A Secret Life

by Barbara Dunlop

  He closed the phone.

  “You are not going anywhere,” he said to Joan.

  “My backup disks,” she told him. “They’re in my bedroom.” She had to know if her work was safe. That computer represented hours and days and months of her life. She had a manuscript in progress and hundreds of research files stored on it.

  If anybody could understand her panic, it was Anthony.

  He glanced at her writing nook and gritted his teeth. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” Heather shrieked. “You’re going to risk her neck for the backup disks?”

  “I’ll go first,” said Anthony.

  “Wait for the police,” said Heather. “They have guns.”

  Anthony glared disdainfully down at her. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I don’t care about you. I care about Joan.”

  “I’m not going to let anything happen to Joan.”

  Heather folded her arms over her chest. “Of course you won’t. She’s your meal ticket.”

  Joan was mortified. “Heather!”

  “Do the interview,” Heather mimicked. “Do the interview and everything will be all right. Does this look all right to you?”

  Joan went cold. The interview. Could the break-in have something to do with the interview?

  She scanned the disordered room once more. Priceless works of art were left untouched. Her hall closet door was closed. The kitchen hadn’t been disturbed. Only her desk. Her computer. Her writing.

  She blinked up at Anthony. “Is this because of the interview?”

  “No,” he said. But she could tell he wasn’t completely sure.

  Joan backed away from him.

  He’d been wrong.

  She’d been wrong.

  She should have gone with her own instincts and stayed out of the limelight. This would probably make the news, too. Soon her father would be storming Indigo with court orders and bodyguards.

  She felt Heather’s thin arm go around her. “We’ll go to Paris,” her sister whispered.

  Joan’s heart-rate sped up, and her breathing deepened. Maybe she should have gone to Paris in the first place.

  POLICE CHIEF Alain Boudreaux concluded what Anthony had already guessed. A fan had broken in looking for souvenirs. One of the neighbors had reported a cluster of people in front of Joan’s house while they were away in Lafayette. And there were several gushing messages on Joan’s answering machine.

  A fan was a whole lot better than a psychopathic criminal, and it was unlikely the fan would be back now that he had the souvenirs. Still, Anthony wasn’t taking any chances with Joan and Heather’s safety.

  Over their halfhearted protests, he checked them both into La Petite Maison, Heather on the second floor and Joan in the attic suite.

  “You don’t need to stay,” said Joan, sitting primly in the rocking chair in the corner of her room. The French doors were open to the small balcony, and the oak leaves rustled in the midnight breeze.

  “I don’t want to go,” said Anthony honestly. It had been a long, roller-coaster of a day for both of them.

  Their host, Luc Carter, had settled Heather into her room and promised to double lock the front door. Anthony’s room was directly below Joan’s, next to the attic staircase, and he fully intended to keep his door open all night long. Still, he wasn’t ready to have her out of his sight just yet.

  “Alain said the break-in happened this morning.” Anthony was desperate to get the cool, distant look out of Joan’s eyes.

  She darted him a glare. “You’re staying to defend yourself?”

  He moved to the wicker chair that was positioned on the opposite side of the stone fireplace. “I’m staying because I’m worried about you. I’m simply pointing out—for future reference—that the interview and the break-in were two separate events.”

  She started rocking. “Right. Who knows what kind of sicko a national television spot will bring out of the woodwork.”

  “Joan.”

  “Do you know what Alain just asked me?”

  “What?”

  “He asked me to endorse the music festival.”

  The change of topic was abrupt, but Anthony didn’t point that out. His mind started clicking through the promotional opportunities of the music festival. He should give Lesley Roland a call. She was one of the best publicists in the business.

  “Stop!”

  He glanced up. “What?”

  “You’re already scheming.” Joan stood up and took a couple of paces forward. “I’m not endorsing the music festival. I don’t want the music festival.”

  He stood with her. “Why not?”

  “It’ll ruin the town. Crowds will converge—”

  “It’s Cajun culture at the old opera house. We’re not talking heavy metal.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “And it would be good for my career.”

  Anthony moved in front of her. “What’s wrong with something being good for your career? Publicity is not a four-letter word.”

  Her cheeks flushed, and her green eyes smoldered in the dim light. “Just once I’d like you to think about what would be good for my life instead of my career.”

  “They’re not mutually exclusive.”

