He held her, supported her, until the tremors passed, until he’d started to soften and slip free of her. Then he rolled her over, turned off the lamp, and settled her beside him. She snuggled close with a long, satisfied sigh, pressed a kiss to his chest, murmured good night, and, within minutes, was asleep. He held her, stroked her—just flat-out savored her—and, unwillingly, let his thoughts return to one of those unanswerable questions he’d been trying to avoid earlier.
How did a man prove to himself that he deserved to love and be loved?
Before his foot touched the bottom step on his way to the kitchen, Simon knew that someone had been—or was still—in his house. There was no obvious sign—the television wasn’t on, he didn’t hear a voice using the phone, the front door hadn’t been kicked open, there wasn’t a stranger standing in his hallway or comfortable in his living room. In fact, it took him a moment or two to realize just what had alerted him: the light. The hallway that should be dark wasn’t because one of the doors was open and light was spilling into the hall from the lamps inside.
The door that was open led into his office. Someone was in his office.
He moved from the last step to the floor, then slowly started in that direction. Without resorting to demolition, there were only two ways to open that door when it was locked—and it was always locked: by undoing the lock from the inside or with a key from the outside. Considering that he had the only key in his pocket and that splintering a solid wood door would make enough noise to raise the soundest of sleepers, which he wasn’t, how did the intruder get in?
Warily, his muscles tense, his hands hanging unfortunately empty of weapons at his sides, he stepped into the open doorway and immediately saw the answer to his question. A pane from the double-wide windows lay in jagged pieces across the padded seat and the floor below. The resulting hole wasn’t particularly big, but enough for someone to slide his hand through and twist the lock. The black leather jacket tossed across the bench had probably been used to protect the intruder’s hand from cuts and had, as a secondary benefit, helped muffle the sound.
Shit. He should have had a security system put in the day he’d gotten that royalty check, instead of tucking virtually all of the money away in the bank where, if he couldn’t literally take it out and play with it, at least figuratively, by way of his bank statements, he could.
He came farther into the room, a board creaking under his weight, and the high-backed chair that faced his computer slowly moved. He’d stiffened and damned near panicked before it completed its slow spin and he recognized the person seated in it. Anger—no, rage, swift and intense, replaced the panic. He approached slowly, his gaze steely, his hands clenching into fists, then relaxing before clenching again. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’ve been trying to call for hours. I left a dozen messages before you took the phone off the hook. Why didn’t you answer?”
He hated petulance, hated grown people pouting because they didn’t get what they wanted. He’d learned very well that you didn’t wait around for anyone to give you anything; you saw something you wanted, and you took it. If you didn’t have the balls to do that, then piss and whine all you wanted—but not to him. Not in his house. Goddamn it, not in his office.
“I told you not to come out here. I told you I’m working.”
“Working? On your next great Simon Tremont novel? And where’d you get the idea for this one?”
He hated sarcasm, too, especially in reference to his work. For a short, frightening time, he had begun to wonder if he’d burned himself out, if there were no more books inside, but he’d discovered with a great sense of relief that he still had stories to tell. In a roundabout way, he had sweet Teryl to thank for this one. Tiring of debating with himself over whether she was simply trashy or there were extenuating circumstances that made her recent behavior forgivable, he’d begun writing instead. His character—no heroine, Eliza, but a villain and, ultimately, a victim—was a sweet, pretty, damned near virginal young woman who projected innocence and unattainability to the one man who loved her while doing the nasty deed with almost every other man around. Love would turn to frustration, frustration to impotence, and impotence to rage, and soon the man who had wanted only to possess her—only to treasure her—would destroy her… but not before terrorizing her. Not before punishing her. Not before making her suffer.
In the end, maybe he would suffer, too. Maybe, in killing her, he would be killing himself. Maybe her death would release him to live a normal life, free of her evil and poison. Maybe he would discover a taste for the suffering and the killing, or maybe it would drive him insane. Simon didn’t know. At this point, he didn’t care.
All he cared about was that he was writing again and it was good. It was damned good. For pure reading satisfaction, the life and death of Eliza Byrd just might surpass the redemption and rebirth of Colin Summers in Resurrection. It just might be his absolute best work ever.
He stopped at the desk and directed his coldest, cruelest stare at the woman on the other side. “My next book is none of your business.”
“Maybe not… but the last one was. Without me, you never could have written Resurrection. Without me, you may never get the chance to write another Tremont book.” Her smug smile was an invitation to ask why. He knew the game; she had forced him to play it before. He would have to pry the information out of her bit by bit, and the whole time she would be so self-satisfied that the only thing he would really want to do is beat it out of her. The mere thought of slapping that smile away brought some measure of tolerance to him.
“Why do you say that?”
“If you’d answered the phone all those countless times I called, you would already know.”
