Free Public Affair, Secretly Expecting by Heidi Rice Page A

together. It was only sex—and she had to remember that.
    Her heart wedged into her throat. She should never have spent the entire night in his arms. This was just the sort of intimacy she’d been determined to avoid.
    They’d made no promises, no commitments. How long was he even likely to remember her name? After all, a man didn’t make love like that unless he’d had a lot of practice.
    She slipped out of the bed. She’d seized her Cinderella moment and made the most of it. But she’d taken a foolish, self-indulgent risk falling asleep in his arms. She wasn’t about to make it worse by hanging around like some star-struck groupie until he woke up.
    Having wiggled into her underwear and the heavily creased gown, she gathered up her shoes and crossed the room. She hesitated next to the antique desk beside the door, then picked up a pen and dashed off a quick note on the hotel’s letterheaded stationery. She folded the thick white paper, scribbled Mac’s name across it, then tiptoed to the bed to prop it by the phone on the bedside table.
    Tilting her head, she took one last opportunity to admire Mac’s magnificent body sprawled across most of the bed. And felt the inevitable throb of response.
    How could he still look so dangerous when he was fast asleep?
    She took a fortifying breath and crept back across the silk carpet barefoot, suddenly eager to get as far away as possible. But as she shut the door the soft click of the lock echoed in some small neglected corner of her heart.
    Five hours later, a raucous ring jolted Mac out of a nicely carnal erotic fantasy. Swearing, he kept his eyes shut and groped for the phone.
    ‘Brody,’ he grunted into the mouthpiece once he’d finally located the damn thing. ‘This better be really good.’
    ‘Mac, why have you had your cell off for two days? And what the heck are you doing in France, man?’
    Mac groaned, recognising the harassed Brooklyn accent of his personal publicist, Mickey Carver. ‘None of your business, Mick,’ he said, his head now throbbing as insistently as his groin. He went to dump the phone, but heard Mickey’s panicked plea crackling down the line.
    ‘Don’t hang up, Mac. I’m begging you, here.’
    He exhaled slowly and brought the handset back to his ear. There was no point hanging up on Mickey. He’d call the management and have them storm the hotel room. ‘All right, Mick.’ He opened his eyelids and got blasted by five thousand watts of sunshine in both retinas for his trouble. ‘But keep your voice down,’ he whispered, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m not alone.’
    He eased over onto his back and blinked groggily at the indent on the fluffy goose down pillow beside him.
    Holding the phone away from his ear, he strained to hear any sound from the en suite. All that greeted him was Mickey’s muffled voice and the rustle of a breeze in the terrace vines.
    He frowned. Strange. Where was the woman who had starred in the dream Mickey had so rudely interrupted?
    ‘Hold up, Mick,’ he said, interrupting the whining monologue he hadn’t heard a word of. ‘Can I call you back?’
    Mickey heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘Sure. But do me a favour. Next time you decide to rearrange the tonsils of some London shop girl, give me a heads up, will you? I’ve been fielding calls from the British tabloids most of the night. They haven’t quit yet and it’s now six in the morning LA time.’
    Mac bolted upright, his knuckles whitening on the handset. ‘What did you say?’ he asked, somewhat redundantly, as he’d heard every word this time—and was having the heart palpitations to prove it.
    ‘The photos are all over the morning papers in the UK.’
    ‘What photos?’ Why couldn’t Mickey ever get to the point?
    ‘Of you and the shop girl,’ Mickey said, sounding taken aback. ‘Getting physical on some balcony in France.’
    Mac’s astonishment turned to fury.
    Some bastard had snapped their photo last night. And now that private,