Passion (29 page)

She always had been.

But last night and this morning—and, hell, even right now, alone here in the kitchen—she wanted very much to be bad again.

Even if being bad was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

Her sigh was heavy and loud, but not quite loud enough to disguise the sound of footsteps in the hall. In another moment,
another second, he was going to walk through the door into the kitchen and tell her that he was ready, that it was time to
leave. Time to go to the office. Time to go through Simon Tremont’s file and test him on his knowledge of the contents.

The whole idea made her uncomfortable. There was something
so sneaky and underhanded in the plan. She would be betraying Rebecca, who had treated her more than fairly, and the real
Simon, who had a right to expect confidentiality from
all
employees of the agency. She wished he would give her a chance to sit down with Rebecca and tell her about his claims. She
wished he wouldn’t insist on being so covert about it. But he’d been right yesterday. Rebecca wouldn’t help him. She might
refer him to her lawyer or maybe pass him off to Morgan-Wilkes. She would definitely warn Simon, and she might even call the
police. But she wouldn’t open the files to him. She wouldn’t seriously listen to him. She wouldn’t give his tale even the
slightest consideration.

Not only would she not help him, she would make it very difficult for him to prove anything.

If he really was Simon Tremont, he deserved their help. He deserved
her
help.

He came into the room and sat down across from her. He’d just gotten out of the shower, and his hair was still damp. After
silently sliding the untouched half of her bagel across to him, she studied him for a moment. Over the last thirty years,
pop culture had elevated California girls to legend status, but there had been few references that she could recall to California
boys. Based purely on physical attributes, this California boy—this man—could certainly qualify for at least minor legend
status. Golden-tanned, blue-eyed, sandy blond, over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, lean-hipped, long-legged,
he could certainly have the same effect on the female libido that all those Beach Boys-type, curvy, leggy, busty blond girls
in bikinis had on the male counterpart.

God knew, he had a hell of an effect on
her
.

He ate the bagel before speaking. “Does anyone ever come in to the agency on Sunday?”

“No.”

“It probably wouldn’t hurt to have an excuse ready if someone does happen to come by.”

She nodded. “I’ll think of something…” A sound outside drew her attention to the windows, and she muttered an oath
that made him look out, too. He stiffened, just as she did, and rose from the table.

“Who is that?”

“D.J.”

“What is she doing here? She shouldn’t even know you’re back.”

Teryl also stood up. “Of course she knows. I called last night and left a message on her machine.” She bristled at the annoyed
look he gave her. “She’s been waiting all week for me to call and tell her when I’m coming home so she could pick me up at
the airport. Besides, I would never come back from a trip and just not call her. We talk all the time. We usually spend Sunday
afternoons talking.”

“Who else did you call?” he asked with a scowl.

“My mother.” The slight defiance in her voice faded into defensiveness as she continued. “And I left a message on Rebecca’s
machine.”

“Damn it, Teryl—”

“I
had
to. You’re going to take care of your business, then go back to wherever you came from, but
I’ll
still be here, John. I
need
my job.” She drew a calming breath. “I didn’t tell her anything, I swear. I apologized for not coming back when I was supposed
to, I promised to make it up to her, and I told her that I would be in Monday. That’s
all
I said. I never mentioned you.”

After another hard look, he turned his gaze back out to the courtyard, where D.J. had parked beside his truck. Teryl watched
him watch D.J. get out of the car, and in his expression she saw the immediate appreciation of a healthy man for a disarmingly
beautiful woman. It was nothing new. Every man she’d ever been involved with had been at least slightly smitten with her best
friend, but Teryl had never really minded. This time, though, it brought with it an unpleasant twinge of jealousy. This time
she wished D.J. was so much
less
—less flashy, less gorgeous, less sexy. She wished D.J.’s hair was less vibrant in color, less wild, less untended. She wished
her friend’s complexion was pallid and marred with freckles, like so many redheads, instead of rich, creamy gold.
She wished D.J.’s clothes were less provocative, her body less shapely, her voice less sultry.

She wished that just once a man would see the two of them together and would concentrate on
her
instead of staring wide-eyed and hungry at her friend.

