Why is it we think we must handle everything alone?

For men, I’m guessing it’s the fear-of-vulnerability thing. But what’s up with us women? Just who are we trying to impress? We presumably have friends and/or family to lean on in times of need. So why is it so hard to do?

Or is it just me?

Chapter 10

Tanzy stared at her monitor for several long seconds, then hit save. Was this sending a potentially dangerous message to SoulM8? Admitting she was in a “time of need”? She silently argued that need came in many forms, and made the decision to let it stand.

Leaning back, she chewed on the straw in her second chocolate milkshake of the day—no sense in letting a perfectly good, state-of-the-art blender sit idle—and let her thoughts wander. She was lucky. She might not have the traditional family, but she did have friends. And solo single or not, they were her family and she knew they’d always be there for her.

So what if their group conversations occasionally shifted to topics she had nothing to contribute to? She supposed Mariel would feel the same way when she was the only one with a baby.

Of course, it wouldn’t be too much longer before that didn’t hold true, either. Sue and Paul had been making nesting noises for the past year. And just watching Sue rhapsodize over gender-neutral nursery color schemes pretty much guaranteed the baby-making process was going to start any minute now.

Tanzy couldn’t picture Rina, or for that matter Sloan, doing the mommy thing, but stranger things had been known to happen. She tried to picture Wolfie Jr.’s probable nursery décor and decided it might give her nightmares. Poor Wolfie Jr. Of course, given what Rina had told her, it was unlikely there was ever going to be a Wolfie Jr. She sighed, remembering when Sloan had first found out about Wolfgang’s extracurricular activity—and clueless, self-absorbed idiot that he was, he had actually talked about starting a family as a way to reunify their marriage. Yeah, a squalling newborn would be just the thing to put the romance back in their relationship.

Which made her wonder for the umpteenth time what in the hell Sloan had been doing at the Huntington with Blond Adonis Man. Of course, Wolfgang didn’t have the market cornered on self-absorption in that relationship; Sloan was very intensely dedicated to her art gallery. But, as far as Tanzy knew, he had been the only adulterous one.

She made a mental note to call Sloan in the morning, pin her down to sharing a drink or quick cup of coffee. Even if it meant cornering her in the gallery. That’s what friends did, right? Provided a shoulder, even when one wasn’t requested? Or maybe even desired?

Which brought her full circle back to the friendship thing and the concern Rina and Sue had shown today. She honestly hadn’t planned to talk about it, but their reaction had only proven that she was officially beyond being able to rationalize the situation out of existence. She had to deal with it now. Somehow.

She logged on so she could send her column to Martin. She’d have to tell him now, about the emails, the note, all of it. And she would. Tomorrow, when he called to discuss the column. Then she supposed she needed to call the local authorities, too, alert them to what was going on. She punched send, trying to figure out just how to broach the whole subject with her editor. Her instinct, of course, was to downplay the whole thing, reassure him it was probably nothing, and hope like hell he agreed.

Then she opened her incoming email file and felt her stomach pitch and squeeze as she scrolled down through the list of sender names. Just the thought that another note might be waiting for her every time she signed on made her feel ill. And she knew she was going to have to admit to Martin that it wasn’t nothing and she wasn’t fine. She needed help.

And she hated that more than anything.

She was the anchor, the person who was traditionally The Shoulder the rest of them leaned on. After all, Tanzy Tells All was the one with all the answers, right? “Ha!” she groused, snatching up her milkshake again. Not feeling too damn clever at the moment, are ya?

And could anyone blame her? Nothing was making sense anymore. Rina had given up on love, deciding marrying for money was a more stable option, no matter what she claimed. Mariel had married for love, but Tanzy wasn’t sure if it was love for Chuck or love of being a wife and mommy. And Sloan had apparently decided if you couldn’t beat the wolves, join them. Leaving Sue and Paul, who had somehow defied the odds and were rapidly becoming responsible, contented adults despite it all. Before too long they’d probably take off to spend their time with the rest of the grown-ups and leave their neurotic, dysfunctional friends behind.

