"So then we got out of there," Alan finished.
"Where are you now?"
"Conference room on the third floor. It's deserted up here, and she needed to calm down."
"I see. And he followed you?"
"Apparently."
Mark didn't like Alan's snooty tone, but this stranger was all the help he had to protect his wife. "What do you think, Alan? Is he aggressive? Should she be afraid of him?"
"Gosh, I don't know."
Mark stifled a sigh. He was wasting his time.
Alan continued. "He said he just wanted to talk. He didn't seem angry or anything, at least not until I told him I wouldn't let him talk to her."
"Thank you for doing that."
"Of course."
Smarmy. That's how he sounded. Mark definitely didn't like this guy. "So, you're not really sure if Sheppard's a threat or not."
"How would I know that?"
The defensive tone prodded Mark's suspicions. "And what exactly are you doing there?"
There was a pause. Mark could hear the irritation in the man's voice when he answered. "I'm an editor. It's a writers conference."
"Are you there with my wife?"
"Like I said, we just met."
Mark ran his fingers through his hair. He needed to stay calm. He breathed a quick prayer and changed his tone. "Sorry. I should be thanking you, not questioning you."
Three heartbeats later, Alan said, "You're welcome."
"Can I speak with Amanda again?"
"Here she is."
The sound was muffled, and Mark couldn't make out what they were saying to each other. His adrenaline pumped as if he were in a firefight. Unfortunately, the target was two hundred miles away.
First, Amanda had kicked him out, and then she'd run into Sheppard. And now she'd been rescued by another man. Could things get any worse?
"Was that really necessary?" she asked.
"I wanted to get as much information as possible. Your friend wasn't very helpful. You started to say something about the memoir?"
"Oh. Uh . . . apparently, Gabriel knows."
He censored the word that popped into his mind. "How?"
"I don't know." Her voice traveled higher. "It's like . . . he always knew what I was thinking."
"That doesn't make any sense. Someone obviously told him."
Her voice was almost a whisper when she responded. "Do you really think so?"
Mark softened his tone. She was scared enough without him adding to it. "I'm sorry, but I can't see how else he'd know about it. What did he say?"
"Um . . . he said 'don't do it' and told me to remember my promise."
"Promise?"
"That I'd never tell."
"What'd you say?"
She sniffed. "Well, I denied it, but, like I said . . ."
Mark's stomach lurched like it hadn't since airborne school. "You're sure he knew?"
"I . . . I could never lie to him."
Unfortunately, she didn't have that problem with Mark. "This is exactly what I was afraid of, Amanda. You can't publish—"
"I knew you were going to say that."
He glanced at his watch. They'd talked . . . what? Three minutes before she'd gotten angry. These days, that was a record. "I want you to come home."
"Roxie and I have a meeting tomorrow."
"I don't care. I don't want you there by yourself, not if Sheppard's there. And if he knows about the memoir—"
"I'm not by myself."
"Right, you have Alan."
"I don't need your sarcasm right now. And that's not what I meant. I'm usually with my roommate, but she went back to the room to sleep off a headache. Besides Susie and Roxie, there are lots of people here. As long as I stay out of the lobby—"
"Can you do that? What were you doing there today, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be in meetings or something?"
Amanda sighed audibly into the phone. "You know what, Mark? I didn't tell you about Gabriel so you could give me the third degree."
"I'm not. I'm worried about you. I care about you."
"I knew I shouldn't have told you."
"Of course you should—"
"I have to go."
"Wait!"
She sighed. "What?"
He unclenched his fist and splayed his hand on the arm of the chair. "Why don't I drop off the girls with Chris and Jamie and grab a flight—?"
"No. Absolutely not."
Her words were worse than any physical blow. "I just want to protect you."
A pause. "I'm sorry." For the first time in a long time, she actually sounded sorry. "I know you're worried. I'm sharing a room with Susie. There's nowhere for you to stay. And I really will be fine."
