My Secret Fantasies

by Joanne Rock

  With a weary sigh, he sank into the love seat I’d just vacated. He didn’t finish his sentence, instead gesturing for me to sit beside him.

  All I could see were his lips around my—that is, Shaelynn’s—nipple. So awkward. So delicious. I had no experience handling situations like this. After Rick had mocked my virginal efforts in bed, making me feel graceless and undesirable, I’d really avoided intimacy. Really. As in, no sex since Rick.

  I was so far out of my depth with Damien it was laughable. Still...a girl could dream.

  “Can I get you some dinner?” he asked, thankfully unaware of me drooling over him as he scrubbed a hand through his thick, dark hair. “There’s a Greek place up the road that caters.”

  He was so thoughtful. Was it any wonder I was lusting over a guy like him? If only I had a clue what to do with all that steam rushing through me.

  “Actually...” I lowered myself back into the love seat, still clutching my computer to my chest. As if Damien might somehow see the screen, even though the laptop was turned off. Or as if he might notice those old love handles still spilling over the waistband of my jeans. “There are leftovers in your fridge if you want them. I saw a flyer for the Greek place in your phone book when I was trying to think about what to serve the Whitemans—”

  “Crap. They needed dinner, didn’t they?” He straightened, as if he was going to start prepping food right now.

  At almost 9:00 p.m.

  “I called Athena’s and put a catered dinner for the Whitemans on your account. I hope that’s okay, but Giorgos was totally cool and agreed with me that you’d probably want to feed your guests.” I’d had fun chatting up the older guy who ran the restaurant, a man who seemed to know Damien well enough. And I still loved to discuss food even if I couldn’t eat to my heart’s content anymore. “He said he’d do smaller portions of several things so the Whitemans would definitely find something they liked. And since I was starving at the time, I had him send the stuff for gyros to your house, too.”

  “That’s...” Damien glanced my way, his hazel eyes lingering “...really incredible of you.”

  Heat stirred inside me at that long look of his. Was it just because I was still seeing him through Shaelynn’s eyes? Or was Damien Fraser seriously checking me out in real life? Whatever was happening between us was giving me major heart palpitations. I felt breathless. Confused.

  That stuff simply did not happen to me. For years, I’d figured that incident with Rick had killed my libido for good. But I was honest-to-God turned on right now. Still, no matter how cool that was, I had to focus on my real reason for being here.

  “If you sold the farm stand to me, I’d be around all the time,” I reminded him. “I could help out with stuff like that. Send lunch and breakfast to your guests from the tearoom.”

  “And that’s your motive for sticking around?” His eyebrows lowered over narrowed eyes. A blast of cold replaced the heat I’d been feeling a second ago.

  “Well...kinda?” I shrugged. Did he think I’d just muck horse stalls and wash his guests’ sheets out of the goodness of my heart? I mean, sure, I was a nice person and all, and I was crushing on the man big time. But I wouldn’t have inserted myself into his life as his personal helper just for kicks. “That and the fact that I have no plan B for where to go next.”

  He frowned. “That’s really why you helped out today? Hoping I’d sell you the farm stand?”

  “Is that so hard to believe? Damien, that place is perfect for the business I want to build. And I really like it here.” I’d been able to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows in the great room before the sun set, and take in the views of the olive trees. The horse pastures. It was very pastoral and peaceful, and I needed a lot more of that in my life. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I thought maybe...” He reached toward my laptop and I shrank back. “Can I take that for you? You look ready to run any second.”

  “Oh.” I loosened my hold. “I’ll just...set it here.” I put it on a big ottoman I’d used like a coffee table when I was writing.

  And I made sure it stayed closed. Who knew what else Shaelynn and the newly named “D” had been up to since I’d left them?

  My cheeks and neck warmed as I met Damien’s gaze.

  “You were saying?”

  Elbows on his knees, he threaded his fingers together.

