Always

  ALWAYS

  ❖

  Ginna Gray

  Chapter One

  A sudden wave of excitement rippled through the television studio. The gasps and shocked murmurs momentarily drowned out the mellifluous voice of Bob Hubbard, the local Dallas newsman who was master of ceremonies of the telethon.

  At first, Meghan McCall did not notice the hubbub. She was concentrating on the roster of performers and celebrities yet to come. After only a couple of seconds, however, the commotion penetrated, bringing her gaze up from the clipboard.

  Immediately her glance darted to the tote board at the back of the set. She had expected to see that the tally of pledges had topped their target goal of one million dollars, but the posted sum was still sitting at just over eight-hundred thousand.

  The initial outburst settled down somewhat, but everyone—the women in particular—was still abuzz, murmuring behind their hands and pointing, fluttering tike schoolgirls. Puzzled, Meghan looked around for the cause of the furor.

  Her eyes had barely made a half sweep of the studio when she spotted him.

  Meghan's heart lurched. She felt the blood drain from her face, and for a few terrible seconds she was sure she would faint.

  She groped behind her for support and her hand grasped the edge of a table. It was one in the long row that made up the lowest of four tiers of tables, at which dozens of volunteers sat manning telephones. Her heart beat with a slow thud that shook her whole body. Dry mouthed, she stand at the tall, dark-haired man talking to Dennis Townsend, the station manager. Several others stood with them, but she saw only one. She couldn't believe it. Rhys Morgan. There.

  Meghan closed her eyes. No wonder everyone had gotten flustered. Rhys Morgan was an international singing star, the biggest, hottest name in the business... not to mention every woman's dream lover. He was also the last man on earth with whom Meghan wanted to come face-to-face.

  She opened her eyes in time to see Dennis vigorously pump Rhys's hand. They had been joined by the chairman of the Children's Aid Fund, the local charity for which the telethon was raising money. Rhys said something and gestured toward the set, and Dennis beamed like a man who had just won a ten-million-dollar lottery. Meghan had a gut feeling his elation spelled trouble for her.

  The suspicion was confirmed an instant later when Dennis waved in her general direction. Rhys turned his head to follow the gesture, and Meghan's heart gave another lurch.

  Blessed hell. She shot away from the table and spun around. Keeping her head down and her back to the group on the other side of the studio, she scurried over to Olivia Nettles, the station employee whom Dennis had assigned to work as her assistant on the telethon.

  "Oh, Ms. McCall, did you see him?" the young woman gushed the instant Meghan reached her. "Isn't it exciting? I can't believe I'm actually standing in the same room with Rhys Morgan. Couldn't you just die!"

  Ignoring the giddy outburst, Meghan shoved her clipboard into Olivia's hands. "Here, take over for me."

  The plump little brunette's jaw dropped. "What! Me? You've got to be kidding! I couldn't possibly— Wait! Where're you going?"

  "Just keep everything rolling. I...I'm going to help man the phones."

  "But you can't leave me!" the younger woman wailed. "Ms. McCall, I can't handle this!" She turned in a circle, clutching the clipboard to her bosom. "Oh, my. What am I going to do?"

  "You'll manage fine, Livvy. We're almost to the end. All that's left are a few second sets."

  "But—"

  Meghan ignored her and scampered for the tiers of telephone banks to join the volunteers. Surely he wouldn't see her among the crowd.

  As a rule, Meghan did not believe in running away. It simply wasn't her nature. Whatever life dealt out, she stood her ground and stuck out her chin. In this instance, however, she was willing to abandon those high principles. She'd deal with her conscience later. This was Rhys Morgan.

  She hadn't clapped eyes on the man in eight years, and as far as she was concerned she could have foregone the pleasure at least another eighty.

  The only unmanned telephone in the gallery was on the end, on the second tier of tables. Meghan's heart was racing like a runaway train as she slipped into the seat.

  She felt guilty about leaving poor Livvy to cope alone. The lineup of performers and personalities appearing on the program included a few fairly well-known stars and a few not so well-known, but most were local talent. Still, pacifying the egos and pandering to the eccentricities of so many creative people was no easy chore. Which was one of the reasons the TV station was paying her—or rather the public relations firm that employed her—to handle the job. Poor Livvy, she was coming this way right now, looking as though she was about to have an anxiety attack.

  It couldn't be helped, though. With her hick, if she had stayed out there on the floor in plain sight, Dennis would have dragged her over to introduce her to Rhys. Meghan shivered at the thought.

  "Psst. Ms. McCall." Livvy rushed up to the edge of the phone gallery and shoved Meghan's purse into her hands. "Here, I brought you this. I knew you'd want to powder your nose and freshen your lipstick. You know, just in case you get to meet Mr. Morgan. Ohh, I'm so excited. Aren't you?"

  "Oh, my, yes. Thrilled," Meghan drawled, but her sarcasm was wasted on Liwy. The girl was already darting away.

