A Secret Life (5 page)

Her green eyes sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the window. “I am focused.”

“Not on cosmopolitans.”

“I was talking about the tea.”

“Well, I’m focused on how Samuel is going to sue us.”

She moved a little closer, her perfume wafting around him. “Done deal, Anthony. Samuel’s already won.”

“Because you’ll feel compelled to confess to the judge.”

“Exactly.” She compressed her lips. “I tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

Anthony paused. “Say that again.”

“Huh?”

He had an idea. It was a wonderfully simple, yet brilliant idea. “You’re going to stand up and tell a judge
Bayou Betrayal
is based on an Indigo murder scandal?”

“Yes, I am.”

Merry Christmas, Anthony.

His grip loosened on her wrist, and he had to fight himself to keep from turning it into a caress. This wasn’t the time to think about her soft skin, the scent of her perfume, the sweet puff of her breath or the rounded curves beneath her tailored clothes.

He took a step back. “I know how we can skip the judge part.”

“We write a big fat check?”

“You tell it all to Ned Callihan.”

Her coral lips pursed, and for a split second he imagined kissing her. It was a fleeting, intense fantasy, where he pulled her flush against him and tasted that tender mouth for the very first time.

“From the News Network?”

Anthony nodded, tamping down his inappropriate reaction.

“How would that—” Her eyes went wide, and she took a step back. “Oh no, you don’t.”

“You tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth to Ned on camera. Five minutes. Then whiz, bang, we cut Samuel a check.”

She shook her wrist out of his grip. “I can’t believe you would suggest that.”

“It would solve two problems.”

“You have no soul.”

While that was probably true, it didn’t mean this wasn’t a great idea. And he sure wasn’t giving up on it without a fight.

H
EATHER HAD NO IDEA
where to find Samuel. His blue pickup truck had turned the corner of Cypress Street two minutes ago, but by the time she got there, he’d disappeared. There were no tire tracks, no dust, nothing.

She slowed her rented Audi to a crawl and checked out the parking lot of the general store and scanned the streets around the town lawn. Then, just when she was about to give up, she caught a glimpse of a blue tailgate. The truck was tucked beside the old Indigo opera house.

She shifted into second.

The man might run, but he couldn’t hide from Heather Bateman. She followed the crescent around the town lawn, pulling into the opera house parking lot. She shut off the engine and set the park brake, exiting into the sharp sunshine and deep humidity of the Indigo afternoon.

The pillared front porch of the old building was covered with building materials and equipment—a circular saw, two-by-fours, a box of hand tools and bundles of cedar shakes. A machine chugged away on the gravel at the corner of the building, with a hose that wiggled all the way up the white siding. Loud, rhythmic cracks came from somewhere on the roof.

Looking up, Heather maneuvered carefully across the uneven gravel in her new Etienne Aigner heels. A leg came into view up on the gabled roof, and she recognized Samuel’s faded blue jeans and leather, steel-toed boots. She stumbled but quickly righted herself as she moved from the parking lot onto the lawn.

“Samuel?” she called over the thwacking noise of the machine.

No response.

“Samuel?”
she called a little louder, making her way to the bottom of the ladder that stretched up two and a half stories.

Nothing.

Either he couldn’t hear her, or he was deliberately ignoring her. She had to admit, it was comforting to know he’d gone straight back to work. She had visions of him heading for the nearest pay phone to make a deal with a newspaper.

It was bad enough that her parents had to deal with twelve—
twelve
—of Joan’s novels coming to light. If they had to cope with a salacious murder connection on top of it, they’d faint dead away.

“Samuel!”
she tried one more time.

Nothing.

Great.

She glanced from side to side across the emerald lawn. There was nothing but houses and small businesses in the distance. She could try to find someone to help—maybe that Anthony guy would climb up and get Samuel for her. Or she could wait it out down here in this steam room of a yard until Samuel was finished.

She glanced at her watch. Two o’clock. The man could be up there for hours. Asking Anthony pain-in-the-butt Verdun for help wasn’t a particularly appealing choice, either. Besides, he’d probably refuse just to spite her.

