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  Her face lit up. As far as Meghan was concerned, she could not think of anything she'd like more. "Okay."

  She quickly stowed her bat and turned off the pitching machine. As she fell into step beside Rhys, for the first time she understood the expression "walking on air." Her feet barely touched the ground and her heart beat like a triphammer. The tightness in her chest was almost suffocating. She had never been so deliriously happy in her life.

  They walked in silence for a while. Up close, she realized that Rhys was even taller than she had first thought. He towered a good ten or eleven inches over her five-foot-three-inch frame.

  Hunching her shoulders, Meghan stuffed her hands into her jeans pockets and peeked at Rhys out of the corner of her eye. Her gaze traced his beautifully shaped nose and chiseled lips, the strong jaw shadowed with beard stubble. The sharp clarity of his profile took her breath away. Lord, he was handsome.

  "You work nights?" she asked finally.

  "Yeah. Well.. .1 guess some wouldn't call it work. Three nights a week I sing in a bar. A place called D'Angelo's. It's just a few blocks from hoe." He shrugged. "It helps pay the bills."

  "You're a singer! Wow."

  "For now. When I get my degree next spring I'll be a civil engineer. I hope."

  "Well, I think it's great. I've never known a professional singer before." Actually, when she thought about it, it seemed fitting that Rhys should have a glamorous job. He was so fantastic looking, she couldn't imagine him doing anything mundane or ordinary. She tried to picture him sitting behind a desk working a calculator, or whatever it was engineers did, but she couldn't. "I'd love to hear you sing sometime."

  "Oh, yeah?" He slanted her a look and grinned. "Tell you what, Slugger. I go on at nine. Drop by the club about a quarter till and I'll introduce you to some of my friends. They always commandeer a table down front. I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you joined them."

  "Really?

  "Sure." He looked her over once again. "That is...if you're legal. You are eighteen aren't you? They won't let you in the door if you're not.''

  "Of course," Meghan declared with an insulted huff. "I was eighteen ages ago." Actually, she had celebrated her birthday only a few weeks before, but Rhys didn't need to know that. Meghan had a feeling he looked on her as a kid, and she didn't want that at all.

  At the entrance to her dorm they parted company. "See you later," Rhys called over his shoulder and waved as he walked away. Reluctant to part from him, Meghan stood watching until he was out of sight. Then she dashed inside and up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  Impatient to be with Rhys again, Meghan arrived at D'Angelo's almost an hour early and sat in her car with the doors locked, fidgeting and checking her watch every twenty seconds. By eight-thirty she could not wait one minute more and climbed out.

  After suffering the humiliation of an age check at the door, she entered the dub with her heart banging so hard she was sure everyone in the place could hear it. She peered through the gloom of the dimly lit room and finally spotted Rhys at a large table by the stage with five or six other people.

  For a moment Meghan stared at him, transfixed. Dressed in dark slacks and a silky blue sports shirt, his thick hair combed away from his face and minus the bandanna, he looked even more breathtaking than he had earlier at the batting cages.

  Besides Rhys, there were two other young men who looked to be a couple of years younger than he, and three young women. Meghan gave them a cursory glance, but her gaze returned to Rhys like a homing pigeon.

  He spotted her and stood up as she approached the table. "Hey, Slugger, you made it." To her delight, he slung his arm around her shoulders and drew her forward to introduce her to his friends. Heart aflutter, Meghan leaned into his solid warmth, sure she had died and gone to heaven.

  "Guys, this is Meghan McCall, the girl I told you about. Over there, Slugger, is Brian Prescott and Jodie Fuller. And that's Gary Williams— He lives in my apartment complex. Next to him is Sandra Conners."

  They all smiled and offered greetings, and Meghan returned them. She would have preferred to have Rhys all to herself, but she was too happy to be anything other than gracious.

  "And I want you to meet someone special," Rhys said warmly. He took his arm from around Meghan, leaving her suddenly bereft, and put his hand on the shoulder of the third young woman. She was a gorgeous creature with long blond hair who smiled up at Rhys in a way that caused Meghan's chest to tighten. Before she could analyze the feeling, Rhys bent and gave the woman a lingering kiss on the lips. When he straightened he smiled at Meghan. "This is Connie Newcomb. My girlfriend."

  * * *

  Meghan's fingers stopped their rotating massage of her temples. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, rolling her head slightly against the back of the sofa. Even now, after all these years, the pain of that moment was a vivid memory. She had felt as though he'd had driven a stake through her heart.

  That was nothing, though, compared to the pain she had suffered later.

  She sat up abruptly. No. She wouldn't think about that now. Why torture herself? In a few days Rhys would leave Dallas. The odds of her ever running into him again were astronomical. It had been just a weird fluke this time.

  The weight that had been sitting on Meghan's chest ever since she had looked up and seen Rhys talking to the station manager suddenly lifted. She smiled to herself. What was she worrying about, anyway? She was home free; the telethon was over, she had survived the meeting with Rhys with no complications and it was behind her. The worst that could possibly happen had happened. She'd had her trial by fire and survived it just fine. There was no reason to keep beating herself over the head with what had happened eight years ago. At last, she could put Rhys and that whole humiliating period out of her mind once and for all.