He stared at his splayed hand. "Fine. Whatever. Just . . . please be careful. I know you don't think he'll hurt you, but if what Alan says is true, it sounds like he was already aggressive with you. If he knows about the memoir, you could be in danger."
He could picture her brushing her hair away from her face while she contemplated his words.
Finally, she spoke. "I'll stay away from the lobby. I'll use the buddy system. Will that make you feel better?"
"I guess so." As long as she didn't decide to be buddies with Alan.
Four
The bedside lamp illuminated a small circle of light, just enough that Amanda wouldn't trip over something and break an ankle walking to the bathroom. Or wake her roommate, who was sleeping off her migraine. The curtains blocked out the view and the damp night, and images flickered from the television. She'd turned the volume so low, it was barely audible. Not that she was interested in the fixer-upper show the TV had landed on when she'd tired of flipping through the channels. She'd lived the whole fixer-upper thing for over a year. She didn't need the reminder. Didn't matter anyway. Nothing would take her focus off her run-in with Gabriel.
She didn't want to think about that anymore. Seeing him had brought back raw emotions, that yucky feeling his touch always left on her skin. The shower hadn't helped. Even now as she hugged her sweater closer, she felt dirty. Grimy, like an old stove top, tacky from years of grease and neglect.
She'd thought writing the memoir had washed the filthiness away. Ten minutes with Gabriel, and she was that girl again.
She shuddered, shook her head, and pushed the thought away.
She could just make out the various items on the bureau across from her—some jewelry, a scarf, and a couple of books she'd picked up in the conference bookstore on the second floor. Other than personal items, the room looked like a thousand other hotel rooms in New York City.
Her stomach growled. Apparently half a latte wasn't a suitable substitute for dinner.
Susie snored.
Hungry as she was, she wasn't going anywhere tonight, not with Gabriel Sheppard skulking about. She hadn't thought it possible she could hate him more.
Thank God for Alan. After her conversation with Mark, Amanda had been anxious to get back to her room, to process it all. Alan had insisted on escorting her. Now, three hours later, the walls in this dark, gloomy space were closing in on her.
But she wouldn't leave. She couldn't. What if Gabriel found her again?
Resigned, she padded across the room in stocking feet, grabbed the leather-bound book the hotel provided, and carried it back to the bed, where she sat Indian style against the pillows and found the room service menu. What a joy. She could get a dry cheeseburger and soggy fries for twenty-five dollars or a lousy pizza for twenty.
As she reached for the telephone, someone knocked at her door.
Her hand froze. Maybe . . . maybe the knock was on her neighbor's door. She climbed off the bed and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. If it were Gabriel, what would she do? Call 9-1-1? No, she'd call the lobby. And tell them . . . what?
A second knock sounded, louder.
Cold fear slithered down her spine. She tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole. Not Gabriel. She blew out the breath she'd been
holding and watched a distorted Alan check his watch. She turned the handle and pulled the door open.
"Hey."
Amanda put her finger to her lips. "Shh. My roommate's asleep." She stepped outside the room, leaving her foot in the door so she wouldn't get locked out.
Alan smiled. "I thought I'd check on you. You look . . ." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Did I scare you?"
She shrugged. "Not your fault." Amanda ran shaking fingers through her hair, wondering what she looked like after an hour spent propped against pillows. "You mostly surprised me."
"I wanted to make sure you're okay. Are you going to dinner with your roommate?"
Amanda looked behind her at the door and turned back to Alan. "I don't think so. I was about to order room service."
"Well, I happen to know a great Italian place right down the street. If you don't mind getting a little wet, you could join me. I hate to think of you trapped in your room all night."
"It's okay. I don't need a babysitter."
Alan smiled. "I'm sure you don't, but I wouldn't mind the company."
Amanda pictured the paltry room service menu lying on her bed. She stifled the twinge of guilt. Mark wouldn't care, not really, and it's not like it was a date or anything. One meal to keep her from going stir-crazy.
