November Harlequin Presents 1(87)
Panic swirled through her mind.
She wouldn’t fit into his life.
He wouldn’t fit into hers.
Then overriding the panic came a fierce resolution.
Take now, and spin now out for as long as it feels right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE irritating buzz of the bedside telephone woke him. Peter quickly reached out and snatched up the receiver, not wanting Erin to be disturbed from her sleep. It had been a long night of the most sensual sex he’d ever experienced. The desire they stirred in each other was incredibly mutual and he wanted her to stay in his bed as long as he could keep her there.
The clock-radio read one minute past eight. His mother was nattering away on the telephone line. He muffled the voice noise with his hand as he slid swiftly from Erin’s side and strode out of the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath to quell his sharp annoyance at being called this early on a Sunday morning. If it wasn’t his mother…
He lifted the receiver to his ear and couldn’t quite keep an impatient terseness out of his voice as he demanded, “What’s up, Mum? Some emergency?”
A blank silence, then, “Haven’t you been listening, Peter?”
“I’m barely awake,” he said on an exasperated sigh.
“Then you don’t know that you and Erin Lavelle are front page news? They’ve even used a full colour photograph!”
“Oh, for pity’s sake! Haven’t they got better things to report than spotting me with a new woman.” He remembered photographers clicking away when his horse had won its maiden race and in the excitement of the win, he hadn’t thought to shield Erin from them.
“But she isn’t just any new woman, is she, dear?” his mother drawled pointedly.
“What do you mean by that?” he growled. Had the gossip merchants spun some stupid story about her? Something that would embarrass her at the preschool?
“I’d love to meet her, Peter. Do bring her out to lunch with us today.”
His mother’s enthusiasm struck an extremely false note. She didn’t hand out invitations at the drop of a hat. “Why do you want to meet her, Mum?” he asked warily. “We’ve only known each other a couple of days.” Usually he had to be attached to a woman for months before his mother began taking an interest in her.
“Darling, you go to any children’s wards in any hospital and Erin Lavelle’s books are there by the dozen. Her stories whisk even the sickest children off to a better place. They love them. Why wouldn’t I want to meet the author who can make them forget their misery?”
The author…
It took Peter’s mind several dazed moments to connect with this stunning information. Erin was not a preschool teacher. Her aunt ran the school and Erin had been with her in the park, but she’d been there to tell the children a story—a story they loved—a story she had written herself!
She knew he had assumed she worked at the school. Why not set him straight? He’d brought up the Princess of Evermore at the Thai restaurant—one of her favourite stories, she’d said—the perfect opening to tell him the truth. And yesterday at Randwick, when the director’s wife had queried her on her name, she could have explained to him afterwards that Erin Lavelle meant more than just a name to a hell of a lot of other people. Or when the horses had set her imagination running…she could have laid it out then. He’d asked her to.
He hated deception. What point was there in Erin hiding what she did? He wouldn’t have thought less of her. Yet she had deliberately held back on revealing her full identity. Over and over again!
“Peter?” his mother pushed, impatient with his silence.
He dragged his mind back to the lunch invitation. “I’ll have to discuss it with Erin, Mum.”
“Of course. Get back to me as soon as you can, dear.”
He re-entered his bedroom, checked that Erin was still fast asleep, grabbed a pair of shorts from his dressing room, pulled them on, then moved out again to ride the elevator down to the lobby of the apartment complex where he could pick up the Sunday newspaper that had uncovered Erin’s literary career.
No mistaking it.
The front page carried a full colour photograph of Erin stroking the horse that had won its maiden race—his horse—with himself standing by, smiling at her. The dip of her hat partially hid her face. Had she been aware of cameras clicking and turned aside to maintain privacy? Though apparently her name had been enough to set bells ringing in some reporter’s head.
The headline read—Famous Reclusive Author, Erin Lavelle, Outed By Peter Ramsey.
Famous… not to him because he’d taken no interest in children’s books since he was a child himself.