  Meghan's telephone lines were quiet. Because it gave her something to do white also shielding her face, she followed Livvy's advice and pulled out her compact to check her appearance, and immediately wished she hadn't.

  She was so pale her skin looked like parchment against the surrounding frame of bright red hair. The faint splattering of freckles on her nose, which she usually managed to hide with a careful application of makeup, stood out sharply and her blue eyes had the glazed look of a cornered animal.

  And why not? That was exactly how she felt.

  She had never expected to see Rhys again. These days she hardly ever even thought of him. Damn him. Why did he have to show up now?

  Meghan sighed. She had known he was in town, of course. The papers had been full of news about his national tour, not to mention the ads on television. She had felt strange, knowing he was so near, but she had not been worried about running into him in a town as big and impersonal as Dallas.

  The previous night Rhys had given the second of his two performances in Dallas and he was to give two more in Fort Worth in a week. According to what she had read, the break had been planned into his schedule to allow him time to visit with his grandmother, who lived somewhere in the Dallas area. It had never occurred to Meghan that he would pay any notice to their local charity telethon.

  Meghan gave a weary sigh. It was just her luck that he would show up out of the blue on her last day at the station. It had taken her months of hard work to put the telethon together, but her assignment ended with the broadcast. As soon as they went off the air and she tied up a few last-minute details, she was outta there. If Rhys had delayed his visit by merely an hour, she would have been gone.

  Of course, she could be worried for nothing. It was possible he wouldn't remember her. She looked at her reflection again and muttered, "It's not as though you ever really meant anything to him, you know."

  It had been a long time. Over the past eight years Rhys had gone from being a nobody to being an international singing star. He had met hundreds—thousands—of women during that time. They packed his concerts and tossed their hotel keys onstage whenever he performed and threw themselves at him wherever he went. If newspaper accounts could be believed, he had been romantically involved with many of the world's most beautiful actresses and models. It was foolish—even ludicrous—to think that he would remember an eighteen-year-old tomboy from his college days.

  After powdering the offending
freckles and smoothing on fresh lipstick, Meghan shoved the compact back into her purse and stowed it beneath the table, just as Livvy came rushing back. The girl stood beside the tier and hopped from one foot to the other, so excited she could barely breathe.

  "Oh, Ms. McCall, you're not going to believe it! Mr. Morgan has volunteered to sing a couple of songs! Isn't that awesome?"

  "What? But that means no second numbers for some of the acts. Oh, great. Just great. Mr. Supermacho Stud decides to honor us with a couple of songs and we have to tell the other performers to kiss off. And I suppose he thinks we ought to all bow down with undying gratitude."

  Liwy gaped. She could not have looked more shocked and horrified had Meghan called the pope a pimp. "Ms. McCall! You... you act like you don't want him to perform. Don't tell me you don't like his singing! Everyone likes Rhys Morgan."

  Meghan liked his singing all right. In that regard, she was no more immune to the man than any other female between the ages of nine and ninety. Rhys possessed the kind of deep, sexy voice that stroked over a woman like warm velvet and made her feel all quivery inside. Her objection to his performing was strictly personal, but she could hardly admit that.

  "No. Of course I like his singing." Meghan patted the young woman's arm. "Don't mind me, Livvy. I'm just tired."

  The studio erupted with thunderous applause when Bob announced that Rhys had volunteered to perform, then a hush fell as he took his position.

  Centerstage, he lounged with one hip hitched on a tall stool, a mike in his hand, the picture of relaxed sophistication. He had shed the jacket he'd had on when he arrived. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up, drawing attention to beautifully masculine hands and forearms, the backs dusted with dark hair. The pale cotton set off his tanned skin and revealed broad shoulders that owed nothing to tailoring. He had left the top three buttons on the shirt undone, baring his throat and providing tantalizing glimpses of a manly chest and the silky thatch that covered it.

  His black hair was clipped shorter than it had been eight years ago and combed straight back from his face, but it was just as thick and luxuriant.

  That irritated Meghan immensely. It wasn't fair; if there were any justice in the world he would have developed a bald spot, maybe even a paunch—but oh, no, not Rhys. If anything, at age thirty-four, he was even better looking.

  The warm baritone voice poured from him effortlessly. As his sculpted lips formed the words of the love song, those famous, heavily lashed silver eyes gazed into the camera, languid and sizzling with a sensual promise that convinced every woman watching he was singing just for her.

  Around the studio the women sighed-and gazed at him with that lovesick expression Meghan knew all too well. Her mouth turned down. She had to admit his mellow tones were a delight to the ear, but she suspected that even if he had sounded like a bullfrog women everywhere would still be entranced.

  Rhys Morgan was male perfection—tall, lean and good-looking, with just enough ruggedness to his strong features to save him from being too handsome. And the man was so sexy he was lethal.

  Most enticing and exciting of all, despite that easy sophistication, that purposeful, almost brooding calm, women sensed something reckless about Rhys, something... dangerous and wild, as though lurking just below that veneer of polish was an untamed savage just waiting to break free. That primitive energy radiated from him like invisible heat waves and was irresistible to the female psyche.

