River’s End

marketing. She wanted to giggle wildly. She’d just come from the drugstore where she’d had to gather every fiber of her courage to walk to the counter and buy condoms.
    Now they lay in her purse, weighing like lead. Not because of the heft of the decision she’d made, but because of the fear that she’d misread what she’d seen in his eyes the night before. What she’d tasted when he’d kissed her.
    She had intended to ask him to dinner, but that would have been after. After she’d knocked on his door, after he’d opened it and she’d smiled and stepped to him, slipped her arms around him, kissed him.
    She’d imagined it so perfectly that when she’d knocked and he hadn’t answered, she’d been completely baffled, and now nothing was going as she’d scripted it in her head.
    She’d come here to offer herself, to tell him she wanted him to be the one. She’d imagined more—the way his eyes would focus on her face, so deep, so intense, until her vision blurred and his mouth would cover hers.
    The way he’d pick her up—even the quick rushing feel in her stomach the sweep of that would cause. How he’d carry her to the bed.
    She let out a breath and got up to pace. Of course she’d built up the room differently in her mind. It had been larger, with prettier colors, a soft spread over the bed, a mountain of pillows.
    She’d added candlelight.
    This room was small, with colors of gray and faded rose. Bland, she thought, as so many hotel rooms were. But it didn’t matter. She closed her eyes and listened to the water drumming in the shower.
    What would he do if she went in, if she quietly stripped, stepped into the steam and spray with him? Would their bodies come together then? Wet and hot and ready. She didn’t have the courage for it. Sighing, she walked to the honor bar, perused the selections without interest, wandered to the desk where he’d set up his computer and piles of disorganized notes and files.
    She’d wait until he came out. She was better at dealing with matters, both small and vital, in a clear, face-to-face fashion. She wasn’t the sultry seductress and never would be.
    Would that disappoint him?
    Annoyed with herself, she shook her head. She had to stop second-guessing him, criticizing herself. When he came back out again, she would simply let him know she wanted him, and see what happened next.
    Idly, she tidied his notes, tapping edges together. She liked the fact that he’d brought work with him. She respected the ambition, the dedication, the energy. It was important to respect someone you loved.
    He hadn’t talked very much about his work, she thought now, then rolled her eyes. Because she’d been too busy babbling about herself. She’d ask him about it, she decided. About what he liked best in his work, how it felt to see his words in print and know that people read them.
    She thought it must be a wonderful, satisfying feeling, and smiled over it as she stacked his notes.
    The name MacBride, scrawled in black ink on a yellow legal pad caught her eye, had her frowning, lifting the sheet of paper.
    Within seconds, her blood had gone cold and she was riffling through his work without a thought for his privacy.
    Noah rubbed a towel over his hair and worked out exactly what he would say to Olivia. Once they’d come to an agreement on professional terms, they’d work on the personal ones. He could go to River’s End and spend some time with her that summer. To do the interviews, certainly. But to be with her. He’d never known a woman he was so compelled to be with.
    He’d have to arrange for more time off from the newspaper. Or just fucking quit, he thought, staring at his own face in the steamy mirror. Of course he’d have to figure out how the hell he was going to live until the book was written and sold. But he’d work that out.
    He never doubted it would sell. He was meant to write books, and he was damn sure he was meant to write this one.
    And he was beginning to think, not entirely easily, that he was meant to be with Olivia.
    None of that would happen until he took the first step.
    He took one, into the bedroom, and heard the world crash around his ears. She was standing by his desk, his papers in her hands, and a look of iced fury in those amber eyes.
    “You son of a bitch.” She said it quietly, but the words ripped the air like a scream.
    “You scheming, calculating bastard.”
    “Just a minute.”
    “Don’t touch me.” She slapped him back