Passion (46 page)

“And does he also believe that
my
Simon Tremont was responsible? Does he believe that your John is the
real
Tremont?”

Teryl looked away, unwilling to answer.

“So what does the sheriff actually know? That someone blew up a house. Unless he has witnesses, who’s to say that John was
inside at the time? Who’s to say that the intent was murder? Maybe John’s intent was that it look like attempted murder.”

“He was
injured
. His arm was lacerated.”

“Ah, but he wasn’t killed. He was inside a house that was ripped apart by bombs, and yet he survived with only a minor injury.
He must be an extremely lucky man.”

“He has other proof,” Teryl said, stubbornly continuing. “All those checks you sent John Smith in the last eleven years went
into
his
bank accounts. They were all sent to
him
. They were all signed by
him
. If he’s not the real Simon Tremont, how did he get the money? How did the checks wind up going to him and not to your Simon?”

“You’ve seen this proof?”

“No,” she admitted reluctantly. “He doesn’t have it yet. The bank is sending him a statement, an affidavit. He should have
it tomorrow.”

Rebecca’s smile was chilly. “Unless, of course, it gets lost in the mail. And, unfortunately, for some reason, the bank won’t
be able to duplicate it. Who knows? Maybe the branch where his records are kept will be blown up by bombs.” Her manner turned
scornful. “You have no reason to believe that such proof even exists.”

She was wrong, Teryl thought. She had
every
reason to believe.

Returning to her desk, she sat down, then tried another tack. “The only events in Simon’s career that John is unaware of are
the things that have happened in the last four months. Do you realize what’s significant about that? It was four months ago
that the Simon we know sent us a change of address. Four months ago that he moved to the Richmond area. Four months ago that
he gave us a phone number and began conducting business for the very first time in his career the way people normally do.”

Teryl broke off to take a few deep breaths, to calm herself before going on. “John is more familiar with the first eleven
years of Simon Tremont’s career than you and I are, but he knows nothing about the last four months—not about the correspondence,
the phone calls, the visit to the office. After eleven years of abiding by his own very strict rule that the only contact
he would have with us or Morgan-Wilkes was by mail, that he would do no promotion, no interviews, that he wouldn’t sign even
one autograph, within the last four months, your Simon suddenly decided that he wanted to meet us. He wanted to talk to us.
He wanted to do interviews and book signings and meet fans. He wanted to give up the privacy that he treasured so very much
and live in the public eye. He wanted to bask in the adulation.”

“So he’s tired of privacy,” Rebecca said stiffly. “He watches TV. He reads. He sees other big-name authors being treated like
stars, and he wants a little of that for himself. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“You’ve corresponded with John for eleven years. When
you met Simon, was he what you expected? After spending thirty minutes with him, did you find yourself wondering how in the
hell
that
man could have written
these
books?”

Her boss looked away and refused to answer, but Teryl didn’t need an answer. Just yesterday, Rebecca had described Simon as
a pompous, egotistical ass who was nauseatingly full of himself. No one,
no one
, who had read and enjoyed Simon Tremont’s work ever could have imagined describing him that way. No one could have dreamed
that he would be anything less than wonderful.

Turning to her desk, Teryl found a piece of paper and offered it to her boss. “John wrote this right here in this office Sunday.
Take it to the file room and compare it to the signatures on the contracts.”

“I suppose you’ve already compared it while you were letting him go through the files.”

“I did compare it. It’s identical. And I didn’t let him go through anything. I asked him questions and he answered them. He
never saw any of the papers.”

Rebecca accepted the slip of paper and glanced down at the two signatures, but she didn’t really look. Because she didn’t
want to see, Teryl knew. She didn’t want to recognize the signature. “This is crazy, Teryl.”

“I know.”

“You expect me to believe that some unknown writer out there can teach himself to write like Simon Tremont. Do you know how
much talent that would take? How much discipline and dedication? How much obsession?”

Teryl nodded.

“If this man is
that
talented, why does he need to become Tremont? Why not publish under his own name? Why not earn his own recognition, his own
fame and fortune?”

