What the hell are you doing here?

She’d asked herself that question too many times to count before she pulled her Toyota Camry up next to a security station at 935 Lakeview Boulevard that evening. It’d been less than a half mile from her condo. Harper felt a little stupid driving the short distance on such a gorgeous evening. She’d rather walk. From the sound of the invitation, however, she got the definite impression she wasn’t expected to stroll casually up to Jacob Latimer’s gated compound.

The guard seemed amiable enough as he approached, but something about his muscular, fit body and sharp eyes as he examined her face, the invitation, and then her face again suggested he was something more than just easygoing part-time help stuck out at the front gate. The word ex-military popped into her brain. Well, Ruth had said that Latimer had done a stint in army intelligence. Maybe he’d hired some buddies from his army days to do his security.

“You’re all set, Ms. McFadden,” the guard finally said, handing back her invitation and identification. “Just keep heading straight down the road and you’ll dead-end at the big house.”

“You’re not going to search me or my car?” she asked, referring to the mention in the invitation about security measures.

“No, ma’am,” he replied, deadpan. “You’ve been pre-cleared for entry.”

This just keeps getting weirder and weirder. What did Ruth get me into?

It wasn’t Ruth’s fault, though. Not really. Harper’s reporter instinct had been nudged by the unexpected invitation and Ruth’s gossip about Latimer. She had no interest in doing a big-business exposé. But she was known for having a nose for a good story. Harper usually gravitated toward human interest pieces, though . . . to big stories seen through the eyes of seemingly small, everyday people. She couldn’t imagine what a good human interest story might be in regard to Jacob Latimer. By all reports, the man more resembled a machine or ghost than a flesh-and-blood man.

At least it won’t be boring, Harper thought wryly as she progressed down a stunning drive canopied by soaring pine trees, landscaped grounds, and several outbuildings. Suddenly the sprawling main house came into view. The mansion blended features of the old Tahoe style with a clean, minimalist, almost Japanese aesthetic: Western log lodge meets Frank Lloyd Wright. The result was stunning.

A woman in her thirties wearing a black cocktail dress briskly stepped down the stairs when Harper pulled up at the porte cochere. A young man followed and came around to open Harper’s door.

“Just leave your keys,” the woman said. “Jim will park your car for you. Welcome! I’m Elizabeth Shields,” the woman said when Harper alighted. She peered at Harper through a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. Harper sensed she was pleasant, but guarded . . . and curious, as well.

“Harper McFadden. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Harper said, extending her hand.

Elizabeth was an attractive brunette in her midthirties. Something about the way she wore the expensive-looking but simply cut cocktail dress called to mind a uniform instead of party attire. As Jacob Latimer’s assistant, Elizabeth must have to dress up for work a lot.

“Follow me,” Elizabeth said, nodding her head in the direction of the stairs. “I’m sorry about all the security measures. The software industry is ridiculously competitive these days; it’s a necessary precaution, I’m afraid,” Elizabeth explained as she led Harper through a pair of enormous carved pine doors with wrought iron handles. Harper didn’t have time to tell Elizabeth the security check had been surprisingly brief. She was too busy goggling as they entered a high-domed entry hall and then a great room featuring lodgepole-pine-beamed thirty-foot ceilings, two soaring river rock fireplaces, and a long stretch of floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a jaw-dropping panoramic view of Lake Tahoe and the surrounding mountains. Despite the open, old Tahoe design of the structure, the furniture and finishes were contemporary, utilitarian, and elegant. It was the most stunning room Harper had ever seen, whether in photos or real life.

Elizabeth turned as they walked, and saw her gawking. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling.

“That’s a bit of an understatement.”

Elizabeth laughed and opened a glass-paned door for her. “I find myself thinking that a lot. Mr. Latimer has a way of making regular speech seem inadequate.”

“I can imagine,” Harper muttered, following Elizabeth out the door and onto an enormous terrace.

