by Amy DeLuca
“Thank you.” His enthusiasm caught her a bit off-guard. She looked around. “Is Mr. Bestia here?”
“He’ll be with you shortly,” was the answer, but the butler’s eyes dashed to the side when he said it. “I hope you’re hungry. We’ve prepared a lovely lunch for you. Would you accompany me to the dining room?”
He gestured toward another set of doors off the grand foyer and started moving toward them, keeping his eyes on Bonnie the whole time as if afraid she might dart away or disappear.
“Is everything… okay?” she asked as they walked together, their shoes echoing on the gleaming marble floors. Her reporter’s intuition was pinging big time.
The man gave a nervous laugh. “Oh yes. Everything’s just fine. Excellent. Couldn’t be better.” He giggled again then cleared his throat, sobering somewhat. “We don’t get many visitors these days. We used to have a lot of company, big parties, many guests, but not so much… er, lately. Anyway, you’re most welcome, and I hope you’ll feel entirely at home.”
He threw open the doors to the dining room, and Bonnie’s jaw dropped. The room itself was gorgeous, with high, coffered ceilings and ornate woodwork. But it was the long, polished wood dining table that had her enthralled.
Or rather, what was on it. Someone had laid out a feast. The table looked like it would seat about sixteen people, and the food displayed upon it looked like it would feed at least that many.
She turned to the butler, baffled. “Is there a party today then? I didn’t realize Mr. Bestia would be hosting a luncheon.”
Harrison stared at her. “Party? Here? Oh no. No. This is for you. The chef, Monsieur Laplume, heard of your visit, and not knowing your dietary preferences, wanted to make sure there was something available that you would enjoy for lunch.”
Bonnie nodded slowly, still trying to figure out what was going on. Harrison led her to a chair at the end of the table and pulled it out for her. The place setting was lovely with gold-trimmed china, real silver flatware, and a crystal water glass. She couldn’t help but notice there was only one of each.
“Is Mr. Bestia not joining me for lunch?”
Harrison’s face fell, and he bit one side of his lip. “No, I’m sorry. He’s busy… writing.” He said the last word as if it had just come to him in a shiny bubble above his head.
“I see.” And she did.
Writing time was sacred, Jack’s more than most, as far as Bonnie was concerned. When a writer got into the zone, it was a special thing, and she certainly didn’t want to break his flow.
However… she only had two hours to do the interview, at least if they would be sticking to the agreement between his publisher and her paper. Maybe he’d give her extra time to make up for the delay.
The food was exquisite, and when the chef came in and presented a bottle of very expensive-looking wine he promised was the perfect complement to the meal, Bonnie was sorely tempted to indulge.
“No thank you,” she declined reluctantly. It might have calmed her steadily building nerves, but she wanted to be at the top of her game when meeting Jack this time. As an infrequent drinker, her tolerance was very low. The last thing she wanted to do was show up for the interview tipsy. What kind of impression would that make?
Probably a sight better than the last one she’d left him with, but the bar there was very low.
When lunch was over, Bonnie expected to be introduced to Jack, but instead Harrison handed her off to a woman called Mrs. Potts. She was a motherly figure with rosy cheeks, and a broad face, and a pronounced New England accent. Bonnie liked her immediately.
“It’s so lovely to meet you dear. I’m the housekeeper here. Would you like a tour?” Mrs. Potts offered.
Bonnie discreetly checked her watch. No doubt a tour would be fascinating, but she’d been there over an hour and still hadn’t met Jack. Was that weird? Or was it just how billionaires conducted their business? If they didn’t get started soon, she wouldn’t have adequate time to carry out a proper interview.
Bonnie smiled at the woman. “I’d love that, but perhaps I could see the house after the interview. I’m very eager to begin.”
Mrs. Potts clasped her hands in front of her in a wringing motion and gave the grand stairway an uneasy side-glance.
