A Secret Life

CHAPTER NINE

SLEEP WITH Anthony?

This morning, Joan was seriously considering killing Anthony.

How could he have set her up like this?

“Ms. Bateman?” prompted Charlie Long from the other end of the line. His voice was as smooth and melodious on the telephone as it was on the television. “I asked if you’d consider flying to L.A. for Friday’s show.”

Joan scrambled for an excuse. “I…uh…have to-”

“You’d get top billing,” he continued.

She closed her eyes and tried to think clearly. A network talk show was a really bad idea. But Charlie Long seemed like a very nice person, and who wouldn’t be flattered to get a call in person?

“I’d like to talk about your book, of course. Maybe take the slant that an injustice has been done to the Kane family. It might help to get the case reopened,” he added, sweetening the deal.

Joan hadn’t thought of it from that angle. But it made sense. Her appearance on Charlie Long might actually help Samuel. And she certainly did owe him after yesterday.

But her mother. Oh, her mother.

“I read Bayou Betrayal,” said Charlie Long. “Loved it.”

“Thank you,” said Joan automatically. “And I admire your show, too.”

“You do?” He sounded genuinely pleased. “So…how about helping out a fellow artist? My producers are putting a lot of pressure on me over this one.”

“I hear you,” said Joan, with genuine empathy. She knew all about pressure. Then she grew angry at Anthony all over again. How could he have put her in this position?

“What do you say?” asked Charlie.

“I need some time-”

“Afraid I’ve got to have an answer right now. I’m in makeup, and we’re promoting Friday’s show today.”

He was in makeup. Charlie Long was in makeup before his live network show, chatting with her on the phone. Joan went hot, then cold again.

“Help me out, Joan?”

“Sure.” Even as she said the word, she couldn’t believe she was doing it.

“Great! You’re a trouper. I’ll see you on Friday.”

The line went dead.

Joan clamped her hand around the phone. Deep down, she knew she should be angry with herself. But Anthony made a much more appealing target.

ANTHONY WAS on his feet at the first knock.

“Anthony?” Joan’s voice echoed through the door panel.

“Here!” His voice was hoarse as he grabbed the gun and crossed the bedroom, wrenching open the door, checking both ways down the hallway.

But Joan was alone. She stood hale and hearty, eyes squinting at him, arms crossed over her chest. “That was a low-down, dirty rotten trick you pulled.”

Anthony lowered the gun and raked back his messy hair, struggling to get his bearings. He checked both ways down the hall again just to be sure. “Huh?”

She stormed past him into the room. “Charlie Long?”

Anthony turned, setting the pistol down on a table and pointing it toward the wall. “Charlie Long what?”

“He called.”

Anthony went stone-cold. “He called you?”

“Yes, he called me. Did you know?”

Anthony didn’t answer. He’d asked Bo to test the waters. But he never expected Charlie Long to make the call without giving him a heads-up.

“Anthony!” Joan cried.

“It was before Samuel got shot.”

“That’s your excuse.”

Not exactly. “It was-”

“You’re fired.”

For a second, Anthony thought he’d misheard. But Joan’s expression left no doubt.

She pointed a finger, her voice all but shaking with emotion. “I mean it, Anthony. I’ll go to L.A. and do the show, because I promised-”

“You said yes?” He couldn’t believe it.

Her voice went shrill. “That’s so typical.”

“It was just a question.” If she’d said yes, why was she firing him?

“It’s all about business with you, isn’t it? Every second of every day. No matter what’s going on-bullets flying, nooners with your clients.”

Now that wasn’t fair. “We never had a nooner.”

She glared at him, and he shut up.

“I must be pretty damn important to have Mr. Long call me himself.”

“Of course you’re important.”

“You knew I wouldn’t be able to say no. You knew it.”

“I didn’t-”

“Forget it. You can turn it off now, Anthony. In case you missed it, I’m no longer your client.”

“Fine,” he said.

“Good,” she retorted.

“After L.A.,” he qualified.

