by Heather B. Moore, Kaylee Baldwin, Annette Lyon, Jennifer Moore, Shannon Guymon, Sarah M. Eden
In the distance, the strains of “That’s Amore” floated down to them from the restaurant.
Alex bit her lower lip. “You know, it’s already been pretty awesome. And you’re right; we owe it to fate to give it a try.”
Annette Lyon is a Whitney Award winner, a two-time recipient of Utah’s Best of State medal for fiction, and a four-time recipient of publication awards from the League of Utah Writers. She’s the author of more than a dozen novels, about that many novellas, over 120 magazine articles, and other publications. It’s safe to say that she uses her cum laude English degree pretty much every day. In addition to fiction, she writes about grammar and chocolate, but she prefers eating the chocolate.
Find her online:
Website: AnnetteLyon.com
Blog: blog.annettelyon.com
Twitter: @AnnetteLyon
Facebook: Facebook.com/AnnetteLyon
Chapter One
AnneMarie peeked through a crack between the heavy curtains. The size of the audience filling the theater made her heart pound and her throat go dry. A trickle of sweat rolled down her back, and she hoped the thick layer of deodorant she’d applied in her dressing room would live up to the advertiser’s guarantee.
Feeling someone come up behind her, she turned to see Bob, the stage manager.
“Remember to look at the camera once in a while, smile, be yourself, and relax.” Bob spoke in the routine tone that indicated he’d given the same instructions hundreds of times before. “No coughing or sneezing once your mike is on, and remember, don’t stare at the playback screens while you’re onstage.” He fiddled with the small microphone attached to her collar, then pointed at the cameras where AnneMarie watched the ageless face of Clyde DeVille, the host of The After-Hours Show joking with the audience.
His monologue ended, and at the sound of audience applause, AnneMarie’s heart tightened.
“Our first guest,” Clyde went on, “is a prize-winning author of four novels in her best-selling series, A Scoundrel’s Embrace.” He paused and waggled his eyebrows.
A woman yelled, “I love you, Gaston!”
The audience laughed.
“Sounds just like my wife,” Clyde said, and the audience laughed again. “The final book of the series, The Rogue of the Masquerade Ball, will be released tomorrow…”
The stage manager adjusted the box attached to the waistband at the back of AnneMarie’s skirt, then raised a finger in front of his lips to indicate the microphone was on. “You ready?” he mouthed, and without waiting for a reply, parted the curtain and gave her a gentle push onto the main stage.
At her appearance, Clyde gestured toward her. “Everyone, please welcome AnneMarie Sinclair.”
AnneMarie blinked at the bright stage lights and the noise of applause. She faltered, momentarily paralyzed as her eyes swept across the large crowd, all watching her. How had her agent, Sue, managed to arrange something like this? She’d never done a television interview before, let alone a late-night talk show, even if it was only a local cable station.
Remember, this is an amazing opportunity. She scolded herself, trying to restart her brain. Please don’t faint in front of the citizens of California. Another bead of sweat slid down her spine. Taking a deep breath, she clenched her trembling hands into fists and smiled, walking as confidently as she could across the stage, up the few steps to the raised sitting area, where Clyde, his perfectly coiffed hair, and signature white smile waited for her.
He is that handsome in real life.
The host shook her hand, fake-kissed her cheek, and swept his palm graciously toward the couch, waiting while she took her seat before sitting in the chair next to her.
AnneMarie crossed her legs, then uncrossed her legs. She scooted forward, smoothing her skirt, and turned her knees to the side. Glancing at the playback screen, she slid back on the seat, crossing her legs again.
Get ahold of yourself and stop fidgeting. She took another deep breath and held her hands in her lap as the audience finished applauding.
“Thanks for being on the show, AnneMarie.” Clyde said.
“Thank you for having me.” She hoped her smile didn’t look as phony as it felt. What she wouldn’t have given to be watching this from the comfort of her own couch with a cup of cocoa and her fuzzy slippers. She glanced at the playback screen again, it was nearly impossible not to, and sat straighter to keep her blouse from bunching around her waist, then turned to Clyde.
