by Syrie James
And then it hit her.
Everyone knew that Patrick Spencer was the pseudonym for an author who was not only rich and famous but famously reclusive. He so fiercely protected his privacy that he never revealed any personal information about himself, allowed no biographical details or photographs on his book jackets—ever—and he never did interviews. Some journalists thought he might be English, while others were certain he was American. No one had a clue where he lived, and no one knew his real name.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Nicole said softly, staring at him. “You’re Patrick Spencer.”
CHAPTER 6
HE KNEW THERE WAS NO POINT in denying it. No matter how many excuses he dreamed up, she’d probably see through them. Well, he thought, maybe this was a good thing. Maybe it would help divert her attention, and explain away some of the other . . . oddities . . . so that she wouldn’t suspect his darker secret.
It was funny, though. Jhania had been cleaning this room every week for ten years, and she’d never suspected a thing. Nicole Whitcomb stepped in and figured it out inside of fifteen minutes. She wasn’t just a beautiful woman—she was smart, well-read, and very perceptive.
“You got me,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to hers. “But since you know my work so well, I assume you also know that my personal life is something I prefer to keep confidential.”
“Yes.”
She was looking at him like a deer in headlights, stunned amazement wrapped up with a dose of awe. It was discomfiting, yet at the same time it was somehow . . . gratifying. In all the years he’d been writing and selling books, he’d only spoken to an actual fan a couple of times: once, in casual conversation when he’d dared to enter a bookstore where his novels were on sale; the other when he saw a nurse reading one of his books at the clinic. They hadn’t known who he was, of course, but it had been interesting to hear their views on his work nevertheless.
He got his feedback solely through the Internet. There were various fan sites, and by now many thousands of reviews in the media and blogs across the globe. It was rewarding to know that people enjoyed what he wrote. It made all the effort worthwhile, made him feel like he was participating in the world again, making some sort of contribution. The comments about his historical accuracy always amused him. If anyone could write about the past with authentic detail, it was him. He had little need for history books, except as a refresher and to verify facts; most of it was there in his memory, ripe for the picking.
“I hope I can count on your discretion?” he said quietly.
“Of course,” she said quickly. “I won’t breathe a word. But . . . why?”
“Why?”
“Why don’t you want anyone to know who you are? I thought most authors enjoyed their fame.”
“I can’t speak for most authors. I can only speak for myself. My personal life is my own. My readers enjoy the fictitious
Nicole nodded and flicked her eyes away, biting her lip as if still a little in awe of him. “I get it now. I feel terrible. No wonder you don’t want me here.”
He cringed at the bluntness of her statement. “I never said I didn’t want you here,” he said quickly.
She darted him a look that said: please, don’t insult my intelligence . “I don’t blame you,” she added softly. “You must see me as a threat to the way of life you’ve built up for yourself.”
Well, that was certainly true, for more reasons than one. Still, no matter how noble his intentions—he’d tried to keep her at arm’s length for her own good—he didn’t want to come off as a jerk. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel . . . unwelcome. As I said before, I’m just not accustomed to having visitors.”
“I understand. It’s a relief, actually, to learn the truth. I thought it was something about me. Look: I don’t want to interrupt your work anymore than I already have. You were writing when I first walked in, weren’t you?”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m in between books at the moment. I was just working up some ideas of what to write next.”
“Oh. Still, I should get out of your hair.” She turned back to the bookcase and grabbed one of his Civil War novels, The Wind of Dawn. “I’ll read this one again, if that’s all right.”
“That’s fine, but there’s no reason for you to rush off.” The statement escaped his lips before he could stop it. But now that he’d said it, Michael realized that he really didn’t want her to go.
“I don’t want to disturb you,” she insisted.
“You aren’t disturbing me. I don’t mind taking a break. And to be honest . . . I’ve enjoyed talking to you. And I promise it’s not just because you appreciate my work.”
She laughed. “Really?”
Really, he thought. It had been so long since he’d had a meaningful, face-to-face conversation with someone—and he liked her far more than he’d expected to. He also liked the sound of her laugh, the soft curve of her mouth, the way her green eyes sparkled when she smiled. If only he couldn’t hear her pounding heart and pulsing blood . . .
But he’d managed to retain control thus far, hadn’t he? Surely he could indulge himself a little while longer, without putting her in jeopardy?
“Please stay.”
IT WAS INCREDIBLE TO THINK that she was actually in the same room as the mystery man who had all the literary world guessing. Nicole had tried to imagine who Patrick Spencer was, where he lived, and what he was like, hundreds of times. She had always revered his mind and talent. Now, as she sat down on the couch watching him stoke the fire in the hearth, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
The firelight threw long shadows against the walls and played against his handsome face, bathing his skin in a warm glow and revealing the red highlights in his light brown hair. His jeans hugged his long legs, and his shirt pulled tight across the muscles of his hard, lean back. He was truly a beautiful man, and he exuded an energy, sophistication, and intelligence that made him seem different from any man she’d ever met.
