pounding, she stared at the door. Would he go away if she refused to let him in? Or would he break down the door? She could scream for help, but she knew no one would come.
“Shannah, open the damn door and let me in.”
She wasn’t sure she wanted to, but her hand seemed to move of its own volition and she found herself staring up into his face. Hearing the barely suppressed anger in his voice, she had expected him to barge in and…well, she wasn’t sure just what she expected him to do. The one thing she hadn’t expected was for him to ask her permission, but that was exactly what he did.
“May I come in?” he asked. He was dressed all in black again—shirt, pants, boots, duster.
She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Retreating into the room, she sat down on the sofa again, the book clutched to her breast. If only she had a hero who would fly in and rescue her, like the one in the story!
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. His presence seemed to shrink her small apartment. She imagined she could feel it closing in around her. His gaze swept over her, the force of it almost tangible.
“Are you enjoying the book?” His voice was low, almost hypnotic. It moved over her, a feather-light touch underscored with steel.
“Y-yes,” she stammered. “V-very much.” She held it out to him. “I was going to return it, and your robe, when I was through.”
“Keep it. Why did you run away?”
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, all the while glancing around the room, searching for a weapon. The fireplace poker? The heavy glass vase on the coffee table? Could she reach either of them before he reached for her?
“I didn’t run away,” she lied. “I just came home.”
“I asked you to stay. You said you would.”
Her hands tightened on the book in her lap. “I’m a woman. I changed my mind.”
“You’re afraid of me,” he mused, and she heard the puzzlement in his voice.
“Why…why would I be afraid of you?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I just wanted to come home.”
“You’re lying.” He hunkered down on his heels until he was at eye level with her. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“All right,” she admitted defiantly. “I got scared and I left.”
“I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why would you want me to stay there with you? You don’t even know me.”
“Had you stayed, I would have told you my reasons.”
Curious in spite of her better judgment, she said, “So, tell me now.”
Rising, he sat down on the sofa beside her, though he was careful not to touch her for fear she might run screaming from the room.
She shivered at his nearness, uncertain if it was because he was so close or because of the sudden heat that flowed between them. He was a remarkably handsome man with his mesmerizing black eyes and dark good looks. Sometimes, when he looked at her, she felt as though he could see through her heart and straight into her soul, that he knew things about her that no one else knew. But that was impossible. Heart pounding with trepidation, she watched him reach for her hand, felt little frissons of awareness race up her arm as his fingers closed around hers. The book fell from her hand and slid off her lap onto the floor.
“What do you want from me?” She had intended it to sound like a demand; it came out as a breathless gasp.
“Nothing sinister, I assure you. I have an aversion to having my picture taken, to appearing in public and being subjected to interviews. My readers think I’m female and I should like to keep it that way. My agent and my publisher have been after me to go on tour for quite some time…”
She shook her head. “What does all that have to do with me?”
“I want you to pretend to be me.”
She stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment. Of all the things he might have said, his answer caught her completely off guard. “But…how could I…?”
“No one knows what I look like.”
“I don’t think I can…”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
“But how could I possibly…people will ask me about your books…” She retrieved his book from the floor and held it up. “This is the only one I’ve read, and I haven’t even finished it.”
“When you’ve finished that one, I want you to read the ones I’ve published in the last year or so. I’ll give you a complete list of all my books, along with a brief synopsis of each one for you to memorize. As for questions you might be asked, I’ll help you with what to say.”
“I just don’t see how it could work.”
“Trust me. We’ll rehearse for a month or two, more if need be, until you feel comfortable. As I said, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“You’re forgetting one thing. I don’t have a couple of months.”
“Let’s not worry about that now.”
“I was never very good at memorizing things.”
“You’ll be surprised at how easy it will come to you.”
“And why will it be so easy now when it never was before?”
His smile warned her not to ask any more questions. “You’ll also need to make an appointment to have your picture taken.”
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“You haven’t said no.”
“If I agree, will you tell me something?”
“Perhaps. What is it you wish to know?”
“Is Ronan your first name or your last?”
He smiled then. “It’s both and neither,” he said evasively.
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s the only name I use.”
“Really? How do you get away with that?”
He shrugged. “It works for Cher and Madonna, why not me?”
She made a face at him. “Don’t forget Bono. And the artist formerly known as Prince.”
She was quick, he thought, pleased. “And so,” he said, his thumb drawing circles on the back of her hand. “What do you say?”
“Yes.” She whispered the word, feeling as if it had been drawn out of her by his will and not her own. Once said, she realized it was what she wanted. Pretending to be an author might be fun, and it would give her something to think about besides her own imminent demise. “I’ll do it,” she said quietly. “For as long as I’m able. But I’m not giving up my apartment.”
“It’s foolish for you to pay rent here when you’ll be living with me.”
“I don’t care. I need a place of my own. A place to come back to when…when I want to come home.”
“All right. But I’ll pay your rent as long as you’re working for me.”
“I can’t ask you to do that!”
“You didn’t ask me. Consider it part of your pay.”
“You’re going to pay me?”
“Of