A Secret Life (6 page)

Heather nodded, swallowing as she assessed the situation.

“Do not look down,” he warned.

She nodded again. It didn’t seem nearly as scary with Samuel’s big body between her and death.

His voice went softer. “Piece of cake.”

She took a step.

“Grab on right there,” he coaxed. “And turn around.”

She did, and the ladder felt solid beneath her hand. She breathed in, daring to move backward toward the edge. It was stupid, but now she couldn’t help thinking about his angle and her thong. “Can I trust you to be a gentleman?” she asked.

“Not even a little bit.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder.

“If I have to grab you, I have to grab you. I’m not gonna be careful about the target.”

“I wasn’t…”
Oh.

“What?”

She studied his expression. “Forget it.” She faced the roof again. Nothing to do but get this over with.

With both hands on the top rung, she inched her toe onto the ladder. When one foot was solid, she moved the other, breathing a sigh of relief when Samuel’s arm locked her in.

“You actually thought I would check out your underwear?” he rumbled.

“It had crossed my mind,” she confessed.

He moved down a rung and waited for her. “What the hell kind of men do you hang out with?”

She carefully stepped down, her muscles clenched, her damp palms inching along the painted rails. “There’s nothing wrong with the men I hang out with.”

He moved again. “There is if they’re all looking up your skirt.”

“They don’t look up my skirt.” At least not without an invitation.

“Then why did you think I would?”

“It was an overreaction, okay?”

“First, you try to bribe me,” he grumbled. “And then you accuse me of being a Peeping Tom.”

Heather took another rung. “Get over it, will you? How was I supposed to know you were a paragon of morali—” Her foot slipped. Her heart went to her throat.

His arm closed tight around her waist, and he was a solid wall behind her. “You’re fine. I’ve got you.”

“Damn,” she muttered, adrenaline thrumming through her body.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, searching for the rung with her foot.

He didn’t immediately let her go. Which was perfectly okay with her. If she had to stumble on a ladder twenty feet off the ground, Samuel was definitely the guy she wanted hanging on to her.

His broad palm was splayed across her stomach, and his solid abs were pressed against her rear end.

“I’m not much of a paragon at the moment,” he said.

“You just saved my life.”

“Yeah. But now you’ve got me thinking about your underwear.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“J
OANIE
?”
Heather’s voice hissed in Joan’s ear as the bedsprings sagged beneath her weight.

“What?” Joan groaned, refusing to open her eyes. Maybe sending the jet back and letting Heather stay a few days had been a bad idea. It felt as if she’d only been asleep for a few minutes.

“I hear something.” Heather slipped under the covers in the queen-size bed.

“Those are frogs,” said Joan, wrapping her arms around her pillow and burrowing her face more deeply into its softness.

“Not the frogs. The thumping noise.”

“Those are the cypress trees.”

“It’s not trees.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Joanie.”

“Do you
still
get nervous in the dark.”

“I don’t get nervous in the dark.”

“You’re nervous now.”

“That’s because of the thumping noise.”

“There is no thumping—”

Something whapped against the side of the house.

“That,” shrieked Heather, scooting closer on the bed.

Joan opened her eyes, blinking in the dim bedroom. Moonlight wafted through the opaque curtains and danced along the ceiling and the walls.

“What on earth?”

“Call the police,” Heather hissed, fumbling for the phone on the bedside table.

Joan slipped out of bed.

“Where are you going?”

“To look out the window. It’s probably an alligator.” They didn’t often come this close to the house, but every once in a while…

“What if it sees you?”

“We’re on the second floor.”

“So what?”

Joan pulled back the curtain, squinting into the yard. “They can’t jump.”

“Can you see it?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know it’s not a person?”

“Because Indigo is one of the safest places in the country. We don’t even lock our doors.”

“You didn’t lock your door?”

There was another thump, then a scraping noise.

Joan had to admit it didn’t really sound like an alligator anymore.

“I’m dialing 911,” said Heather.

“Don’t call the police.” Joan crossed the room and whisked the phone from Heather’s hand.