Like it or not, she needed him in L.A. Charlie Long was the big time. She needed his advice, and she needed his protection. They had a ten-year relationship, and he couldn’t turn his instincts off like tap water.

“You are no longer on the payroll,” she declared.

“I’m still coming to L.A.”

“You are not going to change my mind.”

“I never thought I would.”

“Suit yourself.” She flounced toward the door. “But after that, we are done.”

“Your choice,” he said, schooling his features, pretending there wasn’t a hot knife slicing its way through his guts.

“Joanie?” came Heather’s cheerful voice, her running footsteps sounding on the staircase.

Joan took a deep breath and carefully evened out her features. “Up here, Heather.” Her voice was unnervingly composed.

Heather appeared in the doorway, followed closely by Samuel.

“That was fast,” said Anthony, suppressing his own emotions and checking out Samuel’s stark white sling. The man was obviously one tough bastard.

Samuel shrugged his good shoulder. “I told them if I wasn’t bleeding to death, I wasn’t staying. Nobody tried to stop me.”

Anthony guessed not.

Heather strode into the room, either oblivious to or ignoring the undercurrents between Joan and Anthony. She perched on his unmade bed. “Samuel has a theory.”

“What kind of a theory?” asked Joan. You’d never know from her tone that their relationship had just crumbled into a thousand pieces.

Samuel leaned against the doorjamb, his gaze seeking out Anthony. “I think we may still be dealing with a fan.”

“I’m listening,” said Anthony, struggling to focus on Samuel.

She’d fired him. Fired him.

“When I first read the book,” said Samuel, “I thought a lot of it was true.”

Heather stood up and paced across the room in her miniskirt and high heels. “Which got us thinking-”

Samuel jumped back in. “Maybe somebody else thought all of it was true.”

“I’m not following,” said Joan.

“The money.” Anthony couldn’t bring himself to look at her yet. “In your story, there’s money stashed in the walls of Samuel’s cottage. Somebody thinks it’s really there.”

Heather snapped her fingers and pointed at Anthony. “Give the man a gold star.”

“But I made that up,” Joan argued.

“They don’t know that,” said Samuel. “And I bet they broke into your house first looking for clues.”

“They did steal my research notes,” Joan conceded.

“Have you talked to Alain?” asked Anthony.

Samuel shook his head. “Thought I’d run it by you first.”

Anthony had to admit there was merit to the theory. And if it was true, Joan was in no danger from the shooter. “So you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, parroting Alain’s words from last night. His faith in the chief was restored.

“I don’t think the guy wanted me dead,” Samuel suggested. “It was a panic reaction. I caught him in the act, and he was armed.”

“Have you been inside your cottage?” Anthony asked. If any of the wall panels were torn down, they’d know the theory was bang on. Just like in Bayou Betrayal.

“Not yet,” Samuel told him.

Heather took a small half step in Samuel’s direction. “If we can avoid the reporters, we’re going over there to look around.”

“You want to come with us?” Samuel asked Anthony.

“Yeah,” Anthony replied with a nod. “But then we have to head for L.A.”

Heather looked at Joan and raised her eyebrows in a question.

“I promised to do Charlie Long Live,” Joan explained, carefully avoiding looking at Anthony.

Heather’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my God.”

“I know,” said Joan. “It’s not what-”

“We never called Mom.” Heather darted for the bedroom door, and Samuel quickly stepped out of her way. “She’ll have sent the jet to St. Martinville.”

Joan swore as she followed her sister out. Anthony still couldn’t get used to hearing that word come out of Joan’s mouth.

JOAN’S STOMACH cramped as she followed Heather and the men, slinking past the garage to the back door of Samuel’s cottage.

She’d fired Anthony.

She was making a point when she did that, an important point about him undermining her wishes. But she’d half expected him to fight for her. Completely expected him to fight for her. Desperately wanted him to fight for her.

But he hadn’t.

And now he was fired.

And she couldn’t take that back.

She started up the stairs and realized the others had come to a halt in front of her.

She craned her neck. “What?”

Samuel stepped inside, breaking the bottleneck.

