John knew he’d done all those things—knew it—and even he couldn’t believe it. How? How had the guy come up with such an outrageous idea? How had he located John when other people had tried and failed? How had he gotten his hands on the outline for Resurrection? How had he learned to write like John?
How?
Maybe he was the crazy one, John grimly acknowledged. Maybe he had finally snapped. Maybe he had never been Simon Tremont. Maybe it had all been an elaborate fantasy—Simon, the books, the house, the checks. Maybe the burden of guilt he’d been carrying for the last seventeen years had finally become more than his mind could bear, and he had just gone all-out nuts.
Pushing away the headache those thoughts brought, he forced his attention back to Teryl. With her sleek brown hair, brown eyes, and easy smile, she was pretty in a wholesome, innocent way. She was too trusting—her affair with the married man proved that—and too naïve. Coming down here with him proved that.
And she was, in ways totally at odds with her naïveté and wholesomeness, sexy as hell.
On his one night in Denver last week, he had picked up a pretty blonde—high-priced, charming, dressed to thrill—but she hadn’t aroused even the faintest desire in him. Maybe it had been because she was a pro, because he’d known it would be greed, not desire, that brought her to his bed, because he’d known it would be a performance, her movements practiced, her responses rehearsed.
There would be nothing practiced, nothing rehearsed, about sex with Teryl.
And there was nothing realistic in thinking about it, either, he admitted grimly. Her brazen bluff about men aside—I just use them for sex—the only way he was going to get into Teryl Weaver’s bed tonight was to seduce her, and he had been alone so long that he wasn’t sure he remembered how.
She was window-shopping, ignoring the crowds, often looking back to make sure he was behind her. He stayed close, patiently following her inside one shop after another.
“So you’re not a fan of Simon Tremont’s,” she remarked when they turned off onto Governor Nicholls and the crowd thinned enough that he could walk beside her.
“He’s written some good stuff.”
“Good stuff?” She tilted her head to one side and studied him as they walked. “I’ve been reading him since I was in college. He’s written some of the best ‘stuff’ out there.”
“How about—” John swallowed hard. He couldn’t say the title, couldn’t bring himself to speak it aloud. “How about the new one?”
“Resurrection?” She stepped onto a green-painted stoop, then down again. “You can see for yourself in August. Morgan-Wilkes is really pushing to get it out as quickly as possible. It’s scheduled to hit the shelves in about eight weeks.”
Eight weeks. That was a major rush. With his previous books, turned in on time, he’d faced a wait of nine to twelve months before they appeared in the bookstores. Was the publisher simply eager to take advantage of all this free publicity Tremont was drumming up?
Or was Resurrection really that good? Teryl hadn’t said.
“Have you read it?”
“He brought it into the office last week while Rebecca and I were both gone to lunch. I got back first and started reading it, but she came in just as I was finishing Chapter 2. She went home and took it with her, and didn’t come back the rest of the week.”
“So what did you think of the first two chapters?”
They walked nearly half a block before she stopped and faced him head-on. “It was the most impressive work I’d ever read.”
John shifted uneasily. Her manner answered his question far better than her words. People had spoken like that about his own work in the beginning, in that hushed sort of reverent tone. Awed. Admiring and, at the same time, envious. Worshipful.
And now Teryl was speaking the same way about the man pretending to be him.
He ignored the jealousy that sparked, turned her with a touch back toward Jackson Square, and asked, “Is this the first time you’ve met Tremont?”
“We’ve talked on the phone a few times in the last couple of months, but today was the first time we’d met face-to-face.”
“What do you think?”
She paid the shop windows they were passing more attention than they deserved before finally giving him a sidelong glance. “You know you’re asking my opinion of the man who, in a roundabout way, makes my job possible. The commissions he pays the agency would be enough to keep it in business and prospering even if he was our one and only client.”
“No, I’m asking your opinion of—What did you call him? One of the most talented—and certainly most mysterious—authors in the country. You’ve been a big fan from the beginning. Is he everything you wanted him to be?”
She gave him another of those long, studying sideways looks before evenly asking, “Can we go to Pat O’Brien’s?”
So she wasn’t going to answer, which most likely meant that she either didn’t like the man or had been disappointed in him. John found some small satisfaction in that and in the knowledge that she wouldn’t have been disappointed by the real Simon Tremont.
They cut through the square again, circled around the cathedral, and headed toward Bourbon Street and, a short distance before, Pat O’Brien’s. A waiter seated them in the courtyard, out of the sun but near the fountain. Toying with the souvenir menu, she looked around, smiled at him, and sighed contentedly. Was she really so easy to satisfy? he wondered. A two-day trip to New Orleans, part of it spent working, a walk around the Quarter, and drinks at the district’s most famous bar—that was enough to give her that contented look?
“I envy you,” she remarked lazily.
“Why?”
“Living in New Orleans, being able to come down here whenever you want. I’ve lived all my life in Richmond. It’s a nice enough place, but you don’t hear many people say, ‘This year we’re going to save our money and spend our vacation in Richmond, Virginia.’ I’d love to live here.”
