My Secret Fantasies

What surprised him was how secretive she’d been about the whole thing. In his mind, a woman who wrote explicit stories for fun would possess the kind of boldness that would protect her from being embarrassed about it, but obviously that was a faulty assumption.

After dressing, he cracked open the door of the master suite into the hall that led to the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten and he was starving. The coast should be clear, since Miranda would most likely be locked up in whatever room she’d chosen for the night. He’d scared her off without fully meaning to. Yes, he’d wanted her to come clean if she was using him to get to his father. No, he hadn’t meant to press her about something that was genuinely private and probably none of his business.

But damn.

Had she been writing an erotic romance in his den? Curled up in his chair while she dreamed of provocative encounters to describe in detail for her story? He needed that cold shower all over again and he’d been dressed for less than five minutes. The thought was making him crazy. And why did he feel as if someone was having sex in his house without inviting him? It made no sense and messed with his head.

Stalking through the quiet house, he guessed she must still be here, since he hadn’t heard her leave. He’d polished off half the leftovers while standing at the kitchen counter when the front doorbell rang. Had something gone wrong in the barns?

Jogging toward the front of the house, he pulled the door open...only to find Violet Whiteman wearing a long gray sweater over what looked like expensive loungewear. Those were definitely slippers on her feet. Her eyes were bright. Wide.

“Is Miranda around?” She peered over his shoulder to take in the house behind him. She spoke fast. Breathlessly. “I know it’s late and I’m so sorry to bother you, but I didn’t realize who she was until just a minute ago, when I was online.” She shook her head, blond hair swinging with the motion. “I’ve been trying all day to think why she looked familiar. I didn’t recognize her as a brunette.”

Tension tightened the back of Damien’s neck. Just what he didn’t want—Fraser Farm being overshadowed by a Hollywood connection. He needed to build their reputation on Thoroughbreds, not as some outpost for star-gazing.

“She’s in bed,” Damien explained, wondering why this woman felt the need to talk to Miranda so late. “But I can let her know you dropped by.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. She lowered her arms, which she’d been hugging against her. A small camera swung on a strap from one thin wrist. “I guess I will see her tomorrow. She’ll still be here, won’t she?” Violet’s brow furrowed. “She lives here?”

Not exactly.

Although thinking about Miranda tucked in one of his beds, in a room inside his house, while she imagined erotic scenarios for her next book, made him feel ridiculously protective of her. And right now, he planned to respect her privacy.

“She’ll be around tomorrow.” He hoped.

In fact, just thinking about the possibility that she might take off without telling him—might have already done so—made him want to sprint up the stairs and see her with his own eyes.

He owed her an apology. Among other things. A better thank-you was definitely in order, as well. She’d worked too hard helping him out over the past two days for things between them to end on a sour note.

“Okay.” Still, Violet Whiteman did not back off the threshold of his front door. She remained, indecisive. “I thought she was great on Gutsy Girl,” she confided finally. “I know a lot of people said it was terrible how she gained everyone’s friendship and then stepped aside while they all turned on each other, but that’s simply ridiculous.”

Violet rattled on as if he was totally clued in about the premise of the show. Normally, he would have found a way to politely edge her out the door. But he had to admit, he was more and more curious about the woman who’d dive-bombed into his life yesterday. Miranda was one hell of an interesting set of contradictions.

Runaway actress. Would-be tearoom proprietress. Capable stall mucker. Author of erotic fiction.

“So what did you think?” he asked Violet, since she was clearly dying to talk about the show.

“Are you kidding me?” She pumped her fist awkwardly, like a woman who’d never made the gesture. “Score one for the nice girls.” She gave a little giggle and then covered it up behind one perfectly manicured hand—pale pink polish, white tips. Lowering her voice, she leaned closer to Damien. “Some of us who strive to play well with others—we get tired of people assuming that we’re the doormats of the world. I thought it was great that Miranda used her natural sweetness to surprise everyone and win the game.”