“So how are things?” he asked.
“Things are good.” That’s how he’s opening his interview?
“So, have you been to Los Angeles before?”
She nodded, putting on the animated public-speaking face. “I have, a few times. I love the city and the beach, but California’s quite a culture shock for a farm girl from Aberdeen, Idaho.”
“I believe it.” He leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair between them and nodded with a casual smile, obviously trying to put her at ease. “So, this is your first time on the show, and from what my producers tell me, you’re an intensely private person… which means we have so much to talk about.” He chuckled at his own joke.
His cheeks didn’t wrinkle when he smiled.
AnneMarie wondered if he was going to ask anything about her writing. Her high-school journalism class had conducted better interviews.
“Would you tell us a little about yourself?”
“Well, as I said, I live in the same small town where I was born. Let’s see, when I’m not writing or reading, I like to go to movies, or for long walks, or out to dinner with friends.” She nearly rolled her eyes at how supremely boring it all sounded. Too bad she didn’t have the nerve to just make something up. As a fiction writer, she could have come up with hundreds of interesting scenarios. She kept the smile on her face and watched Clyde expectantly, waiting for his next question. She hadn’t given him much to work with.
“Some of your books have exotic settings. Do you travel for research?”
“Not really. I do most of my research in the library and on the internet.” And by most she meant all.
Even more boring.
“And are you single? Married? Seeing anyone?”
She shook her head and uncrossed her legs, tucking one ankle behind the other. “No, not right now.”
“But I’d imagine you don’t become a best-selling romance novelist without having any experience with love. Am I right?”
AnneMarie squinted and tilted her head slightly; her smile started to feel strained. Where is he going with this?
Clyde reached behind his chair and picked up a copy of one of her books: Fires of Destiny. He showed the cover to the audience, waited for their applause to die down, then opened it, pulling out a strip of paper that marked a page. “My wife chose something for me to read.” He twisted his lips in a playful smile, which elicited an appreciative chuckle from the audience.
AnneMarie kept her pathetic imitation of a pleasant expression on her face, but her insides writhed. Nothing was worse than hearing someone else read your words aloud.
How did Sue talk me into this?
Clyde cleared his throat. “‘Emeline swooned, and Rowan caught her easily, sweeping her into his strong embrace. She leaned her cheek against his powerful chest as his stallion galloped toward the chateau. Though he was a wealthy baron, and she but a milk maid, from the first moment, as their eyes had met across the crowded tavern, their souls were bound, and true love had intertwined their destinies.’” He closed the book, and swept one arm as he bowed to the applause and good-natured laughter at his presentation.
She tried to hold her smile, knowing full well that he’d read the words with a hint of sarcasm. Remember, this is an amazing opportunity.
Clyde turned back to her. “I’m sure the one question on our viewers’ minds is this: Do your words come from personal experience? Have you ever been in love?” He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin on his palm.
AnneMarie considere
d a moment before answering. “Well, first of all, my novels are fiction, but it would be difficult to write about feelings I’ve never experienced.” She slid her hands under her legs and raised her shoulders in a shrug. “Yes, I have been in love.”
“Let me guess— a sizzling affair with a cowboy from back home? A fling with a professor in college?”
“No, nothing like that.” She took a breath, wondering exactly how much to say. Here was one area where she wasn’t completely uninteresting. And it had been ten years ago, so why not share it? “It was a summer romance right after high school.”
“Your high school sweetheart?” Clyde prodded.
AnneMarie shook her head. “We met at a fine arts workshop at California State in Sacramento. They drew students from all over the country on scholarship. He played the guitar, and I took a poetry course.” She could feel heat spreading over her cheeks and wondered if her skin looked splotchy on camera. “He was perfect, and I was crazy about him.” She gave a small smile at the memory.
“And what happened?”
