A Secret Life

CHAPTER SIX

HEATHER WASN’T NORMALLY an early riser. But then this wasn’t a normal day. And she supposed, technically, this wasn’t rising early anyway. It was staying up very, very late.

She’d tossed and turned all night, alternately worrying about the family’s reputation and Joan’s physical safety. If fans were willing to break into her house for her computer, what else were they willing to do? Was her sister going to end up like Elvis, a recluse hiding out from the world for the rest of her life?

And what would this mean for their parents? Heather hadn’t been brave enough to call them yet. She definitely didn’t have any good news to report.

Her sister had written more than a dozen mystery books. She showed no signs of heading for Europe. And she had fallen under the power of an evil publicity hound of an agent.

That wasn’t even touching the bondage scene. Heather shuddered at the very thought.

By 6 a.m., Heather had to get out of the B and B. She needed some air. She needed to clear her head.

She started walking and found herself on Joan’s street. She stopped in front of Joan’s cottage, staring at that ominous, wide-open front door.

She’d kidnap Joan if need be, she vowed. But they were heading back to Boston today, and they were hiring the best security firm money could buy. Anthony might not be bragging when he said he could take care of himself, but Heather wasn’t trusting him with Joan’s life.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang from inside the cottage.

Heather froze, a chill of fear working its way up her spine. She remembered Alain Boudreaux had secured the front door last night. Would the police have come back this early?

She glanced up and down the street. But there were no cruisers to be seen, no help of any kind, for that matter. The lane was empty as far as she could see.

She took a shaky step backward. Whoever was in there, she wasn’t about to confront them alone. But then a dark figure appeared in the doorway, and she lost the feeling in her legs.

“Heather?”

It was Samuel.

Samuel.

Her breath rushed out of her along with her strength. She was safe.

He started down the stairs.

Wait a minute.

What was Samuel doing here? Could he have been the one who broke into the cottage yesterday? He had cause to be angry with Joan. Did that give him a reason to take her computer? Had his plan all along been to go to the press?

“Heather?” he repeated when she didn’t answer. He reached the bottom of the stairs and started down the walkway.

She swallowed her suspicions, not afraid of him. Not really. “Hello, Samuel.”

He closed the distance between them. “What are you doing here?” He stopped in front of her, a six-foot-four wall of muscle.

“I’m out walking.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He stared at her in silence, while she tried to decipher his expression. Was he angry? Nervous? Did he mean her harm?

Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore. “And what are you doing…here?”

“Returning to the scene of the crime.”

She took a step back. “Oh.”

His mouth crooked into a half smile, his teeth white and straight against his dark complexion. “Relax, Heather. It wasn’t my crime.”

“Never thought it was.

“You are such an easy mark.”

“I am not.”

“You presumed I was guilty. Again.”

She shook her head in denial, even though it was true. There was something about Samuel that made it easy to believe he could be on the wrong side of the law.

“Alain called me because somebody broke into my house, too.”

That surprised her. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Disappointed that I’m not a thief?”

“Of course not.”

“You look a little disappointed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “You’ve got a bad-boy fetish.”

She glared up at him. “You wish.”

“No, I know.”

“I don’t have a fetish of any kind.”

“Everybody’s got a fetish.”

She shook her head emphatically. “Not me.”

“Let me guess,” he drawled. “The missionary position.”

She squared her shoulders. “That is none of your business.” She couldn’t believe he’d even asked.

“In the dark.”

“I am not answering that question.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I don’t care what you take it as.” Quite frankly, there was nothing wrong with the missionary position. And there was nothing wrong with having sex in the dark. The dark was soft and romantic, it camouflaged flaws and allowed a person to focus on sensation.

“You really need to get out more,” he drawled.

“I live in Boston.” How dare a backwoods Indigo carpenter insinuate she wasn’t worldly.

He shrugged. “Too bad they don’t have good sex in Boston.”

Heather flattened her lips and warmed up for a scathing diatribe. But then she saw the laughter lurking behind his eyes. Oh no, he wasn’t going to win this one.

“Why don’t we talk about your sex life for a while?” she suggested smoothly.

