He led her through the empty great room back in the direction from which she’d entered the house. When he opened one of the large pine doors, she saw darkness had fallen in the opposite direction from the lake and setting sun.

“How many dogs to you have?” she asked in a hushed tone as she followed his silent, graceful shadow down the front steps. The winding sidewalk ahead was illuminated by lanterns, but the black night sky, towering pines, and landscaped greenery surrounding them seemed to suck up their meager light.

“Sixteen,” he replied.

“What?”

“I know,” he said, and much to her amazement, he sounded a little sheepish. “It seems like a lot, but I like dogs.”

“Apparently,” she said under her breath, smiling. Well, the extremely rich do have their quirks, don’t they?

“Clarence,” she heard Latimer say quietly.

“Mr. Latimer. Nice night, isn’t it?”

Harper let out a stupid little cry at the disembodied, gruff voice that came out of the dark woods to the right of her. She stumbled in her heels. Two hands grasped her shoulders, steadying her.

“Whoa. You okay?” It was Latimer’s mellow voice.

“Yeah, but—” She glanced over to where the unexpected voice had come from. A bulky man in his forties with a crew cut stepped out of the trees and into the dim light.

“It’s just Clarence. He works here,” Latimer explained.

Harper looked around, startled. Latimer had sounded close. She realized the tips of her breasts were pressed against the lapels of his jacket. He towered over her. His face was shadowed, but she made out his gaze fixed on her upturned face. She could feel the metal of his belt buckle against her belly. And the fullness beneath it.

It happened in the amount of time it takes electricity to travel. Her blood became the current, turning into the equivalent of jet fuel. It seemed to roar through her veins, sparking her flesh to life. She felt his cock stir against her. His nostrils flared slightly as he stared down at her.

“Sorry for startling you, miss.”

Harper blinked at the sound of Clarence’s rough voice behind her. She stepped back, breaking contact with Latimer. The electrical connection didn’t seem to cut off entirely, though. Her skin still tingled. Her sex felt warm, heavy, and tight, like a pleasant ache.

She glanced over to Clarence, trying to steady herself.

“It’s okay,” she replied shakily.

The man’s sharp gaze ran over her briefly. He’s part of Latimer’s security staff, Harper immediately knew. Apparently, Clarence found nothing alarming about her appearance. He was likely used to seeing Latimer around the property in the presence of a female.

“Off to the doghouse, sir?” Clarence asked pleasantly.

“Yeah,” Latimer replied. Harper jumped slightly when his hand enclosed hers. She gave a disgusted, frustrated sigh at her show of nerves. “Night, Clarence.”

“Good night, sir. Miss.”

“Night,” Harper managed despite her breathlessness. Latimer tugged slightly on her hand and she moved up next to him. As they continued down the dimly lit path, now side by side, she saw that he peered over at her.

“Are you okay?”

She blinked. A feeling of uneasiness went through her that she couldn’t comprehend, a feeling like déjà vu . . . or dreaming of another person’s life.

“Believe it or not, most people aren’t used to having men hiding in the shadows next to where they’re walking,” she said, injecting some humor into her voice to minimize her sense of the surreal and her embarrassment.

“No. I suppose you’re right.”

A building was suddenly in front of them. Latimer released her hand and placed his forefinger on a lit keypad to the right of the door. It appeared to be a fingerprint scanner.

“Where are we?” she wondered when she heard the snick of a lock releasing.

“The doghouse.”

He took her hand again and drew her over the threshold. Harper was aware of a scurrying sound and some barks. Latimer flipped on a light.

“Oh, shit.”

A dozen or more canines were in various stages of racing to the door to greet them. Flopping ears, bounding paws, gleaming coats of various colors, and wagging tails abounded. She recognized Charger at the forefront of the onslaught, galloping toward them with a fury. Harper’s heart lunged in a prequel to panic. She was sure she was going to be knocked over by Charger’s weight, but Latimer put out his hand, palm down, and not only Charger, but the rest of the dogs, pulled up short, jumping and prancing around them, yelping and barking. Not one of them touched her or Latimer. Her heart still pounded in surprised alarm, but then she noticed something that distracted her.

“Oh no,” she said.

A black puppy had stumbled amidst the stampede and struggled to get up. She waded through the canine sea, forgetting her momentary fear. She knelt, righting the puppy on his feet. Not four feet.

Three.

“What happened to him?” Despite the lack of one paw, the puppy seemed healthy enough, turning his head to lick at her hand shyly. Reacting instinctively, she lifted the pup to her mouth and kissed his smooth head before setting him back on the floor again.