“You just said it would take obsession. Certain types of people do tend to get obsessed with the stars, with the legends.
Sometimes they stalk them. Sometimes they kill them. Sometimes they want to
be
them. I think this man started out as a fan. I think he admired Tremont’s work, and then he became obsessed. I think he wanted
to write like Tremont, to be like Tremont. Now he’s
become
Tremont.”

Rebecca glanced at the signature again. “I don’t believe our Simon is obsessed with anything but himself. I don’t believe
he’s crazy. Unlikable, yes. A disappointment, absolutely. Self-centered, narcissistic, and egomaniacal, undeniably. But not
crazy. Not insane. And not a fraud.” With a cool, controlled smile, she folded the paper in half. “It’s an interesting proposal,
Teryl, but that’s all it is. It has no basis in fact. You have no proof, and your John has no proof because there is none.
He’s
the one who’s become obsessed with his favorite author.
He’s
the one wanting to become Simon Tremont, and he’s seduced you into helping him. Watch out for him, Teryl. He could be a dangerous
man, and I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

With that, she walked out of the office and closed the door.

Rebecca forced herself to walk slowly down the hall. At least this conversation explained why Teryl had destroyed the autograph
in
Masters of Ceremony
. She believed that the man they knew as Simon wasn’t, and she was offended by the idea of owning a forgery signed by a man
impersonating her idol. The girl was a fool.

As she turned the corner at the end of the hall, she unfolded the paper she carried and looked—really looked this time—at
the signature. She would compare it to the contracts, just for her own peace of mind, but she didn’t need to. She’d seen it
often enough over the years. She recognized it. But it didn’t prove anything. Forgeries weren’t uncommon. Learning to copy
someone’s signature was far, far easier than learning to copy someone’s writing style. As for learning to copy someone’s talent…
that was damned near impossible.

But what if… She didn’t want to face the possibility, but she forced herself to put it into words. What if, by some bizarre,
incredible, remote chance, Teryl was right? What if her John
was
Simon Tremont? What if the man who lived here in town and was passing himself off as the great Tremont
was
a fraud?

She couldn’t
afford
for him to be a fraud—in more ways
than one. After withholding her fifteen percent commission from Tremont’s last royalty check, she had forwarded the remainder
to the man. It wasn’t the largest single check Tremont had ever earned, but, as Teryl had pointed out yesterday, every Tremont
check was a small fortune.

But even that would be surpassed by the cost to her reputation. How highly would her clients think of her when they discovered
that she had released a client’s money to the wrong man? She would undoubtedly lose a number of them if Teryl’s John truly
was Simon Tremont. The damage to her reputation and her name would be irreparable. The agency, this business that she had
devoted herself to, that she had sacrificed much of her life and even her marriage to, would never recover from such a scandal.

She would be destroyed.

At the end of the hall, she walked into the file room, then closed the door behind her. For a moment, she simply stood there,
signature in hand, not wanting to look and compare, not needing the doubt. Then, with a strengthening breath, she pulled one
of Simon’s contracts from the drawer and held the papers side by side. As she remembered, the signature matched. But it didn’t
prove a thing, she reassured herself.

Not a damned thing.

Teryl was halfway home from work that afternoon when she got caught in traffic. Ordinarily, she didn’t mind waiting; she was
used to it. She listened to her favorite tapes or, if it was really stop-and-go, as opposed to the usual tortoise crawl, she
read short articles in one of the magazines scattered around the car. Today, though, her air conditioner had chosen to stop
working. She was hot and sweaty, and she was anxious to get home. She was anxious to see John.

After an eternity she finally turned onto the street where she lived. It was quiet there, and cool. Giant live oaks lined
both sides of the street, and only an occasional shaft of sunlight was powerful enough to cut through the dense web of branches
and leaves to touch the street. Slowing, she passed two young girls riding bikes, a collie who sat at the curb
every day waiting for his master to arrive home, and a parked blue sedan; then she turned into the brick drive of the Grayson
estate.