“I don’t talk about my sex life.” His dark eyes glowed with raw sensuality, while his voice dropped to a throbbing bass. “But I’d be happy to give you a free demonstration.”

A hot rush flared from the pit of her stomach. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“And I can’t believe you blushed.”

“That’s shock and disbelief.”

“You sure?”

No, she wasn’t sure. Her traitorous body was showing all the signs of arousal. Stupid body. Definitely time to get the heck out of this conversation. “Why don’t you tell me what they took?”

“Who?”

“Whoever broke into your house.”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? Nobody breaks into a house and takes nothing.”

“You accusing me of lying?”

Yes. “No.”

There wasn’t a doubt in Heather’s mind that Samuel would lie. Probably recreationally, certainly if it would gain him something.

The sound of tires and a car engine put off his response. Heather turned to see a black, panel-sided van round the corner. The satellite dish on the roof could mean only one thing, and she groaned out loud.

It rocked to a halt beside them, the door immediately sliding open, while a thirtyish man with slicked hair and an angular face hopped out. He wore khaki slacks and short-sleeved dress shirt. And he carried a microphone.

“Joan Bateman?” he asked, stuffing it in her face.

Heather shook her head, but she knew better than to utter a single word.

Samuel smoothly but firmly positioned his body between them. Then he urged her back with his broad palm. Her stomach contracted under his touch, but she moved the way he guided.

“I’m looking for Joan Bateman,” said the reporter, glancing around in eager expectation.

“She’s not here,” said Samuel.

“And you are?”

Samuel didn’t answer.

“He’s Samuel Kane,” shrieked a woman from the driver’s seat, clattering into the back of the van on high heels. “That old murder-suicide. He’s her muse.”

“You’re Samuel Kane?” asked the reporter.

“What about it?”

The man’s focus snagged on Samuel, and he thrust the microphone forward again. “Do you agree with Joan Bateman’s version of your parents’ murders?”

“I don’t know,” said Samuel in an impressively neutral tone. “I haven’t read the book.”

Oh yeah. Samuel could lie, all right. He could take the witness stand for her any old time.

“But you think your father was innocent?”

“So I’ve said. Many times.” Samuel turned and linked Heather’s arm, pulling her along as he walked away.

“Do you think your father was framed?” the reporter called after them.

Samuel headed for the driveway, and Heather struggled to keep up. She could feel the tension in the muscles of his forearms.

“Where are we going?” she demanded under her breath.

“Mr. Kane?” The reporter caught up with them. “Do you have any comment on the theory that your father was framed?”

Samuel stopped. His jaw hardened. He turned and pasted the man with a menacing glare, holding his ground, leaning slightly forward.

The reporter opened his mouth.

Samuel raised his eyebrow.

“Thank you,” the reporter sputtered as he backed off.

“Wow,” said Heather.

“There should be a law against that.”

She’d been talking about Samuel’s ability to make grown men run for cover, but she didn’t correct him.

“My truck’s around the side,” he said. “You want a lift?”

Heather nodded. “Yes. Please.”

She needed to warn Joan about the reporters. And she needed to warn her about Samuel’s comments. And she’d better get on the phone to her parents, quick. Joan’s interview was one thing, but if they caught her and Samuel on the evening news, there was going to be a whole lot more explaining to do.

THE ONLY GOOD THING about Heather’s story was that it acted as a buffer between Joan and Anthony over breakfast. Bad enough that she’d kissed him last night. Okay, so kiss was probably too mild a word. She’d practically made love to him with her mouth.

But then she’d called him back.

He was almost to the door, and she’d practically begged him to stay. Luckily, he was smart enough for both of them and kept going. Which made the morning after even worse.

“You have to call Mom,” said Heather, taking another drink of her coffee but ignoring the fresh croissant on the plate in front of her.

Joan shook her head. “I’m not calling Mom.”

“It’s your book.”

“You’re the spy. You report in to headquarters.”

Anthony interrupted with a harsh sigh. “You are both grown women. Will you start acting like it?”

Joan looked at him for the first time. “Excuse me?”

