“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 expo
sing 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.