A Secret Life (8 page)

“Heather will be tied up in mud wraps and massages until at least five.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I don’t leave things to chance.”

Joan’s eyes narrowed. Was he saying…? “You bribed the salon?”

He nodded. “Absolutely.”

Joan glanced around the store. “So you just played me?”

“Get your other clothes.”

“No.”

“We’re going to be late.”

“I haven’t even said yes.”

He put a hand on the small of her back and urged her toward the changing room. “But you will.” He paused. “You’re a smart woman, Joan. I don’t represent dummies.”

“And you’re a devious man, Anthony.” She liked the feel of his hand on her back. She resisted just enough so he’d keep it there.

“That’s what you pay me for.”

“I don’t pay you to be devious.”

“You pay me to look after your best interests.”

She stopped and turned to look into his eyes, a buzzing sexual arousal combining with a truth she’d never faced before. “I didn’t realize I was paying you to do my dirty work.”

“We set up an offshore account through three numbered holding companies. What did you think I was doing?”

Her voice went husky in a moment of pure honesty. “Protecting me.”

His palm slipped ever so slightly down the curve of her spine. “I’m still protecting you, Joan. This interview is the best way I know to protect you.”

She remembered his solid presence in her living room last night when he’d planted himself between her and potential danger.
They go through me to get to you,
he’d said. Right now, watching his eyes darken to a midnight sky, she believed every word.

A
NTHONY WORKED
to quell his nerves as he watched Joan through the control room window. Clearly thrilled with the opportunity, Karen St. Claire peppered her with friendly, chatty questions about her story ideas and her quiet lifestyle in Indigo.

They’d met with Ray and Karen before the interview, making sure everyone was clear on the rules. Still, Anthony could tell Joan was nervous by the way she twisted her little ruby ring around and around her finger, but she was doing a fabulous job. She smiled openly at Karen, answered the questions directly and articulately, leaving just enough to the imagination. If he’d known she was this poised and beautiful in front of the cameras, he’d have pushed her on publicity a lot harder a lot sooner.

The five-minute mark went by, but nobody made any move to shut it down. If the networks were still carrying the interview, this was the publicity coup of a lifetime. He could see daytime talk shows in their future.

“Were you angry when the Prism Agency leaked your name?” Karen asked.

Anthony tensed. It was the first question that wasn’t on his approved list.

Joan’s smile didn’t falter. “Not at all, Karen. Anthony Verdun and I keep in very close touch, and the move didn’t surprise me.”

Brilliant. And it was the third time she’d dropped Anthony’s name. He owed her big-time.

“Are you saying you authorized the release of your identity?”

“Mr. Verdun works within parameters that allow him to make the best choices for my career on a wide range of issues.”

Anthony could barely sit still. She was good. She was better than good. His cell phone vibrated against his chest, but he ignored it.

He vaguely heard the booth door open behind him. He ignored that, too.

Then Heather’s voice hissed in his ear. “You
set me up.
”

He spared her a sideways glance. “I merely distracted you.”

“You’re an evil little man.”

Anthony glanced through the window to the hallway. He and Joan had gone through two separate security checks. “How’d you get in here?”

Heather crossed her arms and gave him an imperious look. “You’re joking, right?”

He took in her clothes, her hair, her makeup and a demeanor that had wealth and breeding stamped all over it. Silly question. Heather could get into the inner sanctum of the CIA if she put her mind to it.

“She’s doing great,” he said, nodding to Joan.

“What great?” Incredulity crept into Heather’s hushed voice. “I call Samuel Kane off the tabloids yesterday, only to have you stuff her in front of a camera today?”

“This is different.”

“No. It’s not.”

Not that he owed Heather any explanation. “I picked the interviewer. I approved the questions.”

“You’re throwing her to the wolves to further your own interests.”

“Karen St. Claire is hardly the wolves.” Anthony’s phone vibrated again.

“You hurt my sister, and I’ll hunt you down.”

The threat didn’t worry him. Not that Heather couldn’t have him killed, or worse. He simply had no intention of hurting Joan.

Out in the studio, Karen St. Claire straightened the index cards on the news desk in front of her. “Can you tell us a little about your late husband?”

Joan’s expression faltered, and Anthony jumped up. “End it,” he called to the news director.

The news director signaled to Karen, and she smoothly wrapped it up.