  Meghan's cheery mood lasted through the remainder of the weekend and was still with her on Monday morning when she returned to work.

  She entered the offices of Jacobson and Howly with a bounce in her step, eager to get back to her normal routine, perhaps even receive another major assignment. Putting together the telethon and coordinating all the publicity had been an exhausting but satisfying job that had occupied all her time for the better part of a year. Now that it was over Meghan felt an enormous sense of pride and accomplishment, but she was ready to move on.

  To her delight, she had no sooner entered her cubicle than Carol Bleen, Wilson Howly's secretary, buzzed her to say that he wanted to see her in his office at once.

  After checking her makeup and giving her hair a quick brushing, refastening the clip at her crown that held the curly mane away from her face, she headed for her boss's office with a smile on her face.

  Wilson Howly, the president and surviving partner of Jacobson and Howly Public Relations was a stern but fair man, and as she entered his office Meghan expected to be greeted with a shower of congratulations and compliments for a job well done. What she did not expect was to find Rhys Morgan comfortably ensconced in one of the leather chairs before her boss's desk.

  He had his back partially to her and his identity did not register at first, not until he turned his head and smiled at her. She skidded to a halt three feet inside the door, her eyes wide with horror.

  "You. What're you doing here?"

  Rhys did not bat at eye at her hostile tone. "Mr. Howly and I have been discussing a business arrangement."

  "Business arrangement?" A little frisson slithered down Meghan's spine. "What kind of business arrangement?"

  "One that concerns you," Wilson boomed jovially. "It seems Mr. Morgan's publicist has been taken ill. The poor man has a bleeding ulcer and will be in the hospital for a few weeks. He's hiring our firm to take over his duties temporarily. So, go home and pack your bags, Meghan. You're going on tour with Mr. Morgan."

  Chapter Three

  "What!" Meghan's horrified gaze bounced from Wilson Howly to Rhys, then back. "You can't be serious!"

  "Oh, but I am. Qui
te serious," Rhys stated smoothly.

  "Yes, indeed," her boss verified. "But I understand your astonishment, my dear. I confess, I was just as pleasantly surprised when Mr. Morgan broached the matter to me. And even more surprised when he revealed that you two were old friends. Really, Meghan, you should have told me."

  "Actually...we were, uh.. .more like acquaintances," Meghan murmured, ignoring Rhys's raised eyebrow. "And that was a long time ago. But, look, Mr.Howly.. .about this touring assignment, I—"

  "Naturally I assured Mr. Morgan that we can provide whatever service he needs with no problem. Also, that he could not have chosen a better person than you for the job." Wilson beamed at Meghan as if he'd just presented her with her heart's desire.

  "But... why me? There must be someone else you can send. How about Frank? Or Bonnie? They've both been here longer and have more experience."

  During her plea, Wilson had begun to frown. He obviously had not expected any objections from her, and it was clear he was not pleased. Before he could respond, Rhys spoke up.

  "You're the one I want."

  Meghan's head snapped around. Her startled gaze collided with steady, pale eyes, and panic welled up inside her. "Wh-what?"

  Lounging back in the chair, his fingers laced together over his flat belly, Rhys regarded her with lazy speculation, a hint of a smile hovering around his mouth.

  Meghan gritted her teeth. She could have cheerfully bitten off her tongue. There had been a time when she would have sold her soul to hear those words from Rhys. And she had a terrible suspicion he knew it.

  "After you left the TV station on Saturday, Dennis Townsend sang your praises to high heaven. According to him, you're the brightest, most efficient, best organized PR person he's ever dealt with." Rhys spread his hands wide. "I figure, if I've got to have a substitute for my man, I might as well get the best. Besides, this will give us a chance to catch up on old times," he added softly.

  Meghan's heart skipped a beat. Not if she had anything to say about it.

  "Well, Meghan is certainly all those things." Wilson agreed heartily. "She's a real go-getter. You just put yourself in her hands and she'll have your tour running so smoothly you'll hardly know you've left home."

  "Good. I'm counting on it."

  Meghan twisted her fingers together and shifted from one foot to the other, her panic turning to desperation. "Mr. Howly, I can't possibly go on tour."

  "Of course you can. Id fact, the timing couldn't be better. The telethon is over and you're ready for a new assignment. Lori or Bonnie can handle your routine accounts while you're gone."

  "But... I've never done anything like this before."

  "What're you talking about? Just last year you did all the PR for that country singer...um...?" He snapped his fingers and groped for the name.

  "Tucker Lee," Meghan supplied with no enthusiasm.

  "Yeah, that's the one. You did a great job, too."

  "But that was all local. I really don't have that many contacts outside of Dallas."

  "No problem," Rhys interjected. "Chester is organized and efficient, too. He's already made all the arrangements, and everything you'll need, including names and phone numbers, is all written down in his appointment book. All you'll have to do is act as liaison and troubleshooter and follow the schedule he's mapped out."

  "If that's the case, why can't someone else in your entourage handle things?"

