A Secret Life

by Barbara Dunlop

  “Now that I know Samuel is okay, yes.”

  Joan considered Heather’s profile, trying to make sense of her relationship with Samuel. Last she’d checked, they didn’t like each other.

  “So, uh, what were you doing at his cottage?” she asked.

  Heather gave her lacy pillow a couple of whacks, then propped it against the white wicker headboard. “He was going to give me a tour.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was in your book.”

  “So?” Samuel’s exact cottage wasn’t in her book. It was an amalgamation of his, her own and several other Creole cottages in the area.

  “So, I read your book today.”

  Joan stilled.

  Heather grinned. “It was terrific.”

  Emotion built in Joan’s chest until it was hard to breathe. She sat straight up, dragging a fluffy, white pillow into her lap. “Are you just saying that?”

  “Does ‘just saying that’ sound like me?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m not just saying that. I liked it. It was…” Heather gazed at the ceiling. “I don’t know. It was exciting and sexy and enthralling.”

  “Enthralling?” That was definitely more validation than Joan had ever hoped for from a member of her family.

  “You’re a good writer, Joanie.”

  Joan blinked against a sudden burning in her eyes. “You think Mom and Dad will like it?”

  Heather choked out a laugh. “Mom and Dad will hate it.”

  Joan tried to hide her disappointment.

  “Face it,” said Heather. “The better you write these things, the more popular you’ll become, and the more they’ll hate it.”

  “Aarrgghh!” Joan pulled the pillow over her face.

  “You can’t win on this.”

  “I know.” Joan’s voice was muffled. “I know.”

  Heather patted her shoulder. “You really should have taken up poetry.”

  “And write about ‘the green grass kissing the morning dew’ for the rest of my natural life? I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t talk heresy,” said Heather.

  Joan looked up. “So you really liked my book?”

  “I really liked your book.”

  Joan sighed in satisfaction. Until this very moment, she hadn’t realized how much Heather’s opinion meant to her.

  “But we have to talk about the other thing now,” said Heather.

  “What other thing?”

  Heather tilted her head sideways and leaned in close. “I walked in on you and Anthony.”

  Oh. That other thing. “Well…” Joan started slowly. “I guess, under the circumstances, we forgive you.”

  Heather gave her a shove on the shoulder.

  Joan tried really hard not to think about what Heather must have seen.

  “I thought you said you weren’t sleeping with him.”

  “I wasn’t. I’m not.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not.”

  “I mean…” Joan stopped herself short, realizing she was about to make the situation worse.

  Heather blinked at her for a second. “Oh my God.” Her shriek of laughter rang out, and Joan buried her face in the pillow.

  Footsteps clattered on the stairs.

  Before Joan could get her mind around what was happening, the bedroom door crashed open. Anthony and Luc burst into the room, rifles drawn.

  “What?” Joan cried.

  “You screamed,” Anthony roared, his gaze darting to every corner of the room.

  Luc turned his back to Anthony’s, pointing his weapon at the French doors.

  “That was me,” said Heather.

  “It’s nothing, nothing,” Joan hastily assured them with a frantic shake of her head.

  Both men stopped and stared at them.

  “You screamed for nothing?” asked Anthony.

  Heather swallowed. “I was…uh…laughing.”

  They lowered their weapons. Luc shook his head in disgust and left the room.

  “Laughing?” asked Anthony, his voice incredulous.

  Heather swallowed. “At something Joan said.”

  If Heather went into details, Joan was absolutely going to die.

  “I’m glad you find this all so amusing.” Anthony raised his weapon and clicked the safety back on.

  “It was Joan’s book that was funny,” Heather snapped. “Not Samuel getting shot.”

  “Joan’s book isn’t funny,” said Anthony.

  “It’s funny that I liked it.”

  His expression changed, and he glanced at Heather with renewed interest. “You liked it?”

  “It’s brilliant.”

  He gave a grunt of satisfaction. “See?” he said to Joan.

  “Doesn’t mean anyone else is going to change their mind,” she retorted.

  “You thought Heather would hate it.”

  “My parents will definitely hate it.”

  “Gotta go with Joan on this one,” said Heather.

  Anthony shook his head and set his rifle on the table. “I give up.”

  He crossed the floor to Joan’s side of the bed, looking calmer than he had since he’d heard the news about Samuel. He smoothed her hair with his broad palm, then leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. “You’re hopeless.”

  Heather snickered.

  He straightened, looking Joan straight in the eye and sending a shiver right down to her toes. “No more accidental screaming, okay?”

  “Okay,” she agreed.

  He gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment, then grabbed the rifle and headed out the door, clicking it shut behind him.

  Heather turned to raise her eyebrows. “Explain to me again how you’re not sleeping with him.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  SLEEP WITH Anthony?

  This morning, Joan was seriously considering killing Anthony.

  How could he have set her up like this?

  “Ms. Bateman?” prompted Charlie Long from the other end of the line. His voice was as smooth and melodious on the telephone as it was on the television. “I asked if you’d consider flying to L.A. for Friday’s show.”

  Joan scrambled for an excuse. “I…uh…have to—”

  “You’d get top billing,” he continued.