The scene was breathtaking, something straight out of a movie set. The section of the terrace closest to the house was under a protective roof, so that one could use it even in inclement weather. Given the two outdoor stone fireplaces on the upper deck, a person could sit out there comfortably, enjoying the scenery even as the surrounding mountains became white with snow. Even in late August, the nights could turn pleasantly chilly in the alpine setting. Cozy flames flickered in the fireplaces, beckoning a person to curl up on one of the many couches or chairs near them.

Elizabeth led her down some stairs, and they arrived at the second terrace level. This and the next deck down were places to bask in the sun. Again, there were multiple seating areas, landscaped flora, trickling fountains, and stone paths. Harper’s eyes caught on one of several circular-shaped, deep wicker divans with a sunscreen attached to the top of it. The opaque sunscreen on one had been lowered to block what was happening in the deep couch. Six bare feet stuck out of the bottom of the obscured divan. Harper heard muffled male and female laughter.

Steam rose from a large sauna to the far right. Down on the next level of the terrace was a pool. From there, another set of wide stairs led down to the beach. Towering Jeffrey and ponderosa pines framed the view. Two long docks stretched out onto the sapphire blue lake, three Jet Skis tied up to one of them. In the distance, a yacht was moored alongside one of the beautiful, handcrafted wooden motorboats that were favored in Tahoe.

Elizabeth led her toward a square-shaped stone pedestal that contained a fire pit. Twenty or so people had gathered around the open fire. They stood or lounged in cushioned sofas and chairs. Most of them wore sunglasses to protect their eyes from the brilliant setting sun. A waiter was moving among them, serving hors d’oeuvres and drinks. In the distance, a jazz quartet was playing a lazy, sensual tune. Several of the well-heeled partygoers glanced over at Harper and Elizabeth as they approached.

A quick surveillance told her that more than half of the people were women. Not just any women, either. Stunning ones. Exotic ones. Were these some of Latimer’s imports, as Ruth had mentioned? Some of the women’s stares on her were rapier sharp and speculative . . . like they were eyeing the competition? Annoyance flickered through her at the idea of being considered a candidate for Latimer’s harem. Maybe now that she’d seen the haloed interior of Latimer’s compound, she had enough information to satisfy Ruth’s curiosity and could sneak out of here ASAP. She didn’t relish spending the evening in a den of clawing cats.

Elizabeth turned to her and murmured quietly as their pace slowed. “I’ll introduce you to him right away. He’s very anxious to meet you.”

Harper’s bewilderment soared. An urge to laugh struck her. That was the final straw. Clearly there had been some kind of mistake. They thought she was someone else. She’d been granted entry into this forbidden paradise because of a colossal error.

Latimer’s assistant stopped next to a man with short, spiky, bleached white hair. He wore a fitted, trendy European-cut dark blue suit, a pink plaid tie, and a pair of old-fashioned Ray-Ban sunglasses. He immediately gave off an air of being dapper, quirky, and sharp as a whip all at once. So this was Latimer? He hardly seemed mysterious. She couldn’t imagine this man’s flamboyance being called ghostlike. He was about as obvious as a slap to the face. He peered over the top of his glasses at Harper pointedly.

“Is this her?” he demanded of Elizabeth in a clipped British accent. Without waiting for Elizabeth to reply, he addressed Harper. “Are you Harper McFadden?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

His gaze dropped over her in an assessing fashion. “Well aren’t you gorgeous. I love that dress,” he declared, reaching to take her hand.

Elizabeth laughed. “Harper McFadden, meet Cyril Atwater. He’s been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Really?” Harper strained to remain polite, but realized she sounded incredulous, anyway.

“Of course. This film is going to be spectacular. I think it’ll be a shoo-in to win at Sundance, and it might even be a dark horse for some commercial success Stateside.”

“What film is that?” Harper wondered.

“The one based on your story, of course,” Cyril said, looking vaguely put out by her ignorance. “Didn’t you tell her?” he asked Elizabeth sharply.

“I don’t know anything about it. I just follow orders,” Elizabeth said. Again, Harper caught Elizabeth’s curiosity as she regarded her.

“Excuse me, I don’t mean to seem rude,” Harper said at last. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I have no idea why I’ve been invited here tonight.”