  “I was just going to say that I thought maybe the only reason you stuck around—the only reason you’d come here in the first place—was to get to my father the producer.”

  “Excuse me?” Had I checked out on part of this conversation while drooling over those massive hands of his? Even his forearms had muscle. I could see the shift of sinew where he’d shoved up his shirtsleeves.

  “My dad is Thomas Fraser—”

  “No way!” I blinked. Twice. Thomas Fraser was a huge force to be reckoned with in Hollywood. He was a legend for more than just movies. He’d acted in a few pictures once upon a time before going on to direct, produce and open a hugely successful independent film company. “You have to be kidding me.”

  “No. I wish I was.”

  “I would have never taken you for a Hollywood son.” I couldn’t begin to picture this serious, intense man in the superficial world that I’d operated in for the past six years. “What was that life even like?”

  “I hated it,” he answered flatly. “But no matter how much distance I put between myself and my family, I’ve still had plenty of film-industry followers approach me over the years, looking to get a script to my father, or trying to—”

  “Oh, my God.” I couldn’t believe it. “You think I came here to, like...what? Audition for you? Get an acting recommendation? I was in one reality show and it was a disaster.” I shot to my feet, offended that he thought I was that kind of person. “I’d have to be some kind of desperate to stalk you all the way to Sonoma County for the sake of a good word with your dad.”

  Damien rose, too. Stepped toward me.

  “When I saw you pick up a pitchfork last night, I figured I’d been off base with that assumption.” He gave me a halfhearted smile that let me see a dimple in his cheek.

  My pulse raced like a teenager’s. What was it about a damn dimple that could soothe a temper in a nanosecond?

  “Last night was cool,” I admitted. Seeing the little foal come into the world had been special. “I didn’t even think about what I was doing. I just wanted to help.”

  I had never realized that I would miss being around barns and farms. I’d taken that world for granted when I lived at home, thinking it was as small-time and suffocating as my overly critical family. But maybe farm life had never been the problem at all. Being here had made me feel nostalgic for what I’d left behind. Of course, back then, I hadn’t had a choice but to leave. I’d been reeling from my sister’s betrayal hard on the heels of Rick’s.

  Having Nina ignore my warnings about the guy, having her think that I still wanted him had severed already shaky ties. I’d realized that if I was ever going to feel a sense of self-worth, I needed to start fresh.

  “I figured as much,” Damien was saying, and it took me a minute to remember what we’d been talking about. “And I really appreciated that. But then, when I walked in here tonight and it looked like you were trying to hide whatever you were working on at the computer—”

  “What?” I felt dizzy. He knew about that?

  Mortification chilled me as I remembered what I’d been writing.

  Damien’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “Is it a screenplay? A movie you want me to show my father?”

  “No!” I denied it so strongly—so loudly—that of course it sounded overly dramatic and false. “No. It’s not a screenplay. It’s just...private.”

  His gaze shot to the computer and I wanted to bury it. I should just confess the truth. But I
was so flustered that anything I said might sound like a fib.

  “It’s embarrassing,” I pleaded.

  “Okay.” He didn’t sound convinced. “It’s not my business, anyhow.”

  I could see my chances of ever purchasing the farm stand evaporating. Nerves twisted my gut. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell him what I was really writing. Maybe if I was a well-adjusted, normal female, it wouldn’t be a big deal to confess that I was writing a steamy, sexy novel. Or what would be a steamy, sexy novel, once I worked through a few mental reservations about the whole thing. I had issues with sex and romance. But this book was my ticket to dealing with all that.

  “I’ve got to shower,” he said suddenly, his voice cool. Distant. “There are guest rooms upstairs if you’d like to stay—”

  “It’s a naughty novel,” I blurted.

  For a long moment, he just stared back at me as if he’d misheard.

  “What?”

