LEAD ME ON by Julie Ortolon (find a book to read TXT) 📕

and dove into the story. When he wasn’t writing, he swam laps in the pool, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion, anything to block out memories of Allison.

In those moments when reality intruded into his conscious mind, he told himself he didn’t care. Her rejection could only hurt if he let it. He’d never wanted to get tangled up in a relationship in the first place. Loving someone gave them carte blanche to rip your heart to shreds. He was glad he’d gotten out of it before she’d become any more a part of his life.

As for the pain that knifed through him at unexpected moments, he assured himself that it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t.

By the third week of his self-imposed exile, he’d reached a state of total numbness. Nothing touched him. Nothing mattered. He worked to block out reality, yet couldn’t care less what happened with the book. Normally, his work and his privacy were all he cared about. Now he had them in abundance, and they meant nothing.

Ironically, he thought In Deep was shaping up to be the best thing he’d ever written.

The day he finished the rough draft, he decided it was time for a break. He opened a bottle of Chardonnay and carried it and the phone out to the back deck. The afternoon sun pierced his eyeballs, and he realized he hadn’t been outside for a few days. Since he didn’t want to risk running into one of the St. Claires, he’d taken to calling taxi drivers to pick up anything he needed and deliver it to the house.

Taking a seat in a deck chair by the pool, he stared out at the gulf where sea gulls dipped and screeched at the surf. His mind drifted back to the day he and Alli had ridden horses along the beach. He could see her so clearly, laughing and happy, her lithe body atop the gray mare, the sun on her face and the wind in her hair.

Then she’d seen the beach house, and her laughter had faded. She’d refused to even ride by for fear that someone might be out on the deck where he now sat, and she’d be forced to wave.

Heaven forbid she should have to be nice to someone named LeRoche. He snorted and took a drink of wine. What a sap he’d been to think he could overcome generations of animosity. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back and tried to relax as the sun warmed his bare chest and legs. Adrian had been right when he’d said Allison felt more deeply than most people. She also didn’t forgive easily, and he’d bet money she never forgot.

How sad that her very capacity to love so completely was what kept her from loving at all. Her greatest strength was also her greatest weakness. And the quality that made him fall for her in the first place was what made her unobtainable.

The ache rose hard and fast, tightening his chest and throat, all the more painful after days of numbness. Squeezing his eyes shut, he fought the need to be with her. To see her, touch her, hear her voice. If only he could find some way to open the locks she’d put on her heart. But he couldn’t. Only she could do that, and she was too angry, or too afraid, to even try.

He rubbed a hand over his face, and realized he hadn’t trimmed his beard in days. No doubt his hair could use a trim as well. The last time he’d bothered to glance in the mirror, he’d looked like hell.

In need of a distraction, he picked up the phone and punched in his agent’s number. When Hugh’s voice came on the line, Scott lifted his glass of wine toward the gulf. “Say cheers, pal.”

“Scott?” Hugh nearly shouted. “Good God! Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks. Do you have any clue what this little disappearing act did to my blood pressure?”

“Aren’t you going to ask what we’re drinking to?”

“Only if you’re calling to say you finished the book.”

“How about the rough draft?”

“That depends. Is it any good?”

“It’s fabulous. Or will be when I finish filling in a few holes.”

“What size holes?”

“Mostly background color, polishing, that sort of thing.” He decided not to mention the book had two ghosts, one of which played a much larger role than he’d ever intended. Ever since the day he’d gone down to see the ship, Captain Jack Kingsley had lived in the back of his mind. His story—or rather Scott’s imaginary version of his story—had spilled out onto the pages. “It needs work, but what I have so far will knock Penny’s socks off.”

“It better, since she’s about to have a coronary.”

“She’s too young to have a coronary.”

“She’s an editor,” Hugh said. “They age quickly.”

“True.”

“She’s also not the only woman looking for you.”

“Oh?” Scott went still.

“Does the name Allison St. Claire ring any bells?”

He leaned forward, bracing himself against a wild rush of hope. “What does she want?”

“Not much. Your head on a platter. Your skin nailed to the wall. And the diaries she says you stole.”

“The diaries?” His mind raced. Could he have accidentally tossed Marguerite’s diaries into the car the day he left the inn? He’d unpacked his clothes and most of his books, but not all of them, so it was possible.

“You should also warn me,” Hugh said, “the next time you piss someone off that badly. Here I innocently call down there looking for you, and sweet little Allison, the epitome of Texas friendly, nearly flames me to a crisp. What possessed you to steal the woman’s diaries?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, I trust you’ll take care of it, so she’ll quit calling here leaving messages for you.”

“What messages?” Hope stirred again, the sadistic beast.

“That she wants her diaries back.”

“That’s it? That’s all she says?”

“I’m afraid it would offend my gentlemanly sensibilities to repeat the rest.”

“Yeah, right.” Scott snorted. Hugh had the sensibilities of a