Of course he’s different, Nicole reminded herself silently, her heart dancing an erratic rhythm. For God’s sake, he’s Patrick Spencer. Get a grip!
Nicole tore her gaze away, struggling to censor her thoughts and to rise above the sudden shyness that had pervaded her ever since she’d learned who he was. It was only a fluke that had brought her here. This famous and accomplished man would never be interested in someone like her—except, perhaps, as a diversion on a snowy evening—and he’d be only too glad to see her go.
“What should I call you?” Nicole asked. “Patrick or Michael?”
“Michael, please. Patrick is a pen name. I doubt I’d answer to it if you called.”
“Okay.” She glanced at him, willing her heart to return to its natural pace. “You’re very different from what I expected.”
He sat down in the easy chair opposite her. “In what way?”
“I don’t know. Your writing . . . it’s so brilliant and self-assured, I think . . . well, I imagined you’d be a much older man.”
“Ah.” For some reason a smile flitted across his face. He didn’t say anything else, so she went on:
“Your first book is just as wonderful as your last one. The critics all think you must have written under a different name for years, long before becoming Patrick Spencer. But now I know that’s impossible. Your first novel came out eighteen years ago, right?”
“Yes.”
“If you moved here twenty years ago when you were nineteen—that means you would’ve been what—twenty-one when your first book was published?”
He gave her a silent, almost imperceptible nod.
“You couldn’t possibly have written much before then.”
He leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands together, and seemed to be choosing his words carefully before he answered. “I guess I just got lucky with that first book. My publisher did a great job promoting it, and it found an audience.”
“It wasn’t only luck. I’m sure you worked very hard, and yo
u have talent.”
He shrugged modestly. “I leave that judgment to the readers and critics. Anyway, the publisher asked for another book after that, and . . .” He gestured toward the picture windows that overlooked the blustery night sky. “This is the ideal setting for a writer to work. So I just kept writing.”
“It is beautiful up here. And I imagine it’s very quiet, when the wind isn’t howling.”
They talked on for a while, with the storm raging outside and the wind whistling through the eaves. Nicole was interested in what inspired his novels, which he rather whimsically explained came from a love of history and a desire to travel through time.
Michael seemed fascinated to hear what Nicole thought about his books, what she liked and disliked, which books were her favorites and why, and which characters she liked best or least.
“I’ll never forget that scene in The Wind of Dawn, when Dr. Robinson is single-handedly taking care of all those wounded soldiers in the Union field hospital,” Nicole enthused. “The way he fought back against that Confederate raiding party, grabbing a gun and killing those Rebs—that scene haunted me
Michael looked at her, his mouth fixed in a tight line. “Was he a hero?”
“Yes! He saved all those men.”
“But he murdered half a dozen others.”
“In wartime, killing isn’t murder.”
“Isn’t it?”
The grim look on his face led Nicole to realize she’d unintentionally touched a nerve. “Not when it’s done in self-defense or to hold off an enemy attack. But I empathize with your character’s point of view. He was a doctor, dedicated to saving lives. To take any life at all was painful to him.”
“I’m glad you understood that about him.” He stood up and stoked the fire in the hearth again. “But enough about my books and about me. Let’s talk about you. You said you’re from San Jose, California?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s where you have your garden plot?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
“Have you lived there all your life?”
“Not yet.”
He laughed. It was the first time Nicole had heard him laugh. It was a deep, hearty sound, and the smile that accompanied it lit up his entire face.
“I grew up in San Jose. I went to college in Seattle and then . . .” Nicole caught herself. “I came home a couple of years ago.”
“Home?” He sat down across from her again.
“My mother still lives there in the house where I grew up. I live on my own.”
“Except for your cat.”
Nicole was surprised and flattered that he’d remembered such a tiny detail she’d only mentioned once in passing. “Except for my cat. She’s a mottled and striped black, gray, and golden tan tabby. She adopted me—strolled into my apartment one day when I was picking up the newspaper, and never left.”
“What’s her name?”
“Audrey Catburn.”
That elicited a wide grin. “As in Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”
“Exactly.” Nicole couldn’t help but smile in return. “She struck me as the feline equivalent of an elegant brunette. She’s slightly Rubenesque and has the whole feminine/princess thing going. The underside of her paws and her arms all the way up to her elbows are black, like long evening gloves. She comes when I call her, is very chatty, loves people, is part dog I think, and hates cats. A few months ago, she brought me a gift—a live mouse that she proudly dropped on the living room floor at my feet. I spent the next three hours trying to flush it out the front door with a broom.”
Michael laughed again, then rested his chin on his hand as he regarded her. “Why did you move back to San Jose? Is . . . that where your boyfriend lives?”
He seemed to be striving for a tone of offhand casualness, but Nicole sensed that he had a greater personal interest in her answer than he wished to convey. The idea threw her thoughts into temporary disarray. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“How is that possible? I would have thought you’d be involved with someone.”
