Passion (53 page)

He had to assume that Simon knew about Janie, had to believe that, just as he’d tried to kill John and Teryl, he would soon
try to kill Janie. Thank God she was safely out of the country. Tomorrow he would make arrangements for her protection when
she returned… just in case he wasn’t
around to take care of her then. Tomorrow he would make arrangements for Teryl, too, for her safety and for her future. Tomorrow
he would face the fact that
he
just might not have a future.

But not tonight. Tonight he was safe, he was lying in bed with a beautiful woman in his arms, and he had a few quiet hours
available for sleep. Tonight that was enough of a future to satisfy him.

Teryl felt achy, bruised, and pretty damned battered when she awakened. A glance at her watch showed that it was a few minutes
after eight. Time to call Rebecca and tell her that she wouldn’t be in, and then time to wake John so they could keep their
appointment with Detective Marcus.

Rebecca sounded coolly friendly and professional when she answered the phone.

“Hi, it’s Teryl.”

Some of the friendliness disappeared from her boss’s voice. “I was just thinking about you. There was a message on the machine
for you this morning when I got in, and it brought you and our little disagreement to mind. Would you like to hear it?”

“Sure,” she replied, wondering if by “disagreement,” Rebecca was referring to the situation with John. If so, it was a hell
of an understatement, but maybe that would change when she heard what Teryl had to say.

In the background, she could hear Rebecca pushing buttons, then the answering machine rewinding, clicking, starting to play.
The voice was only vaguely familiar—she had talked to a number of people Sunday—but the message was clear. “Hi, this is Janie
Smith calling for Teryl Weaver. I’m sorry for the delay in getting back to you, but I’ve been on vacation the last few weeks.
In answer to your question, yes, my brother John does live in Rapid River. Is something wrong? I spoke to him just a few weeks
ago, and everything seemed fine then. I’d really like to talk to you. I’ll call back tomorrow, but if I miss you, you can
give me a call any time here at home; I plan to be here all day. Thanks.”

The machine shut off, and Rebecca returned to the phone. “This John Smith business has to stop, Teryl,” she said sternly.
“I know you believe the man’s story, which is no surprise. You’re sleeping with him, and you’re half in love with him. But
I won’t tolerate it anymore. Do you understand?”

Teryl’s temper started a slow burn. “Understand this, Rebecca: somebody destroyed my house last night. He set
eight
bombs outside. What didn’t blow up burned down—and he almost got John and me, too. We barely escaped with our lives. If John’s
the impostor, the liar, why would anyone do that? Why would anyone want to kill him?”

“How do you know
he
didn’t do it?”

“He didn’t,” Teryl said stonily.

“How do you
know
?”

“Because he was upstairs getting ready for bed when I saw Simon out there.”

There was a moment’s heavy silence, broken at last by Rebecca’s small, shocked voice. “You
saw
Simon? You actually saw him, could identify him?”

“No,” she admitted. “I just saw a figure. But it was him, Rebecca. He’s the only one who can profit from killing John and
me. It had to be him.”

“That’s ridiculous. Simon Tremont is a highly respected, world-renowned, and deeply admired author. You have no reason to
believe he was behind this. You have no reason to believe that he’s
not
really Simon.”

Teryl’s fingers tightened around the receiver. “John writes like Simon Tremont. He knows everything about Simon Tremont’s
career. He knows everything about
Resurrection.
He even knew your inside joke about Morgan-Wilkes.”

Rebecca didn’t respond right away. More than anything else, Teryl suspected, that one little joke bothered her. Then, her
voice sharp, her manner abrupt, she dismissed all that. “Coincidence. Circumstantial evidence.”

“And what reason do you have to believe Simon?” Teryl asked sarcastically.

“I have about seven hundred pages of reason sitting on my desk at home. I have
Resurrection
.” She sounded triumphant
and just a little bit challenging. “Let me tell you something, Teryl, based on more than twenty-five years of experience in
this business.
Resurrection
is going to be one of the best-selling books of all time. Right now I don’t give a damn who the real Simon is. I’m choosing
the book. As far as I’m concerned, the man who wrote it gets to be Simon Tremont, and since even John hasn’t been foolish
enough to try to claim credit for that, Simon wins.”

