“You got a minute?” He pulled the sunglasses from his face, slid one earpiece down the loose collar of his shirt and hooked them slightly left of his chin. He stared back at Clare through green eyes surrounded by thick lashes that she’d found so hard to resist as a little girl.

“Sure.” These days she didn’t have that problem, and stepped aside. “My friends are here and we’re just about to form a prayer circle. Come on in and we’ll pray for you.”

He laughed and walked in. “Sounds like my idea of good time.”

She shut the door behind him, and he followed her into the living room. Maddie and Adele looked up, their glasses suspended in midair, their conversation hung in mid-sentence. Clare could practically read the cartoon bubbles above their heads. The same “Whoa, baby” bubble she would have had over her head if she didn’t know Sebastian. But just because Maddie and Adele had paused to appreciate a good-looking man didn’t mean they were suckers for a pretty face and would start checking their breath or flipping their hair anytime soon. They weren’t that easy to impress. Especially Maddie, who viewed all men as potential offenders until proven otherwise.

“Sebastian, these are my friends,” Clare said as she crossed the room. The two women stood, and Clare looked at them as a stranger might. At Adele, with her long blond hair curling halfway down her back and magical turquoise-colored eyes that sometimes appeared more green than blue, depending on her mood. And Maddie, with her lush curves and Cindy Crawford mole at the corner of her full lips. Her friends were beautiful women, and around them she sometimes felt like the little girl with the tight braids and thick glasses. “Maddie Jones writes true crime under the pen name Madeline Dupree, and Adele Harris writes science fiction fantasy under her own name.”

While Sebastian shook the hand of each woman, he looked into their eyes and smiled, a smooth tilt of his mouth that might have charmed more susceptible women. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” he said, and sounded as if he meant it. The sudden appearance of his well-hidden manners was another shock to Clare. Almost as big as opening her door and seeing him on her porch.

“Sebastian is Leo Vaughan’s son,” she continued. Both women had been to her mother’s house on several occasions and had met Leo. “Sebastian is a journalist.” Since she’d invited him in, she supposed she would have to be hospitable. “Would you care for champagne?”

He removed his gaze from her friends and looked at her over his shoulder. “No, but I’ll take a beer if you have one.”

“Of course.”

“Who do you write for?” Maddie asked as she raised her glass to her lips.

“I’m primarily a freelancer, although these days I work for Newsweek. For the glossies, I’ve written pieces for Time, Rolling Stone, National Geographic,” he answered, listing his impressive bona fides as Clare left the room.

She grabbed a bottle of Lonny’s Hefeweizen from the refrigerator and popped the top. She could no longer hear what he said, just the low rumble and deep texture of his voice. For a year she’d lived with a man in the house, but having Sebastian in the next room felt very odd. He’d brought a different energy into her home. One she couldn’t put her finger on at the moment.

When she returned to the living room, he’d sat in her chair, relaxed and comfy, as if he wasn’t going anyplace soon. He obviously intended to stay longer than a “minute,” and Clare wondered what had brought him to her door.

Maddie and Adele were seated on the couch, listening to Sebastian’s journalistic tales. “A few months ago, I did a real interesting piece for Vanity Fair on a Manhattan art dealer who faked the histories of Egyptian antiquities in order to get around Egyptian export laws,” he said as she handed him the beer. He glanced up at her. “Thank you.”

“Would you like a glass?”

He looked the bottle over and read the label. “No, this is good,” he said, and Clare took a seat in one of the matching high-backed chairs. He crossed one foot over his knee and rested the bottle on the heel of his boot. “For a lot of years I bounced around from state to state and wrote articles for a lot of different news organizations, but I don’t write for the black-and-whites anymore.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “Not for a few years, since I was an embed with the First Battalion Fifth Marine Regiment during the invasion of Iraq.” He took a drink of his beer while Clare waited for him to get to the reason behind his visit. “How many books have you ladies published?” he asked, and Clare realized he wasn’t going to talk about why he’d appeared on her porch, leaving her to wonder but have absolutely no clue. Other than to drive her insane with speculations.

“Five,” Maddie answered. Adele had eight publishing credits to her name, and like a good reporter, Sebastian followed up each answer with another question. Within fifteen minutes the two women who were hard to impress had become willing victims of Sebastian’s born-again charm.