Fine.

She took a deep breath and reached for the nearest rung, reminding herself her family’s honor was at stake. The ladder was painted a cool, smooth gray, thank goodness. Splinters would have added insult to injury. She was careful not to damage her ruby manicure, and she placed her shoes just so on each rung so that she wouldn’t break a heel or scuff a toe.

She glanced down once, blinking away vertigo, but was happy to see there was still no one beneath her. It wasn’t the greatest day to be wearing a thong. But then it
was
a hundred degrees out here.

Three more rungs.

Two more.

Finally, her head came up above the roofline.

Samuel had his back to her, about twenty feet away, up the pitch of the shake roof. He was on his hands and knees punching nails with a deafening air gun.

Heather climbed up two more rungs, then carefully maneuvered her leg around the side of the ladder, placing her knee on the rough shakes. Good thing she wasn’t wearing stockings. She glanced at the surrounding buildings one more time. She was about to flash any Indigo residents within a hundred yards.

She put a hand on the rough roof, gritted her teeth, and inched her other leg around the ladder.

There. She’d done it.

She crawled a few feet from the edge, then stood up, straightening her clothes.

“Mr. Kane,” she called between cracks of his nail gun.
“Samuel.”

He jerked his head around. “What the hell?”

She walked closer. “I need to talk to you.”

He came to his feet. “We’re nearly three stories up.”

“I tried calling.”

“Are you a lunatic?” With the advantage of the roof pitch, he had an awful lot of height on her. She was reminded all over again what a big man he was.

His faded blue jeans clung to his slim hips, but his chest and shoulders tapered out like a football player’s. His biceps strained against his thin T-shirt sleeves, and the muscles of his chest were delineated against the damp fabric.

His face was attractive, in a rugged, dangerous kind of way that sent an unexpected shiver up Heather’s spine.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” he growled.

Another shiver. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m off work at six.”

Oh, no. She wasn’t leaving him alone until six o’clock. She wanted this deal worked out before he had a chance to contact anyone else. “I need to know what you’re going to do with your story.”

His dark eyes narrowed, and his hands went to his hips. “I assume you’re talking about my parents’ murders?”

“Anthony seems to think there’ll be a lot of publicity around Joan’s book.” Heather was hoping Anthony was wrong, but she couldn’t afford to take any chances.

“So?” asked Samuel.

“So, I can see how a guy like you might be—”

“A guy like me?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly am I like?”

She gestured to his clothes with her hand. “A…uh…working man.”

He stared at her in silence, a grim tightness to his full lips. Chip on his shoulder or what?

She fluffed her sweaty hair, deciding to get right to the point. “I’m prepared to make you an offer.”

His brows went up.

“Ten thousand dollars.” She hoped that was enough. Surely ten thousand dollars was a lot to a carpenter in Indigo, Louisiana.

“For?”

He hadn’t struck her as slow.

“Keeping this whole business to yourself, of course.”

He laughed then. It was a deep chuckle of disbelief that rumbled through his broad chest but definitely didn’t meet his eyes.

Damn. She’d insulted him. “Twenty thousand?”

“To keep my mouth shut?”

“I’m sure you can see—”

“What gave you the impression I could be bribed?”

Anybody could be bribed. “It’s not a bribe.”

“The hell it’s not.”

“Thirty thousand.”

“Get off my roof.”

“Forty?”

He gave her an insulting once-over from her breasts to her toes and back again. “Listen, lady. I talk to who I want, when I want. And no spoiled brat’s checkbook is going to change that.”

Spoiled
brat?
She drew herself up to her full five foot four and crossed her arms over her chest. “There’s no need to get insulting.”

“You started it.”

“I’m not insulting you.”

“You just offered me forty thousand dollars in hush money.”

“You don’t want forty thousand dollars?”

“I’m not for sale.”

