Ellie had a shift waitressing at her restaurant early that afternoon, so she had to leave soon after their lunch, which they ate poolside. Marianne heard the girl saying she was planning on walking to a bus stop, and insisted that a driver would take her—a proposal that seemed very agreeable to Ellie.

“So. You and Jacob,” Cyril stated with a significant glance once they were alone on the terrace. They sipped coffee in the idyllic setting while the Pacific provided them with a cool, pleasant breeze.

Harper raised her brows. “What about Jacob and me?”

“Don’t play coy with me. It’s beneath you.”

Harper laughed. “You don’t know me well enough to know if it’s beneath me or not.”

“I imagine Jacob would think it’s beneath you. He hates false modesty and artifice.”

“I’m not so sure Jacob knows me all that well, either,” Harper murmured. Or maybe he does, but it’s a mystery as to how he does. She noticed Cyril’s incredulous look.

“I’ve never seen him act this way around a woman. Never,” he stated flatly. “For a man who is usually so guarded, to become so transparent—”

“I’d hardly call him transparent,” Harper scoffed, setting down her coffee cup.

“Compared to what he’s usually like, he’s positively see-through.”

Harper laughed it off. Cyril had only seen Jacob and she together a few brief times, after all. But then, she began to really absorb Cyril’s statement and all of its ramifications.

“I wish I did know more about him,” she mused after a moment. “Do you know much about his childhood?”

“I assume it was crap,” Cyril stated bluntly. “I’m not sure what happened to his biological parents, but he was in the foster care system. He didn’t get adopted until he was nearly an adult. He hardly ever talks about it, and doesn’t respond well to hints and prods for him to do so.” He rolled his pale blue eyes. “Trust me on that score.”

“I know that he got a scholarship to MIT and served in army intelligence for several years.”

“His history is much better known once he got closer to adulthood. It’s his origins that are murky. I’m not sure how he’s managed to keep prying eyes out of his deep past, but then again . . . he is Jacob Latimer. He can do almost anything, including sweep his past clean.”

“Sweep his past clean,” she repeated slowly. “That’s an interesting thing to say.”

“Interesting, maybe, but not uncommon. That girl who just left us is the exception, from my experience,” Cyril said, making a gesture toward the terrace doors where Ellie had just made her exit. He held up a package of clove cigarettes with a questioning look. Harper nodded her agreement for him to smoke.

“What do you mean about Ellie being the exception?”

“Most people want to deny a difficult past. It’s unusual, for a person to be as forthcoming and refreshingly honest as Ellie is,” Cyril mused as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth. He took a draw, his expression thoughtful. “Most want to transform into someone new. Forget. I do my fair share of intentional forgetting every day.”

“You sound like Jacob.”

He shrugged, smoke expanding around his mouth. “We couldn’t be more different, and yet we’re two of a kind, as well.”

“Did you know him in South Carolina? Jacob?” she prompted when he gave her a blank look.

“No, I met him at Tahoe Shores when we became neighbors.” He flicked some ashes onto a china saucer. “Does it really matter? That you know about his past?”

Harper considered before answering.

“It doesn’t in the everyday, practical sense, no.”

“It would serve no purpose.”

“It would help me to see him better, though . . . to see beneath the legend and the enigma. To understand him better.”

To love him better.

She winced. Jacob was the most elusive man she’d probably ever meet in her life. Was she a masochist, or something? There was no surer guarantee of pain than falling for him. Trying to disguise her sudden transparency, she reached for her coffee and took a sip. She had a sneaking suspicion Cyril had somehow divined her mortifying thought.

“I don’t think it would help at all. It might just make him feel exposed, even betrayed, if you insisted upon knowing about every detail of his history.”

“Yes. There is that risk,” she agreed, squinting out at the sun-gilded Pacific Ocean. Her heart felt heavy. There was definitely that risk with Jacob, as shut off as he was. The strength of his armor had to be commensurate to the pain from which he guarded himself, didn’t it? That was a forbidding thought.

Cyril stubbed out his cigarette.

“Why did you mention South Carolina earlier?”

“Because that’s where Jacob was born and grew up. He told me, on the first day we met.”

