Shawn Emerson looked like every footloose, slacker guy she’d ever run across—the kind who was more comfortable with a bat in one hand and a beer in the other than he ever would be in an office or behind a desk.

Even his meeting attire—a football jersey and a worn pair of jeans—screamed immature male out for a good time. It was just one of the many reasons she hated that her hand was still warm from where his had clasped it.

But then, she was an idiot when it came to men. Life had certainly proven that in the past three years.

“So, your usual party style is ultra-casual yet you’re thinking about throwing a completely formal gathering?”

“It’s actually my agent’s idea. He thinks I should have a really impressive gathering, kind of knock those Hollywood types’ socks off. I’m just trying to follow along with his suggestions.”

“What’s the occasion?” she asked, trying to gauge which direction he really wanted to go in. For some people, formal meant black tie, while for others, it was just a step or two above beach attire. She had him pegged for the latter.

“Endeavor Studios just optioned the rights to my graphic novels. They’re rushing to write a script based on the first two with hopes of starting filming in about eighteen months if everything goes as planned. A bunch of the guys involved in buying my project are going to be here in Austin for the film festival in March, debuting a new movie and Anthony thinks I should have a no-holds-barred party to welcome them to Austin and show my appreciation. It’s not every day a guy’s told his character is going to be made into a major motion-picture franchise, after all.”

So much for a step above bathing suits—she’d been wrong again. Big surprise. This guy was definitely in need of a party with a big wow factor.

But a huge Hollywood-style party meant pulling out all the stops and the film festival was only—she pulled the website up on her computer—six weeks away. He wanted her to do a major party like this in six weeks? Was he kidding?

Trying to get her thoughts straight, Rhiannon pulled up a list of questions she needed to ask, then turned to him with the first one. “Who is Shadeslayer?”

Shawn grinned, an excited, happy smile lighting up his whole face and causing a weird flip-flopping in the pit of her stomach. Rhiannon did her best to ignore the feeling—the guy was at least ten years younger than her—probably closer to fifteen. Just the idea that his smile was directed at her specifically was absurd, not to mention pathetic.

“I was hoping you’d ask.” He reached down to the seat beside him and picked up a few thick comic-book-style novels that he slapped on the table between them. “He’s the superhero I created when I was in college. Now, he’s the star of my twice-yearly graphic novels.”

She blinked at the garish covers staring up at her. All three had a strong, muscle-bound guy in a gray-and-black superhero suit looking out of them, although he was in a different kind of peril on each cover. The artwork was absolutely gorgeous, but— “You write comic books for a living?”

“Graphic novels. It’s not quite the same thing.”

“Right, of course.” She couldn’t help wondering what the difference was, but didn’t want to ask, in case the question offended him. He had made a point of correcting her when she’d called them comic books, after all. “What does Shadeslayer do?”

“All kinds of things, but mainly he keeps shades—dead people who are trapped on Earth—from using their powers to enslave humans.” He held the books out to her. “Here, take them. They’re for you. I figured they’d give you a sense of who I am, what the deal was about.”

“Oh, okay. That’s very nice of you.” She reached out to take the books, her hand trembling just a little as it brushed against his.

She had no idea what she was supposed to do with three comic books, but it was a sweet gesture. She opened the cover of the first one, began to flip through it and was shocked when she came to the title page. Scrawled between the title and his name, were the words, “To Rhiannon, because a party is so often just the beginning. Shawn Emerson.”

She stared at the inscription a moment, unsure what to make of it. Were the words a threat? A promise? A suggestion? Her back stiffened and she closed the books without comment, even as she tried desperately to figure out Shawn’s agenda.

“Do you like them?” he asked, and she looked up to find him watching her closely.

“Of course I do,” she answered, ignoring the confusion inside that told her very clearly that she wasn’t sure how she felt about the books—or about the man who had given them to her. “They’re an interesting gift.”

Interesting? Nice? SHAWN barely suppressed a shudder. Obviously, he’d struck out big time with his gift—he’d been an idiot to think Rhiannon would be interested in his graphic novels. He almost hadn’t brought them—he didn’t give them away very often anymore, and rarely signed them now that he was no longer busting his ass on self-sponsored book tours to promote the things—but this morning he’d been struck by a sudden desire to show her what he did. To give her a glimpse of himself, and of Shadeslayer, the greatest character he’d ever created.

But from the way she placed the books on the table like they were a cross between poison ivy and rotting meat, he figured he probably should have gone with flowers instead—for some reason, women always seemed to like those more. Leaning back in his chair, he studied Rhiannon and tried to decide what kind of flower she was.

Not a rose, though she was long-stemmed, beautiful and surprisingly fragile, if the delicate hand she’d put in his was any indication.

Not a daisy, because she was much too quiet and self-possessed for the cheerful white-and-yellow flowers.

Carnations were boring, and while she was doing her best to blend into the woodwork in her bland gray suit and white blouse, he had a feeling she was anything but boring underneath. Not with those intense coffee-colored eyes and that fiery red hair.