And yet look where that’s gotten you . . .

Pace glanced at the photo again, then into her face, his own simmering with something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but given his dark edginess, it certainly wasn’t a fairy tale. His eyes were opaque, and beneath his inky black lashes and the straight line of his brow, they swirled with her favorite thing—secrets.

Interesting. And a little disturbing. If she’d met a dead end, she could have gone back to Tommy and gotten a different assignment, something that would maybe somehow fulfill the empty spot deep inside her, eradicate the odd sense of restlessness that had been dogging her.

But she had a feeling this was no dead end.

Pace’s hair was longer now than in the picture, his face more tanned, but other than that, he looked the same, no digital doctoring required. He was, she found herself a little surprised to note, every bit as gorgeous in person. “It’s not for your autograph,” she said. “It’s research. I’m a writer.”

“A writer.” Crossing his arms, he leaned against the railing of the walkway and looked at her while she tried not to notice how tightly and leanly muscled he was, or how his arms appeared to be ripped and corded with strength.

“I’m doing a series on the Heat for American Online Living ,” she said. “Your publicist made an appointment with me for an interview and pictures.”

He didn’t respond, but she could almost hear the resounding “no” come from him nevertheless. “I watched you pitch today,” she said, figuring that might warm him up. People, especially men, liked to talk about themselves. Another lesson from good old mom—or more accurately, from the myriad of men she’d gone through.

But Pace didn’t warm up. In fact, it was as if he vanished. One moment he was standing there willing to sign his picture for her, and the next he’d completely closed himself off, eyes cold, mouth grim.

“That was a closed practice,” he finally said, sliding on a pair of mirrored Oakleys that probably cost more than her entire outfit. “You were trespassing.”

“I sat on the grassy hill outside the facility.”

“So you didn’t trespass, fine. You were still out of line.” He reshouldered his large duffel bag but then went still. Very still.

In pain still. And she instinctively took a step toward him. “You okay?”

Grinding his teeth, he held her off with a lifted hand. After letting out a careful breath, he turned and resumed walking.

There were other cars in the lot, including two cop cars. The police station was just up the street, and she’d learned that sometimes on breaks, the officers came to watch practices. Apparently that was okay. “Is it your arm?”

He kept walking.

“Your shoulder?”

More of his silence.