Free Duchess by Susan May Warren Page B

just in case, but she’d only sported a few bruises and hadn’t stayed overnight.
    She still suffered from a backache that could cross her eyes. She groaned and curled into a ball under her cotton blanket. Outside, the October Sunday sunshine beckoned and the voices of the cast drifted up from the poolside area.
    Clearly, Rooney hadn’t returned. He’d probably gone to Los Angeles to scrounge up more extras for his next change in script.
    At this rate, the epic might be finished sometime in the next century.
    At least they had a day off. Her head pounded, and she put a hand to her forehead. Hot, as if she had a fever.
    The breeze drifted into the window, and she closed her eyes, trying to relax through the spasm in her back. She let herself smile at how Rafe had scooped her up, muscled her to his convertible, and driven her himself to Oakland’s Highland Hospital.
    It would probably make the papers, her hanging on to his neck as he carried her into the emergency area. The look on his face had scared her, though.
    He loved her too much for her own good.
    A knock at her door jerked her free of where her thoughts were spiraling her. Like into his arms. Like abandoning everything and running away.
    Yet again.
    No. She groaned as she sat up. “Yes?” Probably Rafe, coming to check on her. She reached for her robe.
    â€œA telephone call for you, ma’am. At the front desk.”
    She winced, flopped back. “Take a message.”
    â€œHe called twice yesterday, ma’am. The clerk forgot to deliver your messages.”
    He. She had an idea who that might be. Still, Dash rarely chased her down. “I’ll be right down.”
    She got up, pressed her hand to the small of her back. Leaned on the white wicker bed frame. Maybe she’d spend all day in bed. She had more pages to read, thank you, Rooney.
    Maybe Rafe would read with her. Make her laugh. Help her live in the fantasy before it crumbled and she had to tell him the truth.
    I’m married to Dashielle Parks .
    Yeah, she could wait on that conversation. But it was the only defense she had left.
    The only thing keeping her from giving in, letting him inside Roxy Price to the woman he made her believe she was, letting him steal her heart.
    She knotted the gown then gripped a chair as another spasm flared in her back. She shot a look in the bureau mirror. Maybe she needed a turban before she headed out in public. And some lipstick.
    Sufficiently attired, even for the press, she headed downstairs, a strong hand on the railing as the pain in her lower back fisted her again.
    The clerk held the phone out for her when she finally descended. Unfortunately, the cord didn’t reach over to the whitewashed rattan chairs. She stood at the counter, a hand pressed to her spine. “Hello?”
    â€œPlease tell me that the pictures in Photoplay aren’t the reason you didn’t come home this weekend?”
    She opened her mouth, had no words. Hello to you too, Dash.
    â€œRosie?”
    â€œPlease, are you serious? I’m not the only one making a splash in Photoplay . Besides, what photos are you talking about?”
    â€œThere’s one with you sitting with your feet on a man’s lap. Another with you sitting on a lounge chair, it looks like at some amusement park. What’s going on up there? Are you having an affair?”
    â€œWhat? No. Nothing’s going on, you dope. Not that you would care, but that’s Rafe Horne. He’s a consultant on set for Rooney—who nearly killed me yesterday, by the way. You might see a picture of Rafe carrying me to the hospital, although who knows what tripe Photoplay will print as the caption.”
    Silence.
    â€œDash?”
    â€œI—I know you don’t like our agreement, Red, but—”
    â€œAgreement? Since when was what we have an agreement ? Convenient, perhaps. As long as we’re talking about Photoplay , who is the brunette that I keep