A Secret Life

by Barbara Dunlop

  “Not the frogs. The thumping noise.”

  “Those are the cypress trees.”

  “It’s not trees.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Joanie.”

  “Do you still get nervous in the dark.”

  “I don’t get nervous in the dark.”

  “You’re nervous now.”

  “That’s because of the thumping noise.”

  “There is no thumping—”

  Something whapped against the side of the house.

  “That,” shrieked Heather, scooting closer on the bed.

  Joan opened her eyes, blinking in the dim bedroom. Moonlight wafted through the opaque curtains and danced along the ceiling and the walls.

  “What on earth?”

  “Call the police,” Heather hissed, fumbling for the phone on the bedside table.

  Joan slipped out of bed.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To look out the window. It’s probably an alligator.” They didn’t often come this close to the house, but every once in a while…

  “What if it sees you?”

  “We’re on the second floor.”

  “So what?”

  Joan pulled back the curtain, squinting into the yard. “They can’t jump.”

  “Can you see it?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know it’s not a person?”

  “Because Indigo is one of the safest places in the country. We don’t even lock our doors.”

  “You didn’t lock your door?”

  There was another thump, then a scraping noise.

  Joan had to admit it didn’t really sound like an alligator anymore.

  “I’m dialing 911,” said Heather.

  “Don’t call the police.” Joan crossed the room and whisked the phone from Heather’s hand.

  She was still avoiding Alain Boudreaux. She hadn’t returned his call. And she didn’t want to have to defend her position on the music festival.

  “We’re just going to sit here and let ourselves get attacked.”

  “There’s no crime in Indigo.”

  There was another thump, then a creaking noise.

  Heather’s voice went shrill. “Then what’s that?”

  “Probably a reporter.” Now that the words were out, Joan realized it was a distinct possibility.

  “Then call Anthony.”

  Joan glanced at the clock. “I’m not calling Anthony at three in the morning.”

  “Then I’m calling the police.”

  “I’m sure whoever it is will go away,” said Joan. Maybe they just wanted pictures of her house. Surely they didn’t expect an interview at this hour.

  “Before or after they discover your doors are unlocked.”

  Joan hesitated. Heather did have a point. Reporter or not, she didn’t like the idea of somebody meandering into her house at night. Maybe Anthony could drive by and scare them off.

  She took a breath. “Okay. I’ll call Anthony at the B and B.”

  “Tell him to bring a gun.”

  Joan dialed Anthony’s cell number. “He’s not bringing a gun.”

  “A knife? Mace?”

  The ringing tone sounded in Joan’s ear. “I’ll just tell him to drive by. The lights should scare off any reporters.”

  “What if something goes wrong?”

  Joan wished her sister would calm down. Nothing was going to go wrong. There was an overzealous reporter tromping through the hydrangeas, that was all. Heather had lived in a big city way too long.

  “Verdun here,” came Anthony’s groggy voice.

  “Anthony? It’s Joan.”

  “Joan? What’s—”

  “Heather hears a noise.”

  “You hear it, too,” said Heather.

  “What kind of a noise?” Anthony sounded more awake, and there was a rustling in the background.

  “Thumping, creaking. I thought it was an alligator—”

  “What is it?” It sounded as if he was moving around.

  “A reporter, maybe?”

  “There’s a person in your house?”

  “Not in my house. On the porch. Maybe. I think…” She shouldn’t have called Anthony. She should have checked the porch herself. Heather was making her jumpy.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “I was thinking you could just drive by—”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “There’s no need to—”

  The phone went dead.

  “What’s he doing?” asked Heather.

  “He’s on his way.”

  Another thump sounded, louder this time. Even Joan flinched.

  Heather moved to the middle of the bed. “I sure hope he brings a gun.”

  ANTHONY ARRIVED within minutes. As his headlights flashed against the side of the house, there was a distinct sound of footsteps running down the back stairs.

  Joan rushed to the window and stared across the lawn toward Bayou Teche, trying to make out a figure running through the trees. But it was too dark to see anything but shadows. It could have been a man, could have been a woman, could have been a dog for that matter.

  Anthony pounded on the door, then pushed it open as Joan dashed down the stairs.

  “Did he break in?” he asked, as she rounded the breakfast bar and hit a light switch above the sink.

  The low light illuminated Anthony’s face as Joan shook her head.

  “They ran when they saw you coming,” she told him.

  “Your door was unlocked.”

  “It’s always unlocked.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Joan gestured toward the front door. “The lock doesn’t work. I never—”

  “You’re kidding.” Anthony turned back to examine the catch. He clicked it a few times with his thumb. “Why the hell didn’t you get it fixed?”

  “There was never any reason—”

  “Security. Privacy. Safety. Those aren’t reasons?”

  She resented the censure in his tone. “Indigo is a perfectly safe community.”

  Heather appeared in the kitchen, holding a silk robe closed over her nightgown. It reminded Joan that she was standing in front of Anthony in her short, peach nightgown—and the light was streaming in from behind her. She shifted to one side.