“God, Tanz. You want some cheese to go with that whine?” She wasn’t usually this pathetic. But then, she wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable. The one thing her unstable, untraditional childhood had done for her was to make her the invincible, self-reliant one. So finding herself on the needy end of a shoulder for the first time at age twenty-nine sucked.

And that was when she realized just whose shoulder she’d feel the most comfortable turning to.

Riley’s.

And not because of the strong, tall, and silent thing. She did have a habit of turning to men in times of need, but those needs were generally physical, not emotional. And while she was past the point of ignoring that she might have a few urges of the physical variety where Riley was concerned, that wasn’t why his name had popped into her mind.

She couldn’t help but wonder how nice it would be to know his calm, rational, ever-steady presence would always be available to her. She wasted another moment wondering at the concept of having a guy for a buddy, then laughed. “Yeah, that could happen.”

For someone else maybe. Hell, he was a sheep and she still had the hots for him. She was apparently missing the platonic gene. If she tried to pursue the friendship thing with him, she knew damn well that at some point she’d give in to her inner wolf and seduce him into taking her to bed . . . or up against the wall . . . or . . . whatever.

She had a delicious little shiver of awareness at the thought of him putting his hands on her, taking her as confidently as he’d put her into that limo . . . hell, taking her in the limo. She shook her head with a dry smile and sadly came back to reality. Of course, it wouldn’t be like that, all hot and sweaty and demanding. With Riley it would probably be gentle and caring and maybe wonderful even, in its own way. But as novel as the idea of gentle, caring sex was, or the surprising realization that she might actually enjoy it—once, anyway—at some point it wouldn’t be enough. She’d want more. Harder, faster, stronger. She’d want what it wasn’t in him to give.

Then she’d be in the awkward position of wishing he was just her friend again and, well, bottom-lining it, she’d end up ruining everything.

But none of that changed the fact that he was the one she wanted to talk to now. He was the only one she could discuss all of this with and know that instead of panic and overreaction, he’d calmly sort it out and come up with some cool, logical solution. And she would trust his judgment. He would make her feel safe.

There, she’d gone from ridiculous to insane. She better than most knew it was the height of foolishness to depend on a man like that. Or anyone, for that matter. Look where that had gotten her mother. Where it still had her mother. Traipsing around the globe after the next shoulder to lean on.

Annoyed with herself for letting those thoughts surface, Tanzy finished off her now watery milkshake and shut her computer down. She wasn’t up to facing emails tonight. She would take a warm shower and climb into bed, maybe dig into a book or flip through a magazine.

What she wouldn’t do was wander out into the hall and see if the light was still on under Riley’s door.

Because she’d be knocking on it a moment later. And which Riley would she want to open the door? Friend? Or potential lover?

“Neither,” she told herself sternly. “Employee. That’s all he is.” All he’ll ever be. The only reason he’s even in your life at all.

She made a mental note to never agree to anything Millicent suggested ever again. Surely if she was home in her little Russian Hill row house right now she’d have a much better grip on all this.

One thing was for sure. If she were at home, she wouldn’t be thinking about Riley. Certainly wouldn’t be thinking she needed him. Emotionally or physically. Definitely wouldn’t be thinking about those lips of his, how surprisingly much she’d wanted—ached, even—to have them on her. Wanted his hands on her, too. Wanted—

A knock sounded on her bedroom door and she jumped. Then flushed hotly when she heard his voice on the other side of her door.

“Tanzy?”

Annoyed at her guilty reaction—What did she have to feel guilty about? She hadn’t gone to him, had she?—she looked up at the ceiling. “What is this, a test?” A ring of fat, sassy cherubs were smirking back at her. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “Very funny.”

He tapped again. “Tanzy? It’s Riley.”

And who else would it be? she grumbled silently. And why did hearing him say her name in that rumbly deep voice of his make that buzzy little hum scoot down her spine again? Surely he’d said her name before.

Thinking about it, though, she decided maybe he hadn’t. Hmm. Why now? And why did he want to talk to her at—she glanced at the clock—almost midnight? He’d never come to her room before. Shoot, she barely saw him in the rest of the house. She’d spent more time with him in the past twenty-four hours than in the entire couple of weeks she’d been here combined. But they had spent a lot of time together since last night. And last night he had kissed her hand. And now he was at her door. At midnight.

