She had bought this beach house four years ago. It suited her, right away from the bustle of major cities, especially for writing. She didn’t care if the animated film people thought she was some prima donna author, insisting that they travel to her for the consultation on how her story was to be brought to the big screen. At eight months’ pregnant, and determined on keeping that fact as private as possible, she didn’t want any fanfare about this meeting.
The publicity could come afterwards, when everything had been signed. No doubt her editor and agent would make the most of it, eager to push more book sales on the back of a film created by Zack Freeman who also happened to be an Australian, and top of the tree at delivering the best computerised special effects. He’d won two academy awards for his work. Apparently he was now putting his creativity into animated movies. Erin was looking forward to meeting him, wondering what he planned to do with her story.
The sound of cars pulling up in the street outside drew her down the hallway to the front door. A glance at her watch assured her it was time for her visitors to arrive, just a couple of minutes short of ten o’clock. They were all staying at the plush Bay Resort on Johnson Street and had probably already established an acquaintance, either last night or this morning. She took a deep breath, mentally put on her author hat, tried to forget how ungainly she looked with her hugely swollen belly, and opened the door.
Richard and Jane were alighting from the first car, a local taxi. Jane was dressed in her London black business suit even though it was November here in Australia, and so hot today at Byron Bay, Erin had dressed comfortably in a sleeveless cotton shift. However, she had the air-conditioning on so Jane shouldn’t suffer too much inside the house. Richard was in a suit, too, a grey pinstripe, very English.
Her gaze shifted to the second car, a white Mercedes. A tall, black-haired man, dressed in a lightweight grey suit, emerged from the front passenger seat. An even taller man, with dark blond hair and very broad shoulders underneath a tailored navy jacket, appeared from the driver’s side. He turned towards the house and Erin reeled back in shock.
Peter Ramsey!
Disbelief fought with unmistakable recognition. A tumult of emotions roared through her, putting knots in her stomach, squeezing her heart, shattering her mind. All throughout her pregnancy she’d struggled with facing him about his unplanned fatherhood, and now he was here, about to see what a short weekend of intimacy with her had wrought. He’d hate her for it, accuse her of all sorts of nasty things…
No-o-o-o-o-o….
The scream inside her head pushed her feet into spinning around, moving out of sight. Sheer panic pelted her down the hallway, the need to hide, to avoid this meeting at all costs churning through her. She was breathless, heaving in agitation as she stopped at the sliding glass doors at the far end of the living room, gripping the handles to yank them apart. Pain speared across her lower back.
This frantic activity was not good for her, not good for the baby. She leant her forehead against the glass, willing her insides to calm down. Enough reason filtered through the chaos in her mind to tell her it was madness to run anyway. They’d search for her if she was missing. This was an important business meeting. Millions of dollars were on the line. Richard and Jane had flown out from England for it. Escape simply wasn’t possible.
“Erin?”
Jane calling out for her.
She’d left the front door open.
No escape.
Her ears picked up some subdued chat between her visitors out on porch. Another call came, this time from Richard.
“Erin, are you there?”
She forced herself to answer. “Yes. Come on through.”
The pain was receding though it took an act of will to release the door handles and stand up straight. Jane was ushering the men into the living-room, talking brightly, diplomatically covering for their hostess’s lack of courtesy in not greeting them properly at the door. They had to be faced now. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and turned around.
Jane and Richard were a blur. So was Zack Freeman. Her eyes instantly focused on the father of her child, skating up from grey trousers, white shirt, navy and red striped silk tie, determined chin, no smile on his mouth, strong nose, riveting blue gaze which dropped from her face to the unmistakable evidence of full-blown pregnancy. His whole face tightened into grim shock.
“Erin, this is Zack Freeman who will be the creative director of the film,” Jane prattled in cheery introduction. “And Peter Ramsey who’ll be underwriting the cost of production. Erin Lavelle, gentlemen.”
The black-haired man was moving forward, offering his hand.