“Sebastian published a book about Afghanistan,” Clare felt compelled by good manners to point out. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall the name of your book.” It had been years since she’d borrowed it from Leo and read it.

“Fractured: Twenty Years of War in Afghanistan.”

“I remember that book,” Adele admitted.

“So do I,” Maddie added.

Clare was not surprised that her friends recalled it. It had taken up the top slots on the USA Today and New York Times best-seller lists for weeks. Authors didn’t tend to forget or easily forgive a list hog. Except Adele, apparently. Clare watched as her friend wound a spiral lock of hair around her finger.

“What was it like being embedded with the Marines?” Adele asked.

“Cramped. Dirty. Scary as hell. And those were the good days. For months after I returned to the States, I’d just stand outside and breathe in air that wasn’t permeated with powdered sand.” He paused, and a slight smile touched the corner of his mouth. “If you talk to the military guys who are home now, that’s one of the things they appreciate most. Dust-free air.”

Maddie studied Sebastian as he took a drink, and the suspicious scrutiny that she subjected upon all men melted from her brown eyes. “They all look so young.”

Sebastian licked the beer from his bottom lip, then said, “The sergeant who commanded the vehicle I rode in was twenty-eight. The youngest soldier was nineteen. I was the old guy, but they saved my ass on more than one occasion.” He pointed at the champagne bottle with his beer and changed the subject. “Are you ladies celebrating?”

Adele and Maddie looked at Clare but didn’t answer. “No,” Clare lied, and took a sip. She didn’t feel like sharing that afternoon’s doctor visit with Sebastian. He might look normal and talk like a regular guy, but she didn’t trust him. He’d come to her house because he wanted something. Something he didn’t want to discuss in front of her friends. “We always drink when we get together to pray.”

He glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes. He didn’t believe her, but didn’t press her either. Maddie raised her glass and asked, “How long have you known Clare?”

For several heartbeats Sebastian looked into Clare’s eyes before he turned his attention to the women across from him. “Let’s see. I was five or six the first time I spent the summer with my father. The first time I remember seeing her, she was wearing a little dress that was kind of gathered at the top.” He pointed to his chest with the mouth of his bottle. “And little girl socks that fold over around the ankles. She dressed like that for years.”

Growing up, she and her mother had fought a lot about clothing. “My mother was into smocked dresses and Mary Janes in a big way,” she said. “When I was ten it was pleated skirts.”

“You still wear a lot of dresses and skirts,” Adele pointed out.

“It’s what I’m used to, but as a child, I didn’t have a choice. My mother bought my clothes and I had to look perfect all the time. I was terrified of getting dirty.” She thought back and said, “The only time I got dirty was when Sebastian was around.”

He shrugged, clearly unrepentant. “You looked better messed up.”

Which showed his contrary nature. No one looked good messed up. Except maybe him. “When I visited my father,” Clare said, “he’d let me wear whatever I wanted. Of course, my clothes had to stay in Connecticut, so the next time I visited him they didn’t fit. My favorite was a Smurf T-shirt.” She remembered Smurfette and sighed. “But what I really wanted, and not even my father would get for me, was a ‘boy toy’ belt buckle like Madonna. I wanted one of those in the worst way.”

Maddie frowned. “I can’t imagine you ever wanting to be a boy toy.”

“I didn’t even know what it meant, but I thought Madonna was so cool rolling around in that wedding veil with all that gaudy costume jewelry hanging off her. I wasn’t allowed costume jewelry because Mother thinks it’s vulgar.” She looked at Sebastian and confessed, “I used to sneak into your father’s house when he was working and watch MTV.”

Tiny laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes. “Rebel.”

“Yeah, right. Rebel, that’s me. Remember when you taught me to play poker and you won all my money?”

“I remember. You cried, and my dad made me give it all back.”

“That’s because you told me we weren’t really playing for keeps. You lied.”

“Lied?” He took his foot from his knee, leaned forward and placed his forearms on his thighs. “No, I had an ulterior motive and big plans for that money.”

He’d always had an ulterior motive. “What plans?”

The bottle dangled from one hand between his knees as he thought a moment. “Well, I was ten, so I wasn’t into porn and alcohol yet.” He tapped the bottle against the leg of his cargo pants. “So, probably a stack of Mad magazines and a six-pack of Hires. I would have shared with you, if you hadn’t been such a crybaby.”