For Joy's Sake. Tara Taylor Quinn
Julie had hired Hunter’s company—The Time of Your Life—to run her gala, and they’d been working closely together for months.
He knew nothing more about her now than he had when they’d first met.
Except that she was soft-spoken, often quiet, but when she had something to say he wanted to listen. She wasn’t pushy or aggressive, and yet she always managed to make things happen. She dressed more conservatively than any other woman he’d ever wanted to date. She’d never once mentioned that she lived in a mansion or that her trust fund was worth more than he’d ever had in all his investments combined. Her long dark hair was always contained. She had a smile that could melt ice.
And a scent that he dreamed about, waking up on more than one occasion expecting to smell it on the pillow beside him.
Oh, yeah, he had it bad.
But he wasn’t about to wallow in it.
He was The Time of Your Life guy.
And it was time for him to have a life.
Or something like that.
WITH ONE MISSION in mind—getting Brett to give him some information before they left that day—Hunter took a couple of quiet steps in the pristine grass. Trying to come up with a plan.
“She wasn’t at the wine tasting because she was busy elsewhere,” Brett said a good two minutes after either of them had spoken.
Hunter had spent the evening looking for her when he should’ve been courting new clients and had left with his hopes dashed.
“You know where she was?”
“Yeah.”
“But you aren’t saying.”
Brett stopped then and turned toward him. “Are you asking?”
He hadn’t said exactly what he wanted to know. Or why he was asking about Julie. A key miss on his part.
Brett Ackerman was not a man to hack around with. He had made a mint from one thing most people had but so rarely relied on—integrity. A mint. By being a man the entire country could trust.
Americans Against Prejudice was how Hunter had met him. Hunter’s business arranged charity fund-raising events. And Brett had just been starting to earn recognition in the field of charitable organizations. Hunter had withstood intense scrutiny from Brett on the first few occasions they’d met. He’d been completely open. With his books, his intentions, his plans. He’d been eager for Brett’s approval, truth be known.
The two had been in contact ever since.
“I’ve asked her out more times than I can count,” he confessed as they reached Brett’s golf ball.
Hunter might not be as wealthy as most of the men out on Santa Raquel’s most prestigious golf course that Saturday afternoon, but he had money. Good looks. And a knack for showing people a great time.
Brett swung. Hunter watched as his ball landed and rolled five feet closer to the green than his own. Didn’t matter, Hunter was there on one. It had taken Brett two.
“I’ve never been turned down for a date in my life,” he said, when Brett remained silent.
“So that’s what this is about?” Brett asked, bagging his iron. Slinging the strap of his golf bag over his shoulder, he started to walk again.
“That I’m bugged because she turns me down? I thought so at first.”
Glancing his way, Brett asked, “You don’t now?”
“Nope.”
“I can’t tell you much.”
He’d figured.
“Don’t even think about getting to her through Colin,” Brett said, his tone sounding almost as if he was enjoying himself. “She hates it when he sticks his nose in her business.”
Hunter had spent some time speaking with Colin the night before. Had liked him. A lot. And he’d obtained a promise from Colin to invite a group of handpicked clients to attend a dinner at Hunter’s expense, to allow Hunter to explain what he did and invite them to join his guest list. Wealthy individuals were always looking for charity tax write-offs, and he threw one hell of a party. It was a win-win.
“I left it alone,” he said now. He’d been tempted to ask Colin about Julie. Something had held him back.
Like the thought that Colin would warn him off his little sister and he didn’t want to piss the guy off by disregarding his advice.
At the edge of the green both men pulled out putters and dropped their bags. Waited while the two guys ahead of them took their putts.
“Julie’s not really in your league,” Brett said, serious again.
“I’m not after her money.” If Hunter hadn’t known Brett so well, he would’ve been more offended than he was. Still...
“I’m not talking about her money,” Brett said. “Julie’s...different.”
No shit. She wouldn’t be keeping him up nights if she weren’t. “I know.”
“She’s not a woman a guy’s going to have fun with.”
“I’m not out to take advantage of her.” Although he could forgive Brett a little more easily on that one. He liked to have a good time. So did many other people, including the women who liked to hang out with him.
“Is she seeing anyone?” He couldn’t stop himself from asking, in spite of how stupidly adolescent he felt.
Brett didn’t answer, and Hunter took that as a no. If she was involved, there’d be no reason he could think of to keep the information private. And in that case, she’d likely bring the guy to her upcoming gala.
“She’s careful.” Brett was staring at him now. And all of Hunter’s senses slowed.
They weren’t playing around here.
“She’s been hurt.” Brett didn’t look away as he spoke. “Badly.”
He continued to stand there.
“I just want to invite her out to dinner,” Hunter said. “To sit at a table with her and have some conversation.” Crazy thing was, his words were the complete truth.
He’d take more if it was given. A helluva lot more. He’d take anything she wanted to offer. But he really needed to talk with her, spend enough time with her to figure out why he couldn’t get her out of his head.
Brett’s expression changed. For a second there, Hunter thought he’d scored the big one. That Brett was going to give him his way in.
And then the other man walked off to sink his putt.
Hunter sank his, too. First try.
The other two in their party congratulated him. Fist-bumped him. Said they’d buy him a beer.
That was when he realized they’d just finished the eighteenth hole. They were done. His win was official.
He didn’t want a beer.
He wanted a date.
* * *
JULIE WAS AT the storyboard easel in her sitting room on Sunday afternoon when her cell rang. Colin and Chantel were at Chantel’s little apartment in town—the place she insisted on keeping so she didn’t completely lose herself in Colin’s opulence—vegging for the afternoon, and Julie had expected to work uninterrupted.
When she saw who the caller was—Hunter Rafferty, owner of The Time of Your Life—she debated whether or not to pick up.
She didn’t