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“I got a little carried away there.”
“Actually, you didn’t. I mean, you did, but . . . I wasn’t . . . that is, I liked what you were . . .”
Good heavens, she was babbling. She looked away to collect her thoughts and realized music was playing. She drew a breath and took in the details of the room. A wallet sat on the dresser next to a pile of change. Socks lay on the floor. Behind them, the mirrored door of a walk-in closet was partially opened.
She pulled in another breath.
There were several books on the bedside table, including a volume of Texas history and a biography of Theodore Roosevelt. A few golf magazines. The one on top had a picture on the cover of someone familiar. Someone she recognized.
Odd. Who would she know—
She looked more closely and felt all the blood drain from her head.
Chapter 4
Emma didn’t remember picking up the magazine, but it was in her hands, so she must have. As she stared down at it, the words on the cover swam before her eyes.
PGA BAD BOY KENNY TRAVELER
TALKS ABOUT HIS GAME, TOUR POLITICS,
AND HIS MILLIONS
“Uh . . . Emma?”
She dragged her legs over the side of the bed farthest from him and, with her free hand, clutched the robe together.
The photograph was an action shot, with Kenny in the middle of his golf swing, body turned, club angled back. PGA BAD BOY KENNY TRAVELER . . .
Fingers of rage uncurled inside her. She hadn’t thought anything could be more painful than the humiliation she’d suffered when she’d shared her feelings with Jeremy Fox, but this was a dozen times worse. She was the stupidest, the most naive woman on earth. He wasn’t a professional escort! He was a millionaire athlete who’d seduced her.
She flung down the magazine, vaulted from the side of the bed, and blindly made her way to the bathroom to reclaim her clothes.
“Don’t you think we should talk about this?” he said from behind her.
She hurried past him, clothing stuffed in her arms, and headed for her bedroom.
“Lady Emma?”
She shot inside, twisted the lock, and began pulling on her underwear.
He tapped at the bedroom door. “I know that magazine cover must be piquing your curiosity, so why don’t we finish our bottle of wine while I answer all your questions?”
She ignored his blather, threw her clothes in one suitcase, and snapped the latches on the other. Then she gathered them up along with her carry-all and purse and marched through the door.
He was standing on the other side. Although his pants were zipped, he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. Hatred, spurred on by self-disgust, rushed through her. She pushed past him and hurried down the stairs as fast as her awkward burden would allow.
“Emma!”
A terrible drumming echoed inside her head. She reached the front door and fumbled for the knob.
“Emma, it’s dark. You can’t go out there.” He came up behind her and grasped her arm.
She tore it free and slammed the corner of one suitcase into his crotch. He let out an oof of pain and staggered backward.
She dashed outside.
The humid night air enveloped her. She had no idea where she was, and she didn’t care. She only knew she had to get away.