He shook his head. “He didn’t grow up in South Carolina.”

“What?” Harper asked, startled from her ruminations. “South Carolina, born and bred,” she repeated what Jacob had said on that beach.

Cyril shook his head. “No. He mentioned where he grew up a few times in passing, but it wasn’t South Carolina.”

“Where was it?” Harper asked, leaning forward in her chair, the back of her neck prickling with curiosity. Why would Jacob have said he grew up in South Carolina that first day if he hadn’t? Cyril must be mistaken.

Cyril’s brow creased as he thought. “That’s just it, I can’t recall precisely. As I said, he’s rarely mentioned it. And I’m British, you know. I get your states mixed up sometimes, especially some of the eastern ones. Virginia, maybe? Maryland? Somewhere in the backwoods. He’s joked once or twice about being the country bumpkin, how he never got on a plane until he was eighteen or on an elevator until he was fourteen, things like that. But no, it definitely wasn’t South Carolina. I have a friend who moved to South Carolina, and I’ve visited there, so I would have remembered that,” Cyril said firmly.

“Is Latimer his adoptive parents’ name?”

“I’m not sure Jacob would approve of me talking about all this with you,” Cyril stated.

“I see,” Harper said, feeling awkward.

Cyril exhaled. “Look, I don’t think you have evil intentions toward Jacob. It’s pretty clear you’re as taken with him as he is with you. It’s just . . . he’s mentioned to me before that he is concerned about the fact that you’re a reporter. He’s not overly fond of your tribe. With good reason, if you ask me. They’re always poking around him, looking for a story . . . sometimes making them up when they can’t find anything worthwhile.”

“I’m an editor,” Harper corrected. “And I’ve told Jacob repeatedly that I’m not doing some kind of undercover exposé on him. I would never sleep with someone to get a story. That’s despicable.”

“And if you got wind of a story when you were already involved with a man? What then?”

“That’s not why I’m asking these questions! I’m asking because I want to know him better. Is that so bizarre?”

Cyril threw up his hands and leaned back in his chair. “It all comes to the same thing, though. It doesn’t really matter one way or another why you’re asking me questions about Jacob—”

“I disagree,” she interrupted forcefully. “How can it not matter? Are you saying there’s no difference between asking because I care, and asking because I plan to use the information against him?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Cyril said, his pale blue eyes flashing. “Because either way, Jacob wouldn’t want it. Don’t you see? He doesn’t want anyone stirring up his past. I have the feeling at times that it’s like he’s buried that part of himself. Laid it to rest, just like you would a loved one. Who he was pains him, somehow. To bring it up now, to start digging around and poking at the skeletons in the closet, it’s like trying to raise the dead. Besides,” he continued in a more subdued tone. “It’s not as if plenty of other reporters haven’t tried to resuscitate the bones of his past. They can’t find much of anything, beyond Clint Jefferies,” he said, rolling his eyes. “And all of that is just sensationalism and empty speculation, not facts.”

Harper didn’t reply. She suddenly felt very hollow. Sad. Surely Cyril was right. Who was she, to question Jacob’s past? Jacob clearly didn’t want it, so why should she?

Because you don’t like seeing his pain. If the past held the origins of his pain, he’d never really heal if he constantly avoided those wounds.

A sharp feeling of loss went through her unexpectedly. Her thought had sounded like something her dad would say. And yes, Harper agreed in theory. But more than that, it was as if in denying his own past, Jacob was denying her something. And for whatever crazy reason that meant something to her.

It made no sense, of course. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She was drawing too close to the fire of Jacob Latimer. The allure of him, the mystery, was confusing her.

She looked up when Cyril patted her forearm.

“You look bereft, you’re making me feel horribly guilty. I’m just being practical, Harper. Jacob is my friend,” Cyril said softly. “I’m glad to see him let down his guard with a woman. He looked happy when he walked into that room earlier and kissed you. Happy, right there in the moment. Trust me. That’s a rarity. That’s what counts. The present moment. I’m just being honest when I say that if you insist upon learning more about his past, it’s not going to make either of you happy.”