Personally, he thought being able to live your entire life in one place was pretty special. He could have happily lived all his life in California if he hadn’t screwed it up before it’d barely gotten started.
If he hadn’t ended Tom’s life before it had barely gotten started.
“So why don’t you move?” he asked, refusing to spoil the moment with thoughts of his brother and what should have been.
She glanced from him to the fountain, then back again. “You’re kidding, right? I can’t just pack up and move to a strange city, not having a job, not knowing anyone, not being familiar with the place.”
“Why not? You say that you’re little more than a glorified receptionist. You could do that here. And we’ve already established that you’re not madly in love with anyone back home. What’s keeping you there?”
“It’s my home. It’s where I’ve always lived, where my family lives. Besides, I’d be lonely. I don’t know anyone here.”
“You’re a pretty woman. You’re friendly. And your only interest in men is sex without strings.” Just saying it gave him a sharp reminder of how long he’d been without. “You would make friends pretty quickly here.”
“I could never afford the kind of life I’d want on the kind of salary I earn. I’d want a place down here in the Quarter, one of these gracious old homes with a courtyard and, of course, the lifestyle that belongs with such a place. On what I make, I’d be lucky to be able to afford a closet somewhere out in the suburbs, and that’s hardly worth leaving home for.” With a wistful smile, she changed the subject. “Where are you from?”
“Los Angeles.”
“How long did you live there?”
“Nineteen years.”
“Do you still have family there?”
“A couple of aunts and uncles.” And parents who pretended that their second son was dead. Who wished that he’d never been born.
“How long has it been since you’ve been back?”
“Seventeen years.”
�
�Don’t you miss it? Don’t you miss your relatives and the house you grew up in and the old neighborhood? Don’t you miss the friends who still live there?”
He watched as the waiter served their drinks, then pulled some money from his pocket to pay for them. He missed everything about L.A. It had been a hell of a place to grow up. There had always been something going on, always something to do—either with the whole family or his friends but more often than not with Tom or Janie. Thanks to their parents, they’d been closer than just brothers and sister. Tom and Janie had looked out for him, had smoothed things over for him. They’d made his life easier.
And, in exchange, he had destroyed their lives.
Realizing that she was waiting for an answer, he shrugged. “Things change. I miss the L.A. I grew up in, but there’s nothing for me there now.” Not his old home. Certainly not his family.
“I bet you were a surfer. You have that beach bum look.”
He acknowledged that with a raised brow.
“Were you any good?”
“It was the only thing I did well.”
She gave him a long, measuring look, then smiled just a little. Secretively. “I doubt that,” she murmured.
He felt the pull of desire again—hard, impossible to ignore. He wanted to prove her right, to show her that, hell, yes, he could do something else and do it damned well. He wanted to see her wearing exactly that same little smile again, and nothing else.
I want you.
How would she react if he said that aloud, if he was that blunt? Would she be put off? Flattered? Insulted? Or maybe tempted? Would she brush him off and dump him as quickly as possible?
Or would she say yes?
Back at the square, he’d thought she wasn’t the type for casual sex. Now he wasn’t so certain. Oh, she certainly didn’t make a habit of one-night stands… but if the look in her eyes was anything to judge by, there was a first time for everything. A drink or two, dinner, and he just might have something to occupy his night for the first time in far too long.
And if he was wrong? If he was just so damned horny that he was misjudging her?
Then he would pick up a damned hooker, he thought with a scowl, and take his best shot. It wouldn’t be the best time he’d ever had, not by any means, but if he closed his eyes and pretended it was Teryl…
Yeah, he could damn sure get off on that.
Chapter Two
They finished their drinks and walked more, talked more. By the time they finally approached Bourbon Street, the sun was setting in the western sky, the temperature had dropped a few cooling degrees, and her hormones, Teryl decided dizzily, were just plain out of control.
And the blatant packaging of Bourbon Street’s most popular commodities—women and sex—didn’t help any.
Under normal circumstances, she would have been embarrassed by the photographs of naked women, the signs advertising sex acts, the sometimes lurid and all too base come-ons. But the alcohol had taken the edge off any inhibitions she might have had a few hours ago, and she was getting aroused just from the way John kept looking at her. If he didn’t invite her home soon…
She would be in pretty sorry shape, she thought with a sigh.
The exhalation drew his attention her way. “Something wrong?” As he asked the question, they turned onto a quiet, nearly deserted street that led back toward the river, leaving the music, the tourists, and the hustle of Bourbon Street behind.
“No, nothing.”
“Getting tired?”
“No. I’m fine.” She offered him a breezy smile. “This has been a lovely evening, John. It’s nice of you to spend it with me.”
He gave her a hard look. “Don’t think that,” he said, his voice low and serious. “I’m not a nice man, Teryl.”
His harsh words made her uneasy, and she tried not to look at him, tried not to search his face to see if he meant them. But her gaze kept sneaking his way, darting from the sidewalk ahead or from the storefronts on her left but finding no answers in his scowl. When she responded at last, she kept her voice even, her tone pleasantly stubborn. “You’ve been nice to me.”
“Only for my own reasons.”
“And what are those reasons?”