  “Tell me everything that happened,” Anthony demanded as he returned to the front door and pushed it shut.

  His faded T-shirt and thin, gray sweatpants molded to his athletic body. The shirt was wrinkled, and Joan wondered if he’d slept in it. Or maybe he’d just thrown on the outfit for the drive over. Or maybe she should stop speculating.

  No. That wasn’t about to happen.

  He looked different somehow. It was more than just the casual clothes; there was something unguarded, almost rugged about him. His chin was shadowed with dark stubble, and his usually perfect hair was mussed. Not to mention the way the T-shirt delineated well-developed arm and shoulder muscles. Anthony was a lot sexier under his pressed suits than she’d ever imagined.

  And that was saying something.

  “I heard a noise,” said Heather. “I woke Joan up. She told me it was frogs.”

  Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Frogs?”

  “They can get pretty loud at night,” Joan defended.

  “Somebody was trying to break in,” said Heather.

  “We don’t know that,” said Joan. “Heather’s a nervous sleeper. They were probably just—”

  “Prowling around on your porch?” Heather moved in closer, her body forming shadows against the small kitchen light.

  “It might have been a reporter,” said Joan, trying to stay logical—and concentrate on keeping her gaze above Anthony’s neck. The room was getting hotter, and her skin was growing sensitive beneath the satin of her nightgown.

  “Might have been,” he agreed with a nod.

  It took Joan a second to recapture the thread of the conversation.

  Anthony rak
ed his messy hair back from his forehead with spread fingers.

  She controlled a little shudder of reaction.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’re not going to figure out much tonight. You two go to bed. I’ll camp out on the couch.”

  Joan blinked. Oh, yeah. That was a great idea. A sexy, tousled Anthony in her house overnight? She didn’t think so. “You’re not staying.”

  “Of course I’m staying.”

  Her chest contracted, inner thighs tingling. “Whoever it was is halfway down the bayou.”

  “They might come back.”

  “Yes, they might,” Heather agreed. “You have a gun?” she asked Anthony.

  Anthony shook his head. “Afraid not.”

  “We don’t need a gun,” said Joan. And they didn’t need a bodyguard, especially one that tempted Joan to do something really embarrassing. “We’ll block the front door with a chair or something, and I think the back lock still works.”

  Anthony and Heather both stared at her in silence.

  She glanced from one to the other. “What?”

  “You actually think there’s a chance in hell I’d leave?” Anthony’s jaw went hard and his lips compressed.

  “Of course.” But Joan’s voice faltered. He didn’t look like a guy who was leaving anytime soon.

  He moved forward. “Take off and just leave you to fend for yourself?”

  Okay. This was getting silly. Joan rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “I’ve been fending for myself for ten years now.”

  Something flickered in Anthony’s expression, but she couldn’t quite place it.

  “Well, I’m going to bed,” said Heather. “I feel a lot better knowing Anthony is here.” With a toss of her blond hair, she turned and headed up the stairs.

  “See that?” said Anthony. “Even Heather admits I should stay.”

  “Heather’s sleeping in the guest room,” said Joan, trying to turn his attention to the practicalities of the situation. “And my couch is way too small for you.”

  It was ridiculous for him to sleep in her cottage just because something went bump in the night.

  “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said.

  “You’re not going to sleep on the floor.”

  He moved closer still, and his blue eyes darkened for a split second, making her shiver with awareness.

  “Where would you suggest I sleep?” he asked softly. If it was anybody but Anthony, Joan would have interpreted the words as innuendo.

  “In your bed. At Luc’s B and B.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Anthony.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t let you do this.”

  They stared at each other. It was a test of wills, and the air crackled between them.

  A small smile grew on his face. “You, my dear, have no choice.” He crossed to her wicker couch.

  “It’s my house.”

  “And I’m your lawyer.”

  “You’re my agent.”

  He shrugged. “Same difference.” He tested the floral patterned cushions with the flat of his hands. “Besides. I don’t see how you’re going to stop me.”

  This was ridiculous. He was a good foot longer than the narrow couch. She approached him, folding her arms over her chest. “Fine. You take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

  He straightened. “Yeah. Right.”

  She tipped her head, all but falling into his slumberous eyes. Their gazes caught and held. They were both silent as the bayou croaking rose around them and the tree branches creaked in the yard.

  His tousled hair made him more approachable than usual. His shadowed face and the dim light played tricks on her senses. His musky scent wafted around her, and his lips parted ever so slightly, ever so invitingly.

  She swallowed.

  “You don’t get it, do you, Joan?” he rumbled, and she wished he would reach out and touch her. A brush with those hands, on her face, on her shoulder, on her breasts.

  She swayed a little. “Get what?”

  “They go through me to get to you, not the other way around.”

  He looked down at her peach nightgown, and his blue eyes turned to a midnight sky. Her muscles tensed and her skin tingled as he made his way from her breasts to her stomach to her bare legs.

  What would happen if she touched him?

  What would happen if she kissed him?