Harper nodded, taking a deep breath. She understood Cyril’s point. She did. But something told her it was more complicated than that. Jacob was more complex than that. She heard the terrace door open and turned in her chair. Marianne had come to clear their dishes. There was no more talk between Cyril and her about Jacob’s carefully buried past.

Sometime during the hours she spent with Cyril that afternoon, he finally managed to get her to officially commit to writing the screenplay with him. Harper found herself not only getting excited about the prospect, but invested in it. She also began to really like her future writing partner. Cyril was a perfectionist by nature and very demanding, but also savvy, energetic, brilliant, compassionate . . . not to mention completely irreverent. It was hard not to be affected by his enthusiasm for the project. By the time he left at six o’clock that evening, Harper was exhausted, but inspired.

She hadn’t heard from Jacob all afternoon, but assumed they were still on for diner at seven thirty. There was still no sign of him in his bedroom suite when she went up to get ready. While she was in the shower, she reflected on everything that had transpired over the past month: starting a new job as an editor, upending her entire life and moving to a strange town, agreeing to write a screenplay with a world-renowned director . . .

Meeting Jacob on that beach.

She certainly was coming a long way in emerging from her shell of grief and shaking up her life. Even if Jacob decided to end their relationship tomorrow, he would have had a permanent effect on her.

But she wouldn’t think about their relationship ending now. Not when she felt so invigorated about her life. Not when she was anticipating the evening with Jacob so hugely.

She’d saved a new dress for tonight: a stunning green silk that fastened around her neck and left her shoulders and arms bare. She wore her hair down, adding some soft curl to the waves. When she examined herself in the mirror just before seven that evening, she smiled at the result. The color of the dress looked striking against her skin and hair. Her eyes shone with excitement. Her loose hair felt good, spilling down her back and sliding against her bare shoulders and upper arms. She felt sensual . . . sexy. She owed all that to Jacob’s influence.

The sound of a door shutting in the distance got her attention. Was it Jacob, returning? A few seconds later, she heard another door shut quietly, and was pretty sure it was the one to his private bathroom. Her heart racing, she chose a pair of long, dangly gold earrings and finished her makeup. When she walked into the suite five minutes later, she thought she’d have to wait for him to finish showering. He was coming out of his bathroom at the same moment as her, however, looking freshly showered and devastating in a black suit and black striped tie. He glanced up and noticed her.

“Hi,” she said.

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he approached, his gaze sliding down over her.

“What? Why are you smiling like that?” she asked. She sounded breathless. His tiny, sexy smile and smoldering gaze had made her that way.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a black leather box.

“I was just thinking it was serendipity. I thought they’d look pretty with your hair, but I didn’t guess . . .”

He faded off, shrugging, and handed her the box. Harper’s pulse began to throb at her throat as she opened the black Bulgari box.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, stunned.

“You don’t like them?” he asked. Guilt swept through her when she saw the flash of disappointment and worry on his face.

“Are you kidding? They’re gorgeous,” she exclaimed. She looked down dazedly at the emerald pendant earrings. The oval drop stones were enormous—almost an inch wide at the base and glittering with inner fires. They looked like they’d come from the royal family’s cache or from the treasure chests of some Arabian prince.

“Then put them on,” he said. She blinked and looked up. He’d come close, and he was wearing that deadly small smile again.

“Jacob, I can’t,” she whispered, but he’d taken the box and was removing the earrings from their fastenings.

“Of course you can. I got them specifically for you. They’re insured, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said, fluidly sidestepping the issue by focusing on a topic she hadn’t even thought of, as yet. He held the earrings up next to her face and hair. His smile grew slightly in smug satisfaction, but then he sobered.

“What?” she wondered.

His fingers touched her hair. Nerves along her neck danced with pleasure at the light caress. His gaze ran over her face. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said shakily, her heart squeezing tight in her chest at something she read in his expression.

“Put them on? For me?”

Of course she couldn’t say no then. She came out of the bathroom a moment later wearing the earrings, her heart full in her chest. She beamed at him at the same time she shook her head in remonstrance.

“I shouldn’t accept them. They must have cost you a small fortune,” she murmured.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against her temple and spoke quietly near her ear.