“I’m Cyril Atwater,” the man repeated. “The director?” he added with a trace of annoyance when Harper gave him an apologetic look for her ignorance. She suspected he rolled his eyes behind his Ray-Bans. “I realize you Yanks have been spoon-fed tedious car chases and shoot-’em-ups since the cradle, but surely a woman of your obvious intelligence and compassion occasionally watches a documentary or film of actual substance.”

Despite his acerbic tongue, a smile twitched at Harper’s mouth when he’d seamlessly switched from his clipped English accent to say shoot-’em-ups with a perfect cowboy drawl.

“Can I get you something to drink, miss?” a waiter asked her over her right shoulder.

“Yes, I’ll have a glass of chardonnay, thank you,” Harper said. She turned back to Cyril. “I’m sorry, I don’t watch many movies, either of the documentary or shoot-’em-up variety.”

“But you must realize that the story you did on Ellie, that homeless teenager in San Francisco, would make a brilliant film.”

“And this is why I’ve been asked here tonight?” Harper asked dazedly. Well, this certainly was an odd turn of events.

“It must be,” Elizabeth said. “I asked you because Mr. Latimer requested it, but I wasn’t sure about the details.” Elizabeth glanced over at a still-bristling Cyril. “Mr. Atwater has won several major film awards, including the Academy Award last year for his documentary Bitter Secrets.”

“I’m not a child, Elizabeth. You don’t have to soothe any feathers,” Atwater said peevishly. Elizabeth’s upraised brows and amused glance at Harper seemed to say she felt differently. “So what do you think, Harper? Is it all right if I call you Harper?” Cyril asked.

“Of course.”

“Well? What do you think of letting me do the film?”

Harper shrugged dubiously. “I don’t think that’d work, to be honest.”

“Why not?” Cyril demanded.

“Because it’s not just me you’d have to get agreement from, but Ellie.”

“That’s done easily enough.”

“But she doesn’t live on the streets anymore,” Harper explained. “She’s a waitress and attends junior college part-time.”

“Thanks to your story, I’m sure that’s all true. I’m not planning on doing an actual documentary for this. It’d be done with actors and actresses, but based on the feature you did.”

Harper glanced over at Elizabeth and gave a short laugh. “This isn’t what I expected in coming here tonight.”

“What did you expect?” Elizabeth asked.

“I didn’t know what to expect. I was surprised when I got the invitation. I was under the impression Mr. Latimer was responsible for it, which confused me even more. I see now that it was you”—she glanced at Cyril—“who was behind it all.”

“Oh, Jacob was responsible for it. He suggested the whole thing to me at lunch a few days ago. I thought his idea was brilliant. But of course, everything Jacob suggests is,” Cyril said as though stating the obvious.

The waiter arrived with an empty wine goblet and a bottle on a tray.

“Is he here?” Harper asked, smiling in thanks as she took the glass. She noticed the label as the waiter poured the chardonnay: It was Latimer’s own.

“Mr. Latimer, you mean?”

Harper nodded at Elizabeth and took a sip. She blinked in pleasure at the subtle, oaky taste of the wine. Nothing but the best for Latimer.

“No, he got caught up in an emergency work situation, unfortunately,” Elizabeth said smoothly. Harper had the impression this was Elizabeth’s standard reply for queries in regard to Latimer’s presence . . . or absence, as the case likely usually was.

“Jacob hardly ever attends these things. I tell him this place is his cave”—Cyril waved his crystal highball glass at the magnificent mansion—“and he’s the hermit who inhabits it. If I didn’t come over and push my way in a few times a week, I’d never catch sight of him. He’d be just as much a legend to me as Sasquatch and our local Tahoe Tessie. I live just a house down,” he explained to Harper, pointing behind her. “I suppose if I harp too much, the hermit will toss me out on my bony butt, so I try to—” Cyril paused, his brow furrowing.

Harper instinctively turned to where he was staring. Other partygoers looked around in the direction of the house, as well. Conversation faded off until a breathless hush prevailed.

It was like a charge had ignited the evening air and an electrical current passed through them all. Or at least that’s how it felt to Harper as she watched the man from the beach saunter toward the party with easy grace, eyes trained directly on her.

