Page 127 of Wicked Fantasies

“But I don’t want you.” The prevarication hovered between them like a foul odor.

“Don’t lie to me, Gwen. Ever.”

She tried to stifle the shudder that passed through her at the tone of his voice, and she attempted to clear away the sensations swamping her until she couldn’t form a coherent thought. She wasn’t sure how he was able to affect her so strongly, but she found herself drawn to him like a bee to honey.

He was controlling their personal play, and he had been from the start. The idea of him taking control of her so thoroughly should have jarred her sense of self-preservation, had her running for the hills, but instead she relished his power.

This is wrong.

The words weaved their way back into her conscience as fear and unease swamped her, washing away all other emotions. She’d spent the past two weeks attempting to regain her wits, to remember why she had to fight against Ty’s advances.

If he knew what she truly wanted from him, he’d turn away from her with disgust. It had happened before, and she wasn’t strong enough to suffer the rejection again.

She tried to alleviate the tension with humor.

“Listen, Hollywood, you’re just gonna have to accept the fact that I’m not interested in pursuing a relationship with you. I think perhaps we should focus our energy on the screenplay. That is why I’m here. The only reason I’m here.”

A scowl crossed his face as he rose and walked to her side. She struggled to raise her gaze to his. His eyes seemed to see right through her, and she knew he’d read the fear, the lies, the confusion in her face as easily as he read his cue cards on the set.

“You’re right.”

She glanced up, shocked by his quick capitulation. “The screenplay should be our top priority, and with that thought in mind, I’ve made some arrangements for our writing.” He gestured toward the house. “Come with me.”

She followed him in silence, through the living room and up a grand staircase, her mind whirling the entire time as he led her into the largest, most ornate bedroom she’d ever seen.

“I don’t understand,” she said hoarsely, clearing her throat, hoping to dislodge the lump that had formed there.

“We’ll write in here, Gwen.” He crossed the room to a large desk. She was shocked to realize her laptop was set up on the surface. Another glance around the room confirmed that her suitcases were there as well.

“Is this a guest room?” she asked. “I thought I’d be staying in the guest house again.”

He shook his head. “This is my room. You’ll be staying here.”

“No.” She backed away a step. “I most definitely will not.”

“You said yourself that you’re here to work on the screenplay.”

“And how in the hell will me staying in your bedroom accomplish that?”

He flashed her a charming grin that she immediately distrusted. “The stories inEvening Songsrevolve around four couples in their bedrooms at night. The first story is a young married couple on their honeymoon and the second deals with the couple struggling to make a baby. ‘The Darkest Night’ shows a couple who embrace BDSM, and the final story is about the last night an elderly couple spend together before the wife dies in her sleep.”

“I wrote the damn stories. I hardly need a synopsis.”

His smile never dimmed. “What better place to write the screenplay of a movie that takes place exclusively in a bedroom than in the bedroom?”

“That doesn’t explain why my luggage is here. If you want to write here, fine. I don’t have a problem with that.” Her body chastised her mind for those words. There was no way she could sit at this desk writing day after day with Ty and the world’s most inviting, king-sized, canopied bed only a few feet away. “But I hardly think I need my clothing in here.”

“I’ve cleared my schedule for a week.”

“Cleared it? I thought you were going to continue to work on your other projects while we wrote. I’ve made arrangements to be here for two months, not a week.”

He shrugged off her comment and took a step closer to her, as she struggled not to step back, not to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he unnerved her. “Oh, we won’t finish in that time. I doubt we’ll get more than the outline sketched and some research completed, but I want us to have time to put our thoughts on paper and to get a few things established between us. While we’re working on this screenplay, we’re going to write, eat and sleep in here. Let’s call it our honeymoon phase.”

“What?”

“We’re going to become your characters. Play out the parts of each couple, get inside their heads and see what makes them tick.”

“You’re crazy,” she whispered. “We can’t do that.”

---