“Summer ended, and we… went our separate ways.” The constriction in her throat surprised her. “I went to college. He focused on his band. And that was it.” She shrugged and tried to smile, forcing herself to look at Clyde and pretending that she didn’t still feel an ache in her chest and a burn of guilt. But would anything have changed if she’d gone to his concert that night?
The audience aah-ed.
“And you never saw him again?” Clyde spoke in a soft voice, which just made the itching behind her eyes worse.
Seriously, am I going to ruin this whole interview by crying?
She cleared her throat. “I wanted to keep in touch, but… well, it got complicated. Anyway, you asked about inspiration and that’s where a lot of mine comes from. That’s why I write romance. Reality doesn’t always end happily ever after. Even when you meet your soulmate. Even when you fall in love. Sometimes it doesn’t work out. Sometimes life gets in the way.”
Sometimes you’re too afraid.
“What about since then? Who was the next lucky guy to break your heart?” Clyde opened his eyes wide.
Back to boring. She cursed the blush on her cheeks. “Well, I’ve dated and had a few semi-serious relationships, of course, but he’s the only one I would say I was ever in love with.”
“Did this long lost love of yours become the inspiration for your hero, Gaston de Vaux?”
“Partly, I suppose.” She was relieved that the subject had returned to her writing. “My characters aren’t directly based on anyone, but it’s hard not to let bits of people I’ve known creep into their personalities.”
The interview continued for a few moments longer, and at last, AnneMarie felt herself relax as she told her journey of becoming a best-selling novelist, where she found her ideas, and what was next in her career.
I got this.
“And tomorrow is your grand release at the Beverly Hills Hotel,” Clyde said. “Why don’t you give us the details for those viewers who want a signed book?”
“The book’s actual release is at midnight tomorrow, but my publisher has made special arrangements with Vroman’s bookstore to have copies available tomorrow evening. I’ll be speaking at seven in the grand ballroom and then signing books afterward.” A rush of panic flowed through her at the reminder that she was giving a speech. Then again, if she survived The After-Hours Show, a speech at her own event should be a piece of cake.
“And do people need tickets to get in?”
“Yes. Your ticket reserves a copy of the book, and there will be plenty available. You can get them at the door, or at Vroman’s.”
“Well, AnneMarie, it’s been delightful to meet you. You’re a beautiful young woman, which was a pleasant surprise—most authors we have on the show are a little more on the stuffy side.” He winked. “Good luck tomorrow, and I hope you’ll come back sometime.”
“Thanks again for having me.” She shook his hand and smiled at the audience, then sat back and sighed in relief as the camera turned off and the monitors went to commercial.
I survived.
Clyde leaned toward her. “You were great,” he said, then closed his eyes and rested his head back as a woman put a paper collar on him and touched up his make-up.
AnneMarie turned away, glad that her interview was over. Now for the easy part: sit here and smile while the next guest gets the uncomfortable questions.
During the break, a crew rushed around the stage, adjusting lights, and setting up for the musical guest. Earlier, AnneMarie had been too nervous to pay much attention to the behind-the-scenes action. Now that the interview was over, she watched it with fascination.
The crew worked efficiently on the other side of the studio, attaching cables, setting up musical instruments and equipment, until the stage manager called out, “Fifteen seconds, people…”
AnneMarie was still watching the crew— moving cameras and silently holding cue-cards— when she realized that Clyde was talking. She straightened and glanced at the screen as the camera zoomed in on his face.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. Well, mostly ladies. Our next guest needs no introduction. He has two platinum albums and is here to perform his new hit single, ‘Lovin’ my baby tonight.’ Please welcome… Lance Holden!”
AnneMarie’s head snapped up, and her heart flew into her throat. She thought she might have made a groany-squeaky sound. Did she hear him right? She couldn’t have. But after one look at the cue cards— then at the stage where he stood, adjusting the microphone— she felt the blood drain from her face.
He looked up, and their eyes met. Lance gave her a crooked smile. Her heart squeezed so hard that she gasped. His too-familiar gaze held hers as he began to sing.
