***
"Mollie, I’m Rachel Gibson. We spoke on the telephone. I didn’t realize you were bringing your husband with you." Rachel turned to Tom. "I had no idea that you and Ms. Blake..." She foundered on the confusion of the names. "I’ve seen you on television of course and my husband adores your books."
He smiled but before he could engage her, divert her from Mary, she said, "I’m so sorry about your room, Mollie. I thought you were coming alone. I’m afraid the two of you will be desperately cramped..."
Tom let her twitter on, even though she was mistaken. His concern was all for Mary. She was riveted to the spot, her luminous gray eyes filled with panic exactly as they had been when he’d first seen her... "Ms. Gibson. Rachel," he said, in an effort to stop the woman. "I’m afraid you’ve made a — "
"No!" Mary’s hand tightened on his arm, warning him not to go on. And that’s when the truth struck him with the force of a sledgehammer.
There was no mistake here. Only the one he was making. Mollie... He remembered now that her mother had called her that. Mary Harrington was Mollie Blake.
The girl he’d run away with — secretly married, then lost — was the brilliant, reclusive young woman who’d taken the publishing industry by storm.
Which went a long towards explaining why she was publicity shy.
After her first book was published, he and Mollie Blake had been invited to share the stage at a literary festival together. An unlikely pairing, but one the organizers felt had mass appeal. But it had never happened. She’d cried off with "family problems." Well, he could understand that. Her family had always been a problem.
"Will that be all right, Mollie? Shall we do that?"
She clearly hadn’t taken in Rachel’s question.
"That’ll be fine," Tom said, quickly, rescuing her. He hadn’t been listening, either, but his answer seemed to make the woman happy.
"I’ll see to it. Now, Mollie, everyone is simply dying to meet you." He watched anxiously as she was swallowed up in a throng of eager fans. That’s how he’d lost her before, as she’d been circled by her family, cut off from him, swept out of reach...

Chapter Three: Part Two


"Are you here to research a book, Mr. Garrick?" He dragged his attention from the stranger who was his wife, his heart sinking as he saw the eager face of a reporter from the local newspaper. Mollie Blake was certainly getting the celebrity treatment. "Or are you just here to give your wife the benefit of your wide experience? She doesn’t usually do this sort of thing, does she? Is that why your marriage has been kept such a secret?" she continued with a barrage of questions, her eyes alight with the prospect of a "big story."
"It’s not a secret." It was a matter of public record like any marriage. "My wife simply prefers not to live in the media spotlight," he said, enjoying the novelty of the word "wife." He was sick of the publicity too, but he’d dredge up something outrageous to keep the reporter satisfied. "‘Can I get you a drink — " He glanced at her name badge and smiled, "Lucy?"
***
Mollie pushed her dessert around her plate.
"Not hungry, sweetheart?"
"Don’t call me that. I’m not your sweetheart."
She’d insisted that it wasn’t necessary, but Rachel had rearranged the seating plan so that "her husband" could sit by her. And he was still legally that. ‘Til death do us part, she’d promised. And she’d meant it. They’d said she was stubborn and stupid and they were probably right. Maybe if her parents hadn’t tried to force her into a divorce she’d have given in and signed the papers. But he hadn’t bothered with it, either. She’d never understood why. It had been too late by then to prove her father had been wrong about him.
Tom leaned towards her, his jacket brushing against her sleeve in a gesture of such intimacy that she felt naked. He could do that to her with just a look. His eyes were so eloquent. They said, I see you — in my mind I’m touching you...
As her fork clattered to the floor, he caught her hand, held it to still her shaking fingers.
"Nervous, Mary?" he asked.
"Not nervous. Angry. And don’t call me that."
"It’s your name. Mollie — " he shrugged, " — is just the baby name your mother persisted in calling you, long after it was obvious to anyone with eyes to see that you weren’t a baby anymore."
He was still touching her... She’d tried to forget how good that felt, blot him out.
She should hate him. "Leave my mother out of this. I haven’t..." No. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him that.
"What?" His gaze held hers remorselessly. "What haven’t you done?"
"Nothing. Just... I’m Mollie, that’s all. Always have been, always will be."

