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game.”
    Jack sat himself beside her, scooting forward in his chair so his jean-clad knees touched her bare ones. A dart of heat arrowed from that contact straight to his groin, and he stifled a groan.
    She leaped up from her seat, murmuring, “I’d better stand so everyone can see the covers better.” Then she announced to the group, “This is book number one. Once you decide on the title, put a one next to it.”
    He watched her grab a book and hold it up. Black cover. Red letters. A knife dripping with blood. He scanned the list, and immediately put a firm “1” next to Midnight Terrors .
    “Second book!” she said.
    Pink and gray cover. A blindfold lying on rumpled sheets. His eyebrows raised, and he searched the list. He wrote “2” next to His Sweet Submissive .
    “Third book!”
    Blurry picture of a man from the chest down. Shirtless, sitting. A woman bent over his lap, clad in some sort of short negligee. Handprints on her ass. His breath caught at the image, even as he put a “3” next to Carnal Corrections . He looked up at Penelope to see her reaction. She was tormenting her poor lower lip with her teeth, and her cheeks had turned pink again. Not as pink as the cheeks on the cover, but still.
    He watched her for a long moment as the other pairs conferred over their lists. “Did you pick these books?” he asked, his voice pitched low.
    Her head dipped, and her cheeks reddened even more. “No. Angie did.”
    “The blonde librarian here earlier?”
    She nodded.
    “Do you recognize the covers anyway?”
    “Yes,” she whispered.
    “Because you’ve read them?” he asked, his body responding eagerly to the thought.
    “No!” she immediately protested, and then paused. Her next words came slowly, reluctantly. “Well, yes. Some of them. But they were on display for a couple of weeks, before the Board made Angie take them down. The covers are familiar.”
    The admission that she’d read some of the books had clearly come hard to her. He admired the fact that she hadn’t lied. Even though she easily could have, and he’d never have known.
    “The truth is important to you, isn’t it?” he asked.
    She turned to him, spearing him with her big brown eyes. “It’s everything. Without honesty, we can’t truly connect to other people. Can’t trust. And without trust, we have nothing but an illusion of intimacy.”
    Her words held conviction and pain, as well as a hint of anger. Hearing them, Jack felt a sinking feeling deep in his chest. Before him stood a woman who had clearly been hurt by lies and liars in her past. A woman who valued and displayed sincerity. A woman he wanted with increasing hunger. And he was lying to her about who and what he was.
    She didn’t realize he was John Williamson, author of one of her favorite books. If she’d known, he now understood that she’d have said something to him. Discreetly, just as she did everything. Even after just four hours in her company, he knew she wouldn’t alert the press. Wouldn’t spread gossip. She’d respect his privacy, just as she obviously respected her own.
    He was sure of it. Sure of her. But his certainty wasn’t enough to risk the well-being of his daughter. What if he was wrong? If reporters found out where he lived, he knew they’d resume hounding everyone in his family. They’d follow his daughter to school. They’d stake out his house again. They’d call Brenda for interviews. How could Casey ever have a normal childhood? What would that sort of scrutiny do to his mom? To him?
    But that wasn’t his only concern. It wasn’t even necessarily his biggest concern. Even if he dismissed all of his worries about the privacy of his family, even if he could somehow guarantee that she wouldn’t go to the media about him, he still couldn’t tell Penelope who he really was. Not without driving her away from him.
    She thought the man in front of her was Jack Williamson, small-town accountant, and she didn’t even want to talk