"Why not? Let me get my shoes."
Seated in the restaurant a few blocks from the hotel, Amanda looked out the window beside their booth, seeing little but her own reflection in the glass. She wished they'd been seated near the back and half-expected to see Gabriel walk in the door. She shivered, soggy from the drizzle, the huge puddle she'd inadvertently stepped in on the sidewalk, and the thought of him finding her again.
"Sorry about that." Alan slid into the booth across from her. He dropped his phone into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. "My office."
She turned to him and smiled. "No problem."
He took a sip of his red wine and set the glass back on the table. "Obviously the waitress came back. I should've given you my order."
"I'm in no hurry."
Dean Martin's voice filled the small space, likening amore to moons and pizza pies as Alan studied the menu. Beside their booth, a group of eight young adults had pushed together two tables. Their laughter occasionally drowned out the music and the other conversations going on around them. If only Alan would pick something. She stared at the candle flickering inside the red, round candle holder in the center of the table and folded and refolded her napkin. This wasn't a date. So why was she so nervous?
He set the menu on top of hers. "I'm getting spaghetti. What'd you decide on?"
"Same thing."
"Oh yeah? I figured you'd get something complex, more . . . professional, being a chef and all."
She shook her head. "Nah. I prefer simple dishes, and great restaurants can make the simplest dishes delicious."
"I agree. Their spaghetti's really good." He took a sip of his wine and swirled what was left of the contents in the glass. "This isn't how I thought I'd spend my evening."
"You probably had plans."
"I'd planned to pick up take-out and go home."
"You live in New York?"
"Most of my adult life. This is where the publishers are, you know."
"I guess this conference is convenient for a lot of people."
"I prefer out-of-town conferences. They make it a nice break from the city. Ah, here we are."
The waitress took their orders. Amanda watched her walk away before turning her attention back to Alan. "I'm surprised you didn't plan to have dinner with any of your clients tonight."
"I just moved to Martindale Books. I don't have a big list of clients yet, and none of them is here this weekend."
"I thought you worked at Mercury-Concord."
Alan tented his fingers. They were trembling slightly, long and slender, only marred by a slight scar that ran the length of the middle knuckle on his right hand. Amanda rubbed the scar on her own thumb and pushed away the memory of the car accident.
"I used to."
"Mercury-Concord is my publisher."
Alan snapped his fingers. "Of course. That's why your name is familiar. Is Tim your editor?"
"Uh-huh. What kinds of projects do you work on?"
"Mostly fiction. That's one of the reasons I left Mercury—they're moving away from fiction, finding more success in their other lines. I prefer fiction myself. I'm very good at seeing things that aren't real." He chuckled and continued. "You're one of their successes. How'd you get started writing cookbooks?"
Amanda settled back in her seat. She hadn't heard her publisher was moving away from fiction, but Alan would know more about that than she did. "It's just the one cookbook right now, but I'm working on a second." She sipped her wine. "After I married, we bought this old farmhouse, and my husband remodeled it. He built me a huge, professional kitchen, complete with enough room for ten barstools around my long bar—twenty if needed. I was working as a chef, which meant a lot of nights. After our first daughter was born, I quit my job and used my new kitchen to give cooking lessons in the evenings, when Mark could be home to help. That way I never had to put my babies in daycare."
The waitress set their plates of spaghetti on the table. That was fast. No made-to-order here. Amanda swirled her spaghetti in the sauce and took a bite. Too much oregano, light on the garlic, and it tasted burnt.
Alan finished a bite and set his fork down. "You like it?"
"Yes, it's very good." Okay, very good was an exaggeration, but she could stomach it, and she didn't want to hurt his feelings. Sometimes being a cook had its disadvantages. She grabbed a roll from the basket between them, buttered it, and popped a bite-sized piece into her mouth, where it melted in warm, salty goodness. The roll more than made up for the spaghetti.