Chapter Three: Part Three


"Mollie!" someone called out, as if to prove her point and she glanced round, gratefully. There was a bright flash and, too late, she realized that she’d been photographed with her hand in Tom’s, like some "lost in love" teenager.
"Oh, terrific," she said.
"Maybe you’re right," he murmured, his grin doing nothing to help. "Mollie."
She wished. It was the sexy way he’d said her name that had got her into trouble in the first place. Still could, she realized, belatedly snatching her hand away. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the weekend with him there, watching her through narrowed, knowing eyes. Remembering how it had been.
Deliberately she turned away, engaging the woman opposite in conversation.
***
The evening workshop went well, but it was a relief to escape while Tom was busy chatting up the press. Well, he’d got a lot to tell them. She just hoped they remembered he wrote fiction.
"My key, please," she said at the front desk, as the receptionist looked up.
"And mine," Tom said, over her shoulder.
The receptionist beamed at them both. "Rachel explained about the mix-up and we’ve moved you into the Windsor suite — "
"No! No really," Mollie said firmly, "that isn’t necessary. I don’t want to be a nuisance."
"No problem. The housekeeper supervised the move while you were at dinner."
"But — "
"Rachel said she’d cleared it with you." The young woman was clearly growing a little puzzled by their reaction.
Tom’s hand closed warningly on Mollie’s shoulder. "Yes," he said. "She did."
"Not with me she didn’t," Mollie hissed as, with his arm firmly about her shoulders he directed her towards the stairs.
"You weren’t listening." Neither of them had been listening to Rachel Gibson, but it had been him who’d filled in her expectant pause with a thoughtless, "That’ll be fine..."
"You agreed to this?" She dug her heels into the thick carpet and forced him to stop. "Just what do you think you’re playing at?"
He glanced around. The furiously muttered interchange had attracted attention. People were staring. Not good. "Right now, sweetheart? I’m doing you a favor and playing at being a loving husband." And by way of demonstration, he lowered his mouth to hers and before she could protest, he kissed her.

Kissing Mollie was the best idea he’d had all evening Tom Garrick decided. And the worst. He’d caught her off guard, she’d had no chance to put up barriers, mental or physical, and her mouth was as soft and sweet as in the dreams that had never ceased to torment him.
But dreams were transitory things that were banished in the harsh light of day when it was easy to remind himself that the sweetness had been an illusion. That when it came right down to it, her genes ran true to type.
This wasn’t a dream. He wasn’t about to wake up and get a reality check.
Mollie had dreamed of this. Night after night she’d dreamed that Tom would find her, come for her, take her in his arms and kiss her like this. It was only after she’d finally accepted the truth that she’d stopped seeking the solace of dreams and had fought to stay awake any way she could.
Sitting up, night after night, writing the fantasy — the hero who would cross continents, brave fire and flood for the woman he loved. Pouring her breaking heart out onto the paper.
This wasn’t a dream. Tom wasn’t her hero, far from it, and she pulled back sharply, stumbling a little as she realized too late that his hands were not holding her, or compelling her, but simply offering support. That she could have stopped the kiss at any moment she chose... But she’d lingered, clinging to him like a drowning man to a shipwreck.
"You shouldn’t — " she began, her voice little more than a croak. "I didn’t — "
"I know," he said, softly, putting a finger to her lips in a gentle warning to be silent. "But save your feelings until we’re somewhere more private. I’ve just about managed to convince the local reporter that she doesn’t have a story."
He smiled wryly at that. "The national newspapers aren’t interested in boringly happy celebrities. Don’t ruin all my hard work by throwing a fit in public and giving her a tabloid headline."
Tom let out a breath of relief as Mollie groaned softly, let her head fall against his shirt front and allowed him to usher her up the stairs, out of sight of prying eyes. "The Windsor Suite," he said, approaching the door, sliding the key into the lock, ushering her resisting body through the door. "Do you suppose...?" He stopped as they stepped over the threshold. Yes, there was. He could see the majestic four-poster bed through the double doors that opened into the bedroom.
"Don’t!" She stepped away from him, holding up her hands as if to ward him off. "Don’t even think about it — "
"What? Oh, the bed..." And he paused just long enough to let her think about it.
Chapter Four: Part Two


