Of course, if he was Simon, chances were good that he would be looking for a new agent when all this was over. Chances were very good that whatever trust he’d placed in Rebecca would be lost. Maybe she was naïve, but Teryl liked to think that she was as capable of acting as his agent as anyone else. Simon Tremont was such a valuable commodity that there was little negotiating to do. Morgan-Wilkes came to the contract table with one simple question: What can we do to keep Simon happy? Rebecca always gave a reasonable answer, and Morgan-Wilkes always agreed. After all, if they didn’t, there were plenty of other publishers out there who would. Over the years, John—Simon, she corrected herself—had shown no inclination for making unreasonable demands, and she was perfectly capable of presenting whatever requests he did have.
Or maybe, her thoughts continued, maybe John would offer something else, something better than working for him or with him, something far more personal and, potentially, far more satisfying. Maybe he would offer her an affair. Maybe she could be his lover… his mistress… or more.
If he was sane. If he really was Simon Tremont. If she helped him prove it.
Pulling into her usual parking space, she turned off the engine and got out. Rebecca’s Mercedes was in the space closest to the house. It was as beautiful and flawless as the day she’d driven it off the lot. The only thing it shared in common with her own beat-up little Honda was four wheels and two seats. The Mercedes was pure luxury, while the Honda… She glanced at all its dents and dings as she circled around it. The Honda had definitely seen better days.
She let herself in the back door, then locked it once more. The neighborhood was as safe as any in the city, but keeping the doors locked was never a bad idea for six women working alone in a big house. The lock secured, she turned down the hall toward her office, but the closer she got, the more her steps slowed. No doubt Rebecca was in her own office, which, like Teryl’s, faced the parking lot. No doubt she had seen Teryl drive up and was waiting to pass judgment on Teryl’s behavior of the last week. As anxious as Teryl was to find out if she still had a job, she was equally anxious to put off finding out that maybe she didn’t.
She was through her office door and almost in her chair when the summons came. “Teryl, could I see you in here?”
With a sigh, she left her purse on the desk, then went the few yards down the hall to her boss’s larger, more elegantly appointed office. “Good morning, Rebecca,” she greeted her gravely.
“Have a seat, Teryl.”
“I was just going to start the coffee,” she fibbed. “If you’ll give me just a minute…”
“The coffee can wait. Please sit down.”
Oh, jeez. Rebecca never started a workday without a cup of her special blend of coffee. It was one of her little luxuries. Expecting the worst, Teryl moved away from the door and seated herself in the chair directly across the desk from her boss. “I know you’re upset,” she said, launching immediately into her apology. “My behavior was inexcusable, and you would be perfectly justified in firing me, but—”
Rebecca interrupted. “Are you all right?”
The question surprised Teryl as much as the solicitous tone it was voiced in. “All right?” she echoed. “Uh… yes, I’m fine.”
“You enjoyed New Orleans.”
“Yes, it—it was wonderful.” Her smile was uneasy and tinged with guilt. “I didn’t want to leave.”
“Obviously.” Rebecca’s own smile was brief and gave away nothing. “What did you think of the great Tremont?”
Teryl felt a little of the tension that stretched her muscles ease away. “I thought the interview went pretty well, considering. I thought—”
“Considering what?”
The tension returned. “That it was his first interview ever. That he’s been such a loner for the last eleven years. That it was such a high-pressure situation to be thrown into without experience.”
“And that he’s a pompous, egotistical ass who’s nauseatingly full of himself.” Rebecca laughed at Teryl’s surprise. “Sheila Callan told me that he blamed the failings and problems in the interview on Tiffany Marshall. She wasn’t bright enough, talented enough, or good enough to show him at his best. Naturally, none of the fault was his. Other than the interview, what did you think?”
Teryl searched for just the right words. What she came up with was less than impressive. “He was… interesting.”
“Ah. Damning with faint praise. He was a disappointment to you, wasn’t he?”
“He wasn’t quite what I expected.”
“Did you talk to him much?”
What was the point of all the questions? Teryl wondered. Had Simon complained to Rebecca about her behavior in New Orleans? Had he been more annoyed than he’d let on by her failure to show up for breakfast as he had directed? That was just what she needed—the agency’s single most important client personally unhappy with an assistant who could be replaced in the blink of an eye. While Rebecca just might overlook Teryl granting herself two days off, there was no way she would forgive the incredible rudeness Teryl had shown in standing up the client who kept them all in business. The only conditions Rebecca had placed on her when okaying the trip was that she stay out of the way, not cause trouble, and not act starstruck. Well, she hadn’t acted starstruck, and she had certainly stayed out of the way—unfortunately, even at a time when her presence had been required. If Simon had complained to Rebecca, then she had certainly caused trouble.
“No,” she replied, her voice quiet and unsure. “Only for a moment before the interview, a moment after, and a little in the lobby the next morning before he left.”
“Did you see him alone?”
“No, not really. He started to suggest that we go sight-seeing together Tuesday evening, but Sheila said they had to go over the tape.”
Rebecca paused as if it were now her turn to seek the right words. “He didn’t make any… improper advances, did he?”
