by Amy DeLuca
“Yeah, thanks for the tip. Listen, I’ve got to go. Call me Monday and tell me how the Seattle pitch went.”
“Will do. Catch you later.”
Throughout the afternoon Hunter’s words bobbed to the surface of Jack’s mind. Not the ones about the blue shirt, of course. The ones about making the reporter print whatever he wanted her to. Now that idea had some merit.
Though his publishing house was forcing him to do the interview, the writer and her superiors at The New York Daily Report didn’t know that. They just wanted an exclusive interview ahead of the new release, and he was betting they’d do almost anything to get it.
Including signing a contract specifying the type of questions she could and couldn’t ask.
Could you tell me about your inspiration for the Onyx Throne series Mr. Bestia? Sure, Miss Reporter, happy to—done it a thousand times, and the answer is already on my website for all to see.
Who are your favorite writers? No problem. Here’s a list of my inspirations and some of my recent favorites. I can talk about this all day.
Let’s talk about the outline for Book 7 that was leaked to the National Interrogator and then distributed worldwide online. Was it the real thing? Nope. No way. Forget about it. Not going there. Not if your life and/or career depended on it. Next question.
Jack climbed the stairs again to his office, and for once, he had zero trouble coming up with the words he wanted. It was actually kind of fun.
As he wrote, the stipulations multiplied, going on for page after page, restoring his sense of control over the situation.
Jack’s glee over presenting this wordy legal document to the reporter when she arrived began to overtake the sour dread that had been accumulating in his gut during the past week since he’d learned about the non-negotiable interview.
She’d sign it—he’d see to that. No contract, no interview. She’d sign it, ask him the safest, most bland interview questions ever recorded, and it would be done. Over. Just a faint, unpleasant memory. Then he’d be free to get back to… well, it would be over anyway, and he could stop worrying about his secret getting out.
Satisfied with his work, he hit print then stepped over to the printer table, loaded the machine with paper, and waited. Crisp, warm papers filled the printer tray for the first time in months.
Wait. These weren’t the contract pages. These were from the last job he’d sent to the printer—the fifteen pages he’d written so far of a novel that was contracted for fifteen hundred. That had been months ago. He’d forgotten he’d even tried to print out the meager beginning of the book that was trying its best to kill him.
Jack sniffed a laugh and let it finish. At least he didn’t have to wait long for the printer to spit out the entirety of his work on book seven and begin printing the contract.
Setting the pitifully thin stack of manuscript pages aside on the table, he gathered the freshly printed contract pages and stapled them. Then he initialed each one, and in a rare moment of levity, lifted the contract to his lips and kissed it.
It was, after all, the best thing he’d written in a long, long time.
Jack dragged himself out of the water Thursday morning, breathing hard from exertion. Swimming laps in the mansion’s indoor pool was one of his favorite ways to exercise, and a hard workout usually provided excellent stress relief.
Usually. Today was a different story. The reporter, who he’d learned was named Bonnie Hamelin, would arrive in an hour. There wasn’t enough water in the Atlantic to relieve the stress he was feeling. He still hadn’t been able to get any writing done on book seven, which meant he literally had nothing to say to this woman that wasn’t a lie.
Toweling off first, he took the elevator from the basement level to the second floor and went to his bedroom to shower and change. Not that he was trying to impress her or anything.
In fact, he deliberately put on his rattiest pair of jeans and an old t-shirt. Jack smiled grimly at his silent-protest-via-fashion-choice as he looked at his reflection in the mirror on the dressing room door.
His beard was unruly, and he hadn’t had a haircut in months. Since he rarely left the house these days and preferred to be anonymous when he absolutely had to go out, he hadn’t bothered with any personal grooming beyond showering and trimming his nails. He barely recognized himself anymore.
Good. Jack’s smile widened. Maybe she’ll take one look at me and run away screaming.
Once dressed, he glanced at his watch. Still some time to kill. Crap. Time was a bad thing. Time left opportunity for dread to accumulate. He needed to stay busy.
Falling into a chair by the window, he opened his laptop. Though he had his handy dandy contract printed and ready to go, it wouldn’t hurt to do a little preparation. He decided to look up some of Ms. Hamelin’s previous articles for the New York Daily Report.
She was a good writer, definitely had a style. But she’d asked some probing questions of her previous interview subjects.
Not gonna happen, lady. Ugh. This wasn’t helping.
Instead of reading further, Jack opened his long-neglected Facebook page. He’d never been one of those authors who hated social media. He used to love it, in fact, for the connection it gave him to his readers—the operative words there being “used to.”
The past couple of years all his messages and comments seemed to be demands for book seven. There were only so many times he could say “working on it” or “it’s coming” before feeling like a total fraud, so he’d abandoned all the platforms a few months ago, going dark online.
Today, though, maybe responding to a few dozen of the thousands of notifications would be just the ticket to occupy his mind.
The demands were there for sure, but there were also some readers who just wanted to tell him how much they loved his Onyx Throne series. That was always nice to hear, and he wrote several of them a note of thanks for buying and reading the books.