"No, I was simply wondering..." he mentally crossed his fingers, "if there’s a sofa." There was. A fancy brocade thing that didn’t look comfortable enough to sit on, let alone sleep on.
"Quit wondering. Just collect your things and go."
"Go where? You want me to go back down there and tell them the truth?"
"The great Tom Garrick admit that his wife threw him out of their room? I don’t think so. You love your car so much, sleep in that."
"Cold and uncomfortable." He knew all about that. Sitting outside her home day and night, refusing to go away despite the threats. Then her father had called the police and he’d been arrested "on suspicion". When he’d been released the house was empty. And all that remained of his car was a crushed cube of ********************************l at the side of the curb. Mollie’s note had arrived in the post the next day.
"So, it’s cold. You should have thought of that before you rearranged the accommodation."
"I didn’t — " he began, then let it go. In her position he wouldn’t have believed him either. "I’m trying to keep things civilized, Mollie. I don’t want to share your bed." It wasn’t a lie. His body would catch up with his head eventually.
Mollie’s fingers curled into her palms, the nails cutting into her flesh. Had it been so difficult for him? Had bedding the innocent virgin been a real bore? It hadn’t been like that for her. He’d made her feel like a princess, so special...Had even that been faked?
She dug her nails in harder. "You don’t have any say in the matter."
He held up his hands. All innocence. "You know me, darling. I never went where I wasn’t invited." She felt the heat rise to her cheeks as she remembered. Saw that he remembered. "Did I?" he pushed, forcing her to acknowledge a desire beyond reason.
She had to be strong. Forget the kiss. Forget the spiraling desire that had blotted out five years in an instant. Tom had always been trouble. She’d known it from the moment he’d walked into that party, turning heads of girls who practically fell over themselves to get at him. She’d looked, she wasn’t made of stone, but she’d known he wouldn’t be interested in her.

Chapter Four: Part Three


Then he’d turned, attracted by the commotion as she tried to escape the attentions of some idiot who’d had too much to drink. For a moment the world had stopped turning and then he’d said her name. She’d been too stunned that he knew it to answer him. But it hadn’t mattered. He’d reached out, taken her hand, held it for a moment as if to reassure her before walking out of the party with her. Walking away with her, body, heart, and soul.
"Mollie?"
He was doing it again.
"Please, don’t..."
"You loved it when I said your name like that," he persisted. He was closer. She could feel his breath on her face.
"That was before I knew..."
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and her cheek welcomed the touch, longed to nestle against his palm.
"Before you knew what?"
This was dangerous. She needed to keep a clear head. To remember..."That you’d made a virtue out of your mistake. You didn’t know then that I had a pet name. You just knew I was Mary Harrington. The only child of Sir Charles Harrington. Landowner. Banker. Millionaire. You saw me being harassed by some lout at a party and you thought...bingo."
"You believed that?"
She hadn’t wanted to. She’d protested that Tom loved her — would do nothing to hurt her.
"You really believed that?"
"I didn’t want to, Tom." At first she’d refused to believe it. So her father had set about proving it to her.
It could so easily have destroyed her, and indeed came close. But as she’d held her baby in her arms she’d felt only strength, the overwhelming rush of love, joy that she’d gotten this one thing right. She wasn’t going to ruin it all simply because, despite everything, she’d never been able to stop loving Tom Garrick. "But we both know that it’s true."