A Secret Life (3 page)

He went silent.

She focused and finished the word
please.
“About the new manuscript,” she said, dipping her pen. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but could I have another couple of weeks to figure out the timing?”

Between books, she always did some spring cleaning, painted the shutters, wallpapered the den. There was something emotionally therapeutic about getting the clutter out of her life before she started a new project.

She was feeling extremely cluttered right now.

“Joan.” Anthony shifted closer, his suit jacket swishing and his scent invading her space.

Her stomach tightened, but she ignored it. “I think it might be the music festival.”

“The music festival?”

She nodded, still carefully forming letters. “It’s taking up my mental space, and I really can’t come up with a new story with all that going on.”

The phone rang again, jangling through the cottage, making Joan’s hand twitch a black streak over the page.

Anthony strode across the room and yanked the plug out of the wall. “I’m here to help.”

“You know calligraphy?”

“You can’t pretend this isn’t happening.”

“What isn’t happening?”

“Your identity is out.”

“Thank you
so
much for clarifying the situation. I really hadn’t understood that from our conversation.” She switched to a regular pen for the details.

He moved around the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. “We have to talk strategy. We have to make plans.”

“I have a strategy.”

“You do?”

“I’m addressing invitations.”

His expression perked up. “A book launch?”

“A tea.”

He paused. “Why?”

Joan moved a card aside to dry. “There are people here in Indigo who want to increase tourism.”

Anthony didn’t answer, but she could feel his tense questions.

“I think that’s a bad idea,” she continued. “And I’ll tell you why. The beauty of living here is the peace and quiet, the sense of community, the slow pace of life and the opportunity for individualism. You bring in a bunch of gawking tourists, and that’s all going to change in a heartbeat.”

“So you’re having a tea.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not following your logic.”

“That’s because I’m an artist and you’re a lawyer.”

“I see.”

He didn’t see. He was being patronizing. The rat.

“I give a tea,” she said, getting haughty right back at him. “I influence some pivotal people, turn the tide on this music festival, the opera house, the whole tourism thing, and Indigo stays exactly the same as it always was, protecting my lifestyle.”

Her family would come around someday.

Maybe.

Then again, maybe not.

Anthony’s voice turned patient. “And you don’t think your fans coming to Indigo might have an impact on your lifestyle?”

“Why would my readers come to Indigo?”

Anthony was silent until she looked up.

“To see you, Joan.” He looked completely serious.

But that was ridiculous. She wasn’t a movie star. Nobody was coming to Indigo to see her.

Her problem was her parents and the bondage scene. Her pen slipped again. And these stupid invitations she kept ruining.

CHAPTER TWO

T
HERE WAS NO WAY
in hell Anthony was letting Joan run around town to deliver tea invitations. She had to stay inside the house until they gauged the press’s reaction to her identity. Not that he wouldn’t make use of reporters. He just wanted to control the time and place.

“I’ll deliver them for you,” he said, reaching for the neat stack of envelopes in her hand. “Just give me the addresses.” He wasn’t wild about leaving her here alone, but it was the lesser of two evils.

She snapped them out of his reach and gestured to her front window. “Do you see a crowd forming out there? Do you?”

“That doesn’t mean they’re not in town.”

Joan shook her head. “I’m going upstairs to change now. Then I’m delivering my invitations personally.”

“Denial’s not going to help,” he told her.

“Neither is panic.”

“I’m not panicking.” He was taking logical, reasonable steps to ensure her safety and to keep control of the story. The last thing in the world he needed was for her to be accosted by an aggressive reporter or a local resident looking to make a few thousand dollars from the
National Inquisitor.

“Getting changed now,” she taunted over her shoulder as she headed for the staircase to the second floor.

“Barring the door now,” he called back.

“You can’t keep me prisoner.” Her springy footsteps sounded on the hardwood steps.

“Watch me try.”

He was glad she wasn’t intimidated by the press. It showed self-confidence and spirit. Maybe she’d even agree to an interview.