“Advances?” Teryl’s throat was tight, and her following response completely tactless. “Thank God, no.” Then she blushed. “I mean… No, he didn’t, not at all.”
“So it’s safe to assume that he wasn’t the reason you decided to stay over in New Orleans.”
For a moment Teryl simply stared at her; then, struggling against a giggle, she replied, “No. No, he had nothing to do with my stay.” But that wasn’t true, she realized, and the urge to laugh faded. Simon had everything to do with the events of the last week. He was the reason she’d gone to New Orleans. He was the reason John had approached her in the first place. Simon was the reason John had gone back to the hotel with her, the reason he had gone to bed with her, the reason he had kidnapped her. Everything that had happened to her in the last week led straight back to one person: Simon Tremont.
In spite of Rebecca’s apparent concern, Simon hadn’t made any improper advances to Teryl… but he had gotten her laid.
“You can’t blame me for wondering,” Rebecca was saying in her own defense when Teryl forced her attention back to her. “In your heart you’ve been a Tremont groupie ever since you picked up his very first book. Being worshiped and adored by a pretty, young thing like you is a powerful aphrodisiac to a man, and Simon does like wielding his power.” She paused. “Then Debra Jane didn’t exaggerate. There was a mystery man.”
Teryl’s blush returned, but she said nothing.
“I’m trying to imagine the man who could make you change your plans on the spur of the moment, forget about your obligations, and spend a few reckless days with him. He must have been incredible.”
Teryl thought about the conversation she and John had shared Tuesday evening, about the kiss he’d given her on the street, and the caresses in the backseat of the cab. She thought about the way they’d made love—his passion, her hunger, his need—and the way he’d held her afterward until she’d fallen asleep. Yes, incredible was a perfect description for that John. Handsome, sweet, charming, incredible.
It wasn’t a bad descriptio
n for the John she’d found herself with the next day. He was all those things and more—delusional, criminal, desperate—and yet still incredible.
“Do you think you’ll ever see him again?”
“Yeah, I think I might.” She tried not to squirm or look guilty. It wasn’t a lie exactly; she would see John again. But in not saying so definitely rather than hinting at the possibility, in not admitting that he had come home with her, that he was, at that very moment, living in her house, she was definitely misleading her boss.
“With my luck, you will get together again, you’ll fall in love, and you’ll move off to New Orleans with him.” Rebecca laughed again. “Only you, Teryl, could turn a one-night stand into a relationship.”
Oh, she and John had a relationship, all right, just not the sort her boss was referring to. She seriously doubted that any two people in the world had exactly the sort of relationship she and John were currently sharing. Only she could get herself into such a mess.
“Now…” Rebecca’s tone was brisk and professional. “About last week…”
Was this where she got fired, warned, or simply admonished? She didn’t wait to find out. “I’m sorry about that, Rebecca. I behaved irresponsibly. I don’t even understand why. I’ve never done anything like that in my life, and I’m so sorry, but I can promise it won’t happen again.”
Her boss studied her for a moment and evidently found her sincere. “Everyone’s entitled to a mistake now and then. Yours didn’t really cost us anything. But if there’s a next time—”
“There won’t be.”
“If there is, it’ll also be the last time. Do you understand?”
She nodded unhappily.
“All right.” With those two words, Rebecca put the issue behind them, then smiled. “How about that coffee you mentioned? I’ve been dying for a good cup for about a week now.”
On her way to the kitchen, Teryl whispered a silent prayer of thanks. With her job secure, that meant one less problem with John. If she’d gotten fired, she would have blamed him, would have probably told Rebecca everything in an effort to hold on to her job, even though her boss probably wouldn’t have believed her. John would have felt guilty for it and would have promised that he’d make it up to her when all this was over.
As she measured coffee beans into the grinder, she wondered exactly how he intended to make things up to her, as he’d repeatedly said he would. Yesterday he’d said something about money, about giving her Tremont’s signature on anything from books to checks. If he really were Simon Tremont, he could reward her richly out of his pocket change… but if he really were Simon, she wouldn’t want any rewards merely for doing what was right.
She doubted, though, that he had the wherewithal to pay even a small reward. He didn’t exactly fit her image of an obscenely rich man. His wardrobe consisted of faded jeans and cotton shirts. He didn’t drive a luxury car, didn’t wear any jewelry other than an inexpensive wristwatch, didn’t spend money any more freely than she did on her tight budget.
But then, the other Simon, the one who had appeared on “New Orleans Afternoon,” hadn’t seemed conspicuous in his spending, either. Oh, he’d taken advantage of the best suite in one of the city’s best hotels and the limos and the expensive meals, but that had been at his publisher’s expense. It was always easier and more fun spending someone else’s money. Teryl had thoroughly enjoyed her room in that same fine hotel at agency expense… but if she’d been there on her own, paying her own way, she would have been riding the bus in from the nearest Motel 6.
So spending habits didn’t prove anything. A lot of rich people lived frugally, and a lot of people without money managed to live the good life.
That, she thought with a dreary sigh, was her single biggest problem these days. Nothing proved anything.