He set down his coffee cup. “Call your parents, already.”

“Like you would.”

“Of course I would.”

“With disastrous news.”

“In my family, this wouldn’t be disastrous news.”

“Oh, and they’d be so happy to have you publicly involved in a sordid murder inquest?”

Anthony took his napkin from his lap and tossed it on the table. “They’d be happy to see me succeeding at something as tough and competitive as fiction writing.”

Joan knew he was trying to manipulate her. “And their friends, their colleagues, their social contacts-”

“Would be happy for me, too.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Honestly, Joan. I don’t know what kind of world you two grew up in.”

Low blow. She glared at him.

“But you people have some serious issues.”

Luc Carter strode in through the doorway. “You guys better take a look at this,” he said, turning on a small television on the countertop.

Anthony came to his feet as Samuel and Heather appeared on the screen. “Turn it up.”

Heather groaned. “Look at my hair!”

“It’s fine,” Joan lied, glancing sideways at her sister. Heather on television with bed head. What were the odds?

“Shhh,” said Anthony.

“I already told you what we said,” Heather put in.

The shot of Samuel’s angry scowl faded from the screen, and the announcer reappeared, smoothly segueing into the next story.

“You’ll probably want to call Mom now,” said Heather.

Joan closed her eyes and struggled to come up with a spin, any spin that would make the situation sound better.

Thing is, Mom, I’m a closet mystery writer. There’s a bondage scene in my latest novel. And the funniest part, it’s based on this murder-suicide…

Okay. That sure wasn’t it.

Anthony’s cell phone rang, but instead of answering it, he focused on Joan across the table. “You okay?”

“I’m perfect.”

His phone rang again, but he continued to hold her gaze.

He was obviously worried about her. She’d seen that look a hundred times. But something had changed. After last night, there was a wall of hesitation between them.

He didn’t seem to know how he should act.

Well, she sure didn’t know how she should act, either.

The phone rang a third time.

“Excuse me,” he finally said with obvious reluctance. He turned and walked through the doorway to the public lounge, flipping open his phone. “Verdun here.”

“Wow,” said Heather, as Luc shut off the television and followed Anthony out of the breakfast room. “Forget calling Mom.”

Joan felt a small ray of hope. “You’ll do it?”

Heather shook her head. “No. I want to talk about Anthony.”

“What about Anthony?”

“What’s going on between the two of you? I’ve got a nose for tension, and wow.”

“There’s no tension between us,” Joan lied, even as the tension buzzed its way through her limbs. Last night might have been a bigger mistake than she realized. Where did their relationship go now?

Heather shook her head, moved forward and lowered her voice. “What on earth did I miss?”

“Nothing,” said Joan, staring her sister straight in the eye.

“You lie.”

“I’m calling Mom.”

“Okay, now I know it’s something big. Did you sleep with him? Huh?”

“No, I didn’t sleep with him.” Joan headed for the phone in the corner of the breakfast room, but Heather followed on her heels.

“Because yesterday you two were all chummy and touchy.”

“We weren’t touchy.”

“Oh, yes, you were.”

“Well, a few things have changed since yesterday.” The interview, for one. The break-in, for another. The kiss…Joan silently groaned.

“And now you both act like you’re going to jump out of your skin.”

Joan lifted the receiver and pressed the Talk button. “You’re imagining things.” She punched in her long distance access number.

Heather shook her head and clicked her tongue. “I’m not imagining things. I’m observant and perceptive, remember?”

Joan keyed in her calling card. “You mean delusional.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Nothing, either.”

“You were still together when Luc and I left your room.”

“So what?” At the prompt, Joan dialed her parents’ number.

“Alone…in that romantic attic suite…”

“And Anthony left about five minutes later.”

“A lot can happen in five minutes.”

A ring tone sounded in Joan’s ear. “Or very little can happen in five minutes.”

“Joanie?”

“Yeah?”

“While we’ve been talking…”

Joan waited.

“You dialed Mom.”

Joan swore under her breath The receiver suddenly felt like a lead weight in her hands.

“Bateman residence,” came Dinora’s voice.