Joan worked her way up next to Heather and froze.

Whoever had broken in wasn’t joking around. Closets were wide-open. Desk drawers were yanked off their tracks. And the doors of the entertainment center and kitchen cabinets were pulled halfway off their hinges, their contents spilled across the counters and the floor.

Samuel moved through the kitchen, glass crunching under his feet.

Joan swallowed as she silently followed behind.

If you looked past the destruction, it was obvious Samuel took pride in his surroundings. The living room walls and ceilings were painted a spotless cream, accented with exposed, redwood beams crisscrossing their length. She glimpsed a rich, gold-patterned carpet that covered a terra-cotta tile floor, and a redwood mantel finished off a stone fireplace.

The furniture was big and comfortable. Carved from white pine and covered in deep, muted plaid cushions, the sofa and chairs reflected Samuel’s stature.

Thankfully, the furniture at least seemed to be intact. And a giant portrait of Samuel’s parents still hung above the mantel. It wasn’t much of a consolation, but it was something.

“It looks mostly salvageable,” said Anthony, picking his way through the living room, surveying the layer of books, papers and kitchen utensils that covered the floor. He came to the bottom of the staircase and gazed up. After a minute, he put his hand on the rail and started to climb.

Heather hurried after him. “You see any broken panels up there?” she called. “Something on the wall that might…” Her voice trailed away as she disappeared down the upper hallway.

Standing next to Joan, Samuel drew in a huge breath. He glanced down at her. “I gotta tell you, my life was a whole lot simpler before you came along.”

“Sorry,” Joan whispered, her stomach cramping all over again. Disappointing people. There was no doubt she had a knack for it.

“I could hire someone to clean the mess up for you,” she offered. It was the least she could do, since this was pretty much all her fault.

He took a couple more steps into the room, shaking his head. “I have to go through everything myself anyway.”

Joan nodded in understanding. “You need to know if anything is missing.”

Samuel crouched down and flipped through a discarded photo album. “I doubt there’s anything missing.”

She glanced around at the destruction. “How could you know that?”

“I don’t remember the guy carrying anything.”

“Well, we know he didn’t find the money.” It had seemed like such a good plot twist at the time. Now she wished she’d used something else, anything else.

Samuel picked up a cracked picture frame, blew off the dust, and straightened to set it on an oak end table. “I have half a mind to hide some cash in the walls myself. Let them take it and put an end to all this.”

“A hundred thousand dollars?”

He turned his head and lifted his eyebrows.

“You have that kind of money?” she asked.

“I live a frugal life.”

He’d saved that much money on a carpenter’s salary? What was he doing working in Indigo, Louisiana? He should invest in the market, open his own business.

He reached down and picked up another leather-bound album. “Not that I want to blow it on some thief.”

“You know, Charlie Long says my stint on his show might reopen the investigation.” She wasn’t convinced Samuel’s father was innocent, but the possibility of looking at the case again might be a small consolation to Samuel.

“Might help me more if you told everybody there wasn’t any real money involved.”

“That’s true,” she said with a nod. It wasn’t a bad idea.

Samuel disentangled a lamp from the debris and straightened the shade. “I was joking. They’d never believe you. In fact, some people would take it as proof the money existed.”

“What makes you say that?”

“They’ll think you’re after it for yourself.”

“If I wanted it for myself, I would have stolen it before the book was published.”

“Maybe.” He paused. “Except that you didn’t expect people to ever find out you lived in Indigo.”

Wasn’t that the truth. She put a hand on his arm. “I really am sorry this turned out so bad for you.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Sure it is. I wrote the book.”

He cocked his head and gazed down at her. “You been beatin’ yourself up about this?”

She shrugged.

He cracked a smile. “Well, get over it, kid. Shit happens.”

Her eyes suddenly burned. With everything crashing down around their ears, Samuel had it in him to care about her feelings. He was an extraordinary man. She wished she’d taken the time to get to know him before this.

She sighed. “Sometimes I feel like everything I touch turns to crap.”

