“Are you a fan?” she asked, moving a few steps closer to the man.
At first he seemed startled that he wasn’t alone, but it quickly faded. He glanced at her, looked at Tremont again, then back at her. “I’ve read everything he’s ever written.”
His tone was dry, and he hadn’t answered her question—meaning he wasn’t a fan? she wondered. “You know, he’s probably one of the most talented authors writing in this country today,” she remarked.
That earned her a smile every bit as dry as his last words. “So I’ve heard. Are you his publicist? Cheerleader? Or just a fan yourself?”
She laughed. “I work for Rebecca Robertson, his agent. She let me tag along on this trip on the condition that I stay out of everyone’s way, not cause any trouble, and not act like a starstruck fan.”
“Are you?”
“Starstruck?” She considered her reaction to Simon—her uneasiness, the intensity of her discomfort beneath that unnerving stare of his, her disappointment—and answered in the affirmative anyway. “Absolutely. I’ve read all his books numerous times.” Finding out that Simon was one of Rebecca’s clients had been the highlight of her employment at the Robertson Literary Agency. Actually meeting him was supposed to have been the highlight of her life. Considering how dull and normal her life was, she acknowledged wryly, even with the disappointment, it still might be.
“Tremont… I always figured that was a pseudonym. Is it?”
Teryl shifted her gaze to the set, where Simon, Sheila, and the producer were now talking to the beauty queen. Of course it was a pseudonym, but few people realized it. Most of his readers assumed there really was a man named Simon Tremont tucked away somewhere, turning out best-seller after best-seller. An enterprising soul could find out the name behind the pen name, but Simon’s real name was so common as to be a joke. Every state had dozens, hundreds, of men by that name, and the biography that appeared in his books offered no help. Simon Tremont lives in the western United States.
When he had first approached Rebecca weeks ago about doing publicity for Resurrection, it had been agreed that his name would remain their closely guarded secret. For a time, until the novelty wore off, he would be in great demand. The only way he could hold on to any sort of peace—other than scurrying back to his Colorado mountain retreat—would be with his real name. Simon Tremont would be famous.
John Smith wouldn’t.
That decided, they had gotten into the habit of calling him by his pen name. They didn’t want to risk letting his real name accidentally slip sometime. She had gotten so used to it that lately she’d begun thinking of him as actually being Simon Tremont.
“Tremont is the only name I know for him,” she lied, turning back to the man. “Speaking of names, mine’s Teryl Weaver.” She extended her hand, and, after a moment, he shook it.
“I’m John.”
What a coincidence, she thought wryly—although John probably was the single most common man’s name in the country. “You don’t sound like a native—what is it they call people who live in New Orleans?”
“Lucky,” came his response.
“Don’t I know it. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, and I’ve got to leave in another thirty or so. I’ve been thinking about not sleeping tonight so I can use those extra hours for sight-seeing.”
He gave her a long look, but didn’t respond. It was just as well, because the interview was about to start. The shadowy studio grew even darker, and the lights coned in on the blonde. On cue she smiled a practiced smile and said, “Welcome to ‘New Orleans Afternoon.’ I’m Tiffany Marshall.”
Another smile, a shift to a second camera. “Today we have a very special guest for you. He’s been called the master of the psychological thriller. He’s one of the top-selling authors in the country. He’s written twelve international best-sellers, and lucky thirteen, due in the stores in August, is rumored to be his best work ever. You all know his books and the movies made from them, but until today no one has known the man. Please join me this afternoon in welcoming him for his first interview ever. Ladies and gentlemen, Simon Tremont.”
All in all, Magnolia Blos—Tiffany Marshall was pretty good, Teryl decided. She gave the impression that she might actually have even read one of Simon’s books, an impression that was no doubt courtesy of the producer, a great fan of Tremont’s, who, like John beside her, had read everything Tremont had ever written.
Listening to the interview with half a mind, she turned her head just enough so she could see John. He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but he was better looking than anyone she’d seen lately, including Simon. His hair was sandy blond, his eyes blue, his expression intense. This was a man under a great deal of stress—like everyone she knew in business today. There was always a deadline to beat, a meeting to run, an account to land, a promotion to fight for. She wondered if he ever relaxed. She wondered if he ever smiled. He had the sort of mouth that was made for smiling.
She wondered if he was married.
In the dim light, with his left hand in the shadows, it was impossible to see whether he wore a ring, which, of course, meant nothing. She knew enough men whose wedding rings went into the pocket once they’d left the house—she’d known one entirely too well—and plenty of others who didn’t care enough to try to hide it.
On the set the hostess was smiling prettily at the camera and asking in an obsequious voice, “Why all the secrecy, Simon?”