They were each a gift, D.J. had told her once long, long ago. Teryl was God’s gift to parents—sweet, well behaved, well-mannered…
meaning boring—while D.J. was Satan’s gift to men. Teryl the good little girl, and D.J. the temptress. The seducer.

John, silently watching her move away from the Camaro, was ready, able, and willing to be seduced.

D.J. walked in a slow half circle around the Blazer, then came toward the house. Even if she’d found Teryl here alone, she
would have been full of questions about New Orleans, the mystery man, and Simon Tremont. Now, Teryl knew, she would be crazy
with curiosity. She wouldn’t rest until she got at least a little time alone with Teryl and all the details she could pry
out of her.

Teryl found herself hoping that John wouldn’t give them any time alone at the same time she wished he would disappear up the
stairs in the next thirty seconds and not come down again until D.J. was gone. Then the thirty seconds were up. D.J. was knocking
at the back door, and John was still standing only a few feet away.

With a reluctant sigh, she headed for the door.

D.J. wasted little time with hellos. “Whose Chevy is that?” she demanded. “Is it
his?
Teryl, you slut, did you bring him home with you?”

Teryl was stammering through an answer when D.J. abruptly walked away. She approached John, her heels clicking on the tile
floor, her movements graceful but calculated, everything done for maximum effect. She reminded Teryl, watching from the doorway,
of nothing so much as a sleek, lean cat stalking its prey. Under ordinary circumstances, Teryl found her behavior amusing…
but there was nothing ordinary about these circumstances.

D.J. didn’t stop until she had completed a circle around John, looking him up and down. Teryl recognized that slow,
satisfied smile of hers. Her friend found no fault with what she saw… but then, she never found fault with
any
male. “I’ve got to hand it to you, little sister,” she said in a honey-smooth drawl, looking back over her shoulder. “This
is one heck of a vacation souvenir. Most people who go to New Orleans bring home those gaudy little masks or tacky beads,
but not you. You brought yourself a man.” She extended her hand. “I’m D.J. Howell, Teryl’s sister and friend.”

After a moment, he responded. “I’m John.”

She released his hand and, taking a few steps back, seated herself at the table. “So… how did you two meet?”

Thankful that her friend’s attention was focused on John and not her, Teryl stared across the room at him. D.J. had asked
the question once before, on the phone their first night on the road, and Teryl had lied. Please, she silently prayed, please
let him remember.

He did, and he delivered the lie so smoothly she would have believed it herself if she hadn’t known better. “At Pat O’Brien’s.
It was crowded and we were both alone, so I asked her to join me.”

D.J. crossed one leg over the other, and Teryl watched as John’s gaze flickered down, then back up again, his expression absolutely
blank.

“Funny,” D.J. remarked. “You don’t talk the way I thought someone from New Orleans would talk.”

“A lot of people who live in New Orleans aren’t from there,” he pointed out evenly.

“And where are you from?”

“Everywhere. Nowhere.”

“But you’re in New Orleans now.”

“Actually, I’m in Richmond now.”

Her response to that was a thinly amused smile. “You know what I mean. You live in New Orleans now.”

He shrugged. “I’m not living anywhere in particular right now.”

If the rest of his story was true, Teryl thought, then that was, too. The closest thing he had to a home right now was
her
home.

Reaching across the table, D.J. picked up Teryl’s Coke
can and drained the last of the soda from it before she turned to her. “Come sit down, girl, and tell me about New Orleans,”
she invited, then added with a lascivious grin, “Tell me about Simon Tremont.”

There was nothing in the world that Teryl wanted less than to sit down at that table and talk to D.J. about Simon Tremont
in front of John. If only he would leave the room, would go to the living room or outside to the courtyard, so they could
talk privately, but she suspected that he had no intention of going anywhere. He couldn’t be sure that D.J. wouldn’t coax
details—secrets—from her. He wasn’t sure that he could trust Teryl not to confide in her.

Hell, Teryl wasn’t sure she could trust herself not to blurt out everything if she had the opportunity.

Reluctantly, she approached the table, sliding back into her chair. The last bite of her toasted bagel sat on a napkin next
to the now-empty Coke can. “There’s not much to say,” she said, avoiding both John’s gaze and D.J.’s. “The interview went
okay… but you’ve probably seen it by now. I think it’s played on every TV station across the country.”