“You’re really not much like your sister, are you?”

Joan shook her head. No, she’d never been as capable as Heather.

“She got the confidence, and you got the guilt?”

“Maybe. But it’s only because everything she does turns out right.”

“That’s a laugh,” said Samuel.

“You should hear her play the violin.”

“It’s all an act.”

Joan rolled her eyes. “A person can’t fake playing the violin.”

“They can fake liking the violin.”

Joan shook her head. “I don’t think so.” Passion was what separated average musicians like Joan from great musicians like Heather.

“Heather fakes everything,” said Samuel.

Boy, did he have that wrong. “No, she doesn’t.”

“I think she hates her life.”

“Trust me, Samuel. Nobody hates a private jet, five-star hotel suites and first-run Broadway tickets.” Heather was vivacious, enthusiastic and happy doing pretty much anything. Joan was often envious.

Samuel’s smile turned speculative. “So, have you asked yourself why she’s still here? Instead of, say, taking in a Broadway play?”

“Because she wants to get me to Paris.”

“Why should she care if you go to Paris?”

Heather hadn’t made a secret of it. “Because I’m an embarrassment to the family.”

“You think?”

“What else is there to think?”

“No walls broken up here,” Heather called from the top of the stairs.

Samuel glanced up. “That she’s jealous.”

Joan blinked. “Of what?”

Samuel just smiled.

“It could still be a treasure hunter,” Anthony said as he trotted back down.

At the sight of Anthony, Joan’s stomach went tight.

He looked so relaxed, so at ease, so unconcerned that they were never going to see each other again.

“I’m going to announce there isn’t any money,” she said, striving for the same air of unconcern. “On Charlie Long. I’ll tell the whole world what’s true and what’s fiction.”

“I told her it wouldn’t work,” said Samuel.

“You’ll only fuel more speculation.” Anthony sounded certain.

“I have to do something.” She’d leave for Paris today if she thought it would help. She’d recall every copy of the book if she could. But it wasn’t fair to just sit here and let Samuel’s life spiral out of control.

“We could torch the house,” Anthony suggested.

“No!” Heather jumped forward. “This is a heritage house. Look at the moldings. Look at the scrollwork-”

“I was joking,” said Anthony.

Heather scowled. “It wasn’t funny.”

“We could do a stakeout,” said Samuel. “Lie in wait and catch them when they come back.”

Heather stared at him. “What makes you think they’re coming back?”

Samuel gave her a cocky grin. “To get the money.”

“I’m in,” said Heather with a rapid nod.

Joan sighed. “I have to go to L.A.”

“That’s important, too,” said Anthony.

“Right,” she said. While Heather helped Samuel fix her sister’s screw-up, Joan herself would be sitting in a green room somewhere, contributing to the effort by sipping champagne.

JOAN BATEMAN was destined for greatness.

Anthony could see it. Charlie Long could see it. Even the script girl could see it.

The other two guests scheduled for Friday’s show got bumped, and Charlie finished the complete hour with Joan. Anthony had never admired her more. And he’d never felt like a bigger fool. He’d blown the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

Charlie thanked and congratulated her. What’s more, he took that extra five minutes to chat with her and introduce her around. She was on her way to the top, all right.

Anthony realized he had to find her a new agent before he went back to New York. Off the top of his head, there was Calvin Brick. Of course, he was more of a publicity hound than Anthony. Or Tristan Tremayne. But Tristan was known to sleep with his clients. No way was Anthony pushing Joan toward him when she might be feeling vulnerable.

Adrianna Carmichael had handled plenty of bestsellers, but she had burned some editorial bridges, too. That wouldn’t be in Joan’s best interest. Scratch her off the list.

His cell phone vibrated in his breast pocket.

While Charlie introduced Joan to the producer, Anthony flipped it open, plugging the opposite ear. “Yeah?”

“Remind me to move you to a corner office,” boomed Stephen.

“She was good,” said Anthony, watching Joan laugh and exchange small talk. The network headed straight into the six o’clock news, and Anthony had to believe a huge audience would have caught the last few minutes of her interview.

