A Secret Life (11 page)

“She’s going to Paris,” Heather repeated.

“Outside,” said Anthony.

“Don’t do it, Joanie.”

Joan leaned around Anthony to look at her sister. “We’re just going to talk.”

“I don’t trust him.”

Joan rolled her eyes. She owed Anthony an explanation. She’d tell him reasonably and rationally that she wasn’t willing to hurt her family. She’d never sought fame in the past, and she didn’t want it now.

Sure, the interview yesterday had been a bit of a lark. There were even parts of it that she’d enjoyed. And, although she’d never admit it to another living soul, the crew and the interviewer’s enthusiasm at meeting her were a nice little ego boost.

She’d lived in her father’s shadow, her mother’s shadow, even Heather’s shadow her whole life. For once it had just been her. “Joan,” they’d called her, not Conrad Bateman’s daughter or Heather’s sister. Just Joan.

She almost sighed in regret, but quickly brought herself back to reality. She’d caused this problem. She had to fix it.

“We can talk outside,” she said to Anthony.

“What about the reporters?” asked Heather. “The fans? There are people out in the lane.”

“I ordered them off the property,” Luc put in.

“We’ll go down to the gazebo,” said Joan, wanting to get it over with. “It’s private.”

Anthony latched on to her arm. “Let’s go.”

“They’ll see you.”

Luc’s voice overrode Heather’s. “Only access is through the B and B. They’ll be safe.”

“This is
none
of your business,” said Heather.

“Fair enough,” said Luc. “But they can still use the gazebo.”

Heather’s expression of outrage almost made Joan smile. But she couldn’t smile. Not right now. Disappointing Anthony chilled her in some deep corner of her soul.

“Let’s go,” he said, and she moved into step beside him.

A set of French doors led to the porch, where a white, wooden staircase took them down to the stone path that wound its way to the old gazebo.

They walked in silence, but Joan could feel the tension radiating from Anthony’s body. After about two minutes, they entered a grove of oaks. The sunlight turned dappled, and the sounds of the birds and frogs on the bayou rose around them.

The gazebo came into view, and Anthony stopped abruptly. He turned. “Is this about the kiss?”

The question took Joan by surprise. She’d been trying to forget the stupid kiss. “No. But how kind of you to bring it up.”

He raked a hand through his hair, and his blue eyes bored intently into hers. “Because I’m sorry about that, okay?”

“You’re sorry you kissed me?” Wasn’t that just what every woman wanted to hear?

He clenched his fists. “Of course I’m sorry.”

She tried not to let his words wound her. “I see. Thank you for clarifying that. I’d hate to have left the country thinking—”

“Joan.”

“What?” she snapped. So much for being reasonable and rational. As usual, it took all of thirty seconds for Anthony to make her crazy.

His voice turned husky. “It was a mistake. A very big mistake.”

“I got it, Anthony.” She really got it. She’d made a fool of herself last night. “I’ll go to Paris.”

“Now
that
would be an even bigger mistake,” he said.

“Yeah? Well, I guess it’s my turn to make one, isn’t it?”

“Your mother is trying to torpedo your career.”

“Leave my mother out of this.”

“How can I leave her out of it? She
is
it. You’re talking crazy because of your family.”

“Don’t you—”

“The world is yours, Joan. You can write your own ticket.”

“I don’t want to write my own ticket. I want to write novels.”

“Then write them.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

“In Paris. Under a new pen name.”

There was a moment of stunned silence in which the frogs, cicadas and bird calls pressed in around them. Then Anthony’s face contorted, and he sputtered something that might have been a word in another language, but it certainly wasn’t in English. His complexion darkened, and for a second she thought he might be having a heart attack.

“Anthony?”

He finally breathed. “Do you have
any
idea what you’re throwing away?”

“I don’t care about the money, Anthony.”

“Normal authors
kill
for opportunities like this. They don’t throw them out like garbage.”

“If people like my writing as Jules Burrell, they’ll like it just as well as John Smith.”

“That’s not the way it works.”