As a friend? Or potential lover?

“Don’t forget door number three,” she reminded herself pointedly as her pulse sped up. Employee. She left her office and crossed to her bedroom door.

“Yes?” she asked, keeping the door closed between them. Partly because she was wearing her usual late-night working attire: a well-worn Niners football jersey, ancient slippers, no makeup, and a hairstyle that could only kindly be described as bedhead chic. Cameron Diaz might be able to pull it off, but on Tanzy Harrington . . . not even a Dolce & Gabbana gown would save her with this ’do.

But her shabby-chic fashion sense notwithstanding, mostly she kept the door shut because she wanted so badly to open it. To do exactly what she’d just convinced herself she could never do. To push this tension between them that she knew damn well was becoming increasingly sexual.

“What do you want?” she asked, her hand clenched in an indecisive death grip on the doorknob.

“I need to talk to you.”

That made her pause. For all that he didn’t sound alarmed, he didn’t sound like her Riley, either. Her Riley.

That was hardly the case.

Hadn’t he pointed out, very clearly in fact, just this morning, that she really didn’t know anything about him?

Well, you could change that. Just open the door.

“It’s late,” she hedged, hand clenching and unclenching the knob. And I’m right on the verge of opening this door and dragging you in here by the lapels of your perfectly pressed jammies.

She heard him clear his throat.

Which meant what? Was he nervous about something? Was that why his outrageously sexy voice sounded so uncharacteristically edgy and therefore even more multiorgasmic? Was he standing there, not two inches from her right this very second, wanting what she wanted?

Why else would he be at her door at this time of night?

She was turning the knob before she could come up with all the arguments for why she should be locking it instead.

Then he said, “If it’s not too much trouble, could you meet me downstairs?”

And her hand fell away from the knob as she stood there, stunned. Would she ever read this man correctly? First his feet were killing him, now he wanted to chat in the kitchen. Probably over warm milk. “So, it was door number three after all,” she muttered, then to him she said, “Is it that important?” She sounded a bit pissy now and she didn’t care. So what if he’d simply asked to speak to her and she’d been the one running off on some wild sexual-fantasy scenario? “Can’t this wait until morning? I was just going to bed.” Alone. Again. Dammit.

“Yes. Yes, it can.”

She paused again, surprised by the annoyance in his tone. Why on earth was he annoyed at her?

“Good night,” he said abruptly, sounding frustrated and somewhat, well, angry.

“Hey!” she called out defensively, “I didn’t ask you to come banging on my door in the middle of the night.” She flung said door wide open and stepped—okay, stomped—into the hall. “So why in hell are you irritated with me?”

He stopped, turned, but said nothing. And neither did she. It was impossible, what with her tongue lodged in her throat and all.

Because Riley—her Riley, anyway—was not the Riley currently standing in the hall outside her door. This Riley . . . well, she must still be in sexual fantasyland.

She gawked. She couldn’t help it. But since she was obviously hallucinating, what did it matter, right? First off, he had a five o’clock shadow. It did amazing things to his jawline. And his hair. It wasn’t parted on the side and ruthlessly combed into place. It was . . . tousled. Wavy, sexy, wolfish even. But what really struck her was the combination of the hair and the bristle with the fact that he’d left his glasses in his room.

Dear God, the man was a hunk.

She was hallucinating!

Then she realized that he was staring at her just as intently as she was staring at him. She was still so caught up in his transformation that she forgot what she was wearing, or that she should be mortified. But this was her fantasy, so who cared how she looked?

Then he raked a hand through his hair and swore beneath his breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry. We’ll talk in the morning.”

It was such a frustrated, totally un-Riley-like gesture that she snapped out of her hormonal daze and stepped toward him. “Wait a minute.”

He paused, but didn’t turn this time.

That’s when she realized he was wearing sweats. Sweatpants. Riley. It simply didn’t compute. Like picturing him naked in the shower.

