November Harlequin Presents 1(89)
“You started the role-playing, Peter,” she reminded him. “Offering to be my prince. And I let myself be sucked into it because I really did think you might be.”
A muscle in his cheek contracted. His eyes blazed with fierce resentment. “You knew what you were getting, Erin. I didn’t bypass any important facts about me.”
“Who really knows anybody?” she muttered derisively.
There were always—always— things hidden—things that came out to bite you when some emotional trigger was hit. She’d been subjected to this kind of angry man pride before and knew there was no fixing it, short of giving up writing and becoming a satellite to his interests. Erin gritted her teeth. Not even for this man would she give up her essential self.
She turned aside to gather up her clothes, and the David Jones bag that held what she’d worn on Friday night. Better to make her exit in the latter outfit, since yesterday’s made her too recognisable to anyone who’d seen the newspaper photograph. Which reminded her of the invitation it had instantly brought.
“I bet your mother wouldn’t have wanted to meet me if I wasn’t the author,” she slung at Peter who was watching her, his hands clenched at his sides, wanting to fight, but thwarted by a truth he couldn’t deny.
Having picked up everything she needed Erin headed back towards the ensuite bathroom. Her legs were like jelly but she forced them to take the necessary steps away from the tension-laden atmosphere of the bedroom—a bedroom that had been full of glorious pleasure last night, but which promised only pain this morning.
“Damn it, Erin! You could have told me!” he hurled after her.
She glanced back over her shoulder, her chin lifting defiantly at his angry challenge. “That would have changed your view of me. As it just has.”
“Blocking out a big part of you creates a false view,” he argued vehemently. “Why not give me the full picture?”
“Because one way or another it has tainted every relationship I’ve had since the roller-coaster success of my first book.” Her eyes mocked his lack of understanding. “I avoid the zoo, Peter, because I don’t like being the performing monkey, and that’s all people like your mother want of me.”
“That’s not true! My mother would have respected any line you drew.”
“Then I hope you’ll do the same, because I’m drawing the line on us right now.”
She stepped into the bathroom and quickly closed the door, leaning her head against it as a wave of nausea rolled through her. She hated being the author. Hated it, hated it, hated it. Yet there was no turning back the clock and she couldn’t deny that she loved writing the stories—the excitement of coming up with a new idea, the joy she had in putting the right words together, creating the rhythm that made the story flow so captivatingly.
It was a big part of her.
But there was the other part—the lonely child who’d wanted someone to love and cherish her. The author had grown out of that child, spinning dreams where whatever she wanted did happen. But it had never happened in real life. And wasn’t going to happen with Peter Ramsey.
Miserably accepting the inevitable, Erin pulled herself together enough to get dressed and stow the Randwick clothes in the carry bag. As she transferred the contents of the new black handbag to the tan one, her notebook reminded her that at least she had something to move onto. The Mythical Horses of Mirrima should consume her attention for months, giving her a fairly effective escape from brooding over broken dreams.
She took a deep breath, bracing herself to face Peter one last time. Make it quick, her mind dictated. Be dignified, don’t cry, and don’t get into any further argument. It’s over.
He wasn’t in the bedroom.
Having expected to run straight into another nerve-tearing confrontation, Erin paused to take stock of this different situation. Was he waiting for her in the living room downstairs? Had he decided there was nothing to be gained from fighting over something that couldn’t be changed anyhow?
A heaviness settled on her heart as her gaze drifted out to the balcony where…
He was there!
Her stomach instantly contracted.
Was he remembering what they’d done on Friday night, how they’d felt?
He was still wearing only a pair of shorts, his back turned to her, looking out to sea, hands gripping the railing. Every muscle of his powerful physique looked taut. So much strength—strength she had revelled in—yet he knew how to be gentle as well, and endearingly tender. The perfect lover for her.
Erin closed her eyes as beautiful memories clutched her own body, sending quivers down her thighs, stiffening her nipples, bringing a moist heat to her sex. She would never forget this man. What they’d shared had been very special. It didn’t matter that it had been driven by fantasy. The physical intimacy had been intensely real.