Fantasy

by Christine Feehan

  “Randy. Randy, come on, stand up.”

  She was fighting to regain consciousness, then she felt a pair of hands, very gentle hands, beneath her armpits, hauling her to her feet. A sudden wave of nausea swept over her, and she threw up on her shoes.

  “I don’t feel so good,” she whispered, and this time didn’t even try to lower her voice. Then she started to cry.

  “Ah, shit,” said a recognizable voice, and she felt herself being swept up into a pair of strong and capable arms.

  And of course, to make matters even worse, the paparazzi had been tipped off and flashbulbs exploded in a frenzy of light as he carried Randy out of the bar and down the street.

  He didn’t even care what kind of headlines they’d put to the photo. He only knew he had to get Randy to a hospital. A punch like that, to a woman’s stomach—

  Jake didn’t even want to think about it.

  He walked right out into the traffic on Ocean Avenue and held things up until he managed to hail a taxi, then tersely told the driver to head for the nearest hospital.

  The doctor in the emergency room hadn’t even blinked as Miranda had started to unwind the length of cotton fabric from around her breasts after taking off her suit. This was L.A., after all. She was sure he’d seen much stranger

  things.

  “Quite a hit you took,” he said quietly, a little later. “You’ll be black and blue for a while, but the X ray showed no internal damage. You were lucky. You could’ve broken a few ribs.”

  She nodded her head.

  “I’ll go ahead and send your husband in,” he said, leaving the curtained cubicle before she could open her mouth to say, “Oh, but he’s not my—”

  And then Jake was standing there, staring at her. And she was dressed in one of those disgusting little blue-and-white-patterned hospital gowns, open in back and totally without style.

  They studied each other for a long moment, and she sensed he knew the truth.

  “You know, it probably would’ve been better if he’d just killed me.”

  Jake’s lips twitched as he walked closer. “Is your name really Randy?”

  She couldn’t look at him; she was so ashamed of the way she’d deceived him. So she concentrated on her right hand as it pleated a piece of the hospital gown. “Miranda,” she said softly. “Miranda Ward.”

  “Miranda Ward?” he said, and she glanced up at him. “The jig’s up.”

  When they got back to their hotel room, she said, “Could I take a shower before we talk? I smell like garbage and—vomit.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  She locked the bathroom door and stared at herself in the mirror. She’d scraped one side of her face on the cement as she’d fallen, and the doctor had given her some ointment for it. Her hazel eyes looked huge and dark in her pale face, and her freckles stood out starkly.

  She’d looked better.

  Sighing, she started the shower, took off her clothes, adjusted the temperature, and stepped in.

  He stayed close by the bathroom door, in case she needed his help.

  And halfway through the shower, he heard her start to cry.

  It tore at him, and he gently tried the doorknob, only to find it locked. He sat down by the door and listened, picturing her sitting curled up in the tub in a fetal position as the water sluiced down over her. She’d been in shock, and now she was coming out of it. And he’d bet money it was the first and only time she’d ever been struck in her entire life.

  That kind of violence could be terrifying to experience.

  He waited patiently until he heard her turn off the water and step outside, reach for a towel. Only then did he get up and walk silently across the hotel room to his bed and sit down.

  She came out dressed in her blue cotton pajamas, incredibly tired. Her very short, dark auburn hair stood up in little spikes all over her head.

  She’d never felt less attractive.

  Jake was sitting on his bed. He’d taken off his suit jacket and rolled back his shirtsleeves. He’d also kicked off his shoes. She sat down on her bed, facing him.

  He’d drawn the curtains, and the only light in the room came from the bathroom’s open door. She didn’t make a move to turn on the bedside lamp. Somehow she knew it would be easier to talk to this man in the almost-dark. Like last night.

  She cleared her tight throat, then said, “I’m really sorry I messed up your weekend.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “And the photographers—I’m sorry about them, too.”

  “Screw them. It doesn’t matter.”

  She clutched the mattress with her hands, one on either side of her. “I guess I’m just sorry about everything.”

  “What were you doing, Miranda?” he asked, and she felt like crying at the gentleness in his voice.

  “I was working on—a story. About this whole Swiftest Seduction thing. I researched Anton Levine and brought the idea to my editor, and he wouldn’t let me do it because Anton won’t let women in. You know, we’re ‘the other.’ So he assigned it to Bertie Hunt.”

  Comprehension dawned. “Bertie, the guy who wants to tie up—Miranda. Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s me. I learned far more about my co-worker this weekend than I ever wanted to know.”

  “I guess.” He frowned. “You’re a writer? Where do you work?”

  “I work for a magazine called Street Talk—”

  “I’ve read it. It’s a good magazine. I think I even read one of your columns. Did you do that piece on animal rights about three months ago?”

  “Yeah, that was me.”

  “It was really good.”

  “Thanks.” She chanced a glance at him. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No. I’m relieved.”

  “Relieved?”

  “Yeah. I thought I was going a little crazy this morning.”

  “In what way?”

