Hey hey! I'm back!... you probably already know that 'cause you're here and I'm there or is it here?... oh well you get the point!…anyways

I don't own twilight but you can thank Stephanie Meyer for coming up with it! :)

Chapter 7

Mid-night blue silk. I took a great deal of time and gave a great deal of thought to choosing the right dress for my evening with Cullen. It was business.

The deep blue silk shot through with thin silver threads appealed to me because of its clean elegant lines and lack of ornamentation. I would, on the occasions that I shopped, spend as much time choosing the right scarf as I would researching a subject. It was all business.

after a thorough debate, I slipped into the silk. It coolly skimmed over my skin. I was satisfied with my own reflection. The unsmiling woman on the mirror represented precisely the sort of image I wanted to project. If nothing else this soothed my bruised ego.

If I looked back over the things I had accomplished till this day, concentrating on my carrier of course, I could remember no incident where I found myself bested. It wasn't going to happen now. Edward Cullen was going to get back some of his own, if for no other reason than that half-amused smile of his. No one laughed at me and got away with it. whatever game I had to play to get what I wanted, oh I would play and I was not going to lose this time.

When the knock sounded at the door, I glanced at my watch. With a smug smile I picked up my evening bag, and went to get the door.

I was met with a totally at ease Edward Cullen, with an open collared shirt under a really dark jacket. Some men could wear black tie and not look half as good as Cullen did on jeans. That might be something that would interest my readers. By the end of this evening I will know I possibly could about him.

"Good evening." I started to step across the threshold, but he took my hand, holding me motion-less as he studied me, as if I was a puzzled he was trying to decipher.

"very lovely." he finally declared. " You wear silk and a very alluring scent but manage to maintain that aura of untouchability. Its quite a talent."

"I'm not interest in being analyzed." I said, while trying to hide the annoyance in my tone.

"the curse or blessing of the writer." he countered. "Depending on your viewpoint, of course. Being one yourself, you should understand. Where is you manuscript?"

And there was I thinking he would forget-had hoped he would. Now I was back to the disadvantage of stammering. "It, ah, isn't..."

"Bring it along." He ordered. "I want to take a look at it."

"I don't see why."

"Every writer wants their words read."

I didn't. It wasn't polished. it wasn't perfect. Without doubt, the last person I wanted to allow a glimpse of my inner thoughts was Edward Cullen. But he was there standing, watching, with those eyes seeing everything within me. Trapped, that's how I felt. I turned back into the room and slipped the folder out of my suitcase. If I could keep him busy there won't be time for him to look at it anyway.

"It will be difficult to read anything in a restaurant." I pointed out as I closed the door behind me.

"That's why we're having dinner in my suite." That stopped me death in my tracks. He simply took my hand and continued walking us to the elevators as if he hadn't notice.

"Perhaps I've given you the wrong impression-" I began.

"I don't think so." He cut in, still holding my hand. His palm wasn't as smooth as I had expected a writer's to be. The palm was as wide as a pianist's, but it was ridged with calluses making an intriguing combination. "My imagination hasn't gone very deeply into the prospect of seducing you, Isabella-" he said as he drew me into the elevator. "-the point is, I don't care for restaurants and I care less for crowds and interruptions. I hope this clears out things for you. Now tell me, have you found the conference worth while?"

"I'm going to get what I came for." I stepped through the elevator doors as they slid open without looking at him.

"And what's that?"

Oh no!

"What did you came for?" I shot back. "you don't make it a habit to attend conferences, and this one is certainly small and off the beating path."

"Occasionally I enjoy the contact with other writers...and I was asked to attend from a good friend." He said sarcastically as he unlocked the door and gestured me inside. "This conference certainly isn't bulging with authors who've attained your degree of success."

I set my purse and folder aside and faced him straight on. " Easy to say when you have it."

"Is it?" he said as if amused then gestured toward the big window across from us. "You should drink in as much of the view as you can, you won't see anything like this through any window in Los Angeles."

If I was careful and clever now was the time when I would pin him down on where he lived and why he lived there. "You don't care for L.A." I said in a careful tone.

"L.A. has its points...would you like some wine?"

"yes." I said this as I wandered to the window. The vastness had the power to stun me and almost frighten me at the same time."Have you been there often?" turning to look at him.

"hmm?"

"To Los Angeles?"

"No." he walked over to where I was standing and offered me the glass of pale-gold wine.

"you prefer the east to the west?" I asked, starting my interrogation subtly. He smiled sexily and lifted his glass.

"I made it a point to prefer where I am."

He was very adept at evasion, and he was also very adept at making me uneasy. Unless I missed my guess, and he was doing both on purpose.

"Do you travel often?"

"Only when is necessary." Tipping back my glass, I decided to try a more direct approach. "Why are you so secretive about yourself? most people in your position would make the most of the promotion and publicity that's available."

"I don't consider myself secretive, nor do I consider myself most people."

"You don't even have a bio or a photo on your book covers."

"my face and my background have nothing to do with the stories I tell."

"Don't you feel its part of your profession to satisfy the readers curiosity when it comes to the person who creates a story that interest them?"

"No. My profession is putting words together so that someone who reads them is entertained, intrigued and satisfied with a tale. The teller of the tale is nothing compare to the tale its self."

TO BE CONTINUED...

CHAPTER END NOTES:

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