  The power of his appeal was aptly demonstrated by the flurry of activity among the volunteers. The instant Rhys had begun to sing the telephones had lit up like the Las Vegas strip, and the calls were still pouring in. Behind him, the numbers on the tote board climbed at a feverish pace.

  The song came to an end to explosive applause from those in the studio, jarring Meghan out of her reverie.

  Rhys smiled and bowed and murmured his thanks. He nodded toward his pianist, and the man began the intro to another song. Meghan glanced at the clock. The telethon would end with this number, she realized, experiencing a fresh spurt of panic.

  The response to Rhys's performance had all the operators hopping. Meghan was so busy she barely had time to keep an eye on him. The figure on the tote board topped a million just seconds after Rhys finished his last song, and he joined in the cheers with everyone else in the studio.

  She had hoped Rhys would leave once he had done his part, but he merely moved to one side and stood in the shadows while Bob Hubbard wrapped up the show with effusive thanks to the viewers who had contributed and to all the people who had donated their time and talents. Those performers remaining at the studio joined him onstage when he called their names, including Rhys.

  To Meghan's horror, Bob then proceeded to thank everyone involved with the show, starting with her.

  When he said her name her heart skipped a beat, then began to thud so hard the sound reverberated in her ears. She almost missed the address of the caller she had on the line. Terrified, she watched Rhys as she scribbled down the required information, but not so much as a flicker of recognition appeared in his expression. Either he had not heard Bob over the hubbub or he had forgotten her. Meghan closed her eyes, relief pouring through her.

  For a while after they went off the air her strategy worked, allowing her to keep a low profile among the dozens of people manning the telephones. Gradually, however, the calls began to taper off, and one by one her co-workers deserted their posts to cluster around Rhys. Before long, Meghan found herself sitting alone.

  Her heart skittered when she realized how conspicuous she must look. Caught on the line with one of the last callers, she did not even have the option of slipping away. By the time she had all the needed information and bung up she was afraid to move for fear of drawing attention to herself.

  Keeping her head down, she shuffled papers and tried her best to appear busy—and hopefully invisible. Now and then she peeked at Rhys through her lashes and prayed he would leave. The chance of that happening anytime soon did not look promising. He was signing autographs, and the last time she had looked, the crowd around him was still three, deep.

  Outwardly, Meghan managed to appear oblivious to Rhys and the excitement his presence was generating. She gave the impression she was engrossed in the stacks of pledge cards she was needlessly putting into alphabetical order, but she was aware of him with every cell in her body. Her nerves were taut and humming and every last iota of her attention was centered on Rhys. So much so, she did not notice the man who sidled up next to the table.

  "You're wasting your time, babe."

  Meghan nearly jumped right out of her skin. She slapped her palm over her caroming heart and blinked up at him. "Par-pardon?"

  "I said you're wasting your time." The man smoothed back his thinning sandy hair and leaned a hip against the edge of the table. He slanted Meghan a sneering half smile. "Nice try, but you won't attract Rhys's attention by pretending you're not interested."

  "What! Now see here. I am not—''

  "Yeah, yeah. That's what they all say. Look, doll, do yourself a favor and give it up. Believe me, it's been tried before and it doesn't work." He subjected her to an appraising look, and his sneer grew nastier. "Anyway, take it from me, you aren't even his type."

  Meghan stared at him. The profound truth of his statement struck her as a cruel irony. She turned her head and looked across the studio at Rhys. Lord, no one knew that better than she. "I'm sure you're right, Mr.... ?"

  "Westfield. Quincy Westfield. I'm Rhys's manager."

  "Ah.. .I see. Well, Mr. Westfield, let me assure you, I am not interested in your client. The last thing I want is to attract Rhys Morgan's attention. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

  Quincy Westfield snorted. "Yeah. Right. Come on, babe. Who're you trying to kid? There's not a woman alive who wouldn't sell her soul for a chance at him. Just look at those women out there."

  Meghan gritted her teeth at his use of the words babe and doll, but she found herself following his
suggestion. Her gaze slid to the gaggle of females surrounding Rhys, then to the man himself. A tightness squeezed her chest as she stared at that dark head, bent over the autograph book he was signing. Oh, yes. There was something about Rhys all right—something dark and irresistible that drew women like moths to a flame. Meghan had experienced that compelling pull long ago and been badly burned for getting too close. She wasn't about to give in to that dangerous magnetism again.

  Rhys handed the book back and looked up. Over the heads of the women around him his gaze met Meghan's. She started and looked down quickly—but not quickly enough. In that brief instant she had seen his eyes widen.

  Oh, dear Lord. He recognized her. He did remember.

  "Yeah, the women love him. Rhys can have his pick of just about any female," Quincy Westfield nattered on beside her. Meghan no longer heard him.

  She kept her head down and breathed deeply, trying to calm her thundering heart. Please. Oh, please, God, make him pretend he didn't see me, she prayed frantically.