  “I had this dream. And in it—you were in the shower while I was dreaming, by the way—but in this dream, I was making love to a woman. And when I looked at her face, it was you.”

  “Randy?” she said, the word coming out in a soft squeak.

  “Yeah. So you can see how I was kind of concerned.”

  She nodded her head. “So you were…attracted to me when I was a man? I mean, pretending to be one?”

  “Yep.” He just continued to look at her, and she had to look away. Her heart had started to speed up, and a blush was working its way up her neck.

  “You’re blushing,” he said softly.

  “Good eye.”

  “Care to tell me what you’re feeling?”

  “I’m feeling kind of beat up.”

  “Anything I can do for you?”

  “Don’t—don’t do anything for just a minute, okay? I have to get my bearings.”

  “Okay.”

  The silence overwhelmed her. Sitting in this semidark hotel room, with this particular man, knowing he’d had an erotic dream about her—it was all too much. She didn’t dare tell him the thoughts she’d had about him.

  “Do you even like me?” she finally said.

  “I think you know that I like you a lot,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed our weekend together.”

  “Hmmm.” She considered this, then bit her lip as he got up from his bed and sat down next to her.

  “Don’t,” she said, her voice coming out in a nervous rush as he took one of her hands in his.

  “Don’t?” he said softly. “I thought you wanted—fire.”

  She swallowed, realizing how effortlessly it would happen with this man. She couldn’t seem to think straight with him this close.

  “It would be taking advantage of me, after the trauma we both went through tonight—”

  “I feel just fine. You?”

  “Jake.” She turned her head away from him. He let go of her hand.

  “Tell me to stop, Miranda, and I will.”

  She couldn’t seem to find the words.

  “But you have to t
ell me.”

  She couldn’t do it. Almost as if something beyond her rational will was guiding her actions, she slowly turned her head toward him. Looked at him. That face. Those eyes.

  “Go slow?” she said, and hated the way her voice trembled.

  “As slow as you want.”

  He was leaning toward her when she said, “This doesn’t have anything to do with that homework assignment, does it?”

  “Absolutely not.” His hand cupped the side of her face and she leaned into his touch.

  “I look like shit,” she said feebly, searching for excuses. “I can’t do this, looking like this.”

  “You look great,” he whispered.

  “In pajamas, with short hair. Oh no, not this way—”

  “Oh yes, just this way,” he said, seconds before he kissed her.

  And then she was lost. He continued to kiss her as he eased her back on the queen-sized bed, and Miranda just gave it up, gave up all resistance to what was going to happen. What had to happen. It was so strange, she never would’ve met Jake in any other situation; they traveled in totally different social circles. But this weekend, she’d gotten to know him and discovered she really liked him.

  Could love him, given time. Maybe loved him a little right now.

  But really lusted after him at the moment.

  He stood, then unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it, and she remembered that first moment she’d seen him, almost naked in his boxer shorts. The way she’d stared at his chest. Well, she was looking at that chest now, and watching as he removed his belt and tossed it on the other bed.

  She was thankful he didn’t undress any further, just came back down on the bed and took her into his arms.

  He kissed her again and she found that she liked the way he kissed her. Liked it so much that she didn’t even realize he’d unbuttoned her pajama top and pushed it aside until he broke the kiss and said, “How did you hide these?”

  She started to laugh, realizing he was referring to her breasts.

  “I tied them down.”

  “Did it hurt?” he said, gently cupping one breast and rubbing his thumb over her nipple. She arched her back slightly in reaction.

  “It was—a little uncomfortable, but not bad.”

  “Let me know if I hurt you,” he whispered, and she knew he was referring to the area where she’d been punched. “Tell me.”

  “I will,” she whispered back, then slid her hand up into his hair and gently pulled. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  “Whatever you want,” he said, a breath before their lips met.

  She’d asked him to go slow, but now she was urging him to speed things up. The minute he’d touched her breasts she’d been ready for him, amazed at the speed with which he could get her going.

  “This is slow?” he said as she urged him up over her.

  “Don’t talk,” she said, and he laughed. Then he braced his weight on his forearms so she didn’t have to have any pressure on her sore stomach.

  “I could get on top of you,” she offered.

  “Don’t talk,” he said, and she started to laugh, then the laugh turned into a moan as he parted her thighs and slid inside her, hard and hot and strong.

  “Oh,” she said, stretching out the one word into a moan.

  “I hope that’s good,” he whispered as he started to move.

  “Oh, yeah, oh, oh—” She grasped his shoulders tightly, totally overwhelmed.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Yeah, just like that—”

  It didn’t take either of them long. She came apart in his arms and he followed right after, rolling off her as soon as he finished. But his arms came back around her immediately, and one hand slid down to rest on her stomach.

  “Okay?” he whispered, and she knew he wanted to know if he’d hurt her.

  “Great,” she whispered against his ear. “Much better than a punch in the stomach.”

  He started to laugh. “I should hope so.”

  Then, exhausted, they both fell asleep.

  Jake woke up, Miranda tucked tightly against his side. He glanced at the bedside clock and read the glowing digital numbers.

