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‘Didn’t I become a writer?’ He resisted the desire to peel her a grape, and popped another in his own mouth instead. ‘Well, I did. I wrote six novels—’
‘Six?’ she squeaked. ‘And were they published?’
‘Ouch!’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m used to adulation, not realism,’ he told her drily. ‘And yes, they were published—all six of them.’
‘So what happened, did no one want to buy them?’
‘Ouch again! You know how to hit a man where it hurts, don’t you, Fran? Yes, some people wanted to buy them, and some even did! But not as many as I would have liked. I think I recognised that my books were okay rather than unputdownable! And rather than spend the rest of my life doing something at which I would only ever be mediocre, I decided to put my objective eye to good use. So I fought for authors whose work I did believe in. With some success,’ he finished, not at all modestly.
Fran thought of the piles of manuscripts she had seen lying around his study. It would take a pretty long time to wade through all of those! ‘It must be hard work?’
‘Well, it’s not like working down the mines.’
‘And lonely?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Yeah. Pretty much.’ He began to stack the empty cartons on the tray. ‘But that’s the kind of life I like.’
‘And what about children?’ she asked suddenly.
He hid his surprise. ‘What about them?’
‘Don’t you want to have any…of your own?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Why Fran,’ he asked softly. ‘Is that a proposition?’
Which had the undesired effect of making her scramble to her feet. And taking her provocative body away from where it was sending his pulses soaring, and off to bed instead.
Sam sighed.
Alone.
CHAPTER NINE
SAM’S mother arrived at three the following afternoon, accompanied by her two daughters, when the taxi carrying them roared to an abrupt halt outside the front door, sending gravel cascading everywhere.
Fran stood watching in the hall as Sam pulled open the front door, just in time to see the car execute a screeching three-point turn, and he wondered if the driver was a frustrated rally-driver, or merely had a death-wish!
A glamorous redhead wearing a floppy velvet hat was leaning out of the back window. ‘Hello, Sam, darling! Aren’t you going to give your baby sister a kiss?’
Sam glared at the taxi driver. ‘Weren’t you driving a little fast!’
‘Sorry, guv,’ shrugged the driver, with an expressive jerk of his head in the direction of the seat next to him.
‘I told him to,’ came an amused voice from the passenger seat. ‘It was a condition of my giving him a tip, so wipe that furious look off your face, Sam Lockhart!’
Sam pretended to glower in through the window at his mother, and then his face broke out into the most uninhibited smile that Fran had ever seen. Standing unseen in the shadows of the hallway, she felt her heart beating erratically.
‘Mother!’ he reprimanded sternly. ‘You’re nothing but a speed freak!’
The redhead was clambering out, displaying show-stoppingly long legs. ‘I actually offered to drive us myself instead of catching the train—stop looking so horrified, Sam! But they refused to insure me without me having to practically take out a second mortgage—’
‘Thank God,’ breathed Sam, in a heartfelt voice.
‘And just because I’m an actress, honestly! Why is the world so prejudiced against actresses?’
‘I used to have the same trouble myself,’ said Mrs. Lockhart with an indulgent smile at her daughter. ‘They see us as flighty and undependable! Now come and help me out of the car, Sam!’
Sam shot her a rueful expression as he gently helped her out of the car. ‘Forgive me for not offering,’ he remarked. ‘But I have to tread on eggshells where you’re concerned. Once you berated me for hours for treating you like an invalid!’