  She waved a hand. “It’s all about the sales to you.”

  “That’s because I’m your agent.”

  “Yeah? Well…” She bit her bottom lip, and her eyes clouded as the sound of the cicadas rose. The temperature in the room spiked, even while the breeze wafted moisture-laced air from the bayou.

  He thought she swayed toward him.

  Was she feeling half of what he was feeling?

  He stared into the depths of her eyes.

  “You want me to be something else, Joan?” he dared.

  She blinked her lashes but didn’t say a word.

  A weight pressed down on his chest.

  Slowly, knowing it was crazy, knowing he was losing his mind, he raised his hand to touch her soft cheek. Even as his brain screamed at him to stop, his fingers tunneled into her thick hair.

  Her lips parted as she sucked in a breath, and her eyes fluttered closed, dark lashes sensual against the dewy glow of her skin.

  He cupped her face with his other hand, drawing her toward him in slow motion. Ten years of pent-up desire simmered to life within him, threatening to overwhelm him, dragging him into oblivion. A taste, he promised himself. Nothing more than a taste of her tender lips.

  She tipped her head.

  It was all the invitation he needed.

  His lips came down on hers, and paradise ricocheted through every cell in his body. His hands convulsed into her hair. His lips parted, his tongue flicking ever so lightly against her mouth. He moaned with the supreme effort it took to hold back.

  She stepped forward, and her thighs brushed against him. He drew her in tight, his mouth widening, turning an exploratory kiss into one of absolute carnality. His palm slipped down to the small of her back, and he pressed her against his erection.

  Her arms wound around his neck as she accepted his kisses, opening wider, allowing him to taste the secret caverns of her mouth. Her tongue answered his plea, and he felt the sultry night settle around them.

  The feather bed was mere feet away.

  He wanted her naked on the cool, crisp comforter.

  He wanted her shimmering hair splayed out against the white pillowcase.

  He wanted to hold her, and kiss her, and make her his own.

  It was Joan in his arms. It was Joan whom he’d dreamed about forever. The scent and feel and taste of her overwhelmed his senses. He kissed her cheek, her neck, the tender skin over her collarbone. He ran his hands up her sides, skimming the mound of her breasts, longing to strip away the prim jacket and blouse and find his way to the real woman.

  “Anthony,” she breathed.

  He slipped the jeweled jacket from her shoulders. “Yeah?”

  Her arms tightened on his neck, and her lips returned to his. Her brea
sts pressed against his chest, soft and malleable, the stuff of his fantasies.

  She moaned softly. “This is…”

  “I know.” They had to stop. But he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how. He promised himself just one more minute of heaven. Then he’d pull back. Then he’d become her agent once more.

  He drew her bottom lip into his mouth. She tasted of dark secrets and smooth, southern nectar.

  He wanted her. He needed her. He let his fingertip brush the small strip of skin between her skirt and her silk blouse. He was instantly pitched to a new height of arousal.

  Panic invaded his system. He wasn’t going to be able to let her go. He’d keep going and going until there was nothing left between them. Nothing but—

  With a burst of iron will, he drew back.

  She blinked, obviously disoriented.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, telling himself to step away before he started all over again.

  “Sorry?” she parroted.

  He backed off a little more. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

  “Because you’re my agent?”

  He dropped his hands to his sides and retreated a good two feet. “Because that’s not how it’s supposed to be between us.”

  She nodded shakily. “You’re supposed to sell my books and fight with me about publicity.”

  He nodded. “That’s right.” His judgment was already clouded enough when it came to Joan.

  The interview this afternoon had been the right thing to do on so many levels. But he found himself second-guessing that decision. He found himself second-guessing so much when it came to her. He needed to focus. He couldn’t do the right thing for her if his emotions got mixed up with his logic.

  Despite her protests, she needed an agent. She needed an agent now more than ever. And it was his responsibility to take care of business.

  “I’ll be right downstairs,” he told her.

  She nodded again.

  “You’re perfectly safe.”

  “I know.”

  “But my door is open.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you need anything.”

  She was so incredibly gorgeous and so incredibly vulnerable standing there in the hot night.

  His fingers shook with the effort it took to keep away from her. He had to get out fast. He curled his hands into fists as he turned away.

  Her soft voice puffed on the breeze. “Stay.”

  Oh, God.

  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 ba
ss. “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.”