Or at least that was how it had appeared in her self-centered teenage mind.
Already she’d felt as if she barely got to see him between his job and their music lessons and their eagle-eyed parents. Still, they’d stolen time alone together to make out, talk, dream—make out some more. Their make-out sessions had grown hotter, as hot as possible without going all the way.
She recalled every detail of that whole day, the day she’d lost her virginity. She remembered what she wore—pink jeans and a rock-band T-shirt. What she ate—cereal, an apple and not much else, because she wanted to keep fitting into those jeans.
Most of all, she remembered what it felt like stretched out on the backseat of her car with Malcolm, parked by the river at night. She’d already pitched her shirt and bra onto the floor, along with his shirt, too, because there was nothing like the feel of her breasts against his bare chest. Her hand tunneled down his pants, and he was working the zipper on her pink jeans. They’d already learned how to give each other orgasms by stroking to take the edge off the gnawing need.
Except, that night she’d been selfish. Scared of losing him. And most of all, she’d been stupid.
They hadn’t used a condom.
Although she’d still needed him to finish her with his hand afterward because it hadn’t been anywhere near as earth-shattering as she’d expected. Not the first time.
But she hadn’t gotten pregnant then, either. Which made them all the more reckless over the following weeks when Malcolm had been deliciously determined to figure out exactly how to bring her to that earth-shattering release while buried heart-deep inside her….
Celia snuggled deeper under the covers, cocooning herself in memories. The good—then the bad when everything had fallen apart. For years she’d told herself maybe he hadn’t loved her as much as she’d loved him. That they’d only become a couple because she’d gone after him, and what red-blooded teenage boy said no to sex?
But last night, the way he’d played that song made her realize she’d only been trying to ease her guilt over how much she’d cost him, how much their breakup had hurt him, as well.
Now this new insight complicated the trip to Europe.
In the harsh light of the morning, leaving with him seemed like a reckless idea, and she didn’t do “reckless” anymore. She’d left behind impulsiveness when she’d passed over her baby girl to parents who could give her all the things Celia couldn’t. The pain of loss had pushed her over the edge.
She had to be smarter this time, to be careful for her own sake, and for his. Just the thought of seeing him once she walked into the living room sent butterflies whirling in her stomach.
Damn it. He hadn’t even been back in her life for twenty-four hours, and desire for him had flipped her world upside down. She hadn’t helped matters with that impulsive kiss, brought on by nostalgia. She couldn’t let sex cloud their judgment again. She wanted—she needed—her peaceful existence. To make that happen, she had to stay in control while facing her fears and guilt in order to move on with her life.
She flung aside the covers and clicked off her white-noise machine, the sound of waves ending abruptly, only to be replaced by a different buzz coming from outside. Frowning, she went to the window and parted the wood shutters.
Oh. My. God. Her breath caught in her throat. She stepped away fast.
Her lawn was absolutely packed.
Cars, media vans, even tents with clusters of people underneath filled her yard and beyond, overflowing onto the sidewalk. She slammed the shutters closed and locked them. Her home had been invaded, and she was damn certain it had nothing to do with her stalker.
Apparently, Malcolm had about a million of his own.
She snagged her cotton bathrobe from the foot of her bed. Sprinting for the door, she yanked on her robe and knotted the tie on her way to the living room.
Only to stop short again.
Malcolm was sprawled on the sofa wearing only his jeans, with the blanket twisted and draped over his waist. Her mouth dried up. The muscles she’d felt ripple beneath his shirt were all the more magnificent uncovered. Damn it all, why couldn’t he have gone paunchy and bald? Or why couldn’t he have at least become a totally arrogant jerk?
All right. He was a bit arrogant, but not at all a jerk. And the six-pack abs didn’t show the least sign of paunch. His hair was so freakin’ magnificent his fans named that signature lock of hair over the brow—calling it “The Malcolm.” Men everywhere were letting their hair grow long over their foreheads because their girlfriends begged them to. Malcolm’s fans.
His fans.
Damn. Not two minutes after vowing not to let the attraction derail her, she’d failed. She’d been so caught up in gawking at his naked chest that she’d forgotten about the sold-out audience on her lawn. Celia knelt by the sofa, her hand falling lightly on his shoulder.
His warm skin sent sparks shimmering through her.
She snatched back her hand. “Malcolm? Malcolm, you have to wake up now—”
He shot upright off the sofa. His arm whipped from under the blanket, a gun clasped in his hand and pointed at the ceiling.
A gun?
“Malcolm?” she squeaked. “Where did that come from?”
“It’s mine, and it’s registered. I keep it for protection, which seems appropriate given the threats against you. Probably a bit more daunting to an intruder than if I bash them over the head with a rolled-up music score.” He placed the black weapon on the coffee table with a wry grin. “It’s best you don’t surprise me when I’m asleep.”
“Do you get creepy fans waking you up often?” She rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled.
“When I first hit the charts, a fan managed to get past security into the house. But since then, no. That doesn’t mean I’m letting down my guard, and my security detail is an impenetrable wall between me and overzealous fans.”
“Then why sleep with the gun?”
“Because your life is too precious to trust to anyone else. I have to be sure.”
Her heart squeezed in her chest, and it was all she could do not to caress his face, kiss him, claim that perfect mouth of his all over again.
Clearing her throat, she nodded to the living-room window covered with simple white shutters instead of curtains. “Check out the lawn.”
His eyes narrowed, muscles along his chest bunching. He strode across the room and opened the shutters just a crack.
“Crap.” He stepped to the side, out of the sight line. “Wish I could say I’m surprised, but I was afraid this might happen. I should have insisted we leave last night before they had time to rally.”
Her misgivings churned again. “About leaving together for Europe. I’m …”
“Yeah, I agree.” He snagged his button-down shirt off the back of the chair, tucking