“That’s the way it’s worked so far.”

He closed the space between them.

Something splashed in the bayou, and she automatically glanced to see if it was an alligator.

“It’s taken you ten years and a dozen books to get any notoriety at all.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t want notoriety.”

“Notoriety brings sales. Sales bring opportunities, power, options. It’s a package deal, Joan. I’ve—we’ve—
I’ve
worked my butt off for ten years.”

“Excuse me? Who wrote the books?”

“Without me, they’d still be locked away in your bottom drawer.”

That one hurt. It really hurt. “Is that what you honestly think?”

She waited in silence while the afternoon heat flowed restlessly out of the moist ground, and sweat congealed in her pores.

“No,” Anthony finally said, and all the fight went out of his voice. “I think you’re a genius, Joan. I think you are the finest writer I have ever had the privilege to represent. And right now I want to wring your mother’s neck for stealing you away from me.”

Joan blinked, at a loss for words. How could she be his finest writer? Fine writing was Hemingway or Shakespeare. She messed around with edgy little mysteries.

Anthony drew a breath. He moved closer, and his voice dropped. “Why don’t they care about you, Joan?”

What an absurd thing to say. “Of course they care about me.”

He shook his head. “Everything they’ve said, everything they’ve done has been in their interest, not yours.”

“That’s because I’m the one who made the mistake.” Her actions had hurt them. She’d known she was taking a risk in publishing the books; she just hadn’t realized how badly it could blow up in her face.

“And what mistake was that?” he asked.

He knew the mistake as well as she did. He was just trying to bait her into another argument.

“They care about me,” she repeated.

“They have a funny way of showing it.”

“They’re trying to protect me.”

“From what?”

Joan sighed.

“Seriously, Joan. From success and money?”

“From exploitation.”

That shut him up.

“So, that’s what you think of me?” he asked.

“No, that’s what
they
think of you.”

“That I’m exploiting you?”

“I don’t think that.”

“You just said it.”

“Anthony.”

He clasped a hand over the back of his neck. “Did you know
Charlie Long Live
has expressed interest in you?”

“How would I know that?”

“Well, they have.”

Despite herself, Joan was flattered. Charlie Long was a reputable journalist. His news show didn’t sensationalize issues the way cable talk shows did.

“Why would Charlie Long want me?” she asked.

“Because you wrote a good book. Because people are interested in Samuel’s story. They’ve invited you to headline the show.”

Joan would be lying if she didn’t admit it was tempting. But she knew that was a selfish emotion at work. An appearance on
Charlie Long
would be good for her, and her alone. It would be devastating for her parents.

“I have to stick with my instincts.”

He took her hands in his, the slick pads of his thumbs smoothing over her tender knuckles. His voice went gentle. “And what are your instincts telling you now?”

A bead of sweat formed at her temple and trickled down toward her jawline. She took a bracing breath and forced herself to look him straight in the eyes.

Truth was, her instincts were at war with each other. But she told him part of it. “That when the going gets tough, the family has to stick together.”

His jaw went tight, and he closed his eyes for a split second. “And what about you and me sticking together?”

“We’re not—”

“They’re selfish, Joan.”

“They’re my family.” This was a hard decision, a wrenching decision. Why did he have to make it worse?

“That’s not a family.”

Her spine stiffened. He’d crossed the line with that one. “Really? What is a family, Anthony?”

“People who support you through thick and thin.”

“Like your family?”

“Yes.”

She laughed then, but the sound was bitter. “Why don’t you tell me what your own sainted family would do under these circumstances?”

“My family wouldn’t
be
under these circumstances.”

“Of
course
they wouldn’t,” she snapped. “They’re too perfect for this.”

“Well, they sure wouldn’t be ashamed of me. They’d have thrown my first book launch. They’d have bought copies for their friends, acquaintances and coworkers.”

“Why? Is everybody they know trailer trash?” The second the words were out of her mouth, Joan cringed in horror.

Anthony’s jaw snapped shut. A chill masked his eyes.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but he held up a hand.

