When looking back, he thought it odd that at some earlier time he had believed his actions to be self-directed. Now, with the blank pages leading towards a conclusion, he studied the chapters, the paragraphs, the sentences, his choice ( his?) of words, even the punctuation that had always seemed to be such a random act of selection, and suspected that he had always been wrong. It was not his story.
He wanted to write a Mills and Boon, but feared for his spiritual wellbeing.
The air hostess appeared and beckoned Lucy up the steps. She stepped on to the jet, slowly. The first thing she noticed was the scent of luxury – it cannot be replicated. She could smell fresh paint, thick wool carpet, good whisky and the far-off scent of a half-smoked cigar, lingering in the air like a promise. These assaulted her. She walked through into the cabin. And then she saw him.
Darcy was standing in the middle of the cabin, his hand extended in welcome, a cool, professional smile on his lips. He was so tall – six foot two, at least – that when he stood, he dwarfed his surroundings. He stared intently at her, opened his green eyes a fraction wider and took in her amazed expression. He withdrew his hand and swiftly gestured the air hostess away. “What the hell,” he said to Lucy, in a chilling, almost guttural whisper, “are you doing here?”
The Magnate’s Mistress
Tanya Gold’s Debut for Mills and Boon.