“I was involved with someone. I had a long relationship with a really great guy, but we broke up a few years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Let’s just say it got to the point where it didn’t feel right anymore. What about you? You live alone. Has it always been that way?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you ever get lonely?”
Something changed in his eyes. For the briefest of instants, an almost haunted look pervaded them; then he blinked and the look vanished. The look spoke of such profound pain that Nicole’s heart went out to him, and she wished she hadn’t asked the question.
“I do get lonely,” he admitted softly, “but it’s the price I pay for . . . anonymity.”
What happened to him? Nicole wondered. Had he run away from something or someone in coming here? Was it a lost love? Is that why the tragic love stories he wrote were always so deeply felt?
His voice broke into her thoughts. “You haven’t told me what you do.”
“Me? Oh, let’s not go there. My work isn’t one-tenth as interesting as yours.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“Trust me, it’s true.” Since he was patiently waiting, Nicole felt obligated to continue. “Well, every Saturday I volunteer at the Tech Museum, demonstrating science experiments for children. And on Sundays I’m the Story Lady at the library.”
“Story Lady? You mean you read to children?”
Nicole nodded. “I love children. I always have. They have so much energy and enthusiasm, and such a vivid sense of imagination. Don’t you think? To them, the whole world is an exciting place full of wonders just waiting to be discovered. Growing up, I spent time with kids every chance I got. I baby-sat, I tutored elementary school kids after school, and I was a camp counselor more summers than I can count. I always knew that somehow, some way I’d work with children when I got older.”
“That’s wonderful—to know at such an early age what you wanted to do. But you’ve only described weekend volunteer occupations. You said you had to get back to your job, so I ascertain that you’re not a lady of leisure. What do you do the rest of the week? Do you teach? Run a child care center? Do legal or social work?”
“No.” Nicole hesitated. “I work for a medical insurance company, processing insurance claims.”
He looked surprised. “Really? What does that involve?”
“Taking client phone calls, answering questions. Mostly it’s a computer input job. Amount of claim column A, amount not covered column B, process, print, repeat.”
“If you don’t enjoy it, why do you do it?”
“I didn’t say that I don’t enjoy it.”
“You didn’t have to. It’s clear enough.”
“It’s a good job,” Nicole insisted.
“I’m sure it is a good job for a great many people—just apparently not for you.”
“That’s not true. I’m carrying out a service, helping people to cover their medical expenses—and that’s rewarding. At the same time I try to protect the company. I’m good at it. There
“You said good four times but not once with conviction.”
“Forgive me if my description of my work doesn’t meet your required code of enthusiasm,” Nicole bristled. “Not everyone gets paid to spend all day in a beautiful office on a mountaintop, spinning stories.”
“I beg your pardon,” Michael replied gently and with heartfelt apology. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh or critical. I was only making an observation. It seemed an unusual choice for you, that’s all, given your love for children. How long have you worked in medical claims?”
“Three years.”
“What did you do before that?”
Nicole frowned. The familiar prickle of dread, guilt, and anxiety descended on her, just as it always did whenever anyone asked that question. How could she tell him? It would inevitably lead to questions about why she left—the one s
ubject she wouldn’t, couldn’t discuss with anybody—particularly not with this man, whom she’d admired for so many years.
“I had various odd jobs,” she said vaguely, feigning a yawn and looking at her watch as she stood. “I’m sorry. It’s late, and suddenly I’m really tired. I think I need to go to bed.”
“That’s understandable. You had a concussion. It takes time and energy for the brain and body to recover. The best thing for you is a good night’s sleep.”
“Would you do me a favor?” Retrieving the copy of his novel she’d brought with her, she held it out to him. “Would you sign my book for me?”
“I’d be happy to.”
He took the book, grabbed a pen, and paused. “Do you know, I’ve never done this before?”
“Never? In all these years, you’ve never signed a book for a fan? A friend? A relative?”
“Never.”
She shook her head in wonder. “That is really . . .”
“Sad?” he finished for her, a self-effacing glint in his eyes.
“I was going to say astonishing.”
He smiled, opened the book to the title page, inscribed something there, and returned it to her. She thanked him.
Standing up, he said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take another look at that cut on your head before you retire, to make sure it’s healing properly.”
MICHAEL LED THE WAY BACK across the house to the master bathroom, where he instructed Nicole to hop up onto the counter and sit facing him. Her legs dangled between them.
“Now I understand why you know so much about first aid and medicine,” she said suddenly. “You must have learned it while researching your books about Dr. Robinson and Dr. Barclay.”
He nodded. As he began untying the bandage from her forehead, his hips came in contact with her knees. The contact caused him to draw a breath that was out of rhythm with the others. You’re playing with fire, he reminded himself. This is madness. And yet he continued.
“The medical scenes in your novels are so detailed and explicit. How do you do your research?” she asked.
“I read a lot. I have shelves of medical texts and books about the period. There’s a wealth of information online. And . . . I have a doctor friend I consult with from time to time, to make sure I get the facts right.”