“Jack will be down very soon, I’m sure. While you wait, perhaps you’d like to take a few photos. I understand you’ll be needing some for the article?”
“Oh yes. I guess that would be a good use of time… at least until Mr. Bestia is ready.” This time Bonnie wasn’t so subtle when she glanced at her watch. “I do hope it’s soon.”
“Oh, don’t worry yourself,” Mrs. Potts assured. “He’s been very much looking forward to this.”
Her tone was pleasant, but she didn’t meet Bonnie’s eyes as she said the last part. What was going on? Bonnie was getting a bad feeling about all this. Oh, she hoped Jack wasn’t planning to stand her up.
As if reading her mind, Mrs. Potts said, “He’ll keep his word. He always does. Now… why don’t we start in the basement? There’s a bowling alley down there and an Olympic-sized pool where Jack swims his laps every morning.”
“Must not be too early in the morning,” Bonnie quipped. “I read that he likes to write late into the night.”
“Well… I’ll let him tell you about that sort of thing… if he wishes to discuss it.” Her forbidding tone told Bonnie he most likely wouldn’t want to discuss it.
She'd seen a good portion of the house and taken more pictures than she could ever use for the article when they came to a display case containing an array of plaques and trophies.
“What are these?” she asked Mrs. Potts.
“These are his writing awards. They mean a lot to him.” The older woman let her eyes roam over the collection. “I think everyone, no matter who they are, needs to feel appreciated. We all need encouragement. And writers… well as far as I can tell, writers are insecure creatures by nature. Jack is no different. In fact, he might be more in need of encouragement than anyone I've ever known.”
Bonnie gave her a quizzical glance. “But how could that possibly be true? He's a best seller. He has what every writer dreams of.”
Lifting one of the trophies, a cut-glass sculpture emblazoned with his name, she recognized it as the most coveted writing award in fiction.
“I mean look at this thing. He has three of them. Most authors could only dream of ever earning one.”
“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Potts held out both hands as if afraid Bonnie might drop the heavy statuette. “You might want to put that back down. He gets a little—”
There was a sound behind her, something close to a growl. “Who said you could touch my things?”
The voice was deep, smoky, and rich. Gooseflesh sprang out all over Bonnie’s bare arms and neck, and she bobbled the precious award, nearly dropping it.
Whirling around, she was confronted with the last thing she’d expected to see. Yes, Jack Bestia was standing behind her—that part she did expect. But he didn’t look anything like the dashing, handsome man she’d checked out online and seen at the book signing two years ago.
This Jack Bestia looked like a wild man. His curly hair was unruly and desperately in need of a trim. His dark beard was… well, it was something to behold.
It made him look like one of those fictional pirates whose nickname began with “Dread.” When was the last time he’d shaved or even groomed it?
He wore a t-shirt so old it had to be a relic of college. In fact, its snug fit made her suspect it might even date back to high school. His legs were clad in ancient denim, the fabric worn thin enough it was possible to see the contour of his thigh muscles through the jeans.
Jack didn’t look like a guy who sat at a keyboard all day long. Between the powerful legs and the biceps popping beneath the frayed sleeves of the t-shirt, it looked more like he spent his days at the gym.
A pair of beat up basketball shoes completed the unorthodox ensemble. He smelled n
ice, at least, like soap and high-end shampoo, but he looked out of place here in this elegant, expensive home.
A locker room would have been more appropriate—or a remote cave, perhaps.
Naturally, the turquoise eyes were still there, but today they looked cold, like frozen sea water. And she’d been right when assessing his height from the photos online. He was huge. He towered over her—so much taller and larger than Bonnie had realized the time she’d seen him sitting down at the book signing.
He was, in a word, intimidating.
“Uh hi,” she blurted, sounding as foolish as she felt.
Bonnie glanced down at the trophy in her hands—his trophy—turned again and quickly set the award back in its place. Then she spun back to face Jack, attempting to salvage the awkward caught-in-the-act moment by sticking her hand out. And babbling.