He had listened to the messages as the machine recorded them, but he’d had no desire to talk to her. She’d been excited, so excited that a time or two, she had slipped and called him by his old name. Stupid bitch. She’d known for months that he intended to fully, totally, legally become Simon Tremont, but she still forgot the name at times. She was worthless… although she had her moments. It was only because of those moments that he still put up with her. If not for them, he would have gotten rid of her long ago.
And he’d made sure she understood that.
With exaggerated patience, he sat down in front of the desk. “What was so important that you filled up the entire message tape on my machine?”
She smiled that damn sick smile again. “You’ve got problems, my friend.”
“Uh-huh.” And the biggest one was sitting across from him now. “What kind of problems?”
“This kind.” She leaned forward, and for the first time he noticed the picture frame she was holding. She straightened the easel and set the silver and brass frame in the center of the desk, the photograph facing him. He didn’t reach out to take it, didn’t show any particular interest in it.
Instead, he waited, and she waited, still smiling, still smug. She outwaited him. “All right, I give in. What’s so special about the picture?”
“Him.” One long, red fingernail tapped the top of the frame above the figure on the left. Simon’s gaze shifted to the fading image of the smiling young man. She was wrong. He wasn’t a problem. He couldn’t be a problem to anyone because he was dead.
Then Debra Jane Howell picked up the frame and glanced at the picture for a moment before tossing it down again. It slid across the desk, teetering on the edge in front of him before stopping. “Simon Tremont,” she said in her most maliciously pleasant voice, “meet Teryl’s mystery lover. Meet John Smith.”
Chapter Fourteen
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, the old saying went, and that was exactly how Teryl felt Tuesday as she left the deli for the two-block walk back to the office. The air conditioner in the restaurant had valiantly done its best to combat the ninety-degree temperatures and the high humidity, but it had lost the battle. It had been uncomfortably warm inside, but, she admitted, it was miserably h
ot out. She could think of much better places to spend muggy days like this—and much better things to do. Like sipping iced tea beside a courtyard fountain in New Orleans. Or climbing to the top of a mountain in Colorado. Or lying naked with John in a cool, dark room right here in Richmond.
She hadn’t spoken to him today, not since he had so expertly demonstrated his fantasy to her in the wee hours of the morning. She had fallen asleep in his arms, and he had been asleep next to her when her alarm had gone off. After shutting it off, she had crawled out from beneath the weight of his arm over her ribs and gotten ready for work without disturbing him. She had thought he might call her when he awoke, and when he didn’t, she’d picked up the phone a half dozen times to call him, but always she’d returned it to the cradle without dialing a single digit. What if she woke him or interrupted him at his writing? Besides, what would she say to him? That even though last night had been the best night in her entire life, she’d found herself having a few small regrets this morning? That she wasn’t sure they should let it happen again, because, well, gee, there was still the very slight chance that he was crazier than hell, and becoming lovers with a crazy man didn’t seem a wise course of action? That she damned well wanted it to happen again and again, because, while he might be crazy, she was too damned close to being in love, and she wanted whatever she could get before he left her, which he seemed determined to do, or got locked up in some mental hospital?
The wisest course of action, she’d decided, was to take her cues from him when she saw him again. If he acted differently toward her—warmer, friendlier, more intimate—then she would act the same. Hell, she thought with a grin, the first time she got him alone, she would strip him naked and do it all over again. She would make up for all the long, celibate times when there had been no man in her life and for all the boring times when sex had been a late-night, in-the-dark, grope-and-fumble that was hardly worth breaking a sweat.
And if he acted as if nothing had changed between them?
Turning onto the block where Rebecca’s Victorian was located, she pushed that thought out of her mind. She wasn’t going looking for heartache. It would find her soon enough. When John got the paperwork he was waiting for. When he left Richmond for New York City. When he gave up the idea of trying to convince Rebecca of who he was and set his sights on Morgan-Wilkes instead. When he left her behind.
He hadn’t set any deadlines, but she knew it was going to happen soon. If he couldn’t convince Rebecca with the sheriff’s report and the banker’s affidavit in hand, he would leave. The affidavit was due to arrive tomorrow, the sheriff’s report sometime soon after. She had a few days, she figured, maybe a week at most. Then he would leave her. He would take care of his business, prove his identity, and reclaim his career, and then he would buy his damned island and go back to the solitude he craved.
Then she wouldn’t have to go looking for heartache. By then it would have taken up permanent residence with her.
Scowling hard, she kicked a stone across the uneven sidewalk, her gaze following it to where it stopped near a pair of scuffed leather tennis shoes. Slowly she looked up, over faded jeans and a white cotton shirt, over long legs, a flat stomach, and broad shoulders that were made for leaning on. By the time her gaze reached John’s face, her scowl had almost disappeared; a smile had almost taken its place.
He was leaning against his truck, parked in one of the two curbside spaces in front of the agency. Had he come to see her or Rebecca? she wondered, then decided that she didn’t care. He had come. That was all that mattered.