“His foot was amputated,” Latimer said from behind and above her.

“Was he sick, or injured?” Harper wondered, petting the wiggling puppy.

“No. He was tortured.”

Harper turned her head and gaped up at Latimer, horror slinking into her awareness. “You mean . . . someone cut off his foot just to . . . do it?”

“That’s right. He and his brothers and sisters were found locked in a stifling hot barn just south of Genoa. They’d all been tortured. Two of them were dead when they were found, and the other three—including Milo there—were brought in to the shelter. Two of the puppies died in the vet’s office from the effects of open wounds and extreme dehydration. Milo was the sole survivor of all his siblings.”

Sobered and chilled, Harper turned back to the puppy. She scooped him into her arms and stood, caressing Milo all the while. For the first time, she actually looked around the large, comfortable room. Several dogs hadn’t joined Charger’s rambunctious run to greet them at the door. They lay on cushy-looking dog beds and regarded them with sharp interest and perked-up ears. Given some of the white around their maws, Harper thought they were the older dogs.

“Oh. Not a doghouse. You meant a house for the dogs,” she said, comprehension dawning. Because that’s what this was. The building was a small home. Her gaze traveled over a pair of glass doors, one of which included an opening with a flap that presumably led outside. There was a well-appointed kitchen in the distance.

“I guess so,” Latimer said. “There’s a vet’s office down the hall for doctor’s visits, and they have a caretaker-trainer during the day. But they’re on their own most of the time. They have a nice patch of woods out back, where they can roam.”

She turned to him slowly, her fingers caressing the smooth head of the puppy.

“You sponsor that animal shelter in town, don’t you?” she asked him, but somehow she already knew the answer. It just made sense to her, which was odd. She barely knew him.

He was turned in profile to her.

“Jacob?”

“That’s not public knowledge.”

“I understand. I wouldn’t say anything to anyone. But you do, don’t you?”

He continued to keep his face averted as he petted Charger and a big, brown dog. “Yes,” he finally replied.

“Have you always liked animals so much?”

A pit bull nuzzled his hand. He just nodded silently. The idea struck her that he looked perfectly natural surrounded by animals while wearing an impeccable suit. She also thought at that moment that while he seemed completely open and warm with the animals, he’d grown wary toward her questions. Shut off.

Shy? No, it couldn’t be. That characteristic just didn’t fit with the rest of the man. But neither did this house for abused and forgotten dogs. Something inexplicable quivered within her, elusive and fleeting. He was such a strange, compelling man. And he seemed so alone in that moment, standing there and carefully petting the dogs that vied for his attention. No wonder rumors and speculation clung to him like metal filings to a magnet. Harper herself experienced his haunting, powerful pull. She needed to be very careful.

He straightened and faced her.

“What about you? Do you like dogs?” he asked.

“Sure. I mean . . . as much as the next person.” She glanced down at the adorable puppy in her arms and kissed Milo’s smooth head again. “I think I like them a little bit more this size than say . . . that one,” she admitted, nodding toward the brown pit bull. She realized her vague anxiety must be on display, because his gaze on her was sharp. She tried to laugh it off. “I just get a little nervous when big or aggressive dogs come at me.”

He nodded. “Most people do. Especially if they’ve had a bad experience in the past. I should have warned you.”

“I haven’t had a bad experience with dogs.” Had she said that too sharply? She suspected she had, given his knitted brow.

She gave the black puppy another fond caress and set him down on the floor. She smiled as she watched his surprisingly smooth three-legged trot toward the pack of bigger dogs. It horrified her, to think of an innocent, powerless thing being tortured in that way. Who would do such a thing? It would require a degree of depravity—of evil—that her brain shied away from considering.

“It’s nice that you do it. Give shelter to the animals. Medical care. And for these, a home.”

He shrugged off her praise. An awkward silence descended. Harper was wondering if she should take her leave, but he spoke first.

“Won’t you consider asking Ellie about the film?”

She exhaled on a bark of laughter. “Why are you so dead set on doing it?” she asked incredulously.

“I told you on the beach. I’ve admired of your work in the past, but I was particularly drawn to that story. I’d like to see it reach a wider audience.”

She threw up her hands helplessly. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask Ellie about it. She’s kind of a Hollywood fanatic. She might be thrilled at the idea. I’ll call her.

“Good,” he said, stepping toward her. The dogs had scattered, several of them returning to their beds and a few ducking out the flapped opening to the backyard.

“Cyril will offer you and Ellie payment for rights to the story, of course, so there are details to work out there. I think he might ask you to help him write the screenplay, as well.”