“It's so nice to meet you. I’ve really been looking forward to this, and I hope you have, too, because I think this is really going to be great. Oh, I'm Bonnie Hamelin. But I guess you already know that.”
The good news was she’d managed actual speech this time. His arrival had been so sudden she hadn't had time to work up quite as many nerves as the first time she’d seen him. The bad news was his answering expression could have incinerated her on the spot.
He didn't take her offered hand but continued to scowl at her. “Yes, I know who you are, Ms. Hamelin.” He sneered. “You're the interviewer. Which I believe means your purpose here is to interview me, not to invade my home and fondle all my private possessions.”
Her nerves, combined with his use of the words “fondle” and “private” together made Bonnie giggle, which then made her blush in mortification. Oh, goodness. This wasn’t starting well. She was just grateful there was no chai latte nearby this time.
Withdrawing her hand, she twisted it with the fingers of her other hand and forced a smile she hoped was both apologetic and charming. “I'm so sorry about that. I've just never seen one in person. And you have so many. Awards. Not possessions. I mean, you do have some nice possessions. I was just talking about… the… awards.”
Jack just kept staring, studying her as if she were an interesting bug.
Mrs. Potts, whose existence she’d completely forgotten in the last minute and a half, cleared her throat loudly.
Jack shot the older woman a heated side-glance then looked at Bonnie again. His scowl moderated into a more neutral expression. “Well?”
“Oh—they're… very beautiful. And heavy.”
The scowl returned. “I wasn't fishing for compliments about my awards. Are you by any chance ready to begin the interview?”
“The interview. Yes. Absolutely. I'm ready. Let's do it.”
He shook his head as if giving up on something. “Fine. Let's get this over with.”
When Jack turned and walked away, Bonnie glanced over at Mrs. Potts, confused. Did he want her to follow him? Mrs. Potts gave her an encouraging smile and a nod indicating that she should.
“Have a lovely chat, you two,” she called after them.
Jack’s sneakers made no sound, emphasizing the rapid clicks of Bonnie’s heels on the hard floor as she trotted to keep up with his long stride. At the far end of the foyer, he stepped through a tall, wooden door. Bonnie stepped through after him but then stopped stock still and stared, fighting for breath.
They were standing in the most magnificent library she’d ever seen in her life. The shelves—all filled—stretched from the beautiful wooden floors to the ceiling. The very, very high ceiling.
A tall track-ladder of the variety she’d only ever seen in movies explained how someone would retrieve a book from the higher shelves. But how would one ever choose? There had to have been thousands of books lining the walls of this incredible room. As a lifelong self-proclaimed book nerd, Bonnie felt like she was standing in an amusement park created especially for her.
“Wow,” she finally said in an awed whisper.
Jack turned around and faced her. He stood in the center of the room near a large antique desk, looking bored and impatient. “I guess you like books,” he deadpanned.
Bonnie moved toward the nearest bookcase as if mesmerized. “I do. That’s why I work at the Daily Report.”
Stopping short of touching one of the books, she forced herself to look away from the fascinating collection and smiled at Jack. Here was a possible connection that might ease the uncomfortable tension between them and make the interview go more smoothly.
“I guess you do, too. I mean, look at all these.”
He shrugged and opened the desk’s top drawer, withdrawing a stack of white paper. “I suppose. I haven’t read most of them.”
“What? Why on earth not? Why do you have them?”
“Some of them came with the house. Some of them were gifts. I’m busy.”
“Well, if I lived here, I’d never get anything done. I’d have to read every one of them.”
In a crisp voice, he said, “You don’t live here, and I’m a lot more interested in you reading this, if I might have your attention for a moment.”
He stretched out his arm, offering the papers to her. She hurried toward him and took them.
“Of course. I’m sorry. We don’t have much time left of our contracted interview window. We should get started.” Taking the papers, Bonnie asked, “What is this?”