“To what do we owe this honor?” Cyril boomed incredulously as the man approached their small grouping. As if on cue, the other partygoers turned back to their conversations, and the quartet began another number. Even though everyone resumed the cocktail party routine, Harper noticed several sideways, surreptitious glances in their direction. It wasn’t just women looking, either. It was clear that Latimer’s presence at the party was not only unexpected, but also exciting.

“I looked out my window and saw Harper’s hair.”

There was a burning in Harper’s chest cavity. She realized it was because she hadn’t drawn air as she watched him approach. And . . . had he really just said that about her hair?

“Jacob Latimer,” he said, extending his hand. “I don’t think I ever got the chance to actually introduce myself the other day on the beach.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said, grasping his hand. She stared up into a pair of long-lashed golden-green-brown eyes. He wore a suit, including a vest and tie, but somehow he managed to make the suit seem as casual and easy as the swim trunks she’d seen him in yesterday. Just as sexy, that much was certain. Here was a man who was supremely confident in his own skin. And why shouldn’t he be?

“It’s the color of the sunset,” he said quietly, and again, there was that small smile, almost as if he was a little embarrassed by his poetic turn of phrase, but had said it anyway. He released her hand slowly and pointed at her hair when she just stared at him stupidly. She managed to return his smile despite her discomposure, all too aware of Elizabeth and Cyril’s fascinated gazes on them.

“A sunset is one of the kinder things it’s been compared to. Ask any redhead how much they liked their hair color as a kid,” she laughed.

“So it’s real?” Cyril asked. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that particular shade naturally. It’s absolutely brilliant, to say the least. You’re quite right about the sunset, Jacob.”

Harper knew her cheeks had turned the color of her hair. She couldn’t believe the iconic Latimer and the man on the beach were one and the same. He was way too young to be so accomplished, wasn’t he? Too young to already have acquired such an aura of mystery and fascination?

“Has Cyril been talking to you about his film idea?” Jacob asked her, politely changing the topic. He’d probably noticed her discomfort on the topic of her hair.

“Actually, he mentioned it was your idea,” she said.

“I brought up the subject of you and your article. Cyril thought of the movie, and I agreed it would be brilliant,” he said, gracefully avoiding her pointed statement. “So he has mentioned it?” he asked, glancing inquiringly at Cyril, Harper, and Elizabeth.

“He’d just brought it up when you arrived,” Harper told him. Of course. He’d mentioned that particular story on the beach. Cyril had just said his home neighbored Latimer’s. It must have been Cyril’s beach they were on when Charger raced toward her. Then he’d mentioned their brief meeting to Cyril, the director . . . and here she was. Understanding the chain of events that had gotten her to this unusual situation steadied her a bit from a whirlwind of confusion.

Got it. I’m good. I can handle this.

“I was telling him that I didn’t think it would work,” Harper told Latimer frankly.

“She’s concerned that the young woman, Ellie, won’t consent to having her story told,” Cyril told Jacob. “But we can use another name, after all. Perhaps you can broach the topic with her? If she’s hesitant, I’m sure I can convince her.”

“Cyril is very convincing,” Elizabeth said, although she wasn’t looking at Cyril, but Latimer. Latimer, in turn, was steadily regarding Harper. Harper was highly aware of his stare on her cheek.

“Ellie aside, you don’t like the idea,” Latimer said. “Why not?”

She blinked at his astute observation. She hadn’t even been aware it was true until he said it. “I felt like writing Ellie’s story was worthwhile. Still . . . part of me felt a little guilty—still feels a little guilty—for exposing her entire life for public consumption.”

Latimer nodded once solemnly. “How did Ellie feel about it? Do you think she’ll worry about having her history become even more exposed?”

“She never complained. In fact, she was thankful. She was glad to have her story, and the experience of many of her friends and acquaintances, told.”

“It’s a story that should be told,” Cyril stated unequivocally. “We call ourselves civilized in the Western world, and yet innocent children are living in the most appalling circumstances right in the midst of our cities. You wanted to expose that story, and you did, Harper. Why wouldn’t you want it to reach an even wider audience?”