  "Meghan, what on earth is the matter with you, girl?" Wilson spoke pleasantly enough, but his voice had an edge and the glint in his eyes issued a warning. "If you're not careful you'll have Mr. Morgan thinking you don't want this assignment, and we certainly don't want that now, do we?" He tinned to Rhys with an apologetic smite. "That's not the case at all, I assure you."

  "I'm glad to hear that. But to answer your question, Meghan, I don't travel with an entourage. I like to keep my staff to a minimum. As a result, they all have too much to do to take on what is a demanding full-time job in addition to their other duties. Plus, none of them is qualified."

  "Well, don't you worry about a thing. We're delighted to have this chance to assist you, and rest assured, Meghan will do a first-rate job for you."

  "Good, then it's settled." Rhys rose and extended his hand to Wilson over the top of the desk. "It's been a pleasure." He turned to Meghan and grinned. "You've got only a couple of days to get ready, Slugger. I'm performing in Fort Worth Thursday and Friday. A limo will pick you up at your place around ten Wednesday morning. After Fort Worth, the bookings are scattered, so we'll fly in my jet."

  "But-"

  Rhys grinned. "Don't worry, I know how to find you. Mr. Howly has already given me your address. See you Wednesday morning."

  He was out the door before Meghan could stop him. When she started to follow, Wilson thwarted her.

  "Shut the door, Meghan and have a seat. You and I need to talk."

  "But-"

  "Now."

  Meghan sighed, but she did as he asked. When Wilson used that tone it was best not to argue.

  He braced his forearms on top of the desk. Across the wide expanse of mahogany his stern gaze pinned her to the chair. "Now then, young woman. I don't know what your problem is with Rhys Morgan. And frankly, I don't want to know," he added hurriedly, raising one hand to hush her when she opened her mouth. "The point is, this is a plum account for this firm. Not only will it be lucrative, but it's a feather in our cap to handle a tour for a superstar like Rhys Morgan. It could conceivably lead to big things when the word gets out. Opportunities like this don't occur very often. You, young woman, will not in any way do anything to jeopardize it. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, sir," Meghan whispered meekly.

  "Good. Now, then, Mr. Morgan specifically asked for you, and you he is going to get. So just haul your butt out of here and go home and pack your bags and do whatever else you need to do to be ready when he comes for you on Wednesday. You got that?"

  Meghan sighed. "Yes, sir."

  * * *

  "You did what ...?"

  "I said, I hired Meghan McCall to take over for Chester."

  Quincy Westfield gaped at Rhys. "I don't believe this. You went out and hired that green kid? Without even discussing it with me first?"

  "Meghan's not a kid. She's twenty-six, and according to several sources, she's one hell of a PR person. And let's get something straight, Quincy. I don't need your permission to hire or fire staff."

  Quincy's face suffused with angry color and his eyes flashed. "Dammit! If you were so hot to get in the broad's pants, why didn't you just tell me? I would have arranged a one-nighter with her for you. You sure as hell didn't have to put her on the payroll."

  In two strides, Rhys crossed the room, grabbed Quincy's shirtfront and jerked him up on his tiptoes. Lowering his head like a charging bull, he put his face within an inch of his manager's and snarled, "Don't talk about Meghan like that. She is not some cheap bimbo or music groupie. If you ever insult her again or malign her character in any way, so help me, you're out on your ear. You got that?"

  "Rhys! W-what are you saying? I've been your manager for eight years. I discovered you. If it weren't for me you'd still be singing in that two-bit bar in Austin. C'mon, buddy, you wouldn't dump me over a cheap—"

  Quincy broke off when Rhys's eyes narrowed. His fist tightened on the shirt, straining the silk material so tight across Quincy's throat he was almost choking. The older man paled, and his smile turned sickly. "Uh. ..that is...over some br— Uh, some girl you knew way back in your college days."

  Rhys stared into the other man's eyes and clenched his teeth. Damn him. Quincy was always pulling that routine. And it worked every time. He knew damned well he wouldn't fire him.

  Everything Quincy said was true: in one short year, he'd taken Rhys from obscurity to international stardom. Because of his manager's shrewd handling, Rhys had achieved more success than he had ever dreamed of, had made more money than he could spend in ten lifetimes. Rhys didn't parti
cularly like the man. He never had, really. But he had to admit Quincy was one helluva manager. He owed the guy.

  "You're right. I won't fire you," he admitted with a sigh and released him. As Quincy straightened his shirt a smug smile began to form on his lips, but it faded quickly when Rhys added, "But I'm warning you. I will beat the living hell out of you if you open your mouth about Meghan again."

  "Okay. Okay. I get the message. Hell, I didn't realize you had such strong feelings about the girl. Personally, I can't figure what you see in her. I mean, wholesome redheads don't rate real high on the sexy-babe scale. Look, I know you don't want my advice on this, but I feel I should point out that romance and business don't mix. Things could get sticky in one big hurry, if you get my drift."

  "If that's what's bothering you, you can stop worrying. There's nothing like that between Meghan and me. She's an old friend, but this is purely a business arrangement."