She was afraid it was a list of questions he wanted her to ask. Sometimes interview subjects tried that because they wanted to be prepared. She never used them.
Prepared answers were the worst. And people who tried to stick to a pre-rehearsed script came across sounding wooden and uncomfortable, or even worse, fake. Bonnie always wanted her interviewees to shine in her articles, to come to life for readers who’d never get the chance to meet them in person.
But this… it wasn’t just a list of prepared questions. No, what Jack had handed her was a thousand times worse.
Six
In Trouble
The reporter sat in the desk chair, poring over the eight-page contract, turning pages faster and faster. She was a speed-reader—unless she was skimming.
Her long, caramel-colored curls obscured her face as she read, giving Jack a moment to catch his breath. He’d been so taken aback by her appearance in the foyer he’d barely been able to speak.
She was beautiful, and not just the regular kind. The made-exactly-for-Jack kind, the kind of gorgeous he’d only ever imagined when dreaming up a new character, a siren intent on luring a hero to his death in dark, cold waters, for instance. The kind of beauty who only existed in fiction.
But there she was, the living, breathing version of his physical ideal. In his library.
And the way she’d looked at him… he shuddered remembering it. She had the most intense brown eyes he’d ever seen. When she’d spun around and they’d met his, Jack had nearly stumbled backward. It was like she could see straight into his soul.
He was rocked by a sense of impending doom. This woman was dangerous. He needed to get her out of his house as soon as possible.
The more Jack looked at her, the angrier he got. How dare they send a beautiful woman to manipulate him.
What kind of tricks did she have up her sleeve? A sleeve which ended mid-forearm and highlighted the beautiful tone of her skin and delicate bones of her wrist. At the very least she was a distraction at a time when the last thing he needed was to be distracted.
Jack paced across the library and back to the desk again. What was taking her so long? He almost hoped she wouldn’t sign the contract, a possibility that was growing more and more likely, based on her body language.
Finally, she looked up and repeated her earlier question, wearing an uncertain smile. “What is this? I’ve never signed anything like this before doing an interview.”
“You’ve never interviewed me before. It’s my standard media contract.” Starting today. “Sign it or no deal.”
“The deal has already been made,” she corrected. “Be
tween your publisher and my employer.” Rising to her feet, she held the papers out to him. “I can’t agree to these regulations. The interview will be a sham. I might as well just copy and print a press release verbatim.”
Jack made no move to take the contract, feigning indifference. “That can be arranged.”
Laying the papers on the desk, she studied him, her probing eyes once again penetrating his defenses and going straight for the inner rooms where he kept all his secrets. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on? What are your concerns about doing the interview?” She tapped the contract with one pink fingernail. “Surely you didn’t think I’d agree to this, Jack.”
Suddenly his face went hot, and he was very afraid its color matched its temperature. He shifted from one foot to the other.
Feeling like a wild animal caught in a snare, he blurted a thought he probably would have been wiser to keep to himself. “And surely your editor didn’t think I’d be so easily manipulated.”
Ms. Hamelin’s brows drew together, forming a perfect little eleven between them. She sounded perplexed. “Manipulated? All I’ve done is arrive on time and introduce myself.”
“Yes, and… well, look at you,” Jack accused, waving his hand from her sexy red high heels to her soft, flowing hair. “Your boss is a fool if he thinks I’m going to just fall for a pretty face and start spilling my guts.”
Her expression changed immediately, morphing from confusion to contempt. “For your information, my boss is a ‘she,’ and I am extremely well qualified for this job. I have a masters in journalism and years of experience conducting interviews—many of them interviewing first responders, doctors, lawmakers, and scores of other people whose jobs have actual life-and-death consequences. And—I’ve read at least half the books in here.”
Her eyes scanned the shelves again before coming back to him, filled with disdain. “You’re so lucky to have a library like this, and you don’t even appreciate it.”