“But he’s not—”

Rebecca interrupted her. “Let me tell you something else. You drop this Smith business and quit trying to ruin my agency and
my reputation… or find another job.”

Teryl grew very still. Her hand where she clutched the phone was clammy, and a funny, empty place had appeared deep in her
stomach. “You’re saying that if I don’t turn my back on the truth, if I don’t sell out my principles for your agency, your
reputation, and your commissions, you’ll fire me.”

“That sums it up nicely.”

As recently as three days ago, Teryl would have done almost anything to salvage her job. She would have argued, would have
pleaded. She would have made promises and compromises. She probably would have begged. But not this morning. This morning
she could think of only one thing to say. “Don’t bother with warnings, Rebecca. I quit.” Then, very quietly, very calmly,
she hung up, returned the phone to the night table, and turned to find John watching her. Her cheeks turned a little pink.
“I didn’t know you were awake.”

“Did I just hear you quit your job?” When she nodded, he grimaced. “Then I’m awake. You love that job, Teryl. Why did you
quit?”

“Rebecca has decided, for the sake of the agency, that whoever wrote
Resurrection
gets to be the real Simon Tremont. She said that if I kept trying to prove that
you
were Simon, she would fire me, so I quit.”

“Screw her. When we get this all straightened out,
I
intend to fire
her.
Then you can be my agent.” He threw the covers back and was rising from the bed when Teryl spoke again.

“John, your sister’s back in Florida. The only number I
gave her was the agency’s because I didn’t want you to know I had called her. She left a message there last night, asking
me to call her today.”

He sat back down and reached for the phone, bracing the receiver between his shoulder and ear while he dialed the number.
“Something must have happened to make her cut the trip short. What did she say?”

Teryl repeated the message as close as she could recall it, all the while aware that the phone was ringing endlessly in his
ear. How many rings had it taken for the machine to pick up when she’d called before? Three, maybe four. Definitely no more
than five.

John disconnected and dialed the number again, with the same results. Holding the phone tightly, he looked at Teryl. “She
said she would be home all day.”

She nodded.

“Even if she had to go out for something, the machine should have picked up.”

“Maybe you’re dialing the wrong number.”

He shook his head. “She’s had the same number for ten years.” Still, the next call he placed was to information. Teryl could
see by his expression that he had the right number. There had to be some other reason why the call wasn’t going through.

Like maybe Simon had already gotten to her.

She tried not to think about that, but her mind kept coming back to it; so, she could see, did John’s as he dialed the number
again, let it ring ten or twelve times, disconnected, then dialed again.

Setting the phone down with a bang, he got to his feet, grabbed his shirt from the chair, and headed for the bathroom. “Call
the airlines. Get us two seats on the first flight to Verona.”

“John, we can’t just drop everything and go,” she protested. “I don’t even have any shoes, and we need to talk to the police
here. We can call the cops down there. We can tell them that Simon has threatened her and ask them to keep an eye on her.”

In the doorway he stopped and faced her. “She’s my sister, damn it! She’s all I’ve got! I’ve got to make sure she’s all
right.” Drawing his wallet from his hip pocket, he tossed it on the bed in front of her. “Reserve one seat on the next flight
to Florida. You can wait here and go shopping for shoes.”

His sarcasm hurt, but not nearly as much as his message. He would leave her here in Richmond, here in the same city where
the man trying to kill them was running free, here to fend for herself from the danger
he
had put her in, so he could go to Florida and look after his precious sister. She’s all I’ve got, he had said. Well, he had
her,
too, and he knew it. He just didn’t consider her important enough to rank with Janie. Outside of this very small part of
his life—proving Simon Tremont a fraud and reclaiming what was rightfully his—he didn’t consider her important at all.