  Four in the morning. The time he usually went to bed.

  He’d actually slept. Not only slept, but slept well, that deep, dreamless, restful sleep that he hadn’t been able to find for the longest time.

  It felt wonderful.

  He glanced down, realizing that his slight movement had awakened Miranda. She was looking up at him, and he recognized uncertainty in those clear, hazel eyes.

  “Hey,” he said. He reached out and ran a gentle finger over one of those high cheekbones, the one that wasn’t bruised. “How are you feeling?”

  “Good.”

  “How good?” He was amazed to find that he wanted to make love to her again, but he didn’t want her to think he was a brute.

  “Really good.”

  He reached out and ran his hand over her short, spiky hair. “You did this for a story?”

  “Yep.”

  “What did it look like before?”

  “Short, but not this short.”

  He considered this. “You have beautiful cheekbones. When I first saw you, I thought you looked like an Irish altar boy.”

  “My dad would be pleased to hear that. He’s Irish.” Her smile reached her eyes as she looked up at him. “When I first saw you, I thought you were beautiful.”

  “Huh.”

  “I did. You were asleep on that bed, in nothing but your boxers.”

  He remembered. He’d been trying to make up for one of his usual sleepless nights. And in she’d walked, a woman disguised as a man, and it hadn’t even fazed her.

  “You’re a cool little customer, you know that?” He kissed her, then felt her gentle touch on the side of his face. Her fingers threaded their way up into his hair, held him close. By the time they broke the kiss, he was absolutely sure what they both wanted.

  “This time,” he whispered, “you can be on top.”

  5

  Miranda came awake with a start early Sunday morning. She eased herself up on her elbow, wiggled out from under Jake’s arm, and glanced over his sleeping body at the softly glowing face of the hotel’s digital clock.

  Seven ten in the morning. They were due in the auditorium for the final part of the seminar at nine.

  She studied Jake for a long moment, the pure exhaustion that had been on his face finally relaxed. He was sleeping well, and she was glad of that. But she’d decided, before she’d fallen asleep last night after the second time they’d made love, that there was no way this relationship could work. The last time she’d kissed him, just before they’d fallen asleep, she’d known it had to be for the last time.

  And that had just about broken her heart.

  They were too different. At different times in their lives. They were too far apart on too many levels. He was Pacific Palisades, she was Culver City. He wrote for national publications, she could barely get assignments from a local magazine.

  In time, he’d tire of her, even though their attraction to each other was immense. And she wasn’t sure she could take how irresistible he was to the opposite sex. How would she possibly hold her own?

  They’d come together because of circumstance, and so she’d decided their affair had to end the same weekend it had begun. Practically the same day. So Miranda had resolved to take this particular decision out of his hands, make it easy for him.

  Getting silently out of bed, careful not to wake him, she wrote a quick note on the hotel stationery, dressed, then packed her bag and slipped quietly out the door.

  He woke up totally rested, glanced at the clock, and swore when he realized it was almost two in the afternoon.

  And the seminar had started at nine. Why hadn’t Miranda nudged him awake?

  He glanced around the quiet hotel room.

  Because she wasn’t there.

  He got out of bed in record time, searching the room until he fo
und the note she’d left.

  Darling Jake,

  Don’t try to change my mind. It can’t work, no matter what you say or think. Thanks for saving my butt the other night and for not being too mad even though you had every reason to be. And whatever was said in this room will go to my grave, no secrets revealed. I wouldn’t do that to you.

  I know your article will be wonderful, and I’ll never forget the time we spent together. But I’d rather that it stayed a happy memory than the breakup I’m sure we’d face down the road. We’re too different, don’t you think?

  Have a happy life—Love, Randy Miranda

  “Have a happy life?” he muttered to himself as he threw the note down and reached for a worn pair of jeans, then pulled a sweatshirt over his head. “What is she, deranged?” He talked to himself as he quickly laced up his running shoes. “Too different? What the hell’s that supposed to mean! We were too different when she was a guy, but now—damn it, Miranda!” Grabbing his seminar materials and his key card, his hair uncombed, his eyes feeling gritty, he let himself out of the hotel room—and noticed the DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the door. That, and late checkout, had allowed him to sleep in.

  He was going to kill her. Jake slammed the door and headed for the seminar.

  And for Miranda.

  She was in the front row, planning her strategy, when she saw him walk in. And she found she couldn’t quite take her eyes off him.

  He looked awful, his hair uncombed, his expression…pissed, there was no other word for it. The jeans and sweatshirt looked like he’d slept in them, but he had a tightly wired energy that told her he was angry she’d left him without letting him know. Or even given him a choice. And she realized that she really wasn’t that good at the whole relationship thing.

  It had been kind of a juvenile move, leaving, but she’d left the way she had because Miranda wasn’t sure she could’ve left if he’d asked her to stay.

  “Ah!” said Anton, calling attention to Jake’s late entrance. “Jake Blackhall, one of the most notorious bachelors in this city! I’m assuming you got lucky, since you’re coming in so late! I hope she was worth it and didn’t require too much effort.”