As he scrolled down through the list of the most recent notifications, a name caught his eye. Claudia. She’d sent him a private message only last week. What on earth could she have to say that she thought he’d want to hear?
He clicked on it and read her words of apology—all of which he’d heard before. She claimed to miss him and think of him constantly. She begged for another chance. She said she still loved him and always would.
Hmmm. She must have burned through the money already.
Knowing her spending habits, it didn’t surprise him. He tapped the small circle containing her profile picture to go to her page. There she was, posing and mugging with her girlfriends, smiling, laughing. There were a lot of selfies in clingy designer clothes which, admittedly, did catch the eye.
She didn’t look miserable and lonely. She looked like she was having a ball.
Jack scrolled, getting more and more irritated. How was it that he was miserable and alone while his ex-girlfriend was having so much fun? She was the one who’d caused their breakup.
Or maybe she wasn’t having fun. Appearances could be deceiving, especially on social media. Could she really be missing him? Could she have changed in the time they’d been apart?
He clicked back on her message and read through it again. To his utter shame, he actually considered it for a moment.
Maybe Hunter and Mrs. Potts were right. Maybe he did need to open his heart again. Maybe getting back together with Claudia would cure his writer’s block. He’d certainly written like crazy when they’d been together and in love.
Love. Yeah, see, that was where the problem came in. He’d wanted so badly to believe in love back then he’d convinced himself he’d seen it when it wasn’t there. What she’d done was proof of a total lack of love. And conscience. And basic decency.
Jack closed the laptop with a decisive click. Apparently, he suffered from a total lack of common sense to even consider it. He refused to be a fool for Claudia again—or anyone else. He would never trust another woman with his heart.
And he certainl
y wasn’t going to let some newspaper writer expose his secrets and make a fool of him.
The sound of the doorbell brought Jack to his feet. She’s here.
This was it. Time to go to war. Ms. Hamelin wanted an interview? She’d get one. One bland, begrudging word at a time and adhering to his strict contract.
Speaking of fine print… a new plan occurred to Jack, and he grinned like the Grinch getting a terrible, awful idea.
His publisher’s deal with the New York Daily Report required the reviewer be given at least two hours in his home. But it hadn’t specified that he had to be present for all of that time.
Sitting back down, he relaxed into the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. He couldn’t help it—he laughed at his own genius.
The intercom buzzer sounded, and Harrison’s voice informed him, “Ms. Hamelin is here.”
Jack pushed the button to answer. “I know. Let her in. And keep her busy. I’ll be down when I’m good and ready.”
Harrison was a talkative fellow. Let him entertain her for a while. Jack had fan mail to answer.
Five
Be Our Guest
One hour earlier
From the backseat of the Lyft car, Bonnie took in downtown Providence. The area surrounding the train station was surprisingly pretty.
Colonial-era brick buildings mixed with modern high rises, and directly across the street from the station stood the impressive State house, a white marble neoclassical structure with a large dome modeled after St. Peter’s basilica at the Vatican.
Bonnie had never been to Rhode Island before. Her father had lived there years ago while in the service. When she’d told him about her Newport trip, he’d been thrilled.
“Oh, I’d love to see little Rhody again. If you get a chance, maybe you could drive by my old house in Middletown and tell me how the neighborhood looks these days.”
“Will do. I’m still worried about leaving you, though,” she’d confessed.
Her dad had made a pshhh noise. “Don’t make me your excuse. I’ve got Grover here, and I’ll be getting visits from Zhang Wei from China Fun and Sid from Paolo’s Pizzeria.”
“I knew it. You just want me to go so you won’t have to eat my cooking for two days.”
Bonnie wished, and not for the first time, that her sister Rachel lived closer. She was an amazing chef, but she lived out in Colorado, too far away to offer any practical day-to-day help.
“I want you to go because you need to get out more,” Dad had said. “I want you to meet people, go places, chase your dreams and fall in love. And by that, I mean the real in-person kind. I know you love staying in with your books, but I want you to have the adventurous life you used to always talk about—not just read about the adventures and love lives of other people.”
“Not everyone gets an epic love like you and Mom had, you know. And not all of us are meant for a life of adventure and passion.” Bonnie had learned that lesson the hard way.
“Maybe not, lass, but you are. And you’ll never find it sitting here in this apartment with a blind old coot and a flea-bitten hound.”
Grover had barked, making her laugh. “I think someone is insulted.” Kissing her father’s cheek, she added, “And I love that old coot, so take good care of yourself while I’m gone.”
After calling to let him know she’d arrived in Rhode Island, Bonnie had about forty-five minutes to kill on the drive from Providence to Newport. She did a search for Jack Bestia’s name on her phone, glancing over the photos that popped up.
Wow.
There was no denying the man was good-looking—if you were into the whole tall, dark, and devastating billionaire thing, which she most certainly was not. Been there, done that. Got the Sterling Fooled Me, Too t-shirt. Guys like Jack and Sterling were better to enjoy from a safe distance.
There were no photos from the past year. The most recent was from the previous year, featuring Jack in a tux at a ritzy charity event at one of the famous Bellevue Avenue mansions in Newport. A closeup of his face was followed by several full-length shots.