He liked that idea. If they picked the right host and the right network, they could get out in front of this. Well-executed publicity would have a huge impact on sales. Pellegrin was already planning a second print run. There was a chance they could parlay it into a third and a fourth.

He pulled out his BlackBerry and did a quick check of the online bookstores. While he scrolled through some fine-looking numbers, there was a rap on the door.

Glancing at the staircase to make sure there was no sign of Joan, he tucked the BlackBerry into his pocket and headed for the small foyer.

He opened the door to a haughty blond woman wearing a pressed, pink linen suit, dangling earrings and an impressive diamond necklace against a perfect tan.

“Can I help you?” he asked, taking in her expensively streaked hair and precise makeup.

“Who are
you?
” she asked, tipping her chin and perusing him with blue eyes that catalogued, assessed, then dismissed.

“None of your business,” he told her.

“Where’s Joan?”

“Also none of your business.”

She definitely wasn’t a reporter, and he’d bet she wasn’t local. A fan? Interesting demographic.

“Do I have to call the police?” she asked.

That surprised him. “Be my guest.”

She didn’t reach for a cell phone, so he was pretty sure it was a bluff.

“Joan?”
she called into the cottage.

Anthony tried to push the door shut, but the woman thrust her hip inside, and he didn’t have it in him to hurt her. He blocked the path with his body instead.

“Joan?”
the woman called again.
“You all right?”

Joan’s quick footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Heather?”

“It’s me,” the woman called, shifting forward. “Who
is
this imbecile?”

“Anthony?” Joan rushed toward them. “What are you
doing?
”

“You know her?” he asked Joan.

“Of course I know her. She’s my sister.”

Anthony pulled back. “Your sister?”

The woman glared at him as if he was a blob of sidewalk gum. “Yes. I’m her sister.”

Perfect. He supposed when a day took a downhill slide, it just kept right on going.

Heather brushed the front of her suit and straightened her sleeves, as if he’d somehow tainted her.

“This is Anthony Verdun,” said Joan.

“You have a boyfriend?” Heather gave him another once-over, apparently coming to much the same conclusion as last time about his worth as a human being.

“He’s my agent,” said Joan.

“Like a lawyer?”

Anthony closed the door behind Heather, checking through the window to make sure nobody else was lurking in the hydrangeas.

“He is a lawyer. But he’s a literary agent. He sells my books.”

Heather looked him up and down. “So he’s the one.”

“Heather.”

“I knew it’d be someone shady.”

Anthony scoffed.

The woman kept her attention on Joan and waved her hand in the air. “How did he co-opt you into this nonsense?”

Joan’s lips quirked into a half smile. “It’s like a cult. He fed me bonbons and made me chant.”

Anthony gave Joan points for her spunk, but Heather was starting to annoy him. “Did you forget the part where you say, ‘Congratulations, Joan’?”

Heather arched a sculpted brow. “Congratulations? Puh-leeze.”

“Your sister’s about to hit a bestseller list.”

“For pulp fiction.”

Joan flinched, and Anthony clenched his jaw. He didn’t care who Heather was, he wasn’t about to stand here and let her insult his client. If she were a man, he’d have her up against the wall for that.

Instead, he jerked open the door. “I think you should leave now.”

Heather’s jaw worked in silence for a moment.

“I mean it,” said Anthony.

“Why, you bloodsucking little upstart.”

“Stop,”
begged Joan, putting her fingertips against her temples. “I don’t have time for this.”

“I should think not,” Heather huffed.

“I have tea invitations,” said Joan.

“You are not leaving this house,” said Anthony, snapping the door closed again.

Heather turned her attention back to Joan. “Just who the hell does he think he is?”

“My jailer, apparently,” said Joan.

“I’m the guy who’s turning this thing around.”

Heather didn’t even glance his way. “You want me to call the police? I could get Daddy—”

“Nobody’s calling the police,” said Joan. “Anthony’s okay.”

Okay?
Well, wasn’t that just…adequate.

He took a deep breath and warned himself not to let his emotions get mixed up in business. Joan’s career was his priority, not his bruised ego. That meant he had to get this discussion back on an even keel.