He shifted in his chair, just getting more comfortable, but the movement made him look edgy. “The books I write are for everyone,” he replied. “They appeal to all ages, all classes, all types. To pull that off, I have to remain in touch with everyday life, with the average American experience. That’s far easier when no one knows who I am. Americans tend to make celebrities out of their authors. For instance, it was announced less than a week ago that I would be doing interviews, and now everyone is interested in seeing me on television. Ten days ago no one cared. Now Barbara Walters is asking to do an entire show about me.” He looked mildly amazed, but Teryl knew from this morning’s meeting that he thought the honor no less than he deserved. His acting skills, it seemed, were almost on a par with his writing skills. “I’m on the network news. And that will surely change the way I see the world, the way I see life. It will surely have to change the way I write.”
Teryl shook her head. She recognized the major part of his spiel from an early Tremont novel, the one about the world-famous actor who had lived and worked shrouded in secrecy, who had made a fortune playing anonymous roles behind masks or heavy makeup. Still, there was a certain truth to it. His life was going to change. Exactly how depended on him. How much adulation could he embrace? How much worship could he accept without letting it go to his head? Just how much could his ego grow before it became unbearable?
And how would it affect his writing? His books were successful, in part, because he put ordinary people in ordinary situations, then let extraordinary things happen to them. After all the interviews, all the adoration, all the praise, would he still be able to relate to those ordinary people? Or would he lose touch with them, lose touch with the strength that had brought him such fame?
She waited for the obvious question: If coming out will change the way you write, then why are you doing it? Why are you tampering with what’s proven enormously successful for eleven years? She assumed she knew the answer already—the man had an enormous ego; he had enjoyed the fortune for eleven years, and now he wanted to bask in the fame—but she would be interested in hearing his answer anyway.
But Tiffany merely continued the interview, harmless questions, harmless answers. It didn’t get any better than that one reply, which he’d written years ago and had come close to memorizing word for word. The rest of the questions were simple or silly, his answers stilted and uninspired.
But he would get better. Sheila would work with him, and as he got more comfortable with the interview process, as he graduated to more accomplished intervie
wers, he would get better.
When it was over, she turned to John. She wasn’t sure exactly why—to ask his opinion, to try once again to see if he wore a wedding ring, or just to get another look at him—but he was gone. Somehow, while her attention had been on Tremont, the best-looking guy she’d seen in a long while had slipped away without her even noticing.
That was the kind of luck she had, she thought with a wistful sigh. And D.J. thought two nights in New Orleans and her wicked little survival kit could change all that. Her friend was too optimistic by a mile.
Turning back, she saw Simon approaching her. He didn’t look nervous, as she would have, or glad to have the ordeal over with. Instead, there was a hint of annoyance deep in his expression that made her wish, for one uncharitable moment, that she had disappeared along with John.
“What did you think?”
She smiled a bit. “It was fine. You were fine.”
“It should have been better.”
She was about to reassure him—Simon, it was your first interview; you’ll learn—when he continued.
“I was all in favor of doing the interview here because of the connection with the New Orleans books, but I should have insisted on a more capable interviewer. They can’t expect brilliance when I have to work with talent like that.”
Teryl’s smile froze in place. His arrogance was another part of her disappointment in him, part of the unpleasant surprise of the man as opposed to the ideal she had admired so long. In reading and rereading his novels, she had never suspected an arrogant Simon Tremont. She had known that he had to be aware of the tremendous talent he possessed, but she had never sensed this.
“Oh, well…” He brushed it off with an impatient gesture. “What do you have planned for the rest of the evening?”
“I thought I’d go sight-seeing—head down to the French Quarter.”
“Sounds like fun. How about if I join you—”
Rescue came in the form of Sheila Callan. “Not so fast, Simon.” Holding a videotape in one hand, she slipped her free arm through his. “A tape of the show. We can use it to prepare for the next interview. We want you to be perfect next time out.” The woman spared only the briefest of dismissive glances for Teryl. “We won’t need you tonight, Teryl. Enjoy playing tourist.”
She was about to make her escape when Simon stopped her. He didn’t touch her, but merely raised his hand as if he were going to. It was enough to keep her in place against the wall. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
Another forced smile. “Of course.” She was taking an evening flight home, while both Simon and Sheila were scheduled to leave at 9:00 A.M., but she would spare a few minutes to bid them farewell in the hotel lobby.
“Breakfast?” he suggested. “In the courtyard? At seven?”
Inwardly wincing, she agreed, then immediately felt guilty, because that steely gaze of his could see her reluctance. She was convinced of it. Besides, it wasn’t as if he were a thoroughly unlikable person. He just had some rough edges that needed smoothing. He’d lived alone up there in his mountains for so very long that he’d forgotten how to relate to people. Maybe he’d never been very good at it; maybe that was partly why he had locked himself in such solitude in the first place.
Compensating, she offered a warmer acceptance. “I’d love to have breakfast with you. I’ll meet you there.”
After another moment’s scrutiny, he nodded, broke the contact, and walked away, Sheila at his side, and Teryl gave a soft sigh of relief. The interview had gone as expected, it was a warm day, and she had the rest of the evening free. She was going down to the French Quarter, and she was going to have some fun. She was going to make the most of her last night in the city.
