A Secret Life (7 page)

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.

A
NTHONY’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.

N
ORMALLY
, 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.”

The sound went muffled at Ray’s end again. “We can feed in Charlotte Newcastle from L.A.”

Anthony shook his head. “I want somebody in the studio with Joan.”

Ray drew a breath. “Well, that presents—”

“Take it or leave it.” Anthony was going for intimate and low-key, not high-tech flash. Charlotte Newcastle would probably intimidate the hell out of Joan.

“The only female interviewer I can give you in person is Karen St. Claire. She does cooking and local human interest.”

“I’ll need to meet her.” Anthony could live with a human interest reporter. He glanced back at Joan and Heather. Hopefully, they’d take another couple of hours.

“I’ll set it up.”

“I can be there in half an hour.”

“Does this mean it’s a go?”

“This means I’ll meet Karen. If the setup looks right, I’ll present the offer to Joan.”

“Do we need to talk money?”

“Money’s not the issue.”

“What is the issue?”

“Joan Bateman’s comfort level.”

Ray paused. “You’ll like Karen. Joan will like Karen.”

“We’ll see. Thank you, Ray.” Anthony flipped his phone shut.

As he tucked it into his pocket, he caught Heather’s quizzical gaze. She was definitely going to fight him tooth and nail on this.

Maybe he could bribe the esthetician to give her a massage—or maybe put her in a mud pack for a couple of hours. Yeah. That would work.

He rose from the couch, tossing Heather a benign smile as he headed for the reception counter.

CHAPTER FIVE

J
OAN FELT
fantastic.

It had been way too long since her last haircut, and the stylist had done something new this time. She’d textured Joan’s hair so that it was light, sleek and shoulder-length. Then she’d added auburn highlights that caught the sunshine as Joan twirled in front of the three-way mirror in DKNY’s boutique.

The wide pleats in her short, cream-colored skirt lifted ever so slightly. She tucked in the tags of a contrasting mauve silk blouse and adjusted the collar on a jewel-speckled jacket that matched the skirt.

“I’m just saying that if you ignore it, it’ll only escalate,” said Anthony. His tone was relaxed, but he obviously wasn’t enjoying her impromptu fashion show. His fingers were tight on the arms of the chair.

Heather’s mud wrap was going to take another hour or two and, unlike Anthony, Joan was happy to kill time in the boutique.

“The interest is going to die down on its own,” she said with complete conviction. It wasn’t as if she were a movie star. Sure, maybe there was a novelty factor in discovering the identity of a mystery writer, but it was a fifteen-minute thing.

“The interest is going to heat up.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Maybe. But I’ve been at this for a lot of years. I want you to think logically for a minute.”

She glanced down at her open-toed sandals. “You think pumps would look better.” That was logical as far as she was concerned.

“It’s the forbidden fruit syndrome.”

She glanced up. “What forbidden fruit? I’m allowed to buy pumps if I want them.”

Anthony gave a frustrated sigh and shook his head.

She sashayed toward him, passing a potted fern that screened the dressing area from the rest of the store. Soft music wafted down from ceiling speakers, muting the conversation of the other shoppers.

“I get it. You’re saying
I’m
the forbidden fruit.” She was feeling brave enough to be flirtatious today. He was back to his safe old self—clean shaven, well-pressed and ambitious. She could handle him like this.

But then his eyes darkened, and she caught a glimpse of the man he was last night.

“You are definitely the forbidden fruit in this scenario,” he said.

His tone should have made her uncomfortable, but she couldn’t muster up anything but satisfaction. At least he wasn’t completely oblivious to her as a woman. She wished she’d tried on a sexier outfit. Maybe she’d go for that black sequined dress next.

“Truth is, the longer you hide, the more appealing you become.”

She wanted to ask him if she was becoming appealing to him, but that would be over the line. Theirs was a professional relationship. She’d be foolish to play with the boundaries.

“One little interview,” he continued. “And then they’ll leave you alone.”

Joan gestured around the store. “They
are
leaving me alone. You see a crowd? You see a camera? That person on my porch last night was probably nothing more than a common thief.”

And she still had her family to think about. She’d have to call her parents soon, and she’d rather call to tell them she was lying low than call to tell them she was doing an interview. She wasn’t the only one caught up in this predicament.

“You’re delightful. You know that?”

She gauged Anthony’s expression but couldn’t tell what he was getting at. “Why, thank you,” she ventured.

His voice dropped a notch. “And you’re beautiful.”

A small shiver ran through her. Were they going to play with the funny flirty thing again?

He rose from his chair, and she took a step back. “You’d be a natural on camera.”

Okay. There it was. She shook her head. “You think you’re so suave.”

He took another step forward, determination in his stride, in his expression and in the set of his shoulders. “There’s this local reporter.”

“No.”

“Her name is Karen St. Claire.”

“Not a chance.”

“She does cooking reports. I met her. She’s—”

“You
met
her? When?”

“While you were getting highlights.”

Joan couldn’t believe it. While she had been relaxing in the salon, Anthony had been out on media recon. Did the man never slow down?

“They can give us a live feed to the network, and—”

“Live?”
she squeaked. She’d assumed he was talking about a newspaper reporter.

A sales clerk approached in Joan’s peripheral vision. “How do you like the jacket?”

Anthony pulled out his credit card and handed it to the woman without taking his eyes off Joan. “We’ll take the whole outfit. You want pumps?”

“No, I do not want pumps.” Who said she wanted the outfit, either? Although it was a great outfit.

“Okay,” he said easily.

Joan waited until the woman left. “You are out of your mind.”

“You look fabulous.”

“Nice try.”

He was conning her, she knew. But there was something about Anthony saying she looked fabulous that tightened her chest.

“You’ll like Karen,” he said. “She’s calm and low-key. I’ve already approved the questions.”

“You
approved
my questions?” Joan tried to sharpen her tone, but it was hard to stay angry with somebody who was so thorough. She might not agree with his methods, but there was no doubting his loyalty and sincerity.

He nodded. “Five minutes, Joan. Let them see you. Let them hear you. And I promise you won’t be forbidden fruit anymore.”

“My parents—”

The sale clerk reappeared. “Can I get your signature, Mr. Verdun?”

He signed the slip. “Your parents will be proud.”

“My parents will be angry.”

The sales clerk walked away.

“They want this to die down, right?”

“Of course they want it to die down,” said Joan. They wanted it to die down in the most expedient fashion possible.

“Then do the interview. Don’t be forbidden fruit anymore.”

Joan understood his logic. She didn’t want to agree with it, but she understood it. “What about Heather?”