Her steps slowed until she came to a stop about five feet in front of him. Exactly a week ago she had behaved shamelessly and wantonly with him on a French Quarter street, and only last night they had made love until neither of them could have endured more, and yet neither time had she felt even a fraction of the shyness that came over her now. She could barely bring herself to meet his eyes, and she could think of nothing to say, nothing to do… besides flinging herself into his arms, kissing him, and pleading for another night like those two nights.
Finally, pushing her hands deep into the pockets of her dress, she spoke. “I don’t believe Rebecca’s back from lunch yet.”
“I’m not here to see Rebecca.”
She smiled just a little. “Good. Have you been waiting long?”
He shook his head. “I had just parked when you came around the corner.”
“If you had come forty-five minutes earlier, I would have let you take me to lunch.”
“Honey, if I had come forty-five minutes earlier, I would have taken you to bed.” He moved away from the fender then, going to the passenger door and opening it. “I know it’s almost time for you to get back to work, so I won’t keep you. I just wanted to bring you something.”
Teryl watched as he hesitated, then reached inside. What he came out with sent a little shiver of anticipation down her spine. The little yellow pad was in pretty shabby shape, wrinkled and crinkled from all his handling. He needed to pick up a computer, she thought, one of those little notebook PCs that weighed next to nothing and were capable of just about anything. One that would fit in a briefcase… or a suitcase. One he could use at her house… or in a hotel… or on some remote deserted island.
Holding on to the binding of the pad, he offered it to her, but didn’t immediately let go. “Read this, will you? I’m not asking you to show it to Rebecca or anything. Just read it and let me know…” Breaking off, he stared at the house next door before finally looking at her again. “With my first book, I thought there was something there—an interesting story, a decent style, something readable—but I couldn’t honestly say without doubt that it was good. Eventually, I learned. I knew whether what I wrote was worth keeping or just garbage. On the rare occasions when it was outstanding, I knew that, too. Then I started working on Resurrection, and I developed this mental block, and…” Again, he broke off, sighing this time. “I think this isn’t bad. I can’t say whether it’s good, but it feels good. Anyway, just read it and let me know if my instincts are getting back on track or if it really is garbage, will you?”
Her fingers closed around the bottom of the pages. “I don’t know that my opinion is worth anything, but…”
“This one’s for you. Your opinion is the only one that counts.”
His smile was uneasy, more than a little embarrassed, and it gentled her own smile. “Do you want me to read it right now?”
“No. Take it to your office.”
She pulled the pad from his fingers, but resisted the urge to flip it open right there, to start reading right then. He started to turn away then, but she called him back. “John?”
He gave her a questioning look.
“I have fifteen minutes of my lunch hour left. Want to find a private spot and help me pass the time?” She was teasing, of course, and he knew it. Still, it coaxed a grin from him, and it brought him a few steps closer.
“A request for privacy from the woman who seduced me on a public street and damned near finished the job in a taxi-cab? Isn’t it a little late to develop a sense of modesty?”
“I’ve always been modest.” When he reached for her wrists, she let him take them, let him pull her near. “Besides, you have it backward. You seduced me.”
He raised his hand to her hair, barely touching it, lightly stroking it. “No. You seduced me with your voice and your eyes and your smile. With your innocence and your trust and your openness.” Bending his head, he touched his mouth to hers. It wasn’t a kiss, not really, just a brush, sweet and gentle, mouth to mouth. It was as innocent as a child’s kiss, but it carried a man’s promise. It made her ache.
“You’d better go in now,” he said, withdrawing, circling around the Blazer to the driver’s door. “Be careful coming home. I’ll be waiting.”
Hugging the pad to her chest with both arms, she watched him drive away, waiting until he was no longer in sight before she turned and started up the walk to the porch. In her office,
she closed the door, got comfortable at her desk, and flipped past the top two blank pages to the beginning of John’s work. John’s story. Her story, he’d said.
Half an hour later, she still sat in exactly the same position, one thought circling repeatedly through her head: she had been wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.
Her chest felt tight, her throat clogged, and her eyes were damp, but not because the pages she’d just read were so touching. There were some bittersweet passages and one particularly effective scene, but that wasn’t the reason for her own emotional excess. John was.
I’m sorry, John. Sorry I didn’t believe you, sorry I didn’t have faith in you, sorry I didn’t trust you.
She knew so few things for certain in her life, but she had no reservations whatsoever about this: the man who wrote these pages had also written every single one of the Thibodeaux books. Whatever small uncertainty had survived the last twenty-four hours had vanished in the last thirty minutes. There was no doubt in her mind. None in her heart.
John hadn’t lied. He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t suffering delusions.
He was Simon Tremont.
Sweet Jesus, he was the man she had admired, had worshiped and respected and idolized, all these many years. He was the one who had written those incredibly touching, real, and very scary books that held the place of honor on her shelves at home. He was the man she’d been dying to meet. He wasn’t the crazy man, the impostor, the fraud. He was the stranger who had fulfilled her wicked fantasy in New Orleans.
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