it was open. The scene where Vasco fed Lady Mary slices of ripe pear jumped out at him. The scene had been rich with visualisation and Rick had almost been able to smell the sweet pear juice that had trekked down Mary’s chin and Vasco had lapped up with his kisses.
Rick shut it for his own sanity. He let his fingers linger over the raised gold lettering of her name. How could he reconcile the Stella Mills who’d written the sexy historical with the Stella Mills he’d known practically all of his life?
How could he ever think of her as sweet and innocent again when he’d been privy to her erotic prose?
When he’d been the subject of that erotic prose?
When the taste of her mouth was imprinted onto his?
He meant what he’d said last night. But he’d never thought it would be so hard. He’d never been obsessed by a woman before. Sure, he’d had his usual teenage infatuations and spent some exciting shore leave with some very generous women, but none had played on his mind like this. None had moved into his brain and taken over.
Stella was fast becoming an obsession.
The question was would the obsession end when they went their separate ways? Or was he destined to wonder for ever?
He shoved the book under his pillow.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Although if he had any sense he’d take it above deck and hurl it into the ocean. But it was Diana’s so he couldn’t.
At least that was what he told himself anyway.
* * *
Stella was throwing a line in over the side when Rick reappeared half an hour later. He looked sublimely sexy in his shirt, regulation boardies and bare feet. God knew why—it wasn’t as if he were wearing Armani or Ralph Lauren. But there was something about the way he wore them that oozed a special mix of charisma and wonderful outdoorsy sexuality.
‘Thought we’d have some fish tonight,’ she said.
Rick nodded. She’d put a button-up throw on over her bikini a long time ago but it was as if he had X-ray vision suddenly and it was still all he could see. ‘I’ll set up the grill.’
An hour later the sky was just starting to blush a velvety pink as they sat on deck and ate their fish with the potatoes that Rick had also fried on the grill. A gentle breeze caressed Stella’s neck, lifting the tendrils that had escaped her messily constructed bun. The ocean lapped gently at the hull.
‘Did you get your word count done?’ Rick asked after they’d been eating in silent contemplation for most of the meal.
Stella nodded, grateful for the conversation. She was excruciatingly aware that they’d been avoiding any mention of what happened last night, which seemed kind of ridiculous sitting together and sharing a meal. ‘Just over three thousand words today.’
He took a deep swallow of his beer. ‘Is that your usual quota?’
She nodded again. ‘I try to do three k a day. Some days—’ she grimaced ‘—that’s easier to achieve than others.’
‘Why’s that?’ he asked. ‘Surely you just sit there until you reach your goal.’
Stella shook her head at him—such a boy. ‘Well, it doesn’t really work that way unfortunately.’
He gave her a blank look and she knew she was going to have to explain it to this goal-orientated male.
‘It’s like diving for lost treasure. Sometimes coins are just lying on the ocean floor ready to scoop up, other times they’re locked in chests, which are trapped in impossible-to-reach pockets within an aged, treacherous, waterlogged wreck. They’re there...you can see them...but they’re tantalisingly out of reach. The muse is like that. Some days she comes out to play and the words flow and other days...’ She shrugged. ‘It feels like every word is locked away in a chest just out of my reach.’
Rick wondered how quickly some of the Pleasure Hunt scenes flowed before stopping himself. ‘I don’t know,’ he joked to cover the errant thoughts. ‘You arty types.’
Stella laughed. ‘Sorry, I suppose that did sound a bit pretentious.’
From her it had sounded just right. ‘Not at all,’ he dismissed with a smile. ‘Do some scenes flow better than others?’ The question slipped out unfiltered and couldn’t be recalled.
Stella looked away. The sex scenes in Pleasure Hunt had flowed like a gushing tap. Years of feverish fantasies let loose had informed the scenes to embarrassing accuracy. She looked away from the piercing intensity of his gaze.
‘No, not really,’ she lied, standing to clear the plates. ‘They