Page 116 of Wicked Fantasies

“Mr. R—” He pressed his finger harder against her lips. For a moment, he considered silencing her another way—by placing his lips against hers. He could just imagine using his tongue to caress her mouth, to slowly study the contours of her warm, sweet lips.

“Say Ty, Gwen. Say it right now.”

“Ty,” she whispered.

Blown away by her capitulation and the sexy, husky nature of her voice, he shook his head, trying to regain his wits.

What the hell was he thinking?

Christ, he knew what he was thinking—he had a hard-on that could drive nails into concrete, and that lack of blood to the brain was driving him to say stupid shit.

Dominant by nature, he was usually able to keep his darker side under wraps, especially around strangers. However, Gwen didn’t feel like a stranger. She felt like someone he’d known forever, and he could tell by the flush on her face and soft panting that she wasn’t immune to his commands.

However, shewaslooking at him with suspicious eyes.

Anxious to recover lost ground, he cleared his throat. “Now that we’ve gotten the issue of names out of the way, I think we should discuss a timeline for writing the script. Figure out a schedule and draft a rough outline of the story. I’ve taken the liberty of setting you up in my guest house for the duration of your stay.”

“I haven’t agreed to write anything and I’d prefer to stay in a hotel. I believe I mentioned that on the phone.”

Her voice was calmer and he was pleased to see her earlier anger had abated. Her confidence was reemerging. It was that self-assurance that led him to issue his offer. He’d seen an interview she’d done several months ago on a local cable channel. Her poise and quiet intelligence had spoken to him so deeply he’d gone out and purchased everything she’d ever written.

When he’d read a collection of short stories she’d co-authored entitledEvening Songs, his attention had fallen from her to her co-author on the book, Michael Haynes. It was Haynes’ story “The Darkest Night” that had sparked his serious interest and planted the seed of turning the stories into a screenplay.

For weeks, he’d attempted to find the elusive writer and had almost given up hope. Then one night, he’d met a producer friend and his wife in New York for drinks. The wife worked in the publishing business, so he’d casually mentioned Haynes. She’d told him that Michael Haynes was actually a pseudonym for Gwen Preston. Gwen had written all the stories inEvening Songs, including “The Darkest Night”.

“I think you’ll discover I didn’t get where I am today because I accept the word no easily. Why don’t you save both of us a lot of time and wasted energy by merely agreeing? You said yourself in our last email communication that you were fascinated by the idea of seeing one of your stories on the silver screen. I’m offering you that opportunity,” he said.

“I’m still not sure why you’re offering me that chance. I’ve never written a screenplay. Isn’t it standard Hollywood procedure for someone else to buy the rights and write the script?”

“I have experience with scriptwriting. I hope that by collaborating, you and I will bring to the screen the same emotion, the same powerful characters and stimulating plot that you incorporate so flawlessly in your fiction. I truly suspect that between the two of us we can make one of the hottest movies of the year.”

What he didn’t say was that he was damn tired of being one of Hollywood’s action stars. It was an image he was finding harder and harder to maintain as he got older.

It was time he focused on the future. He was desperate to establish himself as a serious actor and a talented producer. Gwen’s story had the potential to help him break free of the macho-man image he hated.

“You still haven’t told me which of my books you intend to use. I’m not sure I understand your secrecy on that point or why you insisted I meet you in person.”

“I would like to make a movie using the stories inEvening Songs.” His words jarred her more than he would have imagined, and he immediately noticed her slight discomfiture when he mentioned which book he was interested in.

Her face paled and her eyes drifted downward. “Well, then you’ve wasted my time and yours. As you know, I wasn’t the only author of that book. I only wrote two of the four stories.”

Ty grinned as her cheeks lost all color. She was a horrible liar.

“You and I both know you wrote all the stories in that collection. Please don’t insult me by continuing to deny it.”

“Well done, Sherlock. How much did that information cost you?” she asked.

“Four martinis.”

“Nice to know my privacy comes so cheap. Tell you what. Skip the hotel. Tell your driver to take me back to the airport.”

“You won’t even consider the idea of making these stories into a movie?”

“Three words, Mr. Ransome. Three words that should explain to you why this project will never work. ‘The Darkest Night’.”

He leaned back against his seat and pondered her concern. “It’s a terrific story, Gwen. I’m interested in making a movie with the four vignettes combining to form the larger work. There seems to be a trend on these kinds of multiple plot movies and I think the stories inEvening Songswould make a marvelous film. Academy Award material. I’m afraid I’m not sure what your concerns about ‘The Darkest Night’ have to do with making a film adaptation of the entire book.”

“It’s rather hardcore for Hollywood, isn’t it? I mean, how do you expect to make a movie that dabbles in sadomasochism and bondage without crossing the line into pornography?”

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