“Don’t say another word,” he ordered

She tried anyway.

“Joan.”

She shut her mouth, waiting for him to yell at her. She certainly deserved it.

But he stood there for a long, silent moment, staring at her as if she were a stranger. Then he turned on his heel to stalk back down the pathway.

Joan didn’t move. The splashing in the bayou increased, and she began to hope it was a gator. A big, hungry gator would put an end to all of her problems. Snap, snap, swallow, and she would stop letting everybody down.

I
T WAS
a long day for Heather. Joan spent most of it in her room, giving only one word answers when Heather called through the door. But since the family jet was booked for their Paris flight tomorrow, and since Joan wasn’t talking about canceling their plans, Heather decided to leave well enough alone.

Anthony made himself scarce, and even Luc was busy working on the dock. The number of fans and reporters milling around Indigo was increasing, so Heather didn’t really want to venture into town. Out of desperation, she picked up Luc’s copy of
Bayou Betrayal.

She started reading around four o’clock. By six, she was cloistered in her room, riveted by the tension, the plot twists and even the sex in the story. Lost in the characterization, she forgot completely that it had been written by her sister.

Then, sometime in the evening, she heard Samuel’s deep voice in the downstairs lounge. It sent a jolt through her stomach and increased her pulse.

She felt the usual sexual buzz in response to him, but her heart also went out to the man. She didn’t know how much of
Bayou Betrayal
was true and how much was fiction. But Samuel was definitely Jared, the sixteen-year-old boy who had lost his parents to a horrible crime.

She could see now why Samuel had turned out so tough. He’d stayed in his family cottage all on his own, worked in the evenings during high school, then got training as a carpenter. In a strange way, the rise and fall of his voice reassured her that things had turned out well for the boy in the story.

Eventually, she moved closer to her bedroom door, letting the conversation downstairs become a backdrop.

Then she moved to a nook in the breakfast room, flicking on a small lamp in the dark corner.

She didn’t consider it eavesdropping, because she could only hear the occasional word. It was the cadence of the three male voices—Samuel, Anthony and Luc—that she found comforting while the danger increased for the characters at the story’s climax.

“Heather?”

She jumped at the deep voice so close to her. The criminals had now been caught, and she was into the payoff scene at the end of the book.

“Sorry,” Samuel rumbled. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Hi,” she said softly, closing the book and setting it down on the table.

He glanced at the title and grinned. “Good story?”

She nodded. Then she shook her head, looking deep into his dark, unfathomable eyes. “How much is…” She bit her bottom lip. “I am
so
sorry for what you went through.”

His smile turned sad. “It was a long time ago.”

She came up on her knees on the padded bench seat, making her almost eye level with him. Then she put a hand on his bicep. “It must have been horrible for you.”

He shrugged his big shoulders. “It was no picnic.”

Guilt nipped at her. Her teenage years had been full of designer clothes, sports cars and the right parties. She’d known she was lucky, but she hadn’t realized the full extent of her good fortune. She felt her eyes go liquid with sympathy.

“Hey.” Samuel tipped her chin up with his index finger. “Is there a soft heart under all that sarcasm?”

She blinked and shook her head. “No.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I like my women tough.”

The sheen of tears evaporated completely. “
Your
women?”

He nodded, moving his big palm along her cheek to cup her face, sending reaction sizzling up her spine. “Don’t pretend you don’t feel it, too.” He paused for a moment. “Anthony tells me you’re leaving tomorrow.”

She nodded jerkily. “I’m taking Joan to Paris.”

He shifted forward, crowding her space, leaning in and tipping his head to one side. “Then I guess this is my last chance.”

Last chance? “To kiss me?”

His lips curved into a lazy smile, and reflected light shone from his dark eyes. “For starters,” he drawled, and Heather’s pulse pounded in her ears.

“Then,” he continued, “I’m going to show you things your white-bread Boston boys don’t even dream about.”

She put on a show of bravado. “You think?”

His smile widened meaningfully. “I know.”