One-Click Buy: November Harlequin Presents

by Susan Stephens

  It always got to men.

  They pretended it didn’t for a while but it always did.

  A savagely mocking voice told her Peter Ramsey was no different, despite the ego-bulwark of his billions. He wasn’t big enough to accept everything about her, after all.

  She flicked him a wry look. “I guess you liked the idea of Cinderella better.”

  “Not particularly,” he shot back at her, his face hardening at her comment on him. “I prefer honesty to role-playing.”

  “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.

  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.

  “Sorry, Mum. I should have got back to you before this. Can’t do lunch today. Erin is not available.”

  “Oh!” A big sigh of disappointment. “I was so looking forward to meeting her. Can we arrange something else, Peter?”

  He grimaced at the unwelcome suggestion though he probably should have anticipated it, given his mother’s interest in the author. “I can’t oblige on that, either. We had an argument this morning and it’s all off between us,” he said bluntly, not wanting to be pestered on the sore subject.

  “Oh dear! Just when I thought you’d found someone really nice,” his mother said wistfully. “There’s so much heart in her stories…”

  She hadn’t shown much heart to him!

  “…and the way they’re told and illustrated,” his mother babbled on. “She has to have a beautiful mind to think of such things. You must have felt attracted to her, Peter. She looks beautiful on the outside, too. Why on earth would you let her go?”

  “Mum, it’s a case of her letting me go. Okay?” he bit out, hating the necessity to spell that out.

  “Why? What did you do to upset her?”

  Like it was his fault!

  Peter unclenched his teeth enough to say, “I really don’t want to go into this.”

  “Was it the publicity? Didn’t she realise that being with you would attract media attention?”

  He reached his car which was parked handily at the street kerb outside the gym. “I said I don’t want to go into this,” he repeated emphatically. “Bye, Mum.”

  He broke the connection, tucked the small cell-phone in his shirt pocket, unlocked the BMW, sat himself in the driver’s seat and decided he didn’t want to go back to the apartment where memories of Erin were far too close. Yacht Club, he thought. Sailing might help get her out of his mind.

  Over the next few weeks, Peter worked very hard at blocking Erin Lavelle out of his consciousness, pouring his energy into dealing with business during the day, carrying on with his usual social life at night, playing various sports at the weekend—squash, tennis, polo. He dismissed any questions about his relationship with her by saying Erin had wanted to know about horse-racing. End of story.

  It was a lie—a self-protective lie.

  And he felt uncomfortable with it.

  Especially since he could not get her out of his mind.

  He was blind to the attraction of any other woman. He didn’t want anyone else in his bed. His mother’s comment—beautiful inside and outside—began to haunt him, reminding him of all the things he’d liked about Erin. Maybe he’d made a mistake in reacting so negatively to what might have been a self-protective lie on her part. Hadn’t there been a moment in the park when he’d felt a strong reluctance to reveal his own identity?

  Just a man and a woman…

  Erin sat in the chair behind her desk, staring at a blank monitor screen. There was no point in turning on the computer. No way could she get her head around work today. She didn’t know why she was sitting here. Instinctive, probably, putting herself in the place where she was most comfortable, tapping out words on a keyboard. But there was only one mountainous word in her mind, blocking out the flow of any others.

  Pregnant.

  The shock of it drained her of any sense of purpose. She hadn’t recognised the symptoms. How could she, knowing nothing about pregnancy, and not even suspecting such a cataclysmic cause to feeling off? She hadn’t been sleeping well—too much churning over memories of Peter Ramsey. And eating too much comfort food, then feeling queasy in the morning.

  It seemed reasonable to think her normal system was messed up when the contraceptive pill she’d been taking for years didn’t produce the regular monthly period, but she’d decided to check it out with a doctor, uneasy with the idea of her body not responding as it should to what had always been reliable before.

  Pregnant.

  She was going to be a mother.

  And Peter Ramsey was the father.

  Never mind that the pill was ninety-nine percent safe from falling pregnant. Peter Ramsey had beaten that percentage in two nights of intense sexual action. Or her own body had treacherously welcomed him beyond the point of stopping anything, because what had been happening between them was so
…so extraordinary.

  But fantastic sex wasn’t enough to make a relationship work. He didn’t like the author taking over his spotlight. Not that she wanted it. She would have been perfectly happy standing in his shadow for the rest of her life. It was her evasion of publicity that had made her so newsworthy. But evasion would probably be impossible if she was appearing at his side, so the problem would never go away.

  Neither would this one.

  She was now faced with having his child.

  And he would probably think she’d lied about being protected from pregnancy, too.

  If she told him about it.

  Could she keep this child a secret from him? They occupied such different worlds. In the normal course of events, they should never meet again. It was possible…or was it, given that someone somewhere would blab about Erin Lavelle having a child and it could end up being a news story that she had no control over.

  Then if Peter put two and two together, the warrior in him would fight her tooth and nail over custody, and everything could turn really, really nasty. He’d accuse her of more and more lies, hating her for shutting him out of where he had every right to be. That was definitely not a road to go down.

  Besides, knowing how strongly Peter felt about fatherhood, hiding his child from him would never sit well on her conscience. It wasn’t fair, not to him and not to their son or daughter who would want to know their father.

  She would have to tell him, try to work out some amicable arrangement about the future. Hopefully he would care about what was in the best interests of the child enough to put their differences aside and deal with what was important. She certainly would. This was never going to be the ideal parenting situation for either of them, but with some reasonable co-operation, maybe they could give their child the best of both worlds.

  Her hand moved automatically to the top drawer of the desk, opening it and taking out the business card Peter had given her in the park—the card which had made Thomas Harper’s mother realise that her selfish possessiveness was not going to go unchallenged. She’d thrown it back on Sarah’s desk, not wanting any part of Peter Ramsey, and Erin had picked it up and kept it, secretly wanting every part of the prince she imagined him to be.