Clyde chuckled. He leaned close to her ear, holding one hand over the microphone pinned to his tie. “You and every other female on the planet.”
At his words, AnneMarie realized that she was gaping, open-mouthed, at Lance Holden. She snapped out of her daze and shifted in her seat, giving Clyde a smile that she hoped made her look only like a sheepish, star-struck fan. Her mind churned. How could this be happening?
Had he listened backstage as she basically confessed that she’d never gotten over him? AnneMarie wanted to sink through the floor. She didn’t dare look at the stage again, and turned to watch the playback screen instead.
Lance stood, hands gripping the microphone, singing a song she heard nearly every time she got into the car— singing it, to a studio full of screaming women and girls. He wore tight, designer jeans with tennis shoes. The sleeves of his black button-down shirt were rolled up to the elbows, showing arms colored with tattoos. A fitted vest complimented his lean torso. Chains and cords hung from his neck, and thick leather bands were strapped around his wrists. His hair was the same: gelled, messy, a little too long, and nearly black. A few days’ growth of whiskers darkened his jaw.
She watched him on the screen, his deep-brown eyes drawing out the memories she’d refused to think about for years.
Sitting on a plaid blanket while he played his guitar and sang. His warm hand, holding mine as we walked down a rocky path. A timid kiss in the moonli—
The stage manager waved his hands to get her attention. AnneMarie blinked herself out of the daydream and realized that the man was motioning for her to scoot to the other side of the couch. The idea of bolting from the stage flitted through her mind, but she followed instructions. What else could she do?
The song was over, and Lance walked toward them. Clyde stood to greet him.
AnneMarie slid to the far corner of the couch— which she now realized was more of a loveseat— as Lance sat beside her. Seeing him on TV and on magazine covers was hard enough. But sitting next to him…
Could the microphone pick up the thumping of her heart?
Clyde waited for the audience to quiet, then took his seat and turned toward his newest guest. “Lance, it’s good to see you again,” he said with showman apl
omb.
Lance rested an ankle on his opposite knee. He didn’t look the least bit uncomfortable. “Thanks for having me back.”
“I’d like to introduce you to AnneMarie Sinclair,” Clyde gestured toward her.
Lance put out a hand, and she took it. “Hello, AnneMarie.” As they shook, he tipped his head the slightest bit, and his eyes held hers.
Could he feel her pulse racing? Would he admit he already knew her— that he… they… He was so relaxed and appeared completely unfazed by her presence— all of which humiliated her beyond belief.
She tried to tug her hand away, but Lance didn’t let go.
“And AnneMarie, as I’m sure you know,” Clyde continued, “this is Lance Holden,”
“Hello, Lance,” AnneMarie managed to squeak out. Please don’t say anything about us.
“She has a thing for guitar players,” Clyde waggled his tweezed eyebrows, eliciting an appreciative chuckle from the crowd.
This can’t be happening.
One side of Lance’s mouth lifted as he continued to study her face. Did he realize he still had this effect on her? He finally released her hand and turned back toward Clyde.
“You’ve been pretty reclusive over the past year,” Clive said. “So we’re particularly delighted that you agreed to come on the show. So, tell me what you’ve been up to lately.”
“Well, the band’s getting ready to head out on tour, starting here in L. A. in two days. The new album’s set to drop next week.” He smiled as the audience cheered. “It’s different from anything I’ve done before. The music is more personal.”
AnneMarie watched him speak. He was so at ease; so confident in front of the crowd. Completely the opposite of how she felt, and it was another reminder of how different their worlds were. He looked older, of course, but he seemed to have aged more than ten years since she’d seen him last. His expression carried a hardness that hadn’t been there before, and his mouth and eyes had fine lines around them. Seeing him up close now, he looked tired and worn. But he was still so handsome that she had to tear her eyes away and look around the stage for something else to focus on. Luckily, the camera had zoomed in on the two men.