November Harlequin Presents 1(88)

Reclusive… that could explain her reluctance to open up about herself, but why was she reclusive? Most authors surely courted publicity to promote their books.

Once back in his penthouse, Peter took the newspaper into his study and flipped over the pages to the cover story. Erin Lavelle’s first book had been phenomenally successful world-wide, spawning a huge market for character toys and games from the story she had created. Subsequent books had enormous print-runs, selling out almost as soon as they hit the shelves. But she had not granted any interviews since the flurry of publicity over the first book, preferring to keep her life absolutely private. Her agent had quoted her as saying, “My stories speak for themselves.”

There was the usual garbage about him—women he’d been involved with. According to the reporter, only his billionaire status could have drawn Erin Lavelle out in public with him. Which was ridiculous. She had to be very wealthy in her own right. More likely she hadn’t realised that being at Randwick with him would put her privacy at risk.

Different worlds…

Needing to know more about hers, he switched on his computer and did an Internet search on her name. She did not have a personal Web site but he got hits on her publisher’s site, her agent’s site and the marketing company, which had profitably exploited the popularity of her stories. Erin Lavelle was big business for a lot of people. Yet rather than bask in the spotlight of fame she had retreated to live in the shadows.

She wasn’t going to like being front page news. I have the right to keep my private life private. Fair enough, he reluctantly conceded, but the fact that she had kept her fame hidden from him—repeatedly—despite the intimacy they had shared—could mean only one thing. She viewed him—had from the start—as a very temporary item in her life, a brief side play that was never going to move to centre stage.

Frustration welled up in him. He wanted answers and he wanted them right now. Tense, angry, determined on confrontation, he grabbed the newspaper and charged upstairs with it, flinging the bedroom door open, only to be frustrated further by finding his bed empty of the woman he wanted to pin down.

Had she done a flit while he was in the study?

No, her clothes were still strewn around the floor. They’d been so hot for each other after the races, the only thought they’d had about clothes was to get them off. Did she only want him for the sex?

“Erin!”

He heard the harsh demand in his voice and told himself to calm down. Nothing was ever gained with an intemperate manner. She had to be in the bathroom. Any moment now she would come out…

The ensuite door opened.

She stepped into the bedroom, a towel draped around her body, droplets of water still clinging to her bare arms and legs, and her rainbow smile beaming at him, churning him up even further.

“Hi! I was just drying off. Woke up, found you gone, thought I’d have a shower.” Her gaze dropped to his hand. “Been out buying a newspaper?”

Everything about her seemed so natural. The urge to just shunt aside this whole identity issue and sweep her back into bed with him pumped through his body. But his mind insisted she had lied to him—lied by omission. How far would she have taken the deception?

“My mother called. Asked me to bring you to lunch with her,” he said, wanting to see Erin’s reaction to the invitation.

“Your mother?” It was a shock. Then came a puzzled frown. “When did you speak to her about me?”

It was impossible to tell if she was pleased or not at the prospect of meeting his family. Peter gave up trying to read her mind and tossed the newspaper on the bed, the front page carrying its own glaring message.

“She saw this!”



This…

Erin felt his anger. It was like an iron hand squeezing her heart. She knew something was terribly wrong even before her gaze fastened on the full page photograph and its telling caption. Then the realisation hit her with sickening certainty that the wonderful idyll with Peter Ramsey was over.

He didn’t like her being a famous author.

He didn’t like her being made the focal point of whatever story had been concocted in this newspaper, taking the limelight he was undoubtedly used to.

It always got to men.

They pretended it didn’t for a while but it always did.

A savagely mocking voice told her Peter Ramsey was no different, despite the ego-bulwark of his billions. He wasn’t big enough to accept everything about her, after all.

She flicked him a wry look. “I guess you liked the idea of Cinderella better.”

“Not particularly,” he shot back at her, his face hardening at her comment on him. “I prefer honesty to role-playing.”