When he heard Teryl’s car in the driveway, John closed the legal pad he’d found underneath the kitchen phone book, capped the pen, and got to his feet. It had been a productive morning. While waiting for the bank to open in Denver, he’d gone out and located a place that did quickie passport photos. The resulting picture had been grim, but it had looked like him. It had been more than adequate for his purposes.
Back at Teryl’s—how easily he could come to think of it as home—he had called the bank and spoken to Frank Zarelli. He hadn’t wanted much in the way of personal attention when he’d opened his accounts there eleven years ago, but the bank had been unwilling to let a major depositor go totally ignored. Zarelli had made it a point to meet him, and, for the first time, John was grateful for it.
He would be happy to help him, Zarelli had said, once he received John’s letter and the photograph. As soon as he’d gotten off the phone, John had written the letter, gone to the post office, and sent it and the photo overnight to Denver. The banker had promised to respond in the same manner. John would have his answer—his proof—Wednesday. Then Teryl would have to believe him.
Wouldn’t she?
With business taken care of, it had been a quiet morning with no interruptions—perfect for writing, provided that a person wanted to. He hadn’t been so inclined in longer than he cared to remember. Oh, he had sat down at the computer day after day. He had edited the pages already written and had tried to write new pages, but the words had been hard to come by. Passages that had once flowed as swiftly and effortlessly as the river that gave the nearby town its name had become exercises in futility. Sheer, undiluted torture. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d written anything and, when he went back to reread it, had thought, Hey, this is good.
But today he had written—not much, nothing brilliant, just a few pages that had been much more of a struggle and much less of a success than they should have been. But the point was he had wanted to write something, and he’d done it. For the first time in months, he’d done it.
Maybe it was being alone, really alone, for the first time since taking Teryl from the hotel last week. Maybe it was the tranquillity of her house—the rounded lines, the soft colors, the summer scents. Maybe it was her presence that touched the rooms even though she was gone.
Maybe it was the regretful words she had murmured in her office yesterday afternoon. I don’t know if you can write anything other than your name. He had never cared much about accepting challenges. Tom and Janie had both had that sense of competition that made a challenge impossible to ignore, but not him. If he had, maybe his relationship with his parents would have turned out differently. Maybe, if he had accepted his father’s challenges—to earn better grades, to be an outstanding athlete, to push hard and succeed at all costs—his family would still be intact.
But, no, he couldn’t have let things be so easy. Whenever his father had started a conversation with Why don’t you, Why can’t you, or Why aren’t you, John had immediately tuned out the rest. He’d known all the variations; he’d heard them practically since he was a baby. Why don’t you try harder to make the team? Why can’t you make good grades like your sister? Why aren’t you as popular as your brother? Why won’t you practice, work harder, study more, play less, be nicer, quit arguing, concentrate, work out, grow up, stop being difficult, act your age, show some sense, quit playing dumb? There were dozens of them—all negative, all hurtful, all pointing out just what a disappointment he was.
In a perverse way, he supposed, he had accepted his father’s challenges. George Smith had wanted his second son to be as talented an athlete as the first; John had deliberately cultivated a lack of physical prowess. George had wanted a popular child—a class president, active in clubs, well liked by students and teachers alike; John had looked for and found his friends among the tough kids, the punks who had little respect for themselves and none for anyone else. George had wanted a kid to be proud of; John had given him one to be ashamed of.
Today he had accepted Teryl’s challenge. I don’t know if you can write anything other than your name. He had about fifteen pages here to prove that he could. It wasn’t the best writing he’d ev
er done, but it was far from his worst. Who knew? With a little revising and a little editing, it could turn into the beginning of a new book. He didn’t know where he would go with it, but that wasn’t unusual. He often didn’t know exactly where a story was headed until he’d done a tremendous amount of work on it—notes, plots, and hours of thinking. He did know who that unnamed female character would become, though—knew whom he’d had in mind when he’d begun writing hours ago, knew that Teryl would also recognize her: Liane, the sister from the Thibodeaux books who interested Teryl far more than the more popular character of Philip.
What would Teryl’s reaction to the pages be? Would she like the writing? Would she recognize the style? Would she be intrigued by the situation he’d placed her favorite character in? Or would her first thought be to point out to him that he couldn’t write about someone else’s characters, that the Thibodeauxs belonged to Tremont and were off-limits to him?
Around the corner the back door opened, then closed again with a bang. “Jeez, it’s hot out there,” she said with a sigh when she came into the kitchen. “I wish summer were over and fall was on the way.”
Reaching to the side, he turned the pad upside down. “How would you ever manage New Orleans if you don’t like hot weather?”
She laid the plastic bag she carried on the table, hung her purse by its strap over the back of the chair, then gave him a smile as a belated greeting. It was a friendly smile—sweet, pleasant, nothing more—and it was damned near enough to bring him to his knees. “I think living in New Orleans would be special enough to make putting up with the heat and humidity worthwhile. If you have to be hot, I can’t imagine a better place to do it.” As she began unwrapping the two sandwiches, she looked at him again. “Besides, it’s all hypothetical. I’ll probably never leave Richmond, and even if I do, I’ll certainly never have the kind of money I’d want to live in New Orleans.”
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