“Not much to say?” D.J. echoed incredulously. She directed her next words at John. “The girl has had a severe case of hero
worship for the man her entire adult life. He’s the standard by which she measures all other writers and most other men. I
swear, she thinks he can walk on water. She would have sold her soul to meet him, and once she finally gets to, there’s not
much to say about him.” She mimicked Teryl’s less-sexy, less-sultry voice on those last words before laughing. “Reality must
have been a tremendous letdown from the fantasy. Poor kid. I’m sorry. So what was wrong with Tremont? Was he a geek? An idiot?
Was he stuffy? Obnoxious?” She leaned forward, sending her hair cascading across her shirt, and asked with a conspiratorial
grin, “Was he crazy?”

“D.J.,” Teryl chided.

“Oh, come on, you’ve read his books. The man writes about creepy things and creepy places. His books are spooky and totally
weird.”

Her words made Teryl uncomfortable. Would John take
offense? How would he feel about hearing words like crazy, creepy, and weird applied to the man he was claiming to be?

When she didn’t respond to D.J.’s question, he did. He took the seat between them at the end of the table, and he answered
mildly, evenly. “What kind of books he writes has nothing to do with what kind of person he is. Do you think romance writers
are having all these hot and passionate affairs? Or that mystery writers are killing people? Or that Western authors are saddling
up ol’ Paint and riding off into the sunset?”

D.J. turned her gaze on him, studying him with an interest that, for once, Teryl noted, wasn’t sexual—but it
was
intense. “Did you meet him, too?”

“No.”

“But you saw the interview.”

“Everyone in the country saw the interview.”

“But you were there in New Orleans. Did you see it in person or on TV?”

“On TV,” he lied.

“What did you think?”

“That’s not a fair question. Unlike Teryl, I’m not a fan.” He paused. “But you are, aren’t you?”

Abruptly she drew back, just an inch or two, shifted her gaze away, and forced a laugh. “Me? A fan of Simon Tremont’s? Oh,
please. Teryl does enough hero worship for the both of us. Besides, brilliant eccentrics aren’t my type at all. I like
real
men. Attainable men. Men I can reach out and touch.”

For a moment there, D.J. looked as if she just might reach out and touch
him
. How would John react if she did? Teryl wondered. Would he welcome her overture, or was he that rare male creature who had
no interest in D.J.’s advances? It annoyed Teryl that she didn’t know the answer. It annoyed her even more that she cared.

In the momentary silence that followed, D.J.’s gaze shifted repeatedly back and forth from her to John. Teryl could almost
see the little wheels spinning in her head, could read the doubt in her expression. Did she suspect something was terribly
amiss, or was she simply a little confused by their behavior? After all, they
were
supposed to be involved in a
hot and heavy affair, one so intense that sweet, good, and levelheaded Teryl had, for nearly a week, acted totally out of
character. She had supposedly become unreliable, undependable, irresponsible.

And yet, since D.J.’s arrival, they had hardly looked at each other. They hadn’t touched at all. Even now, sitting there at
the table, she kept her hands clasped in front of her, her fingers nervously rubbing back and forth, hating the silence and
the discomfort and not knowing how to dispel either one.

D.J. lacked no such knowledge. “So…” Her voice was huskier than normal. “How long are you planning to stay, John?”

“I don’t know.”

“Won’t they miss you at work if you’re not back soon? Or do you plan to follow Teryl’s lead and simply not show up when you’re
due back?”

“I work for myself.”

“Interesting. Doing what?”

“Whatever I want.”

She laughed, then cut out the husky voice, the seductive behavior, the smug smiles. “I don’t want to be rude, John, but could
you give me some time alone with Teryl? I haven’t seen her in a week. There are some things I want to discuss with her—personal
things.”

He hesitated a moment, no doubt weighing whether he should trust her; then he stood up. Before he moved from the table, though,
he bent to brush his mouth across Teryl’s ear. From D.J.’s point of view, it probably seemed a perfectly normal kiss between
lovers. From Teryl’s perspective, it was something completely different—an intimate touch shielding a whispered threat.