Daddy, He Wrote. Jill Limber

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СКАЧАТЬ did schedule in a stop at the farm.” He could hear the disdain in her voice. Joyce thought the farm was a bad idea and had been very vocal about it.

      That almost made the trip sound good. He rubbed at the tension headache building up between his eyes.

      “Okay. I’ll be ready at seven.”

      He hung up and stared out his penthouse window at the streets. The trees had all lost their leaves, and he could see people, hundreds of them, bundled against the cold, walking their dogs, their children and each other.

      Ian had no use for other people. He’d discovered early on that a fair number of his fellow city dwellers bordered on crazy.

      A month ago he’d been followed home from a lunch with his editor by two middle-aged women who had barged into his building behind him, sidestepped the doorman and insisted they wanted to see his apartment.

      Just last week he’d found a young woman sitting on the hood of his car in the secured underground parking garage in his building, holding a copy of his latest book. Wearing a very short skirt and top that showed her navel, complete with a diamond stud, she’d made it very clear she was interested in more than an autograph.

      Ian cursed the day Joyce had talked him into letting his publisher put his picture on the dust jacket of his book. They’d just started their affair and she’d been very persuasive. Now he supposed removing the picture from future covers would be like closing the barn door after the horse had escaped, but he craved anonymity.

      He wanted so badly to be out of the city where he’d grown up. Aside from insane fans, he was tired of the social whirl and the constant interruptions. He wanted to be alone, at the farm he’d just bought. He was sure that in the solitude of the Pennsylvania country-side he would rediscover his creativity.

      He’d spent a total of an hour there, inspecting the property. It had felt so right to him, he’d bought it on the spot. He loved everything about it. The quiet, the isolation, the fact that aside from an old stone farmhouse where the caretakers lived, you couldn’t even see another house.

      The main house, a restored plank house, was plenty big, with its warm, inviting and comfortable interior.

      The whole place was obviously well cared for. He hadn’t met the people who worked there, but if they stayed out of Ian’s way and did their jobs, Ian didn’t care if he ever met them.

      He’d always needed complete quiet and solitude to write. Philadelphia was becoming impossible. Not only did fans hound him, but his parents demanded he be a part of their busy society circle, as if he were some kind of trophy they’d acquired.

      He’d considered moving to New York to be closer to his publisher and editor, but that was as bad as Philadelphia. He was tired of being pressured to show up at the important parties, invited because of his fame. No one wanted to know him, they just wanted to be seen with him.

      The more he declined what Joyce described as the “significant invitations,” the more popular he became.

      The business end of his life was no better. He’d hired an army of people to take care of things. Joyce, his agent, a property manager, an accountant, and they just seemed to complicate his life instead of freeing him up.

      He wanted to be able to write in peace and quiet, live an uncomplicated life with no interruptions. He wanted what Thoreau had sought, his own Walden Pond.

      No entanglements.

      Maybe then he could get his old spark back and write a decent book to give to his publisher. He had a deadline looming, and nothing he was willing to show anyone, especially his editor.

      He closed the program on his laptop and went to pack, his spirits lifting at the thought he would at least get to stop at the farm.

      When he returned home he’d have the rest of the things he wanted to take with him packed and shipped. If the place turned out to be as conducive to work as he hoped, he’d think about putting his apartment up for sale.

      Chapter Two

      Trish was working in the barn when she heard the car coming up the driveway that led only to the farm.

      It couldn’t be him, not yet, she thought frantically, looking down at her filthy clothes.

      He wasn’t scheduled to arrive for three hours. Thank goodness she’d finished getting the house ready this morning.

      She dumped her shovelful of manure into the wheelbarrow and yanked off her gloves. Wiping her hands on the rag stuffed in her pocket, she walked over to glance into the basket on the workbench where Emma had just fallen asleep. She tucked the warm blanket securely around her daughter and kissed her forehead with a brush of her lips.

      “Finish your nap, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Mama will be just outside.”

      Emma always slept for at least an hour this time of the day, but Trish hated to leave her alone, even though she’d be only a short distance away.

      She grabbed Tollie’s collar and shut him in the goat pen. The old blind mutt didn’t have the sense to stay out from under the wheels of the car.

      Running her fingers through her short hair, she wished she’d had time to shower and change before she met the famous Ian Miller.

      When she stepped out into the thin winter sunshine, the limousine was making a turn in the area between the barn and the main house. The car’s windows were tinted with such dark glass she couldn’t see the occupants of the car.

      The car pulled to a stop about twenty feet from her, and a middle-aged driver in a rumpled suit jumped out and opened the rear door.

      Ian Miller stepped out, his attention on the house. Her breath caught in her throat. The man was devastatingly handsome, much more than his photograph had shown.

      He paid no attention to her. Either he hadn’t seen her or he was as rude as his business manager.

      She pushed aside a feeling of disappointment. It didn’t matter, she told herself. The less he noticed her the better if she was going to be able to pull off her plan to keep both jobs.

      His inattention gave her a chance to collect herself and study him. He was tall, over six feet, with thick, well-cut black hair.

      His clothes were beautiful. He wore a gray-and-navy tweed jacket over broad shoulders, a navy turtleneck sweater and gray wool slacks, perfectly tailored to fit to his slim hips. His leather shoes looked costly and new.

      Even from where she stood she could see he had strong square hands with clean, well-tended fingernails and an expensive-looking gold wristwatch.

      The man was elegant. She’d never met a man who looked as classy as Ian Miller.

      Self-consciously Trish smoothed the front of the flannel shirt that hung to her knees, wishing her boots weren’t caked with manure. She wore Billy’s clothes when she was working, to save wear and tear on what little wardrobe she had.

      The limousine driver spotted her and tipped his hat. He cleared his throat, and Mr. Miller turned to him, one eyebrow quirked in question.

      Then СКАЧАТЬ