The Billionaire's Captive Bride(17)

"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.

If she walked out there and touched him as she had on their first night … could he-would he-put the author thing aside?

Another fantasy, Erin, her mind savagely chided. It lay between them now. Nothing would be the same as before.

Heaving a desolate sigh, she forced her eyes open. Peter hadn't moved.  Was his back a message in itself?-I'm out of your way. Go!

It was probably the best thing to do, but she couldn't bring herself to  sneak out without at least saying goodbye. Peter had given her much of  himself and that deserved some recognition and appreciation. He was a  good man. He just wasn't accustomed to having his top gun status taken  by a woman.

She walked over to the opened doorway to the balcony, close enough to  speak, but leaving a fair distance between them. "Peter … " she called  softly, hoping his anger had cooled a little.

He turned slowly, eyeing her up and down as he settled to leaning back  against the railing, his arms folded forbiddingly across his  magnificently sculptured chest. Her appearance in the green, lemon and  lime dress did not ignite one spark of desire. It was patently clear  that a wall of hard pride ensured she didn't reach him in any way  whatsoever. Indeed, the blue eyes were so cold a little shiver ran down  Erin's spine.

"Was going to a party on Friday night a lie, too?" he asked sardonically.

"Yes," she admitted. "I set out to make myself as attractive as I could,  but you didn't seem to like what was probably too obvious an effort, so  I made up an excuse for it."

He nodded, as though she was only confirming what he'd already worked out. "You wanted some playtime with me."

Erin frowned over his choice of words. "I wanted the man I'd met in the  park to want me because I found him very attractive. I wasn't thinking  in terms of playtime."

"You didn't give a real relationship between us a chance," he mocked  accusingly. "You're drawing the line because it's not playtime anymore."

"I took the chance you gave me, Peter, because in my heart of hearts, I did want it to be real."

He shook his head. "You can't build anything real on deception. Every time I tried to make progress with you, you shut me out."

That was probably fair comment from his point of view, yet Erin knew  only too well why she'd done what she'd done. "I was trying to hang onto  what we had together. Just a man and a woman. Not the billionaire and  the author."

Her sad irony was lost on him.

"But it always had an ending in your mind," he replied cuttingly. "You  didn't trust me to take the author on board and deal with your world."

"I hoped you would," she said quietly, her whole body aching from the  loss of that hope. He was attacking her on deception because he didn't  want to deal with her world. It was easier to paint her black than to  look into himself and acknowledge he wasn't big enough to take on all  that she was.

He stared at her, the twin blue lasers of his eyes stabbing hard,  transmitting his disbelief in the hope she had just expressed. Erin gave  up, her hand lifting to communicate the futility of any further talk,  gesturing her helplessness to save the situation.

"I'm sorry you imagined something different, Peter. I just wanted to thank you for all you did give me."         

     



 

His mouth thinned into a grim line as though he was refusing to let what  they'd shared be worth anything. Erin sensed he was too deeply into  painting her black to even see there could be other colours.

"Goodbye," she said and turned away quickly, wanting to run, run so fast  her heart would pump out the awful weight of misery it was carrying.  Somehow she managed to hold her legs to a reasonably steady walk across  the bedroom to the door, which would lead to her exit from his life.

She fiercely willed Peter to remain silent, to simply let her go.

He did.

It wasn't a good silence. It pulsed with violent feelings that were  being forcibly repressed. Peter Ramsey felt ill-used by her and he hated  it with a vengeance. Erin hated him feeling like that-she'd loved the  man who had made love to her. But she couldn't change what was  unchangeable and the fantasy was over.

There could be no transition to real life.

The billionaire and the author did not click.





CHAPTER NINE




HER little fling …

Peter seethed over being cast for that role by Erin Lavelle. He couldn't  see it any other way, given her readiness to leave him when the  situation no longer suited her. Toy with the prince for a while, fulfil a  few sexual fantasies, enjoy whatever entertainment he provides, but  keep him in the box marked Playtime.

The infuriating part was all the signals had been there if he hadn't  been so blindly arrogant about his own appeal to a Cinderella preschool  teacher. Erin had dressed to bowl him over on Friday night and there'd  not been the slightest hesitation over going to his castle. Even her  serene silence in the car on the drive out to Bondi Beach should have  telegraphed he was doing precisely what she'd wanted of him. Why bother  with conversation when the game was well and truly on?

Then the way she'd taken over out on the balcony …

All the pleasure she'd given him was soured by the knowledge that she  had only been interested in having a physical relationship, and only on  her own terms, as well.

Her proud refusal to be indebted to him over a set of clothes, the sharp  warning, You don't own me, Peter, her evasion on the husband-list  issue, the way she'd concentrated so much interest in horses and  horse-racing, which could be of use to her as a writer-in fact, she'd  obviously had some idea for a story yesterday afternoon-the whole  encounter had been on her terms.

But the game was now up.

She'd closed the door on it and he wasn't about to contest her decision.  In his whole life, no one had ever made him feel this small. Totally  insignificant.

He waited until she had to be clear of the apartment complex, taking a  taxi to wherever she lived-another fact withheld from him-then got  himself ready to go to the gym, needing an outlet for the volcano of  aggressive energy, which he'd somehow kept capped while Erin was calmly  going about her departure.

Two hours later, after a punishing workout, Peter was leaving the gym  when his cell phone rang. His mother's number on the screen reminded him  of her luncheon invitation, which had completely slipped his mind.  Cursing under his breath, he made the connection and offered his  apology.