  “A, um, naughty book.” I sounded like a middle school kid who got caught drawing naked pictures in her sketch pad. Not that I’d ever done such a thing. I cleared my throat. “I am writing an erotic novel,” I clarified, probably sounding stuck-up and repressed. “It’s definitely nothing I’d want your dad to make a movie about. So...good night.”

  Heart pounding wildly, I reached for my laptop and fled.

  4

  THE SHOWER THAT Damien took went from a way to get clean to a way to freeze out the red-hot images filling his brain with vivid clarity.

  But when his fingers were wrinkled like prunes and he’d quit feeling his toes, he shut off the cold spray and admitted the sexual interest in Miranda Cortland wasn’t going away any time soon. Toweling off, he debated how to approach her next, since he believed her 100 percent about not using him to get to his dad. Not even a world-class actress could fake the discomfort he’d seen in her when she’d confessed to...what she’d really been writing.

  What surprised him was how secretive she’d been about the whole thing. In his mind, a woman who wrote explicit stories for fun would possess the kind of boldness that would protect her from being embarrassed about it, but obviously that was a faulty assumption.

  After dressing, he cracked open the door of the master suite into the hall that led to the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten and he was starving. The coast should be clear, since Miranda would most likely be locked up in whatever room she’d chosen for the night. He’d scared her off without fully meaning to. Yes, he’d wanted her to come clean if she was using him to get to his father. No, he hadn’t meant to press her about something that was genuinely private and probably none of his business.

  But damn.

  Had she been writing an erotic romance in his den? Curled up in his chair while she dreamed of provocative encounters to describe in detail for her story? He needed that cold shower all over again and he’d been dressed for less than five minutes. The thought was making him crazy. And why did he feel as if someone was having sex in his house without inviting him? It made no sense and messed with his head.

  Stalking through the quiet house, he guessed she must still be here, since he hadn’t heard her leave. He’d polished off half the leftovers while standing at the kitchen counter when the front doorbell rang. Had something gone wrong in the barns?

  Jogging toward the front of the house, he pulled the door open...only to find Violet Whiteman wearing a long gray sweater over what looked like expensive loungewear. Those were definitely slippers on her feet. Her eyes were bright. Wide.

  “Is Miranda around?” She peered over his shoulder to take in the house behind him. She spoke fast. Breathlessly. “I know it’s late and I’m so sorry to bother you, but I didn’t realize who she was until just a minute ago, when I was online.” She shook her head, blond hair swinging with the motion. “I’ve been trying all day to think why she looked familiar. I didn’t recognize her as a brunette.”

  Tension tightened the back of Damien’s neck. Just what he didn’t want—Fraser Farm being overshadowed by a Hollywood connection. He needed to build their reputation on Thoroughbreds, not as some outpost for star-gazing.

  “She’s in bed,” Damien explained, wondering why this woman felt the need to talk to Miranda so late. “But I can let her know you dropped by.”

  “Oh.” Her face fell. She lowered her arms, which she’d been hugging against her. A small camera swung on a strap from one thin wrist. “I guess I will see her tomorrow. She’ll still be here, won’t she?” Violet’s brow furrowed. “She lives here?”

  Not exactly.

  Although thinking about Miranda tucked in one of his beds, in a room inside his house, while she imagined erotic scenarios for her next book, made him feel ridiculously protective of her. And right now, he planned to respect her privacy.

  “She’ll be around tomorrow.” He hoped.

  In fact, just thinking about the possibility that she might take off without telling him—might have already done so—made him want to sprint up the stairs and see her with his own eyes.

  He owed her an apology. Among other things. A better thank-you was definitely in order, as well. She’d worked too hard helping him out over the past two days for things between them to end on a sour note.

  “Okay.” Still, Violet Whiteman did not back off the threshold of his front door. She remained, indecisive. “I thought she was great on Gutsy Girl,” she confided finally. “I know a lot of people said it was terrible how she gained everyone’s friendship and then stepped aside while they all turned on each other, but that’s simply ridiculous.”