She was still avoiding Alain Boudreaux. She hadn’t returned his call. And she didn’t want to have to defend her position on the music festival.

“We’re just going to sit here and let ourselves get attacked.”

“There’s no crime in Indigo.”

There was another thump, then a creaking noise.

Heather’s voice went shrill. “Then what’s that?”

“Probably a reporter.” Now that the words were out, Joan realized it was a distinct possibility.

“Then call Anthony.”

Joan glanced at the clock. “I’m not calling Anthony at three in the morning.”

“Then I’m calling the police.”

“I’m sure whoever it is will go away,” said Joan. Maybe they just wanted pictures of her house. Surely they didn’t expect an interview at this hour.

“Before or after they discover your doors are unlocked.”

Joan hesitated. Heather did have a point. Reporter or not, she didn’t like the idea of somebody meandering into her house at night. Maybe Anthony could drive by and scare them off.

She took a breath. “Okay. I’ll call Anthony at the B and B.”

“Tell him to bring a gun.”

Joan dialed Anthony’s cell number. “He’s not bringing a gun.”

“A knife? Mace?”

The ringing tone sounded in Joan’s ear. “I’ll just tell him to drive by. The lights should scare off any reporters.”

“What if something goes wrong?”

Joan wished her sister would calm down. Nothing was going to go wrong. There was an overzealous reporter tromping through the hydrangeas, that was all. Heather had lived in a big city way too long.

“Verdun here,” came Anthony’s groggy voice.

“Anthony? It’s Joan.”

“Joan? What’s—”

“Heather hears a noise.”

“You hear it, too,” said Heather.

“What kind of a noise?” Anthony sounded more awake, and there was a rustling in the background.

“Thumping, creaking. I thought it was an alligator—”

“What is it?” It sounded as if he was moving around.

“A reporter, maybe?”

“There’s a
person
in your house?”

“Not in my house. On the porch. Maybe. I think…” She shouldn’t have called Anthony. She should have checked the porch herself. Heather was making her jumpy.

“I’ll be right there.”

“I was thinking you could just drive by—”

“I’ll be right there.”

“There’s no need to—”

The phone went dead.

“What’s he doing?” asked Heather.

“He’s on his way.”

Another thump sounded, louder this time. Even Joan flinched.

Heather moved to the middle of the bed. “I sure hope he brings a gun.”

A
NTHONY ARRIVED
within minutes. As his headlights flashed against the side of the house, there was a distinct sound of footsteps running down the back stairs.

Joan rushed to the window and stared across the lawn toward Bayou Teche, trying to make out a figure running through the trees. But it was too dark to see anything but shadows. It could have been a man, could have been a woman, could have been a dog for that matter.

Anthony pounded on the door, then pushed it open as Joan dashed down the stairs.

“Did he break in?” he asked, as she rounded the breakfast bar and hit a light switch above the sink.

The low light illuminated Anthony’s face as Joan shook her head.

“They ran when they saw you coming,” she told him.

“Your door was unlocked.”

“It’s always unlocked.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

Joan gestured toward the front door. “The lock doesn’t work. I never—”

“You’re kidding.” Anthony turned back to examine the catch. He clicked it a few times with his thumb. “Why the hell didn’t you get it fixed?”

“There was never any reason—”

“Security. Privacy.
Safety.
Those aren’t reasons?”

She resented the censure in his tone. “Indigo is a perfectly safe community.”

Heather appeared in the kitchen, holding a silk robe closed over her nightgown. It reminded Joan that she was standing in front of Anthony in her short, peach nightgown—and the light was streaming in from behind her. She shifted to one side.

“Tell me everything that happened,” Anthony demanded as he returned to the front door and pushed it shut.

His faded T-shirt and thin, gray sweatpants molded to his athletic body. The shirt was wrinkled, and Joan wondered if he’d slept in it. Or maybe he’d just thrown on the outfit for the drive over. Or maybe she should stop speculating.

No. That wasn’t about to happen.