And damn if they didn’t look good on him. Then there was the faded blue muscle T-shirt . . . and damn if the man didn’t have a chest under those suits, as well. And shoulders. And—dear God have mercy—triceps. She was a sucker for well-defined arms, and his were so nice they’d tempt even a good girl to want to run her tongue right along the lovely indentation, right beneath those—

“What?”

She blinked, trying like hell to remember what it was she’d said. Jesus, she felt like she’d been ambushed. Did he always look like this during his off hours? “Uh. Why, um . . .” She had to pause, claw her libido from her throat. It took a great deal of willpower to stay where she was. Normally, with the tension arcing like this—and honestly, had tension ever arced like this?—she’d have upped her advantage considerably by closing in on his personal space. She wouldn’t have even thought about it. It was instinctive prowling behavior.

She gripped the doorframe. “Is there an emergency of some kind?” Like, you simply had to come give me multiple orgasms or die with wanting?

“No,” he said after what felt like an eternity. His voice was as rough and raspy as his jaw. And it abraded her senses just like his whiskers would abrade her neck. Or stomach. Or inner thighs . . .

She clenched her teeth against the little moan threatening to slip out. And clenched her thighs together for good measure. Just go into your room and close the door. This is simply a late-night aberration. She’d never forgive herself if she acted on impulses that would go away with a good night’s sleep.

Her libido just snorted. She would have, too. But Riley was turning to face her. And every muscle in her body tightened in anticipation.

“It’s about the fan letter,” he said.

Every muscle went slack. And the breath she’d been holding came out in a whoosh of disappointment and disgust. The latter self-directed. Mostly. “Well, at least you didn’t say your feet were killing you,” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Which was exactly what was ever going to happen between them. Nothing. And she’d be smart, not to mention a damn sight less sexually frustrated, if she could just get that one simple message through her thick, hormonally fogged brain.

“We need to talk about it,” he reiterated, frowning now.

“I don’t think you need to worry about that. It’s not really your concern,” she said, blunt to the point of rudeness. No matter that she’d just been thinking about discussing that very thing with him. It had obviously been a rationalization for giving herself a shot at seducing him. Which was never going to happen. Ever. God only knew what ego-mortifying thing he’d blurt out then. And she’d be damned if she’d give him another chance.

“Actually,” he said, surprising her with the challenging tone. “We do need to discuss it, and we will. Just not tonight. I’m sorry I bothered you. Good night.” He turned and walked down the hallway toward his room.

Well, that snapped it. She was after him before she knew what she was doing. Her hand was on his arm, stopping him, turning him around, before she could question her judgment. Or lack thereof. “Just who in the hell do you think you are?” she demanded, and realized once she had just how badly she wanted an answer to that. Because it was clear he’d been very right. She had no idea who he really was.

He carefully took her hand from his arm, almost too carefully. A glance from his hand on her wrist to his face revealed the tic of a pulse at his temple, the tightened skin at the corner of his jaw.

“We’re going to talk about that, too,” he said calmly. Only this controlled calm was nothing like the smooth, emotionally removed tone she’d heard from him before.

“But we’re not going to do it here, and we’re not going to do it now.” He took a step back and it was like a shield dropped over him. “I’m sorry I bothered you with it tonight. It will wait until morning.”

But no matter that it was the old Riley talking, it wasn’t the old Riley standing in front of her. When he turned, she moved to block his exit. “You just expect me to waltz back in my room and go to bed like a good little girl? After this . . . this little display?” She waved her hand, gesturing toward his hair, clothes, the whole thing. “I don’t think so.”

He shocked her by moving deeply into her personal space, so deeply she had to tip her head back to look up into his face. Had he always been this tall? Or maybe it was just that she’d never faced him down in bunny slippers.

“If we both know what’s good for us,” he said quietly, “we’ll go back to our separate rooms. And stay there until morning. Because we both know you’re not a good little girl.” He stepped back. “And though you might not believe it, I was never all that good of a little boy.”

His door shut moments later with a quiet little click, leaving Tanzy standing in the hall, mouth hanging, wondering what in the hell she was going to do about it.