“Listen, you—” Heather just barely stopped herself from delivering the scathing retort. Joanie was what mattered here, Joanie and the Bateman reputation. She swallowed her pride and reframed her offer. “In consideration of the money you could likely make selling your story to the media, I’m prepared—”

Samuel took a step closer, peering down at her. “What have I ever said or done that would lead you to believe I’d sell my parents’
murders
to the highest bidder?”

Heather opened her mouth. Was he saying he wouldn’t go to the media? Was he insulted because she’d suggested he would? She searched his expression, trying to decide if this was about a moral code or upping the ante.

“You’re not going to tell your story?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“So you
are
going to sell the story.” Just how high was she going to have to go?

His expression flickered no more than a millimeter. “I’m going to throw you off this roof in a minute.”

Heather felt a reluctant smile forming on her lips. “Well, that is one way to solve your problem.”

His brown eyes glinted ever so slightly. “Isn’t it, though?”

“I could write you a check right now.”

“Goodbye…”

“Heather.”

“Goodbye, Heather.”

“I can’t leave.”

“Sure you can.”

She shook her head. “Not without your assurances that you’re not going to hurt my sister.”

He stared at her in silence. “My word good enough?”

Heather hesitated. “You tell me.”

He paused and seemed to think for a moment. “I’m not interested in money. But if I have a chance to prove my father’s innocence, I don’t care who I hurt.”

“If you want to hurt Joan, you’ll have to go through me.”

Samuel’s sharp nod told Heather he was confident he’d prevail. And, though she hated to admit it, she had a feeling he was right. She might have money and power on her side, but there was something about Samuel that intimidated the hell out of her. He wasn’t a man she’d want to cross.

“Fair enough,” said Heather. Joan had made it pretty clear her novel didn’t contain new evidence that would help Samuel. And if he was after money, he’d have been wise to say yes to the forty thousand.

Heather turned to go. But as she focused on the lawn below them, she experienced a sudden, overpowering wave of vertigo. She steeled herself and took a step forward anyway. She wasn’t afraid of heights. And they weren’t that far off the ground. She and Joan had had a tree fort when they were kids. Ladders were nothing.

She kept going.

Five more steps and she was at the edge of the roof, her trepidation rising by the second. She could do this. She
would
do this. She’d climbed up that ladder, and she’d climb back down again. She gripped one of the rails, and the ladder shifted along the gutter.

Everything inside her froze.

Samuel swore behind her, and she heard his footsteps on the cedar shakes.

“It’s easy,” he rumbled.

“I know.” She took another baby step. “I’m fine.” She put her hand gingerly on the top rung. She’d slide her leg around, just like she’d done when she got off.

She glanced at the ground, and it swayed crazily to one side.

“You’re shaking,” said Samuel.

“I am not.”

He sighed, and moved up beside her. “I’ll hold it steady.”

“There’s no need.” Her voice came out raspy against her dry throat.

He pointed. “Grab right here.”

She did.

“Now put your leg on the rung.”

She tried to move her foot, she really did. But for some reason, it was frozen to the roof.

“How the hell did you get up here?” Samuel muttered.

Heather didn’t answer. She was afraid it would come out as a whimper. Maybe she could make a call. Maybe they’d come and get her by helicopter.

“You okay?” asked Samuel.

“Fine,” she breathed.

“You afraid of heights?”

“No.”

“You going to get on that ladder?”

She didn’t answer.

“Heather?”

“What?”

“Just how scared are you?”

She tightened her grip on the ladder and inched herself forward, refusing to let him know she was nearly paralyzed. Careful not to look down, she hooked a toe on the gutter and transferred her weight.

The gutter started to give way, and she shrieked.

Samuel’s arm was around her in a split second, yanking her back against his body. “Damn,” he muttered above her head.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, but her voice was shaking.

He loosened his grip. “Don’t move.”

“Okay.” That one she could do.

He slowly let her go. Then he effortlessly swung himself out onto the ladder and backed down a couple of rungs. He let go of the ladder with one arm and held his hand out to the side, making a space for her.

“Hang on to the top of the ladder and step around on this side,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll grab you.”