Her pretty little house looked the same as always, but it felt different. It seemed to be adapting to John, she thought fancifully
as she followed the drive around to the back. Instead of being just
her
house,
her
home, it was now also his.

But not
theirs
.

Parking beside his truck, she climbed out. She was halfway to the door before she saw John, sprawled in the old wooden chair
in the shade of the patio, his legs outstretched, his head back, his eyes closed. Leaving her purse on the first chair she
passed, she headed in that direction, her steps slowing when she took in the scene behind him.

Two chairs had been drawn close to the iron-and-glass table, which had been draped with a sheet and, atop that, her one and
only tablecloth. Pillows had been brought from the living room to cushion the chairs, and plates, silverware, glasses, and
napkins were laid out on opposite sides of the table, separated by a centerpiece of flowers from the garden. A carafe of iced
tea, sweating in the heat, sat beside the flowers, and in the corner a layer of smoldering charcoal was burning down in her
little grill.

“You’re making dinner?” she exclaimed when she reached him.

He replied without opening his eyes. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a hell of a cook, although all you’re getting tonight
is steak, baked potatoes, salad, and ice cream. You like chocolate?”

“I love chocolate. This is so nice.” No man had ever cooked for her before, not even something so simple as heating a can
of soup. Gregory, when he’d lived there, had never set foot in the kitchen for anything more than a beer, and not even that
if she was home to get it for him. “I’m impressed.”

“Good. Then thank me.” He reached out and unerringly located her hand, using it to pull her down into his lap. Before she
even got settled, his mouth was on hers, his tongue coaxing her teeth apart.

When he finally ended the kiss and raised his head to look
at her, she caught her breath. “I like the way you say hello,” she said, feeling more than a little weak.

“I like the way you say thanks.” He lifted her, got more comfortable, then drew her head over to rest on his shoulder. “Your
dress is damp in back. Why?”

“The air-conditioning went out in my car.”

“Take the Blazer tomorrow, and I’ll take yours in to get it fixed.”

“That’s okay. I don’t mind taking it. Besides, I can’t drive a stick shift.”

“You’re kidding.” He worked open the clasp on the big wooden clamp that held her hair off her neck, then combed it free. “I
thought everyone learned that when they were kids.”

“Maybe out West,” she teased, “but not necessarily around here.”

“My first car was a stick—an old Chevy convertible that I got for a hundred bucks. When I bought it, it didn’t run at all.
The doors didn’t close, and the windows wouldn’t roll up. We had to replace virtually everything on it, but by the time Tom
and I finished with it, it looked and ran better than new. We loved it.” He gave her a teasing grin. “All the girls loved
it.”

“I bet they did,” she murmured in agreement, although she doubted the car had had anything to do with all the feminine attention
he’d gotten. She’d seen a photograph of him when he was a teenager; she remembered how teenage girls’ hearts fluttered over
big, handsome, six-foot-plus, blue-eyed, blond-haired boys. In fact, though she was far from adolescence, her own heart was
doing more than a little fluttering right now. “Do you wish you still had it?”

Underneath her weight, she felt him tense a little. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on it.”

So it was the car—his first car, the convertible that all the girls loved—that he was driving when he’d had the accident.
So much for sweet memories of that particular rite of passage, she thought grimly. Still, after a brief silence, she spoke.
“Do you want to talk about it?”

* * *

John gave her question a long moment’s consideration before finally replying, “I don’t think so. Not today.” Then, in a voice
that was determinedly lighter, though just as serious, he remarked, “What I really want to do is slide my hand under your
dress and see if I can make you turn that sweet shade of pink that you get just before you come.”

“I’m sure you can,” she said, her voice throaty from the sudden heat that he knew was building inside her. “It’ll probably
help if you kiss me again, like you did last night when we were standing beside the bed.”

“Like this?” He brushed his mouth across hers. “Or like this?” Catching her lower lip between his teeth, he tugged at it and
gently sucked it. “Or—”