There was no use denying it. He wasn’t going to accept her word for anything. “Why did you?” she asked, needing some respite from being the accused, grabbing at the fact that he’d given no explanation of his actions.
“Why did I what?” he snapped, still in a towering rage over what she’d done.
“Set up this movie deal.”
He snorted derisively. “Oh, I had this brilliant idea that if I manipulated you into a situation where you had to sit down and talk to me, we might recapture the click we had when we were just a man and a woman.”
The acid sting of those last words—words she’d used to him—brought a rush of hot blood to her face, scorching her cheeks.
“Is that guilt making you blush, Erin?” he mocked. “Was that another lie to gloss over the deception about your identity?”
He was so cold, so relentless in his attack on her integrity. All she could do was shake her head.
He shook his, too, self-mockingly, reminding her of the lengths he’d gone to in order to connect with her again. It made no sense. He hadn’t liked her being an author who was more newsworthy than himself. Had her rejection of him rankled? Maybe no woman had ever walked out on Peter Ramsey. Was this an ego thing? Had he thought he could force her into accepting him again? On his terms, whatever they were?
“You’re very good at manipulating…” The way he’d worked the situation in the park with Dave Harper so he could draw her into meeting him. “Is this some dummy deal, designed solely to get at me, Peter?”
“No, it’s absolutely genuine. I wouldn’t involve other people in a dummy deal,” he shot back, resenting her attack on his integrity.
“Did you think your money, your power to make this happen, would make some difference to me?”
“After you refused to be my doll?” He rolled his eyes in contempt of her interpretation of his motives. “I’m not a complete idiot, Erin.”
“I don’t understand where you’re coming from,” she cried. Why would he set out to increase her fame as an author with a movie of one of her stories if he wanted to pursue a relationship with her? It would put the spotlight on Erin Lavelle wherever they went together.
“That is now totally irrelevant,” he said tersely. “There’s only one thing you need to understand, Erin.”
He walked towards her, aggressive purpose radiating from him, making her heart flutter with fear. This was the warrior unleashed, every atom of his being geared to fight. Against her.
A shaft of pain across her lower back increased the tension that was probably causing it. She fought the urge to double up and nurse it through. Pride forced her to stand upright, though she could not control the tremor that ran down her legs as Peter stopped directly in front of her, his big, powerful physique making her feel hopelessly weak.
His eyes burned into hers. He reached out and very deliberately spread a hand over her baby bulge, making her skin burn under the heat of its possessive claim. “You will not shut me out of my child’s life any longer,” he said, the hard edge of ruthlessness in his voice telling her she had no choice.
She couldn’t fight him. Didn’t really want to. He did have the right to know his child. But she couldn’t bear him thinking she’d meant to shut him out. It wasn’t true. She wouldn’t have done that. Yet how could she make him believe her?
Her whirling mind clutched at a little piece of evidence. “I was going to tell you, Peter. I’ll show you,” she threw at him, quickly side-stepping, sliding away from his touch, mentally pumping strength back into her legs as she charged across the living-room to the door leading to her study.
“Show me what?”
She ignored the question. He was hard on her heels, anyway. Seeing is believing, she thought wildly, flinging the study door open wide for him to follow and heading straight for her writing desk.
“Good God! Was this what you were thinking of when you were watching the races at Randwick?”
He had to be looking at the paintings of the winged horses, commissioned from the artist who illustrated her books. They were hanging on the study wall—inspiration while she’d been writing the story. “Yes. The Mythical Horses of Mirrima,” she answered distractedly. “You should have waited for that one if you want to make a movie of one of my books. It’s the best I’ve done.”
“You wrote a story while you were so concerned about your pregnancy?”
The harshly critical tone in his voice implied she’d lied about having complications, as well as everything else.
“Thinking up words is not exactly physical labour,” she retorted, flashing him a resentful look as she rounded the desk. “And it kept my mind off other things.”