“She was money in the bank,” said Stephen.

The studio audience was still on its feet, craning their necks for a look at her, even though security was trying to usher them into the aisles and out the doors.

“I’ll tell her you said so.”

“Tell her we’re scheduling a book tour.”

“I don’t think so.” Anthony would never be scheduling anything for her ever again. But he wasn’t sharing that bit of information with Stephen until it was absolutely necessary.

“You got her on the show,” Stephen reminded him.

“And it wasn’t easy,” Anthony pointed out. In fact, it had come at a very big price.

Joan disengaged herself from the crowd. For a woman who hated publicity, her eyes were shining under the stage lights. But then her gaze caught Anthony’s, and the glow disappeared. Her smile faded as she started toward him.

Something slammed into his guts. “Gotta go.”

“Wait-”

He shut the phone. “You were very good,” he said when she got within earshot. She was behind the curtain now, and the sound of the crowd died down.

She tucked her highlighted hair behind one ear. “Charlie seemed pleased.”

“Did he invite you back?”

Her eyes narrowed.

Anthony held up his hands. “Just making conversation.”

“No.” She headed for the hallway to the green room. “He didn’t ask me back.”

Anthony sighed and tucked his phone back into his pocket.

She walked gracefully in front of him down the wide hallway, her head high, her shoulders square, and her perfect backside swaying ever so slightly beneath a tight pin-striped skirt and a cropped blazer.

He didn’t often see her in high heels, and the sight of her long legs made his pulse pound. It gave him a flashback to their interrupted lovemaking, forcing him to set his jaw and shake off a rush of the inappropriate hormones.

He did a quick step to catch up. “Hungry?” he asked over her shoulder.

She shrugged.

“We have to eat,” he persisted, wanting to keep their lines of communication open a little longer, at least until he could get her set up with someone else. “There’s a nice seafood place over on Sunset.”

And, if he recalled correctly, the restaurant had a great deck overlooking the ocean, and the service was ridiculously slow. They’d have a chance to talk.

“I was thinking I’d head for the airport,” she said.

“Our flight’s not until tomorrow.”

They emerged into the opulent green room, and Joan headed straight for the attendant behind a small desk near the entry. “Could you please call me a taxi?”

The uniformed woman smiled and picked up the telephone. “No need, ma’am. One of our drivers can help you.”

“Thank you,” said Joan.

“You’re going to spend the night at the airport?” The network had given them a huge, three-bedroom hotel suite.

She moved away from the desk, and he followed.

“I’m sure I can find a flight.”

“The red-eye?”

“Whatever.”

“Joan?” He touched her arm, but she shook him off. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, jockeying around to try to look her in the eye. Surely she didn’t want to say goodbye in a studio green room.

She kept her back to him.

“Joan?” he repeated, glancing up at the attendant to make sure they weren’t being overheard.

She finally turned, and her eyes looked haunted. “Can’t you just let it die?”

“No,” he answered honestly. “Can you?”

She glanced away.

After a moment of terse silence, he dragged his hand through his hair. “Is that it, then? We say goodbye here?”

Her lips were pursed tight, and she fixed her stare on the far wall.

“You have the greatest moment of your professional career.” He tried unsuccessfully to keep his voice from breaking. “And then you walk away from me forever?”

Her tone was bitter. “You think that was the greatest moment of my professional career?”

“It was Charlie Long.”

“Ma’am?” queried the attendant.

Joan looked up.

“Your car is out front.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Anthony.

“No, you’re not.”

“Is there a problem?” asked the attendant, coming around the small desk to frown at Anthony.

“No problem,” said Joan, increasing her pace.

“No problem,” Anthony echoed, keeping up.

“Go away,” she hissed.

“Not a chance.”

“You’ve been fired.”

“Not until we’re out of L.A.”

Joan stopped abruptly and turned back to the anxious attendant. “Could you please call security?”

Anthony couldn’t believe he’d heard right. “Don’t be ridicu-”

“This man is bothering me.”