  She closed her eyes and tried to think clearly. A network talk show was a really bad idea. But Charlie Long seemed like a very nice person, and who wouldn’t be flattered to get a call in person?

  “I’d like to talk about your book, of course. Maybe take the slant that an injustice has been done to the Kane family. It might help to get the case reopened,” he added, sweetening the deal.

  Joan hadn’t thought of it from that angle. But it made sense. Her appearance on Charlie Long might actually help Samuel. And she certainly did owe him after yesterday.

  But her mother. Oh, her mother.

  “I read Bayou Betrayal,” said Charlie Long. “Loved it.”

  “Thank you,” said Joan automatically. “And I admire your show, too.”

  “You do?” He sounded genuinely pleased. “So…how about helping out a fellow artist? My producers are putting a lot of pressure on me over this one.”

  “I hear you,” said Joan, with genuine empathy. She knew all about pressure. Then she grew angry at Anthony all over again. How could he have put her in this position?

  “What do you say?” asked Charlie.

  “I need some time—”

  “Afraid I’ve got to have an answer right now. I’m in makeup, and we’re promoting Friday’s show today.”

  He was in makeup. Charlie Long was in makeup before his live network show, chatting with her on the phone. Joan went hot, then cold again.

  “Help me out, Joan?”

  “Sure.” Even as she said the word, she couldn’t believe she was doing it.

  “Great! You’re a trouper. I’ll see you on Friday.”

  The line went dead.

  Joan clamped her hand around the phone. Deep down, she kne
w she should be angry with herself. But Anthony made a much more appealing target.

  ANTHONY WAS on his feet at the first knock.

  “Anthony?” Joan’s voice echoed through the door panel.

  “Here!” His voice was hoarse as he grabbed the gun and crossed the bedroom, wrenching open the door, checking both ways down the hallway.

  But Joan was alone. She stood hale and hearty, eyes squinting at him, arms crossed over her chest. “That was a low-down, dirty rotten trick you pulled.”

  Anthony lowered the gun and raked back his messy hair, struggling to get his bearings. He checked both ways down the hall again just to be sure. “Huh?”

  She stormed past him into the room. “Charlie Long?”

  Anthony turned, setting the pistol down on a table and pointing it toward the wall. “Charlie Long what?”

  “He called.”

  Anthony went stone-cold. “He called you?”

  “Yes, he called me. Did you know?”

  Anthony didn’t answer. He’d asked Bo to test the waters. But he never expected Charlie Long to make the call without giving him a heads-up.

  “Anthony!” Joan cried.

  “It was before Samuel got shot.”

  “That’s your excuse.”

  Not exactly. “It was—”

  “You’re fired.”

  For a second, Anthony thought he’d misheard. But Joan’s expression left no doubt.

  She pointed a finger, her voice all but shaking with emotion. “I mean it, Anthony. I’ll go to L.A. and do the show, because I promised—”

  “You said yes?” He couldn’t believe it.

  Her voice went shrill. “That’s so typical.”

  “It was just a question.” If she’d said yes, why was she firing him?

  “It’s all about business with you, isn’t it? Every second of every day. No matter what’s going on—bullets flying, nooners with your clients.”

  Now that wasn’t fair. “We never had a nooner.”

  She glared at him, and he shut up.

  “I must be pretty damn important to have Mr. Long call me himself.”

  “Of course you’re important.”

  “You knew I wouldn’t be able to say no. You knew it.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Forget it. You can turn it off now, Anthony. In case you missed it, I’m no longer your client.”

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Good,” she retorted.

  “After L.A.,” he qualified.

  Like it or not, she needed him in L.A. Charlie Long was the big time. She needed his advice, and she needed his protection. They had a ten-year relationship, and he couldn’t turn his instincts off like tap water.

  “You are no longer on the payroll,” she declared.

  “I’m still coming to L.A.”

  “You are not going to change my mind.”

  “I never thought I would.”

  “Suit yourself.” She flounced toward the door. “But after that, we are done.”

  “Your choice,” he said, schooling his features, pretending there wasn’t a hot knife slicing its way through his guts.

  “Joanie?” came Heather’s cheerful voice, her running footsteps sounding on the staircase.

  Joan took a deep breath and carefully evened out her features. “Up here, Heather.” Her voice was unnervingly composed.

  Heather appeared in the doorway, followed closely by Samuel.

  “That was fast,” said Anthony, suppressing his own emotions and checking out Samuel’s stark white sling. The man was obviously one tough bastard.

  Samuel shrugged his good shoulder. “I told them if I wasn’t bleeding to death, I wasn’t staying. Nobody tried to stop me.”

  Anthony guessed not.

  Heather strode into the room, either oblivious to or ignoring the undercurrents between Joan and Anthony. She perched on his unmade bed. “Samuel has a theory.”

  “What kind of a theory?” asked Joan. You’d never know from her tone that their relationship had just crumbled into a thousand pieces.

  Samuel leaned against the doorjamb, his gaze seeking out Anthony. “I think we may still be dealing with a fan.”

  “I’m listening,” said Anthony, struggling to focus on Samuel.

