Nocturne by Syrie James

more than he’d expected to. He also liked the sound of her laugh, the soft curve of her mouth, the way her green eyes sparkled when she smiled. If only he couldn’t hear her pounding heart and pulsing blood . . .
    But he’d managed to retain control thus far, hadn’t he? Surely he could indulge himself a little while longer, without putting her in jeopardy?
    “Please stay.”

    I T WAS INCREDIBLE TO THINK that she was actually in the same room as the mystery man who had all the literary world guessing. Nicole had tried to imagine who Patrick Spencer was, where he lived, and what he was like, hundreds of times. She had always revered his mind and talent. Now, as she sat down on the couch watching him stoke the fire in the hearth, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
    The firelight threw long shadows against the walls and played against his handsome face, bathing his skin in a warm glow and revealing the red highlights in his light brown hair. His jeans hugged his long legs, and his shirt pulled tight across the muscles of his hard, lean back. He was truly a beautiful man, and he exuded an energy, sophistication, and intelligence that made him seem different from any man she’d ever met.
    Of course he’s different , Nicole reminded herself silently, her heart dancing an erratic rhythm. For God’s sake, he’s Patrick Spencer. Get a grip!
    Nicole tore her gaze away, struggling to censor her thoughts and to rise above the sudden shyness that had pervaded her ever since she’d learned who he was. It was only a fluke that had brought her here. This famous and accomplished man would never be interested in someone like her—except, perhaps, as a diversion on a snowy evening—and he’d be only too glad to see her go.
    “What should I call you?” Nicole asked. “Patrick or Michael?”
    “Michael, please. Patrick is a pen name. I doubt I’d answer to it if you called.”
    “Okay.” She glanced at him, willing her heart to return to its natural pace. “You’re very different from what I expected.”
    He sat down in the easy chair opposite her. “In what way?”
    “I don’t know. Your writing . . . it’s so brilliant and self-assured, I think . . . well, I imagined you’d be a much older man.”
    “Ah.” For some reason a smile flitted across his face. He didn’t say anything else, so she went on:
    “Your first book is just as wonderful as your last one. The critics all think you must have written under a different name for years, long before becoming Patrick Spencer. But now I know that’s impossible. Your first novel came out eighteen years ago, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “If you moved here twenty years ago when you were nineteen—that means you would’ve been what—twenty-one when your first book was published?”
    He gave her a silent, almost imperceptible nod.
    “You couldn’t possibly have written much before then.”
    He leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands together, and seemed to be choosing his words carefully before he answered. “I guess I just got lucky with that first book. My publisher did a great job promoting it, and it found an audience.”
    “It wasn’t only luck. I’m sure you worked very hard, and you have talent.”
    He shrugged modestly. “I leave that judgment to the readers and critics. Anyway, the publisher asked for another book after that, and . . .” He gestured toward the picture windows that overlooked the blustery night sky. “This is the ideal setting for a writer to work. So I just kept writing.”
    “It is beautiful up here. And I imagine it’s very quiet, when the wind isn’t howling.”
    They talked on for a while, with the storm raging outside and the wind whistling through the eaves. Nicole was interested in what inspired his novels, which he rather whimsically explained came from a love of history and a desire to travel through time.
    Michael seemed fascinated to hear what Nicole thought about his books, what she liked and disliked, which books