She hadn’t gone more than twenty feet when someone called her name. Turning, she saw John once again. This time they were in the well-lit hallway, and she could see that he definitely was not wearing a wedding band—and, if his tan was anything to judge by, he never had worn one. At least, not in a very long time.
“Where are you headed?”
“The French Quarter.”
“Alone?”
She nodded.
“Want some company?”
She hesitated only a moment. She was a bright woman. She knew better than to go off with a strange man, but it was early June in New Orleans and the Quarter was crowded with tourists. They would never be alone, would never be away from a crowd. What could it possibly hurt?
She accepted his offer, and they left the studio together. It was a six-block walk along Chartres Street to Jackson Square, a walk that he didn’t seem much interested in filling with conversation. She asked him questions, but his answers were vague and insubstantial. He’d lived in New Orleans a while, he admitted, and had come there from somewhere else. He had moved around a lot. She supposed in the TV business, that was often necessary.
“Are you married?” she asked as they crossed yet another narrow and crowded street.
He looked at her and, for the first time, smiled. It was slow and sweet—and, yes, his mouth was very definitely made for smiling. “No, never have been. Are you?”
She shook her head.
“Too busy with your career?”
That made her laugh. “It’s a job, sweetheart, not a career. I’m a glorified receptionist and gofer.”
“But it brought you to New Orleans. Not a bad job.”
“No, it isn’t.” She pushed her hands into the pockets of her shorts. She had opted for comfort this afternoon—knee-length shorts in cream, a white silk blouse, and a vest woven in cream, crimson, and green. She was glad now that she had. The clothing was flattering and cool, and John’s looks were, sometimes when she caught them, hot.
“So why aren’t you married?”
They reached Jackson Square, and for a moment she simply stood motionless on the sidewalk. She could live down here, she decided, in one of those apartments that overlooked the square. She could have breakfast every morning at the Café du Monde, could sit on a bench every day and listen to the music, admire the artists, and watch the tourists. She could be totally lazy. Decadent. Dissolute.
At least for a day or two, before her very small savings account ran dry.
“I met a man,” she said at last as they began moving again. “He was handsome and charming, and he swept me off my feet. We worked together, cooked together, and played together. We slept together and, for a while, on a part-time basis, we even lived together. And then he asked me to marry him. I said yes.” She gave John a sidelong look. “But his wife said no.”
“And so you’re never going to trust a man again.”
That had been exactly her attitude in the beginning. All men were pigs, all men deserved to suffer, all men were unworthy of her trust. In fact, she hadn’t trusted a man since Gregory, not fully. “I just use them for sex.”
“That must make you real popular back home,” he said drily.
“Of course,” she replied with an airy smile, although it was far from the truth. She hadn’t been involved with a man in longer than she cared to recall. The last time she’d been lucky in either her sex life or her social life was ancient history, and that, she decided, was too depressing a subject to linger on now. It was a warm summer evening, she was in the exotic French Quarter, and she was with a handsome man.
Maybe, she thought with another long look at John, just maybe her luck was about to change.
She was lying.
John wasn’t a great judge of people—it wasn’t easy when he was never around anyone—but he knew Teryl Weaver was lying. She wasn’t the kind to indulge in casual sex, no matter what she said. It was in her eyes, in her quick but unsteady smile, in her manner. He wished she was, wished he could say, “Let’s go to your hotel and fuck our brains out,” and know that she would go—damned if he wouldn’t—but she wasn’t the type.
Besides, he wasn’t here to get laid. This was business.
But who said business ruled out a little pleasure?
&
nbsp; He wondered what she knew about the man passing himself off as Simon Tremont. He wondered just how involved a glorified receptionist and gofer was in the business of the Robertson Agency. At the very least, she would have access to the files. She would be able to tell him where the new Simon lived. She would know where his royalties—where John’s royalties—were being sent.
That man… John hadn’t known what to expect when he had bribed his way into the studio—an apology, perhaps, accompanied by an admission from Morgan-Wilkes that it had all been a hoax. He hadn’t expected that man—that completely normal-looking man who had sat there with the pretty hostess talking as if he were Simon Tremont, acting as if he believed it himself.
Maybe he did. If he was crazy enough to come up with such a plan and crazy enough to put it into action, maybe he was crazy enough to believe his own lies.
He’d looked so unimportant, as unremarkable and everyday-average as John himself. He didn’t look brilliant or crazy or tremendously talented. He didn’t look dangerous. He didn’t look like the kind of person who would even read a book like Resurrection, much less be able to write it.
But, according to Candace Baker at Morgan-Wilkes, he had written it.
And, according to Candace, it was the best book Simon Tremont had ever done.
He had taken John’s book—his story, his idea—his life, damn it—and had done it better. Better? Hell, John hadn’t even been able to finish his.
He had looked so normal, so sane. Who would believe that he’d moved into John’s life? That he had destroyed John’s home? Who would believe that he was capable of even formulating such a plan: choose a reclusive writer, learn his books, master his style, locate him, acquire his outline for his next book, write the book, and steal his life? Who would believe that he had—so far—been successful in carrying it out?
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