  While her imagination tested the sensations, his hand rose. His fingertips brushed her hair back. The touch on her skin was light, insubstantial, but it ricocheted through her, igniting sensations in every corner of her body.

  She covered his hand with hers, pressing it against her cheek, wishing, yearning, wondering how she’d gone so long without discovering…

  Their eyes locked.

  She waited. But he didn’t lean forward, didn’t close the gap. As the seconds ticked by, she wondered if she’d misinterpreted his touch. She loosened her hand, suddenly embarrassed.

  Anthony interested in her?

  The idea seemed ridiculously far-fetched.

  She drew away, adopting a matter-of-fact tone. “I don’t think they’ll be back.”

  He let his hand fall to his side. “You’re probably right.”

  “Is there any point in me asking you to leave?”

  He shook his head.

  She took another step back. “Then I’ll get you a pillow and blanket.”

  She turned and ducked her head, unwilling to meet his eyes again. She’d obviously misread the signs. She was just another woman to him. Just another in a long line of those who found themselves attracted to his good looks and lazy charm.

  She opened the linen closet and extracted a plump pillow and a cream-colored quilt. Good to know up front. Embarrassing, but not as bad as if she’d become a notch on his bedpost.

  ANTHONY’S CHANCE at sleeping was shot. Even if his legs hadn’t hung over the arm of the narrow couch, his acute arousal and his memories of Joan’s smoky jade eyes would have done him in for the night.

  He’d thought from the first second he met her that she was a gracious, attractive and highly sensual woman. Of course, he’d ruthlessly squelched that reaction, since she was married at the time.

  Then she was newly widowed. And after that, she was a valued client. She was still a valued client, and he had absolutely no business lusting after her—even if it was the middle of the night, even if she did look like a tousled goddess in that short little lacy number, and even if her eyes sent messages straight to his heart, all but begging him to pull her into his arms and kiss her until time stood still.

  He couldn’t kiss her. He couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t even think about kissing her or touching her.

  He was here to take care of her, to see her through this crisis and make sure it didn’t ruin her career.

  He punched the pillow and shifted his cramped legs on the little torture chamber of a sofa. He had to figure out how to get her in front of an interviewer of his choice, not some bozo who was willing to camp out on her porch. If he handled this situation properly, he was sure he could boost her career and for the most part keep her privacy intact.

  Shortly after six, footsteps sounded on the ceiling above him. He assumed it was Joan, since Heather didn’t strike him as an early riser. He pushed into a sitting position and shook off the vestiges of fatigue and frustration. He’d managed on less sleep than this, and he could keep his lust in check when necessary.

  NORMALLY, Anthony wasn’t bothered much by guilt, particularly when he knew the end would justify the means. So when Joan announced she had a hair appointment that morning, he shamelessly thought up all the ways to use it to his advantage.

  First, he was more than happy to move her out of Indigo and into the anonymity of Lafayette. And secondly, Lafayette was the home of a small network affiliate, giving him his first realistic interview possibility.

  He convinced Joan and Heather to get full makeovers and manicures at the salon by offering to pick up
the tab. His plan might not ultimately work, but having a camera-ready Joan within a few miles of a television studio definitely gave him a running start.

  He was sitting on a soft, cream-colored leather sofa in the waiting room of Très Jolie, downing complimentary coffee while waiting patiently to get through to the news director at KCLA. He was sure he’d get better service if he mentioned Joan’s name, but he didn’t want to get specific with anyone but the top decision-maker.

  There was a local newspaper on the coffee table in front of him, and he’d already found a page three article on Joan. It had a picture, but it was an older one, and he didn’t think any of the salon employees or patrons realized who she was, particularly considering her face was bare of makeup and her hair was a mass of foil paper and gelatinous liquid.

  She caught his eye, and he shot her a smile. He was happy to see her looking relaxed for the first time since he’d arrived.

  “Raymond Miller here,” came a voice on the other end of Anthony’s cell phone.

  Anthony turned away from Joan. “Mr. Miller. This is Anthony Verdun.”

  “So my assistant informed me.”

  “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. I’m with the Prism Literary Agency in New York City.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “This is not a joke. I represent Joan Bateman. She writes as—”

  “I know who Joan Bateman is. I’ve left three messages at your office.”

  “I’m in Lafayette at the moment.”

  “Really?” The man’s tone changed. “Call me Ray.”

  Anthony smiled. “Before we go any further, Ray, are you able to set up a live network feed?”

  “Are you offering me an interview with Joan Bateman?”

  “Let’s just say I’m exploring my options.”

  “You have a competing offer?”

  “It’s not about money.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you do the live feed?”

  “Absolutely. Hang on.” The sound went muffled for a second. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem,” said Anthony. “I’ll be honest with you, Ray. Joan is shy, and I’m not sure I’ll get the go ahead today.”

  Ray chuckled. “I’m more than willing to set it up on spec.”

  “Great. I want a female interviewer. Low-key, nobody aggressive. I’ll be right there with Joan and I’ll shut it down in a heartbeat.”