“I . . . I’m not saying I’m against it,” she replied, flustered. A cool lake breeze swirled around them, cutting through the silk of her cocktail dress. The temperature had dipped as sunset approached. A shiver rippled through her. This wasn’t a conversation she’d prepared herself for. “And like I said, it’s not primarily up to me.”

“As I said, I’m sure we can convince—”

“Give it a rest for the moment, Cyril,” Jacob interrupted, his voice quiet, but steely. He slipped a hand beneath Harper’s bent elbow. “Ms. McFadden is feeling a bit ambushed, I think. Elizabeth, could you have one of the waiters bring Harper and me a hot drink? We’re going to sit up by the fire.”

No one contradicted him. Harper had the impression no one would dare. She followed him up the stairs, highly aware of two things: the stares on her exposed back, and Jacob Latimer’s hand on the sensitive skin on the underside of her elbow.

“There. Is that better?” he asked a moment later when he led her to a deep sofa situated before one of the stone fireplaces. She nodded and set down her wineglass on a coffee table before she sat. Realizing she still clutched her purse, she quickly tucked it in the corner of the sofa. He came down on the cushion next to her. His long, strong thigh was only an inch away from hers. His stark masculinity—his potent attractiveness—crowded her brain and rushed her body.

“It got chilly so fast. It was really warm when I left my townhome,” she said, her voice steady despite her ruffled state. Her halter dress left her arms and a good portion of her back exposed. The warmth from the fire felt good on her chilled skin.

“Tahoe is a place of extremes. The temperatures at night can plunge thirty, even forty degrees from the daytime highs. It’s alpine desert, but it’s still the desert. In the winter, I can ski on a foot of new powder and come down the mountains to the lake and broil a bit in the sun.”

She smiled. “That sounds nice. Thank you,” she murmured to the waiter when he approached and placed two steaming cups on the table in front of them. Latimer leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and grabbed the drinks. She accepted the mug gratefully, cradling the drink with both hands.

“Cider,” he said, inhaling the steam from his cup.

Harper took a drink. “And . . . whiskey?” she added, stifling a gasp. The beverage was tasty and warming, but strong.

He smiled and set down his cup. “Blended bourbon, actually. Would you prefer something else?”

She shook her head and took another sip. “It’s delicious. I just wasn’t expecting the up-front punch.”

“Just like you weren’t expecting all that talk about the film.”

“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said frankly, turning toward him.

His expression sobered.

She hadn’t meant to say her impulsive thought out loud. She cleared her throat and clutched the intoxicating beverage tighter in her hand. “I mean . . . I hadn’t put Jacob Latimer the icon and you together, when we met down there on the beach.”

“Icon,” he repeated slowly, that X-ray stare narrowing on her. “An icon is representative of something. What do you think I symbolize?”

She laughed but squirmed a little in her seat. “I don’t know. The American Dream, rags to riches, glamour and wealth, mystery and speculation, and—”

“Ill-gotten gains?” he murmured, his silky tone at odds with the sudden glacial quality of his eyes.

Jesus. The rumors about him being paranoid are true.

“I wasn’t going to say that,” she replied.

“I’m not a symbol of anything.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as if to calm a sudden rough chop of emotion. When he opened his eyelids, he once again seemed completely under control, if a little weary.

“I’m sorry if I seem suspicious,” he said slowly. “It’s a constant battle to keep my private life private. Cyril is interested in your story for the film, and I want to help him if I can. But I don’t usually allow the press into my home. The invitation was for you. Harper McFadden. Not a member of the press. I want to make that clear from the outset. From what I’ve learned about you, I assume you’d have the decency to tell me right now if you planned to print anything you learned here tonight.”

“I didn’t come here for that,” she said stiffly. “And you’re right. I’d tell you if I was planning on publishing anything about tonight. Or about you.”

He merely regarded her steadily for a moment by way of response, and then transferred his gaze to the fire. Her brief flash of annoyance in reaction to his suspicion seemed to drain away under the influence of the flames, the strong drink . . . and her heightened awareness of him. For a few moments, neither of them spoke.

