Oh yes, Julie cared. And Ty was extremely glad that she did.

He hadn't spent a lot of time feeling bad about himself or wishing he could be a different person. He'd grown immune to insults long ago. Growing up with a drunk in the house did that to a guy. But somehow, when she said he was worthless, it kind of grated. Just enough that he noticed. Sure, she was only a youthful infatuation made more important by the fact that he hadn't seen her again after their one rocking night together. But he still wanted to impress her. And not just with his car and his house and his bank account. That wasn't enough.

He was going to take her into his private sanctum beneath his house. No one, except the men who'd built it, had ever been below his garage. Ty had designed and furnished the space himself, to suit his needs on the days when he wasn't up for the party.

"So," she said, "where should we sit down to start ironing out your new schedule? We'll need to get your agent on the line, as well."

She was eyeing the large dining table, probably hoping she could sit at one end while he sat at the other.

Not a chance.

"I've got the perfect spot." He nearly laughed when she narrowed her eyes in suspicion. She always was a sharp one, and a babe with brains was a helluva combination.

"Follow me."

They wound through the house and into his spacious garage. He touched a button on the wall and a five-foot section of the floor slid open to reveal a marble staircase.

"Are you kidding?" she said, backing away in horror. "I'm not going to follow you down there." He laughed. "What do you think I'm going to do? Cut you up and store you in my freezer?"

"Of course not. But—"

Her cheeks grew pink and Ty filled in the blanks himself in his head. But you might kiss me and I might like it. And then we might end up with our clothes off. Again.

At some point they needed to have a discussion about their past. Big stuff had gone down and it couldn't be ignored forever. But it was too soon.

She was like a skittish horse, always on the verge of running. Fortunately, Ty was more than willing to be the Julie whisperer.

To say that she was nervous as she walked down the long flight of dimly lit stairs was an understatement. What if Ty was some kind of freak like Picasso and had filled the walls with all sorts of S and M pictures? What if he had S and M equipment down there? Julie wasn't sure what that entailed, but she was guessing that whips and chains and leather clothing with holes cut out in various places weren't too far off the mark.

She shivered. She should be horrified at the thought of Ty being into S and M. So why was she helplessly titillated by the thought of putting leather on for him? Of being tied to a bedpost while he watched?

Ty flicked the lights on, and Julie gasped in shock.

Warm, dark wood shelves surrounded the room and the thick leather-bound volumes seemed to be well-worn, their spines creased as if they'd been read time and time again. The walls held stunning artwork by Impressionist masters—Matisse, Degas, Renoir. She knew the difference between a print and an original canvas, and Ty's paintings were the real thing. She couldn't contain her wonder.

"Is that really a Rodin?"

He nodded and she somehow managed to pull her eyes away from the stunning treasures to look at

Ty. No one had ever surprised her so much before. She didn't know what to think, what to say.

"This sculpture is my most prized possession," he said, reverently running his fingertips over one ballet slipper of the two-foot-tall bronze sculpture of a ballerina. Where Julie had expected to see smug satisfaction was something else entirely: awe. Her traitorous heart leaped within her chest and it took everything Julie had to quell the beast inside her that wanted to love Ty again.

No, no, no!

Just because she was impressed with the things he possessed didn't mean she was impressed with him. How could he have possibly collected so many amazing things? Or had a designer told him that great artwork would impress his guests?

She shook her head. If that had been the case, he wouldn't have so many amazing modern works in the large room as well. His den bore the stamp of a man who knew exactly what he liked. She didn't like feeling as if she'd just found a piece that couldn't possibly fit the puzzle she had already completed. She didn't like to think that Ty could have another side or, God forbid, depth. She moved through the room, lingering over the books, the paintings, the other sculptures.

"Aren't you afraid your friends will ruin these during one of your parties?" She winced at her tone. She hadn't meant to sound so uptight, so prissy, but Ty had been throwing her off balance all day.

"What I mean is, everything in here is priceless. Amazing. I'd want to keep it all to myself." He remained standing in front of the Rodin. She was dying to look at the beautiful piece up close, which meant she had to stand next to him—a highly inadvisable move.

Ty waited to respond until she was merely inches away. "My friends have never been down here. No one else has ever been down here."

She frowned. "What are you talking about? You brought me." He smiled, and her breath whooshed right out of her body.

"I know," he said, and she swore to God that her knees went weak. Pathetic. She took a step back and then another, until she backed up into the lushest, softest crimson sofa in all creation. Even the furniture in this room beckoned to her, which was saying something, considering she'd always liked clean, contemporary lines. She sat down and closed her eyes in appreciation. No seat had ever felt this good, had ever cradled her better. Lord, things were far worse than she'd thought— she wasn't just falling for his art, she was getting a thing for his couch too!

"Comfortable, isn't it?" he asked, leaning against the bookshelves, his muscular, tanned arms crossed across his chest.

He looked like a lion in the heart of his lair, surveying all that was his with deep, unmitigated pleasure. Would he stroke her as reverently as he had the Rodin? Would he look at her with the same kind of wonder that he did his Monet?

Thankfully, the voice of self-preservation told her to reach into her briefcase for her "serious businesswoman" glasses so that they could work up the plan for his image reversal. Thereby getting her the hell out of his house in one piece.

Preferably with all of her clothes intact.

"Okay, then, why don't we get down to business?"

"With pleasure," he agreed. Though he sat on the facing couch and kicked his long legs up on the antique coffee table, she didn't trust him.

Not when the word "pleasure" sounded like a clear and direct invitation to sin. She pulled out a file of newspaper and magazine clippings. "Sean gave me this and said it would help me get a handle on your image thus far." She pulled out a particularly indicting photo of him locking lips with a mostly undressed brunette. "Impressive stuff." He grinned. "You're right. The doctor who created those breasts was an artist." She almost laughed, but she needed to straighten him up, not encourage him to be a jokester.

"My job is to stop photos like this from being printed. Do you know what the first step to that is?"

"Pay off the editors?"

"Don't be a smart-ass."

"Then don't ask dumb questions."

She sucked in a breath.

He took advantage of her momentary silence and moved to sit next to her. "Look, sweetheart," he said and she hated how much she liked it when he used an endearment, especially given that he'd just insulted her. "Neither of us are idiots."