Page 4 of Wicked Fantasies

“Oh, Jules, of course I don’t think you’re a fool. I think you’re a sweet, trusting woman who had a little too much to drink. Perhaps you were a bit naïve, but you’ve never been a fool. The fool was me for leaving you unprotected. I knew what kind of man Jenkins was. I should have yanked you away from him the second I saw the two of you talking. I just didn’t think he’d try anything at a work function.”

Julia looked at Ross and trembled at the anger she saw lurking in his eyes.

“Ross—”

“Hush, no more words. You look wiped out, Brown Eyes. I’m taking you home.”

Julia smiled at this new endearment before realizing she truly was exhausted. Her eyes began to drift closed before another thought opened them again.

“What about Bridget?”

“She’s a big girl. She can find her own way home.”

“She’ll be pissed off,” Julia muttered, again fighting back sleep.

“That seems to be one of her two permanent states.” Ross gently lifted her into his arms and carried her across the room as if she weighed no more than a mere babe.

“What’s the other state?” she asked groggily.

“Horny. Go to sleep, Jules. I’ll take care of everything.”

Throwingthe last load of firewood on the pile, Julia dropped into the comfy chair in front of the roaring fire, the heat from the flames not the only thing causing her face to flush. She tried not to think of that night, but every now and then it came creeping back to her.

She never saw Scott again, although she’d heard through the grapevine Ross had fired him. Asking Ross was a definite impossibility, as they had reached a tacit agreement never to speak of that night again and she, for one, was glad to avoid the topic. Discussing the biggest act of stupidity of her life with the man of her dreams was something she would never voluntarily do.

All she remembered after falling asleep in his arms that night was waking up the next morning alone in her bed, then managing to avoid him for almost a week before he stopped by with pizza and beer for their standing Thursday-night dinner. He carried in a large pepperoni and mushroom, cracked open a cold one and started talking about his week as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at the Christmas party. Relieved by the reprieve, Julia followed his lead and avoided the subject.

Staring into the flames, she felt herself slipping back into the same melancholy that had taken over in the past few months. Her life was in the gutter and she had no one to blame but herself.

Her parents had been killed in a car crash her junior year in college. Blinded by the loss, she’d cut herself off from everyone close to her. She’d moved out of the apartment she shared with two friends, broken off her relationship with her boyfriend and buried herself in her schoolwork.

After graduation, she’d rented a small apartment with the little bit of money left to her by her parents, adopted Duke from an animal shelter and poured herself into her writing. By escaping into her romance novels she was able to exist in an exciting world with dashing men who loved their women no matter what.

And in the process, she was able to avoid feeling anything real. If you never truly loved, she reasoned, you never truly lost. Love in a fantasy world was safe and painless. None of her characters ever disappointed her by dying or leaving her.

Unfortunately, she was halfway through writing the third book when she realized her money had run out. Unwilling to leave her emotionless sanctuary, she mailed out her first manuscript to twenty different publishers. Nineteen rejections immediately returned.

Then her phone rang. Ross Phillips, a young editor with a struggling publishing company he was launching with a friend, invited her in for a meeting. He saw something special in her writing and thought she had what it took to make it big. The rest, as they said, was history. Her books were an immediate success and they helped to skyrocket Ross’s small company into a major contender in the publishing world. Ross was now the chief editor and controlling partner in the firm.

Shaking her head, she chastised herself for falling into the same black despair that had continued to hound her since Duke died. “I’m here to write,” she said aloud, desperate to hear a voice in the quiet of the cabin. At least when Duke had been around she’d never felt crazy for talking to herself. She could justify it by claiming she was talking to the cat.

A loud knock at the door had her jumping up. Suddenly feeling very isolated and unprotected, she scanned the room for some sort of weapon. Spying a big log in her pile of firewood, she grabbed it, cowering in the corner. The pounding on the door continued, louder this time, and Julia’s heart began to race.

Who the hell would be on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere on a day like this? It was a virtual whiteout outside.

“Jules, open the damn door. I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

Ross? She sighed in relief, rushing to unlock the door, and there in the doorway stood her very tall, very wet editor.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, aware her tone was distinctly unfriendly, but he had scared her half to death.

Eyes narrowed, Ross entered the cabin, his arms laden with packages, a large duffel bag thrown over one shoulder, a backpack over the other. “I tried to call, but the phone lines are down,” he answered gruffly.

“My cell?” she asked sarcastically.

“No service up here,” he replied with equal irritation.

“Is something wrong?” She couldn’t imagine what could be so bad it would compel Ross to leave the comfort of his penthouse apartment in New York City to drive for nine hours to the mountains.

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