The second they switched to a commercial, Anthony was through the booth door. He brushed his way past cameras and assistants, stepping over extension cords to get to Joan just as she removed her microphone.

He drew her into his arms and hugged her tight to his chest. “You were magnificent,” he mumbled in her ear.

She molded against him, and he prolonged the hug, greedily absorbing her essence.

“Did he drug you or something?” asked Heather.

“Thirty seconds,” said the producer. “Can we clear the set, please?”

One arm still around Joan, Anthony made his way through the set drapes to the studio door.

“Seriously,” said Heather, as she scrambled along behind them. “Joanie, how did he talk you into it?”

“He was right,” said Joan, and Anthony tightened his arm on her. “Playing hard to get only makes them more interested.”

“That’s men, not the general public,” said Heather as the door closed behind them and they started down the dark, narrow hallway that led to the green room.

“Principle’s the same,” said Anthony.

“He’s only trying to make money,” Heather accused.

“While you’re trying to stuff the genie back in the bottle,” said Anthony.

“I’m your sister, and I love you,” said Heather.

“Then call up your parents.” Anthony whisked Joan through the lobby, under the interested gazes of the studio staff. “Call up your friends. Tell them that Joan is an excellent writer, and they should all buy her books.”

“It’s not that simple,” Heather objected.

“It’s not that simple,” Joan agreed as they exited through the double glass doors.

Anthony knew he’d gone one step too far. Joan was aligning herself with Heather again, when he needed her to trust him.

He cursed himself silently. There was no doubt in his mind they’d get more interview offers. He needed her to be ready, and he needed her to be willing.

J
OAN WAS STILL
feeling buoyed when Anthony pulled into her short driveway in Indigo. The interview was over. Soon the hype would die down, Anthony would go back to New York, and she could get back to normal again.

She still felt uneasy at the thought of talking to her parents. But at least she could tell them they were past the publicity peak. Things would only calm down from here.

Her stomach fluttered at the thought of Anthony leaving, but she ignored that. He was her agent, not her best friend. They’d go back to talking on the phone every month or so. She could even fantasize about him in the dead of night—just as she’d done for years, ever since Brian had turned into a warm but distant memory.

Normalcy. How she craved it right now.

“Thank God we’re home,” moaned Heather from the cramped backseat. “My massage has been completely obliterated.” She stretched her neck back and forth.

Anthony shut down the engine, set the brake and opened his door. He unfolded his body and flipped the seat forward so Heather could escape.

Joan hopped out her own side and retrieved her purse and the boutique bag from the floor behind her.

“You left your door open,” said Heather.

Joan pushed it shut. “Give me a second here.”

“No. I mean that one.” Heather pointed to the house. “Your front door is open.”

Anthony stilled, twisting his head toward the house. “Stay here,” he ordered.

“It was probably just the wind,” said Joan, but an unsettling twinge shot up her spine. In ten years of storms off the Gulf, her door had never once blown open.

“I’m not staying out here,” said Heather, trotting behind Anthony.

Joan rounded the hood of the car, following suit. She wasn’t timid like Heather, but it was dark now and she didn’t relish the thought of standing outside amid the sound of the cicadas and sway of the hanging moss, wondering what might be lurking around the cypress trees.

Anthony strode up the stairs to the open doorway.

“You should really get a gun,” Heather muttered.

“Quiet,” said Anthony. He paused in the doorway and cocked his head.

Joan could hear the ticking clock, the gentle hum of the fridge motor and the wind rustling the oak leaves—no footfalls, no voices.

Anthony stepped inside. The floor creaked under his shoes. He reached to the right and flipped a light switch.

Joan blinked at the bright light, then gasped as the room came into focus.

Her bookcase had been tipped over, and papers were strewn across the living room floor. The kitchen looked intact, but her writing nook was in complete disarray. Worst of all, there was a gaping hole where her computer had stood.

Anthony reached for his phone and dialed 911.

“I need to look upstairs,” said Joan, moving around Anthony. She kept backup disks in her bedroom closet.

Anthony grabbed her by the arm and pinned her to his side. “This is Anthony Verdun,” he said into the phone. “I’m at Joan Bateman’s house on Amelie Lane. There’s been a robbery.” He paused. “Yes.” Another pause. “I think they’re gone. Okay. We will.”

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.

P
OLICE
C
HIEF
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.