“We need to sit down,” he said to her. “And we need to talk about managing this issue.”

“We need to talk about escaping to Europe,” said Heather. “Mom and Daddy are—”

“Mom and Dad know?”

“They are literate,” said Heather. “And even if they weren’t, several of their friends have called.”

Joan groaned and clutched at her stomach.

“You’re not helping,” Anthony said to Heather, moving toward Joan.

“
I’m
not helping? You’re the one who got her into this in the first place.”

“Yeah? Well maybe if she had a family who gave a damn about her feelings, she wouldn’t have had to hide her career for ten years.”

Heather let out a little squeak. “How dare you suggest we don’t care about Joan.”

“How dare you suggest I have motives other than her best interests.”

“So you’ve represented her for free?”

Anthony didn’t have a quick answer for that one. There was an answer, he just didn’t have it at his fingertips.

Heather sniffed, putting her nose in the air and reaching for Joan’s hands. “Go pack a few things. The jet’s on the airstrip in St. Martinville.”

“I’m not going to Europe,” said Joan. “I’m going to deliver my tea invitations.”

Anthony let out a long-suffering sigh. “Why do we have to keep having the same conversation?”

Joan gave him a sickly-sweet smile. “Because you keep getting it wrong.”

He shifted closer still, capturing her green eyes in order to impress upon her the seriousness of the situation. “There could be reporters out there, lurking behind the cypress trees, waiting to pounce.”

“You have delusions of grandeur,” she said, staring right back.

“Your story was a section headline in
The New York Times.
I am not exaggerating the potential for publicity.”

After a moment’s silence, Heather spoke up. “I have to go with Anthony on this one.”

Anthony glanced sideways at her and blinked. “Really?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m still taking her to Europe.”

“I’m standing right here,” said Joan. “And nobody is taking me anywhere.”

“That a girl,” said Anthony. This was a moment in a million for an author. Joan needed to stay in the U.S., where she could capitalize on it.

“And I’m giving a tea.” She turned to Heather. “You want to stay and make your crab puffs?”

“Joanie, we can be in Paris for breakfast.”

“I’ll deliver the damn invitations for you,” said Anthony, whisking them out of Joan’s hands. He could only fight on so many fronts at once, and Heather’s Europe plan needed to be neutralized.

Once those invitations were out, he was willing to bet that Joan would stay put and host the party. He’d rather get her to New York, but Indigo was a lot better than Paris.

J
OAN AND
H
EATHER
watched Anthony’s rented black sports car back down the dirt driveway and pull onto Amelie Lane.

“So, are you sleeping with him?” asked Heather as she let the cotton print curtains fall back into place.

“No, I’m not sleeping with him.”

“Really?” Heather gave Joan the arched-brow, skeptical look that she’d perfected when they were growing up.

Joan felt a shiver of guilt, even though absolutely nothing was going on between her and Anthony. “He lives in New York. I hardly ever see him.”

Heather shrugged beneath her Anne Klein blazer and tucked her bobbed hair behind one ear. “Too bad. If you ignore the attitude, he’s pretty hot.”

Joan wasn’t about to disagree with that. Anthony was definitely hot. He also had an attitude.

“So, what did Mom and Dad say?” she asked, changing the subject to something only slightly more comfortable than her feelings for Anthony.

“That they were sure this was all some kind of a mistake.”

Joan moved back from the window and into the cluttered, brightly colored living room. “I’m sure they thought it was.”

Heather took a cushioned rattan chair and crossed one toned leg over the other. The seat was Joan’s favorite. Positioned beside a bank of windows, it overlooked the lawn, the cypress trees and the little pier that jutted out into Bayou Teche.

“What happened, Joanie? Last I heard you were writing history books.”

Joan sat down on the floral print love seat opposite. “Brian died,” she said softly, referring to her late husband.

Heather gave her a quizzical look.

“He was partway through a mystery novel,” Joan said. “And then he died. I finished it in his memory.” She smiled to herself. “And it was fun.”