“I can only imagine how hard it must be for you to live your life away from prying eyes, rumors, and misunderstandings,” she said at length. “But I’ll remind you that you were the one to ask me here tonight. I didn’t come with any underhanded motivations.”

“So you definitely didn’t come because of interest in doing a story on Jacob Latimer or Lattice?” he murmured.

“For the newspaper?”

His small shrug caused his jacket to brush lightly against her bare arm. A shiver of awareness passed through her. She glanced sideways at him. She hadn’t been able to discern it on the beach when he was wet, but his hair was somewhere between a dark ash blond and light ash brown. It blended ideally with his arresting eyes—all those colored shards of amber and brown, the green only adding another layer of complexity. He was almost alarmingly handsome.

“No,” she replied. “I always tell people when they say something along those lines: it’s like if you invited a food critic to your house for a dinner party, or a psychotherapist, or . . . anything, really. They aren’t going to publically critique your meal or waste time developing a personality assessment. I exist beyond my job, you know.”

“So why did you come?” he asked.

“I was interested. Who wouldn’t be curious? About this place. About you. I may not be planning on writing it, but I love a good story as much as anyone.”

His brows slanted. “What are you so curious about, exactly?”

“You’re awfully young,” she stated with blunt honesty.

“Age is relative, isn’t it? You’re young, too, to have found so much success in your chosen field, to have been given so many awards in journalism.”

A wave of warmth and relaxation went through her as she watched his mouth move. Her limbs tingled. The pleasant sensation somehow twined with his mellow, seductive voice. What was in this drink, she wondered, idly taking another sip. Liquid Xanax?

“Any success I’ve had is comprehensible,” she said after a short pause. “It followed a logical path. Your success is astronomical for someone so young and who, from what I understand, wasn’t born into wealth.” Despite her entrancement at his closeness, Ruth’s earlier references to his shrouded, possibly illegal rise to riches and power came to mind.

“So you’ve decided my success in the business world is illogical?”

“No,” she defended. “It’s just a glaring thing, isn’t it? You can’t be more than what . . . thirty-five?” she guesstimated. “And”—she waved around at the spectacular surroundings. “Anyone would be curious about how you got here. And I’m more curious than most, by nature. It’s an annoying, but unchangeable characteristic.”

“It’s what got you where you are today.”

“As the news editor at a paper with a circulation of all of thirty-five thousand?” she countered wryly.

He blinked. “I wouldn’t have thought the Gazette had that many.”

She laughed. He smiled full-out for the first time, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. Something hitched in her chest. There it was again. That crack in his armor. He really did shine bright, when he wasn’t so busy being paranoid.

“We all feel the need to hide away at times in our life. To forget the past. Surely you can understand that,” she said softly as their amusement faded.

Her heart thumped very loud in her ears for a suspended moment when he didn’t immediately reply. She was so sure she’d made another misstep, saying something so personal to such an aloof, private man.

“Where’s Charger?” she asked, referring to his energetic dog in a desperate attempt to change the subject when he continued not to speak.

“In the house.”

“Oh.”

He glanced away distractedly. An awkward silence ensued. Like she had on the beach, she had the impression he’d discounted her or lost interest. She started to set down her cider, assuming their conversation was coming to an end.

“Do you want to go see him and some of my other dogs?” he asked suddenly.

“You have several?”

He nodded, his expression completely sober.

“Uh . . . sure,” she said, taken off guard. But again, she was curious. Fascinated, in truth.

He nodded and stood smoothly, putting out a hand to help her stand. He headed toward the glass doors. She followed his tall form, feeling a little dazed. She understood how people could find him intimidating. He could be glacial. Impenetrable. Then she’d catch a glimpse of his warmth. His humanity. Raw sexuality twined with something she could only call a sweetness, impossible as that descriptor seemed given the rest of the package. It was the mystery of that paradox that had her tantalized. But she’d have to be careful.

A person could get dizzy and disoriented—maybe even lost—trying to figure out the puzzle of Jacob Latimer.