She listened to the bathroom door slam behind him before she reached for the wallet. Flipping it open to his Mastercard, she
sat down, opened the Yellow Pages to the listing for Airlines, and began dialing. By the time he came out again, she had made
reservations for two to Verona and had called for a cab. The flight would leave in ninety minutes; that would give them time
to stop and get her a pair of shoes. She might even persuade John to spring for new jeans and T-shirts to replace their rain-stiffened
clothing. Considering that, in the last ten hours or so, he’d gotten her house blown up, had almost gotten her killed, and
had helped her lose her job, it seemed the least he could do.

They talked very little before the cab arrived. If he was surprised that she climbed into the backseat with him, he didn’t
say anything. He probably thought she intended to go shopping after dropping him off at the airport, she thought bitterly.
He was at least partly right.

She directed the driver to stop at the nearest variety store. Without a word, John handed her a couple of twenties and sent
her inside alone. She felt self-conscious as hell as she walked through the doors and down the broad central aisle toward
the shoe department at the back. She tried to imagine how D.J. would handle the situation. Of course, D.J. would never be
caught in public looking less than her best, but if the world stopped turning and the impossible did happen, she
would bluff it out. She would be so brazen, so brassy and bold, that no one would dare say anything to her.

Maybe that was how she ended up, less than fifteen minutes later, hurrying back to the cab in an all new outfit: sandals,
a short denim skirt, a T-shirt, a suede vest, and a pair of lace-edged panties that were more lace than panty. Her own clothes,
still damp, stiff, wrinkled, and smelling faintly of gasoline, were in the ladies’ room where she’d changed after checking
out.

He gave her a long look. “Not exactly your style, is it?”

She stared out the side window, her jaw stubbornly set. No, short, sexy, and cute wasn’t her style. Jeans were. Tailored outfits.
Plain, unspectacular dresses. Long, flowing skirts and concealing jackets and flats and low heels. Nothing too tight, nothing
too trendy, nothing that might bring a little attention her way.

Reaching across the seat, John drew his fingertips down her arm from just below the cuffed sleeve of her shirt to her hand.
Her expression turned even harder, and she moved closer to the door. His own expression gained a degree or two in hardness,
and he pulled back, clenching his hand into a fist on his thigh.

He had hurt her feelings at the motel with that crack about going shopping. He knew, of course, that replacing her ruined
clothes was by no means more important to Teryl than Janie’s safety, but she needed to understand the stress he was under.
If that bastard Tremont got to Janie before he did, if anything happened to her because of him, he didn’t think he could stand
it. She had already suffered enough for the misfortune of being his sister. He couldn’t bear any more guilt.

At the same time, to be fair, he needed to understand the stress Teryl was under. Through no fault of her own, she had lost
her house, her car, and everything she owned. In the space of a few minutes, she’d gone from a comfortable home to nothing.
Furniture, knicknacks, her mother’s movies, family photos, closets filled with favorite clothes, her CD collection, her personal
library, all the mementos and keepsakes of her life, had been reduced to ash. She’d been left with nothing but the clothes
on her back, not even a pair of damned
shoes. On top of that, she’d lost the job she loved, and then
he
had insulted her.

No wonder she didn’t want him to touch her.

The cab driver pulled into a vacant space in front of the terminal and waited silently for his fare. John removed all but
one twenty from his wallet, added one of his credit cards, and offered it and the cash to Teryl. “I’ll be back as soon as
I can. How can I find you?”

She gave the money a long look, but didn’t take it. “It won’t be necessary,” she said at last, opening the door. “I’m going
with you.”

Her announcement sent a tremendous feeling of relief through him. He wanted to hug her tight, to kiss her hard. Instead, he
simply paid the fare, then followed her out of the cab.

They checked in, found their way to the gate, and were soon seated on the plane, awaiting takeoff. The seats were first-class,
all that was available on such short notice, Teryl stiffly explained. John didn’t give a damn how much the tickets cost. He
would have paid for the entire damned plane if it had been necessary.

He buckled his seat belt, leaned his head back, and blew out his breath. “Did I ever mention that flying scares the shit out
of me?”

Finally, for the first time in far too long, she looked at him, meeting his gaze to see if he was serious. He was. He was
so damned serious that he felt sick already, and they hadn’t even moved away from the terminal yet. “No,” she murmured. “You
didn’t.”