Abruptly he stopped walking, and she drew up short a few feet ahead. She stood motionless for a second, then slowly turned to face him. He looked at her, glanced away, then back again, and, like that, the grimness was gone, but the intensity remained—intensity sharpened by desire. “I want to take you to bed.”
Her heart was pounding, and her mouth had gone dry. She could laugh, treat it as a joke, and he would probably let her. He would accept her rejection as if he’d never expected anything else, and he would make some excuse to leave or—if he was a better man than she’d given him credit for—he would spend the rest of the evening with her, being nice, and would say a polite good night when it was over.
She could handle it that way. She should handle it that way. Back home she always handled things that way.
Just once, just for tonight, couldn’t she be different?
Slowly she turned away from him, facing the shop window behind them. The store was closed, but lights shone on the display there—Mardi Gras masks of ceramic and gold and feathers, strings of cheap plastic beads and, on a mannequin, an intricately worked costume. “I always wanted to come to New Orleans for Mardi Gras,” she said softly, seeing the items through her own reflection, through John’s reflection behind her.
“You like drunken celebrations?” His voice was uneven and tinged with disappointment. Did he think that changing the subject was her way of politely rejecting him?
“I’ve never been to one,” she replied. She took a deep, shaky breath. “But I always thought it would be fun, just once in my life, to be wicked in New Orleans.”
He came a step closer, then another, until he was right behind her—not touching her, but close enough for her to feel. Close enough for her to hear his slow, measured breathing. Close enough to make her tremble. “You don’t have to wait for Mardi to be wicked,” he murmured.
She continued to stare in the window as he moved that last step closer, but she couldn’t identify anything she saw—just blurs. Colors. Shapes.
He wasn’t subtle, wasn’t at all shy. With that single small encouragement, that single voicing of a vague desire to be wicked, he rested one hand—big, strong, and gentle—on her shoulder and slid the other inside her vest, cupping her breast, squeezing it, gently pinching her nipple. Later she would feel guilty, Teryl acknowledged, but at that moment the sensations were exquisite and were only heightened by the fact that they were standing on the sidewalk where anyone might pass, where anyone might see them.
He moved his left hand from her shoulder, circled his arm around her waist, and pulled her back snug against him so that his erection pressed against her. Nuzzling her hair away, he touched his mouth to her ear and murmured, “Unbutton your blouse for me, Teryl. Let me touch you.”
Her hands trembled when she raised them to the first button. This was crazy, wrong—reckless as hell—but, damn it, back home in Richmond, she had never been crazy, had never been reckless.
She’d only been wrong. At least this wrong would, for a time, feel incredibly right.
The blouse had a V-neck with a drapey collar, and she needed to open only two buttons to give him access to her breasts. He covered one with his hand, his palm warm and rough against the softness of her skin. When he touched her nipple, it grew hard, and he stroked it, toyed with it, making it swell even more, making her tremble even more. Oh, hell, yes, this felt incredibly right.
At the end of the block, voices sounded, one calling to another, the second answering. The reality of being discovered made her stiffen, but he didn’t release her. He didn’t remove his hand from her blouse. He simply moved her a few feet past the store and into the narrow alley. An iron gate, eight feel tall and spiked on top, blocked the way only a few feet back, but it was enough to offer some privacy. I
t was enough to make her sink back against the brick wall and guide his mouth to hers.
He kissed her, taking her mouth hard, thrusting his tongue back to her throat. She was aroused and wet and he was so damned hard that she was in pain. Whimpering aloud, she reached for his erection, but as soon as her fingers closed around it, he groaned and forced her away.
Grabbing her hand, he moved back onto the sidewalk and hesitated, then started toward Bourbon Street, pulling her along behind. Where were they going? she wondered, pulling her blouse together, making an effort to keep up. His house, her hotel, or someplace anonymous and nearby?
Her question was at least partially answered when he signaled a cab parked on the opposite side of Bourbon. The driver met them at the corner, and John opened the back door, ushering her into the seat. “Where you want to go?” the driver asked in accented English as John closed the door.
He looked at her, waiting for her to answer, and for one moment—one very brief moment—she wondered if he had lied about being married. If he had, she didn’t want to know. She didn’t care.
Her throat tight, her voice husky, she gave the cabbie the name of her hotel.
Before the cab had pulled away from the curb, John was kissing her again, making his way down her throat. She let her head fall back and bit her lip on a moan when she felt his hands inside her blouse, cupping her breast, lifting it, pushing her nipple up to meet his mouth. To be wicked in New Orleans, she had requested, and surely this had to qualify: riding in a cab down the streets of the French Quarter, letting a man she’d known only a few hours suckle her breast while the driver behind the wheel sneaked leering glances in his rearview mirror.
And she didn’t give a damn. As long as John didn’t stop…
They reached the hotel all too soon—and not soon enough. Her face hot—hell, her entire body was hot—Teryl arranged her clothing while he paid the fare; then he hustled her inside, past the front desk, through the lobby to the elevators. Moments later they were in her room, kissing, touching, arousing. He released her only to move her suitcase from the bed; she withdrew from the daze of need only to retrieve the beribboned packets from D.J.’s zippered pouch.
Passion Page 3