“GET HER BACK out in front of the cameras right now,” boomed Stephen Baker.

“She’s not ready,” Anthony returned, glancing up to make sure Joan and Heather were still occupied in the breakfast room.

“I’m standing now,” said Stephen. “My blood pressure just went up thirty points.”

“The news story alone will sell thousands of copies,” Anthony pointed out. Stephen might think the sky was the limit on publicity, but Anthony had Joan’s feelings to worry about.

She’d been through a lot in the past two days. And he wasn’t forcing her into anything. Not that he could force her, in any case. Not that he had any right to even ask, since he’d shattered a pretty rigid professional boundary last night.

He shuddered to think what might have happened if he’d listened to the soft plea in her voice-if he’d gone back. He knew that if he’d so much as turned around and looked at her, he’d have plunged headlong into that big bed and lost himself in her luscious body. And then things would have been even more awkward this morning.

“I’m taking a nitro pill,” growled Stephen.

“I have a plan,” said Anthony. He had to think. There had to be a way to appease Stephen while respecting Joan’s desire for privacy.

Stephen’s voice rose. “What plan? I don’t see our star author on a morning talk show. Do you? You need to return Charlie Long’s phone call right away.”

“We need to let things calm down first.”

“What calm down? We want to heat them up.” If the tone of Stephen’s voice was anything to go by, the man might truly be on the verge of a heart attack.

“She’s been through a lot,” said Anthony.

“She’s not made of spun glass,” Stephen returned.

Anthony paused, gritting his teeth. “Give me some time.”

“I’ll come to Indigo-”

“No!”

A new voice came on the line. “Anthony?”

“Yes?”

“Bo Reese here.”

Anthony froze. Pellegrin Publishing’s vice-president was in Stephen’s office?

“Anthony?”

“Hello, Mr. Reese.”

The man laughed. “Bo, please.”

“Bo,” said Anthony, struggling to get his bearings.

“How are things going down there?” Bo asked heartily.

“It’s one of my more interesting trips,” Anthony admitted, glancing into the breakfast room again. Still no sign of Joan or Heather.

“Could have knocked us over with a feather when we found out Jules Burrell was a woman.”

“Quite a few people were surprised,” said Anthony, bracing for Bo to start the hard sell.

“We’re looking at bringing out her backlist.”

“Sounds great,” said Anthony, relaxing ever so slightly. Joan’s backlist was an untapped gold mine for all of them.

“Can somebody fax me copies of her original contracts?” he asked. He was making sure the publisher stuck to every single provision he’d negotiated for reprints.

Bo chuckled again. “Of course we can.”

“I’ll read them over before we talk further.”

“Always an eye on business,” said Bo.

“I like to think so.”

“Here’s the thing.”

Anthony braced himself.

“Bayou Betrayal is shaping up for a placement of at least twenty-five or thirty on the New York Times list.”

Anthony struggled to quell a surge of excitement. He had a best-selling author. Professionally, this was phenomenal.

“With the right circumstances,” Bo continued, “she might break the top ten.”

Now Anthony struggled not to hyperventilate.

“And then there’s the backlist. We’re prepared to launch a national media campaign, volume discounts, premium store placement, and any book tour she cares to name.”

This was it. This was the big time. For him, for Joan, for Prism.

“What do you say we start the ball rolling with Charlie Long?”

Anthony’s stomach congealed. They had him.

Of course they’d want the talk shows. They needed the talk shows. And Joan needed the talk shows, too.

Opportunities like this were lightning strikes, fleeting and never to be repeated. A couple of days from now, the news cycle would move on, and Joan would be out in the cold.

“I’ll do my best,” he heard himself say, struggling to come up with a strategy he could sell to her.

“Fantastic,” said Bo. “You know, Anthony, if it would help…we could see if Charlie’s willing to make the call personally.”

Anthony hesitated. Ask Charlie Long to contact Joan? It was a risk. But it might be the only thing that would sway her.

He drew a deep breath.

“We’ve done it before,” said Bo.

“Fine,” said Anthony, gritting his teeth. “No harm in asking if he’s willing.”