“Really?”

“I take it from your reaction you’ve never written a screenplay before?” he asked, a small—very distracting—smile molding his lips.

“No, never.”

“Would you be interested?”

“Maybe,” she replied dubiously. It actually sounded pretty exciting . . . like the exact kind of opportunity she needed to shake up her life even more than her recent move and job change had.

Precisely the kind of thing that would help me avoid that black hole of grief.

“You’re a good writer. You’d get the hang of it, if it’s something you decide to do. But most importantly . . . if Ellie agrees, you won’t stand in the way?”

“I don’t see why I would, as long as it’s agreed upon that the story is told in a tasteful, compassionate way.”

“Cyril wouldn’t consider handling a story like this with anything but the respect it deserves. As his producer, I’d demand it.”

“You’re his money man, then?”

“He’s a good investment. Usually,” he added with a half smile.

Harper nodded. “I’m sure my father would want me to have a lawyer look over everything if the project ever progresses that far . . . I mean . . . He would have wanted it—”

She broke off abruptly, stunned at her stupidity.

“Harper?”

“Hmmm?”

“What’s wrong?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Nothing.”

He reached out and grasped her upper arm. “Did something happen? To your father?”

She gave a brittle smile. “He passed last year. It just happens sometimes, that I find myself talking like he’s still alive. It happened so suddenly, it’s like part of me can’t get used to the fact, like my heart hasn’t caught up to my brain. Like it doesn’t want to.” She swallowed through a suddenly tight throat, fighting off a rush of emotion. When would it stop—damn it—the grief crashing into her unexpectedly? On this occasion, it hadn’t seemed random, however. She suspected it had something to do with Jacob Latimer’s gaze. It seemed disconcertingly all-seeing, at times. It acted like a mirror to her confused inner world. She shook her head.

“Sorry. We were very close,” she said, shrugging.

“You miss him a lot,” he said slowly, studying her face. His thumb moved, caressing the bare skin of her arm. It was a simple gesture. It should have felt casual, too. It didn’t. Pleasure rippled through her, and she felt his stroking thumb somewhere deep inside her being. “Were you two alike?” he asked quietly.

“My father? In some ways. Everyone says I was more like my mother, though,” she said, avoiding his stare. “She started out in journalism, like me, and eventually went on to write over a dozen books on international relations, national politics, and a few biographies.”

“Jane McFadden?”

She nodded, still unable to meet his stare, almost every ounce of her awareness focused on maintaining her self-control . . . and on his firm, warm hold and the pad of his thumb sliding against her skin.

“I read her essays on Afghanistan and her biography of Winston Churchill. It’s no wonder you’re such a good writer, with her as your teacher. She had the ability to humanize even the most complicated of people and situations. You got that from her. Your compassion. Was your father a writer, too?”

She fought back the knot in her throat. “He was, after a fashion. He was a psychiatrist, but he regularly published case studies in academic journals—”

Emotion pressed on her chest from the inside out. It was humiliating. She felt very exposed.

“I really should be going,” she said, drawing in a ragged breath and starting to move past him. “I have a press conference first thing in the morning,”

“Wait.” He grasped both of her shoulders, stilling her. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” She was caught in his stare. “Is this what you wanted to forget, in coming to Tahoe Shores?” She could smell him, as close as he was standing: sandalwood and spice and clean skin. The ache in her throat expanded to her chest.

“Maybe. Yes,” she said, almost defiantly. She was irritated at him for pressing the topic. Although in truth, she could have just further sidestepped the issue. That’s what she usually did when people probed her about her loss. She hadn’t been able to lightly gloss over the issue with Latimer, though. “Not to forget them. Just to forget . . . you know? The pain.”

“Them?”

“My mother, too. It was an accident. You heard about that train derailment in Spain last year?”

He nodded.

“They were on it. It’d been my mom’s fantasy to do a European rail vacation. She was so excited.” She shook her head irritably. “So pointless. All of it.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?”

“I try to keep apprised of the news. I told you, I read some of your mom’s stuff. She’s a well-known author. I never heard their names connected with that train derailment, though.”

She just nodded, her throat too tight to speak for a few seconds. Finally, she inhaled with a hitching breath, and forced a smile.

“It probably sounds stupid, that I’m still grieving them so much, a thirty-two-year-old woman. It’s just . . . I was an only child. And we were close, even though we lived on opposite coasts.” She swallowed thickly. Why was she telling him all this? It was inappropriate. Her thoughts couldn’t stop her from continuing. “I could have been with them, at the end.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had a ticket,” she said hoarsely. “That was part of Mom’s dream, for it to be a family vacation. But another reporter had to go in for surgery, and I had to take over his beat. I was forced to cancel the trip.”