He set his fork down. "So, cooking lessons?"
She wiped her fingers on her napkin. "At first it was just neighbors and friends, but then people started to hear about me, and I branched out. I'd do a theme—how to cook French food or something—and find a group who wanted to take the class. They'd pay a fee, and I'd fix a three- or four-course dinner and teach while I cooked."
"What a great idea."
"It worked for me. And then I started the blog. I got to where I had to turn groups down because I was so busy, and I earned a lot more than I ever did working at restaurants. Plus, I got to be home."
"But what about the cookbook?"
"Right. I was teaching a class one night when a student told me I ought to write a cookbook. I'd built up a pretty big following on my blog. I had a lot of good recipes. I thought, what the heck? And when I was finished, I sent the book to the woman who'd suggested it. She liked it. Lucky for me, that woman was Roxanne Richardson."
He laughed. "No kidding. Is she your agent?"
"She is."
Alan nodded slowly and took a sip of his drink. He set the glass down, leaned forward on his elbows, and opened his mouth. Then he closed it again. His lips were full and pink and turned down at the corners. "I get the feeling, after talking to your husband today, that he wouldn't approve of us having dinner together."
"Definitely not, but . . ." She set her fork on the edge of the dinner plate. Her stomach twisted at the mention of her husband. Nerves or guilt? Both, no doubt. There was no reason not to tell Alan the truth. It wasn't like he was interested in her romantically or anything. Probably just curious. "We're separated."
His eyes softened and sparkled in the candlelight with hints of green and amber. He was an ordinary looking man, but his eyes were slightly mesmerizing. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Thank you." She was sorry, too. Sorry her dreams had been shattered so thoroughly. Sorry to see her marriage crumbling like over-cooked cake. "It was my decision."
They worked on their dinners for a few minutes. She asked about his career, and he told her of his lifelong dream to work in publishing. As he spoke, he no longer seemed the slight, paunchy man she'd flagg
ed down in the hotel's lobby. His eyes brightened when he discussed his work. His face was roundish, unimpressive, until he flashed his smile and showed his dimples.
It wasn't until their plates were removed that he shifted the subject back to her. "I'm sorry, but I sort of overheard your conversation with Mark. Did I hear you say something about a memoir?"
Anxiety twirled in her stomach like batter in her KitchenAid. She would have to get used to talking about her memoir if she were going to publish. But sharing it now, with Alan—that didn't feel safe. "You don't want to hear about that."
"Is Mercury going to publish it?"
She shook her head. "Tim doesn't like memoirs. I'm looking around."
"Maybe it's something I'd be interested in."
She swirled the last swallow of red wine in her glass to give her fingers something to do. "I thought you said you were working on fiction."
"Fiction and narrative nonfiction. I love memoirs."
Amanda finished the last sip of her wine, buying time. She hadn't been thinking of Alan as an editor, she'd been thinking of him as a man.
He leaned back in his chair. "If it makes you uncomfortable . . ."
She set her glass down and tried to smile. "I feel funny pitching my book to you after everything that happened today."
He nodded slowly. "Yeah, we're beyond pitching. But I'd like to hear about it."
Was she stupid enough to make the same mistake twice? After she'd told Mark the truth about her past, everything had changed between them. The way he looked at her after that . . . No, things would never be the same with Mark, no matter how many times he claimed he still loved her. She could see the rejection in his eyes. Why would she put herself through that again?
On the other hand, she was at the conference to pitch her memoir. Alan wasn't Mark. Not telling him about it would be pretty stupid, considering he was an editor. And if she got it published, the story would be out there for everyone to read.
And maybe it was smarter to start this . . . friendship or whatever was happening with Alan . . . with the truth. But did she dare?
"Tell you what," Alan said. "You're obviously uncomfortable. Why don't you email it to me?"
Finding Amanda Page 4