He looked different somehow. It was more than just the casual clothes; there was something unguarded, almost rugged about him. His chin was shadowed with dark stubble, and his usually perfect hair was mussed. Not to mention the way the T-shirt delineated well-developed arm and shoulder muscles. Anthony was a lot sexier under his pressed suits than she’d ever imagined.

And that was saying something.

“I heard a noise,” said Heather. “I woke Joan up. She told me it was frogs.”

Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Frogs?”

“They can get pretty loud at night,” Joan defended.

“Somebody was trying to break in,” said Heather.

“We don’t know that,” said Joan. “Heather’s a nervous sleeper. They were probably just—”

“Prowling around on your porch?” Heather moved in closer, her body forming shadows against the small kitchen light.

“It might have been a reporter,” said Joan, trying to stay logical—and concentrate on keeping her gaze above Anthony’s neck. The room was getting hotter, and her skin was growing sensitive beneath the satin of her nightgown.

“Might have been,” he agreed with a nod.

It took Joan a second to recapture the thread of the conversation.

Anthony raked his messy hair back from his forehead with spread fingers.

She controlled a little shudder of reaction.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re not going to figure out much tonight. You two go to bed. I’ll camp out on the couch.”

Joan blinked. Oh, yeah. That was a great idea. A sexy, tousled Anthony in her house overnight? She didn’t think so. “You’re not staying.”

“Of course I’m staying.”

Her chest contracted, inner thighs tingling. “Whoever it was is halfway down the bayou.”

“They might come back.”

“Yes, they might,” Heather agreed. “You have a gun?” she asked Anthony.

Anthony shook his head. “Afraid not.”

“We don’t need a gun,” said Joan. And they didn’t need a bodyguard, especially one that tempted Joan to do something really embarrassing. “We’ll block the front door with a chair or something, and I think the back lock still works.”

Anthony and Heather both stared at her in silence.

She glanced from one to the other. “What?”

“You actually think there’s a chance in hell I’d leave?” Anthony’s jaw went hard and his lips compressed.

“Of course.” But Joan’s voice faltered. He didn’t look like a guy who was leaving anytime soon.

He moved forward. “Take off and just leave you to fend for yourself?”

Okay. This was getting silly. Joan rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “I’ve been fending for myself for ten years now.”

Something flickered in Anthony’s expression, but she couldn’t quite place it.

“Well, I’m going to bed,” said Heather. “I feel a lot better knowing Anthony is here.” With a toss of her blond hair, she turned and headed up the stairs.

“See that?” said Anthony. “Even Heather admits I should stay.”

“Heather’s sleeping in the guest room,” said Joan, trying to turn his attention to the practicalities of the situation. “And my couch is way too small for you.”

It was ridiculous for him to sleep in her cottage just because something went bump in the night.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said.

“You’re not going to sleep on the floor.”

He moved closer still, and his blue eyes darkened for a split second, making her shiver with awareness.

“Where would you suggest I sleep?” he asked softly. If it was anybody but Anthony, Joan would have interpreted the words as innuendo.

“In your bed. At Luc’s B and B.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Anthony.”

“What?”

“I can’t let you do this.”

They stared at each other. It was a test of wills, and the air crackled between them.

A small smile grew on his face. “You, my dear, have no choice.” He crossed to her wicker couch.

“It’s my house.”

“And I’m your lawyer.”

“You’re my agent.”

He shrugged. “Same difference.” He tested the floral patterned cushions with the flat of his hands. “Besides. I don’t see how you’re going to stop me.”

This was ridiculous. He was a good foot longer than the narrow couch. She approached him, folding her arms over her chest. “Fine. You take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

He straightened. “Yeah. Right.”

She tipped her head, all but falling into his slumberous eyes. Their gazes caught and held. They were both silent as the bayou croaking rose around them and the tree branches creaked in the yard.

His tousled hair made him more approachable than usual. His shadowed face and the dim light played tricks on her senses. His musky scent wafted around her, and his lips parted ever so slightly, ever so invitingly.