Wow wow. Those singular turquoise eyes were complemented by dark, wavy hair and a physique that could only be described as sleek and powerful. Wide shoulders tapered to a trim waist and long, athletic legs.
Either Jack was really tall, or his date was really short. And gorgeous. Naturally.
The woman by his side in all the photos looked like a Nordic princess. Her blonde perfection was the ideal foil for his dark handsomeness. One caption labeled her as his girlfriend, which wasn’t surprising.
Scrolling down, Bonnie perused more photos of the lovely couple, shots of Jack with his look-alike brother, Hunter, Jack at book signings several years ago, a few images some sneaky photographer had captured of him shirtless at the beach. Wow wow wow.
And then there were the photos attached to articles about the big Onyx-gate scandal, complete with some of the headlines—
Is This How It All Ends?
The Spoiler to Rule Them All
Another declared, Bestselling Fantasy Author Denies Leaked Outline Is Legit.
She didn’t bother clicking on those because she’d already read nearly everything published about the alleged leak back when it happened. The outline itself—which she couldn’t help but check out at the time—was actually brilliant. It wouldn’t have shocked her if it had been legitimate.
But Jack Bestia had claimed it was a fake, and if you couldn’t believe the creator of the Onyx world on that one, who could you believe? They’d all find out soon enough when Book Seven finally came out.
Bonnie looked up once the car reached Newport and found it hard to keep her jaw closed. It seemed each turn of the winding oceanside drive revealed a new and greater wonder.
Fresh air came in through the window as waves crashed against the rocky shore. Mansion after mansion decorated the hills across the street from the coastline, and even more impressive homes sat atop stone outcroppings that jutted into the Atlantic like the outstretched fingers of a giant’s hand. She counted no less than eight chimneys on one of them.
The gorgeous scenery and reach-out-and-touch-it connection with nature on Ocean Avenue stole her breath, but Newport’s famous Bellevue Avenue was even more impressive.
As they made their way slowly down the elegant tree-lined street, the driver pointed out massive mansions once owned by wealthy families with names like Vanderbilt, Astor, and Duke.
He said they’d served as sumptuous summer getaways for the industrialist tycoons of the 1920’s before their descendants had given them over to the Newport Historical Society to preserve and use as museums.
Some of the privately-owned homes were just as beautiful and imposing. It was hard to believe there were people who really lived like this. Who were they and what did they do for a living?
Well, Bonnie knew who one of them was—Jack Bestia. The driver had known where his house was without her even having to give him the address.
“Oh, I drive people there all the time,” he explained. “He’s got a lot of fans.” Tossing a glance back over his shoulder he asked, “You ever read those Onyx Throne books?”
“Yes. They’re very good.”
“That’s what I hear. I don’t have time to read books that thick, you know? I watch the show, though. Can’t wait for the final season. I hope that Bestia guy finishes the book on time.”
You and everyone else, Bonnie thought to herself. Aloud she said, “Me too.”
The car stopped in front of a set of massive iron gates. Beyond them she caught a glimpse of a huge stone mansion so close to the water she wondered if the ocean spray blew into its windows when they were open.
Bonnie swiped her credit card to pay the fare and tip. “Thanks for the ride. See you in a few hours, okay?”
“Call and I’ll be here.” The driver gave her a smile before leaving her standing outside the gates.
No one was there to greet her. She looked aroun
d and spotted a call box off to one side. Walking over to it, she pushed a button and waited.
“Yes?” a male voice answered.
A ripple of nerves ran down her spine. You can do this.
“Mr. Bestia? It’s Bonnie Hamelin.”
“Oh no. This is Harrison, Mr. Bestia’s butler. I’ll buzz you in. Just walk up the drive and come to the front doors.”
Oh, the butler. Bonnie told her nerves to stand down and did as he instructed, waiting until the huge gates swung slowly inward then walking through them and up the short drive to the house. The property was large, stretching sideways up and down the coastline rather than being deep.
On one side pristine green grass led to an intriguing tall hedge growing in the pattern of a large square. On the other, the lawn sloped downward toward a rectangular pool and beyond it, a private beach.
Must be nice.
Approaching the tall front door of the mansion, Bonnie rang the bell. Even from outside she could hear the rich peels of its melody.
This is it. Her fingers squeezed tightly around the straps of her oversized carryall. She was about to see Jack Bestia in person—again. She could only pray he didn’t recognize her from their first humiliating encounter.
Be cool, Bonnie. Get in, get the interview, get out. Hopefully the self-talk would work better this time than last.
The door opened, and the person on the other side was not Jack Bestia but a most peculiar little man. With his neatly trimmed mustache, crisp, dark suit, and highly shined shoes, he certainly looked like a butler. But he lacked the hauteur Bonnie had expected. He greeted her with an enormous bright smile and waved both hands, inviting her to step forward.
“Miss Hamelin. Please come in. Yes, please do come right in. Oh, aren’t you lovely? We’re so happy you’re here. I’m Harrison. Let me take your coat.”