  Violet rattled on as if he was totally clued in about the premise of the show. Normally, he would have found a way to politely edge her out the door. But he had to admit, he was more and more curious about the woman who’d dive-bombed into his life yesterday. Miranda was one hell of an interesting set of contradictions.

  Runaway actress. Would-be tearoom proprietress. Capable stall mucker. Author of erotic fiction.

  “So what did you think?” he asked Violet, since she was clearly dying to talk about the show.

  “Are you kidding me?” She pumped her fist awkwardly, like a woman who’d never made the gesture. “Score one for the nice girls.” She gave a little giggle and then covered it up behind one perfectly manicured hand—pale pink polish, white tips. Lowering her voice, she leaned closer to Damien. “Some of us who strive to play well with others—we get tired of people assuming that we’re the doormats of the world. I thought it was great that Miranda used her natural sweetness to surprise everyone and win the game.”

  Behind him, inside the house, Damien heard a noise.

  A soft shuffle.

  And suddenly, he was less interested in what Violet had to say and more interested in who might have overheard the conversation.

  “I’ll let Miranda know,” he assured his visitor, stepping back and gripping the door. “Have a good night.”

  Smiling, Violet said all the things that a “nice” girl would in taking her leave. Damned if he didn’t wonder what she really wanted to say to him, if indeed Miranda’s character on Gutsy Girl was her secret role model. No doubt there was more to Violet Whiteman than met the eye.

  As he closed the door, he stood still. Listening.

  Soft footsteps retreated up the stairs to the second floor. Was it wrong of him to hurry so he could catch Miranda in the act?

  “Nice girl?” he called as he moved toward the back of the house near the staircase. “She must not know about the eavesdropping habit.”

  He arrived at the base of the stairs in time to see her bare feet stop midway up. Miranda stood with her back to him, a blanket thrown around her shoulders like a shawl and a pair of silky turquoise pajama bottoms covering her legs.

  She turned.

  Her dark curls were clipped at the back of her head, her hair short
enough that half of it sprang free to fall in her eyes. Beneath the blanket she wore a dark tank top, and he was pretty sure that was all. The waistband of her pajama pants was rolled down to just above her hips, a line of skin visible where her top ended and the bottoms started.

  The snake’s eye in her belly-button ring winked at him in the half-light of a hall sconce.

  Miranda lifted her chin. “I wanted to make sure whoever was at the door wasn’t here because of Stretch.”

  “Because of what?”

  “Stretch. That’s what I’ve been calling Tallulah’s foal in my mind.” She tugged the ends of the blue throw blanket tighter around her, covering up the bare skin at her midsection. “That little foal was the first thing I thought of when the doorbell rang.”

  “Me, too.” And how strange that their lives and thoughts had synced so quickly. He would have never envisioned that kind of compatibility between him and any woman a few days ago, especially not a Hollywood runaway who’d blown into his life like a gale-force wind. “Violet was only here so she could see you. She had a camera.”

  “I’m not much for photo ops.” Shaking her head with a rueful smile, Miranda sagged back against the banister and slid down to sit on a stair. “Especially not after the way that show treated me.”

  He moved toward her but didn’t climb the steps. He dropped onto a tread below her. Still, the dim light and confines of the stairs—a wall on one side and the banister on the other—made for an intimate setting. Or maybe that was just because she was in his house, wrapped in his blanket, wearing pajamas.

  That definitely could have been part of it.

  “It’s some kind of competition?” He’d never heard of Gutsy Girl until yesterday and hadn’t found time to look it up online.

  “There are a lot of team and individual challenges similar to what you might go through at boot camp. The show invited a bunch of diva-type women to go on it, minor celebs from other reality shows, along with a couple of ‘regular women’ like me to compete for the grand prize. Audiences had fun watching the high-maintenance women fall in the mud or burst into hysterics over climbing a rope.”