“It would have been worth a much larger one, to see that smile.”

The restaurant he took her to that night was in the Mission District and was called Geb. It served Mediterranean, Egyptian, and Moroccan fare. Because Jacob knew the chef-owner, they were given a prime spot on the terrace next to an outdoor stone fireplace. Thick palms and ferns surrounded their table, making Harper feel like they were the only couple dining in the exotic setting. The chef, a man by the name of Jason Savoy, came out to the table to greet Jacob and describe his favorites on the menu.

The food was decadently good—rich and aromatic—and only added to Harper’s sensual mood. She couldn’t take her eyes off Jacob, finding him compelling and sinfully handsome in the firelight.

She asked him about the status of his meeting with Lattice lawyers and the copyright claimant to the company he wanted to buy. He talked openly about the man’s claim, and ideas his legal team had for dealing with the issue. There wasn’t a hint of suspicion toward her in his manner. She recalled how he’d been much less worried about her coming into contact with the secretary of defense in his home than Elizabeth had been. The realization that he did trust her with confidences—with certain key things, anyway—heartened her.

He wanted to know all about her meeting with Cyril and Ellie, and the progress on the film project. They were finishing their main course and laughing over one of Cyril’s many acerbic comments that afternoon, when a breeze ruffled the surrounding ferns. Harper shivered.

Jacob stood and waved for her to get up from her chair, as well. “We’ll move the table toward the fireplace. It’s going to get down in the fifties tonight, and that dress doesn’t offer a lot of protection, does it?”

She laughed at his heavy-lidded, appreciative stare at her breasts. She couldn’t wear a bra with the dress because of its cut, and the breeze had made her nipples tighten. He’d clearly noticed.

She stood and together they scooted the table and their chairs toward the fire.

“It’s nice that they have the fire lit. Labor Day weekend is usually pretty warm in San Francisco,” she said when they were seated again.

“I called and asked Jason to light it when I saw the forecast,” Jacob stated matter-of-factly. He noticed her surprised look. He reached across the table to grasp her hand. “I know how much you like a fire.”

“I do, you’re right,” she said, smiling as she looked into his eyes. The fire brought out the pinpricks of amber in them. He ran his fingertip across her palm, and she instinctively opened her hand, giving him free rein. They stared at one another for a stretched moment as he stroked her. A bubble of intimacy and security seemed to encapsulate them.

“A fire means warmth,” she murmured, “but more importantly, it means safety.”

His lambent stare went suddenly hard. His hand tightened on her wrist. “Why did you say that?”

She blinked, his question and taut grasp jerking her out of her sensual trance.

“Why did I say what?”

He leaned forward, his manner intent. Angry. Hungry?

“About the fire meaning warmth, but also safety?” he demanded.

Her mouth fell open in disbelief. She snatched her hand from his hold.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, utterly bewildered.

He didn’t reply for a moment. He just studied her with that laser stare, like he was scanning her insides. Harper mentally squirmed under that harsh examination. Almost as quickly as his mood had shifted, he seemed to bring himself under control.

“It was nothing. I’m sorry,” he said, leaning back and smoothing his tie, his expression suddenly unreadable.

“It wasn’t nothing. Jacob?” He looked up and met her stare coolly. An uncomfortable thought swept through her. “Did . . . did what I say remind you of that other woman?”

“No. It’s not that.”

He noticed her openmouthed, stunned state.

“Harper, I’m with you. There is no other woman.”

There was something about the way he said it, with such bone-deep, forceful confidence. Still . . . she’d seen that flash in his eyes when she’d asked about the other woman, like a window that was opened just for a moment before it was slammed shut again. She couldn’t fathom the enigma of him.

“Jacob, what are you thinking right now?” Harper probed softly.

“Tell me what you’re thinking first.”

She blinked at his quick counter.

“I’m thinking that you’re a puzzle I can’t work out.”

He gave a small, incredulous laugh, his reaction unsettling her even more.

“What?” she demanded.

He looked up when the waiter arrived to clear their dinner dishes.

“It just struck me as funny,” she heard him say quietly. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”