  She’d fired him. Fired him.

  “When I first read the book,” said Samuel, “I thought a lot of it was true.”

  Heather stood up and paced across the room in her miniskirt and high heels. “Which got us thinking—”

  Samuel jumped back in. “Maybe somebody else thought all of it was true.”

  “I’m not following,” said Joan.

  “The money.” Anthony couldn’t bring himself to look at her yet. “In your story, there’s money stashed in the walls of Samuel’s cottage. Somebody thinks it’s really there.”

  Heather snapped her fingers and pointed at Anthony. “Give the man a gold star.”

  “But I made that up,” Joan argued.

  “They don’t know that,” said Samuel. “And I bet they broke into your house first looking for clues.”

  “They did steal my research notes,” Joan conceded.

  “Have you talked to Alain?” asked Anthony.

  Samuel shook his head. “Thought I’d run it by you first.”

  Anthony had to admit there was merit to the theory. And if it was true, Joan was in no danger from the shooter. “So you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, parroting Alain’s words from last night. His faith in the chief was restored.

  “I don’t think the guy wanted me dead,” Samuel suggested. “It was a panic reaction. I caught him in the act, and he was armed.”

  “Have you been inside your cottage?” Anthony asked. If any of the wall panels were torn down, they’d know the theory was bang on. Just like in Bayou Betrayal.

  “Not yet,” Samuel told him.

  Heather took a small half step in Samuel’s direction. “If we can avoid the reporters, we’re going over there to look around.”

  “You want to come with us?” Samuel asked Anthony.

  “Yeah,” Anthony replied with a nod. “But then we have to head for L.A.”

  Heather looked at Joan and raised her eyebrows in a question.

  “I promised to do Charlie Long Live,” Joan explained, carefully avoiding looking at Anthony.

  Heather’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my God.”

  “I know,” said Joan. “It’s not what—”

  “We never called Mom.” Heather darted for the bedroom door, and Samuel quickly stepped out of her way. “She’ll have sent the jet to St. Martinville.”

  Joan swore as she followed her sister out. Anthony still couldn’t get used to hearing that word come out of Joan’s mouth.

  JOAN’S STOMACH cramped as she followed Heather and the men, slinking past the garage to the back door of Samuel’s cottage.

  She’d fired Anthony.

  She was making a point when she did that, an important point about him undermining her wishes. But she’d half expected him to fight for her. Completely expected him to fight for her. Desperately wanted him to fight for her.

  But he hadn’t.

  And now he was fired.

  And she couldn’t take that back.

  She started up the stairs and realized the others had come to a halt in front of her.

  She craned her neck. “What?”

  Samuel stepped inside, breaking the bottleneck.

  Joan worked her way up next to Heather and froze.

  Whoever had broken in wasn’t joking around. Closets were wide-open. Desk drawers were yanked off their tracks. And the doors of the entertainment center and kitchen cabinets were pulled halfway off their hinges, their contents spilled across the counters and the floor.

  Samuel moved through the kitchen, glass crunching under his feet.

  Joan swallowed as she silently followed behind.

  If you looked past the destruction, it was obvious Samuel took pride in his surr
oundings. The living room walls and ceilings were painted a spotless cream, accented with exposed, redwood beams crisscrossing their length. She glimpsed a rich, gold-patterned carpet that covered a terra-cotta tile floor, and a redwood mantel finished off a stone fireplace.

  The furniture was big and comfortable. Carved from white pine and covered in deep, muted plaid cushions, the sofa and chairs reflected Samuel’s stature.

  Thankfully, the furniture at least seemed to be intact. And a giant portrait of Samuel’s parents still hung above the mantel. It wasn’t much of a consolation, but it was something.

  “It looks mostly salvageable,” said Anthony, picking his way through the living room, surveying the layer of books, papers and kitchen utensils that covered the floor. He came to the bottom of the staircase and gazed up. After a minute, he put his hand on the rail and started to climb.

  Heather hurried after him. “You see any broken panels up there?” she called. “Something on the wall that might…” Her voice trailed away as she disappeared down the upper hallway.

  Standing next to Joan, Samuel drew in a huge breath. He glanced down at her. “I gotta tell you, my life was a whole lot simpler before you came along.”

  “Sorry,” Joan whispered, her stomach cramping all over again. Disappointing people. There was no doubt she had a knack for it.

  “I could hire someone to clean the mess up for you,” she offered. It was the least she could do, since this was pretty much all her fault.

  He took a couple more steps into the room, shaking his head. “I have to go through everything myself anyway.”

  Joan nodded in understanding. “You need to know if anything is missing.”

  Samuel crouched down and flipped through a discarded photo album. “I doubt there’s anything missing.”

  She glanced around at the destruction. “How could you know that?”

  “I don’t remember the guy carrying anything.”

  “Well, we know he didn’t find the money.” It had seemed like such a good plot twist at the time. Now she wished she’d used something else, anything else.

  Samuel picked up a cracked picture frame, blew off the dust, and straightened to set it on an oak end table. “I have half a mind to hide some cash in the walls myself. Let them take it and put an end to all this.”

  “A hundred thousand dollars?”