And it would be nice, having Ryan along for moral support. Her parents drove her nuts most of the time.

“Are you serious?” Ryan said, raising one brow.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” She shifted, lying down next to him and resting her head on his chest. “Sometimes I hate going home. My parents can be really difficult.”

“They can’t be as difficult as mine. Unless they’re both raging alcoholics too,” Ryan said dryly.

“No, not alcoholics. Just rich snobs.”

“How rich?”

Discomfort rose up her chest. “My dad owns the largest shipping company in the country.” She sighed. “Last year for my mother’s birthday, he bought her an island in the Mediterranean.”

“Liar.”

“I wish I was lying.”

Ryan whistled softly. “Wow. So that rich, huh?”

“Yep.” She hesitated, then decided to tell him. “And for the sake of full disclosure here, you should know that my ex runs my dad’s company, and my parents still think we’re getting married.”

His chest rumbled beneath her ear as he laughed. “Gee, I can’t wait to go home with you, Annie. It sounds like it’ll be a blast.”

“You don’t have to go,” she said quickly. “I’ll manage.”

Ryan rolled her over, so that she was on her back and he was leaning above her. His blue eyes searched her face, questioning, tender. “Do you want me to go home with you, Annabelle?”

She swallowed. “Yes,” she finally admitted.

“Then let’s call the airline.”

Okay, so he was in deep trouble. Ryan tried not to react as he slid into the plush leather backseat of the limousine Annabelle’s parents had sent for them. She’d called them with their flight information, and although she insisted they could take a cab to the Holmes house, Gregory and Sandra Holmes refused to be talked out of sending her a car. Yeah, some car.

He barely noticed the scenery whizzing past them outside, he was too busy staring at all the ridiculous luxuries in the back of the limo, like the two separate phone lines, the small plasma TV screen, oh, and the mini fridge. He’d been to the Bay Area a few times in his life, once to visit his grandmother, who’d lived there for a few years before moving to Florida, and once with some of the guys in his training class when he’d first joined the Navy. But he had a feeling Annabelle’s San Francisco was a lot different than the one he’d experienced.

He still wasn’t certain why he’d agreed to come with her. Never in his life had he met a girl’s family. Never. And Annabelle had already warned him that one, her parents wouldn’t be thrilled to see him, and two, her ex-fiancé would be there. Yet for some stupid reason, he’d come along anyway.

Okay, maybe not for a stupid reason. He’d come for Annabelle. Because she’d looked so panicked at the thought of coming home alone and facing Bryce, and Ryan hated seeing her in any kind of distress.

Which meant he was in trouble.

Usually, when he started caring too much about a woman, he cut and ran. He didn’t want a relationship—he’d seen firsthand how relationships destroyed people. His parents hated each other, they both drank themselves into a stupor just to tolerate each other’s company. Why would he ever want to put himself in that position? Yeah, maybe all relationships didn’t end up like his parents’, but why take the risk?

And now here he was, sitting in a limo on the way to Annabelle’s parents’ home, which was a total relationship move.

“We’re almost there,” Annabelle said, sounding unenthused as she gestured out the window.

Ryan followed her pointed finger, his eyes widening as the limo entered a gorgeous neighborhood overlooking the bay. Annabelle’s folks lived in Pacific Heights, an area filled with ritzy shops and stately homes that had survived the earthquake and fire of 1906. The entire area screamed money, and as the limo slowed in front of an enormous mansion that looked like a museum, Ryan knew he was officially out of his element.

Annabelle thanked the driver, while a speechless Ryan grabbed his overnight bag and followed her out of the limo. She hadn’t bothered to pack, saying all her “fancy” clothes were here at the house she’d grown up in. Now, Ryan looked at that house, unable to fathom the colossal palace before him. It was made of white limestone, and resembled a French chateau, with a pillared entrance and a million gleaming windows.

“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath.

“Don’t let the house intimidate you,” Annabelle said. Then she made a face. “My parents are the ones you should be scared of.”

And what do you know, she was absolutely right. A housekeeper wearing a black dress and white apron let them in at the massive front doors, and as they stepped onto the marble floor in the front parlor, a tall brunette wearing a cocktail dress and pearls floated down a winding staircase.

She was obviously Annabelle’s mother; the resemblance was uncanny. Only while her daughter’s eyes were full of fire and mischief, Sandra Holmes’ gaze was cool and appraising.

“Thank heavens you’re here,” Sandra said in a shrill voice, making no move to hug or kiss her daughter. “Dinner starts in an hour. You need to—” Annabelle’s mother wrinkled her nose in distaste, suddenly noticing Ryan. “And who might this be?”

“Mom, this is Ryan Evans, a friend of mine from San Diego.” Annabelle’s voice was sugary-sweet as she added, “I hope you don’t mind, but I invited him to dinner.”