“Thank God.”

“You don’t understand. I mean . . . I wouldn’t have chosen to die with them. It’s not that. I just regret . . .”

“That you couldn’t have spent those last days and hours with them. No one can put a price on that.”

Her gaze jumped to his. He had understood. He stood so close. She found herself sinking into his eyes.

“Even though I lived so far away from them, I never realized until after they were gone—”

“What?” he asked when she broke off.

“That I’d never felt alone before, even though I’d lived on my own since I finished college. They were always there, somehow, with me in some intangible way that I’d never bothered to consider before.”

He leaned forward, his lips brushing against her temple. “Until they weren’t anymore,” she finished shakily, her head tilting back.

Suddenly, he was kissing her.

A shock of pleasure went through her at the contact. His mouth was as firm as it looked, but surprisingly warm and gentle. He plucked at her lower lip seductively, sandwiching her flesh to his, until a shaky moan vibrated her throat. The kiss was a little cautious at first, as though he was testing the waters . . .

No, more like he was coaxing her to be with him, asking her to connect with him.

But as the spark ignited in her—in both of them, apparently—his kiss turned dark and demanding. He gripped her upper arms tighter, bringing her closer to him, and penetrated her mouth with his tongue.

It was as if he drugged her. A haze of lust overcame her brain. His scent and taste pervaded her. He felt big and hard, so solid next to her. So fantastically male. His tongue pierced and stroked her mouth, discovering her with patient yet total possession. She could feel the contours of his body, the sensation of his hardening cock deepening her trance of harsh, unexpected need.

His hands swept over the bare skin of her back. Her nerves leapt at his touch. She pressed her breasts tighter against his torso, instinctively using his hardness to ease the ache at the crests. She felt his cock swell higher against her. His fingers raked into her hair. He gently fisted a bunch of it and tugged. Her neck stretched back, and suddenly his mouth was on her pulse, hot and greedy. He inhaled and gave a low growl, the feral sound thrilling her. She whimpered as he kissed her neck and shivers of pleasure rippled through her. He found her mouth again unerringly.

She felt herself go wet . . . ready for him so quickly. So completely.

He lifted his mouth from hers. Her eyes drifted closed at the heady sensation of his warm, firm lips caressing the corner of her mouth. The realization that he avidly kissed the small scar there jolted through her. She flinched. Her eyes sprang open. She’d caught herself, just as she was about to spin out of control. It was akin to not realizing how strong an alcoholic drink was until you tried to stand, and couldn’t.

She stepped back, breaking his hold. She clamped her teeth hard at the abrupt deprivation, but forced herself to put three feet between them. He didn’t move. He appeared strained, as if he’d been chained into place. His eyes seemed to burn in an otherwise frozen face. Was that anger that tightened his features? Was he pissed off that she’d stopped him?

“I’m going,” she said simply.

She thought he remained in place. She couldn’t know for certain, though, because she didn’t look back as she rushed out the door.

The valet was just returning with a couple’s car when she reached the front entrance. Harper waited impatiently as he alighted, glancing back toward the path through the woods. But Latimer hadn’t followed her. Perhaps he’d taken another path back toward the main house. He probably wouldn’t think twice about her, once she’d refused him.

Don’t be such a bitch, she scolded herself. For the most part, he was nothing but kind toward you all night.

Although, why he was so attentive remains a mystery.

I acted like a sixteen-year-old, running away just because he kissed me.

At the same time, something told her that her hasty decision to avoid Latimer came from the wisdom of a full-grown woman, one with enough experience to know when she was swimming in choppy waters way over her head.

She’d dated quite a bit in San Francisco. She’d put plenty of hard stops on sexual overtures before, and she’d let a few of them unfold naturally when she was interested. It wasn’t because Jacob Latimer had dared to kiss her that she felt the need to run. It was how that kiss had affected her, how it had left her spinning.

That, and the fact that his kiss was so hot and drugging it felt like she’d just participated in something excitingly illicit. When it came to Latimer, she had a feeling that was just the tip of the iceberg.

She mumbled a cursory thanks to the valet when he arrived with her car. It wasn’t until after she’d left the locked-down Lattice compound and was driving down Lakeview Boulevard toward her townhome that she realized she hadn’t tipped the valet.

A jolt of unease went through her and she glanced over at the passenger seat. She couldn’t have tipped him, even if she’d wanted to. She’d left her purse on Latimer’s terrace.