The sound went muffled at Ray’s end again. “We can feed in Charlotte Newcastle from L.A.”
Anthony shook his head. “I want somebody in the studio with Joan.”
Ray drew a breath. “Well, that presents—”
“Take it or leave it.” Anthony was going for intimate and low-key, not high-tech flash. Charlotte Newcastle would probably intimidate the hell out of Joan.
“The only female interviewer I can give you in person is Karen St. Claire. She does cooking and local human interest.”
“I’ll need to meet her.” Anthony could live with a human interest reporter. He glanced back at Joan and Heather. Hopefully, they’d take another couple of hours.
“I’ll set it up.”
“I can be there in half an hour.”
“Does this mean it’s a go?”
“This means I’ll meet Karen. If the setup looks right, I’ll present the offer to Joan.”
“Do we need to talk money?”
“Money’s not the issue.”
“What is the issue?”
“Joan Bateman’s comfort level.”
Ray paused. “You’ll like Karen. Joan will like Karen.”
“We’ll see. Thank you, Ray.” Anthony flipped his phone shut.
As he tucked it into his pocket, he caught Heather’s quizzical gaze. She was definitely going to fight him tooth and nail on this.
Maybe he could bribe the esthetician to give her a massage—or maybe put her in a mud pack for a couple of hours. Yeah. That would work.
He rose from the couch, tossing Heather a benign smile as he headed for the reception counter.
CHAPTER FIVE
JOAN FELT fantastic.
It had been way too long since her last haircut, and the stylist had done something new this time. She’d textured Joan’s hair so that it was light, sleek and shoulder-length. Then she’d added auburn highlights that caught the sunshine as Joan twirled in front of the three-way mirror in DKNY’s boutique.
The wide pleats in her short, cream-colored skirt lifted ever so slightly. She tucked in the tags of a contrasting mauve silk blouse and adjusted the collar on a jewel-speckled jacket that matched the skirt.
“I’m just saying that if you ignore it, it’ll only escalate,” said Anthony. His tone was relaxed, but he obviously wasn’t enjoying her impromptu fashion show. His fingers were tight on the arms of the chair.
Heather’s mud wrap was going to take another hour or two and, unlike Anthony, Joan was happy to kill time in the boutique.
“The interest is going to die down on its own,” she said with complete conviction. It wasn’t as if she were a movie star. Sure, maybe there was a novelty factor in discovering the identity of a mystery writer, but it was a fifteen-minute thing.
“The interest is going to heat up.”
“You’re nuts.”
“Maybe. But I’ve been at this for a lot of years. I want you to think logically for a minute.”
She glanced down at her open-toed sandals. “You think pumps would look better.” That was logical as far as she was concerned.
“It’s the forbidden fruit syndrome.”
She glanced up. “What forbidden fruit? I’m allowed to buy pumps if I want them.”
Anthony gave a frustrated sigh and shook his head.
She sashayed toward him, passing a potted fern that screened the dressing area from the rest of the store. Soft music wafted down from ceiling speakers, muting the conversation of the other shoppers.
“I get it. You’re saying I’m the forbidden fruit.” She was feeling brave enough to be flirtatious today. He was back to his safe old self—clean shaven, well-pressed and ambitious. She could handle him like this.
But then his eyes darkened, and she caught a glimpse of the man he was last night.
“You are definitely the forbidden fruit in this scenario,” he said.
His tone should have made her uncomfortable, but she couldn’t muster up anything but satisfaction. At least he wasn’t completely oblivious to her as a woman. She wished she’d tried on a sexier outfit. Maybe she’d go for that black sequined dress next.
“Truth is, the longer you hide, the more appealing you become.”
She wanted to ask him if she was becoming appealing to him, but that would be over the line. Theirs was a professional relationship. She’d be foolish to play with the boundaries.
“One little interview,” he continued. “And then they’ll leave you alone.”
Joan gestured around the store. “They are leaving me alone. You see a crowd? You see a camera? That person on my porch last night was probably nothing more than a common thief.”
And she still had her family to think about. She’d have to call her parents soon, and she’d rather call to tell them she was lying low than call to tell them she was doing an interview. She wasn’t the only one caught up in this predicament.
“You’re delightful. You know that?”
She gauged Anthony’s expression but couldn’t tell what he was getting at. “Why, thank you,” she ventured.
His voice dropped a notch. “And you’re beautiful.”
A small shiver ran through her. Were they going to play with the funny flirty thing again?
He rose from his chair, and she took a step back. “You’d be a natural on camera.”
Okay. There it was. She shook her head. “You think you’re so suave.”
He took another step forward, determination in his stride, in his expression and in the set of his shoulders. “There’s this local reporter.”
“No.”
“Her name is Karen St. Claire.”
“Not a chance.”
“She does cooking reports. I met her. She’s—”
“You met her? When?”
“While you were getting highlights.”
Joan couldn’t believe it. While she had been relaxing in the salon, Anthony had been out on media recon. Did the man never slow down?
“They can give us a live feed to the network, and—”
“Live?” she squeaked. She’d assumed he was talking about a newspaper reporter.
A sales clerk approached in Joan’s peripheral vision. “How do you like the jacket?”
Anthony pulled out his credit card and handed it to the woman without taking his eyes off Joan. “We’ll take the whole outfit. You want pumps?”
“No, I do not want pumps.” Who said she wanted the outfit, either? Although it was a great outfit.
“Okay,” he said easily.
Joan waited until the woman left. “You are out of your mind.”
“You look fabulous.”
“Nice try.”
He was conning her, she knew. But there was something about Anthony saying she looked fabulous that tightened her chest.
“You’ll like Karen,” he said. “She’s calm and low-key. I’ve already approved the questions.”
“You approved my questions?” Joan tried to sharpen her tone, but it was hard to stay angry with somebody who was so thorough. She might not agree with his methods, but there was no doubting his loyalty and sincerity.
He nodded. “Five minutes, Joan. Let them see you. Let them hear you. And I promise you won’t be forbidden fruit anymore.”
“My parents—”
The sale clerk reappeared. “Can I get your signature, Mr. Verdun?”
He signed the slip. “Your parents will be proud.”
“My parents will be angry.”
The sales clerk walked away.
“They want this to die down, right?”
“Of course they want it to die down,” said Joan. They wanted it to die down in the most expedient fashion possible.
“Then do the interview. Don’t be forbidden fruit anymore.”
Joan understood his logic. She didn’t want to agree with it, but she understood it. “What about Heather?”
“Heather will be tied up in mud wraps and massages until at least five.”
“How
do you know that?”
“Because I don’t leave things to chance.”
Joan’s eyes narrowed. Was he saying…? “You bribed the salon?”
He nodded. “Absolutely.”
Joan glanced around the store. “So you just played me?”
“Get your other clothes.”
“No.”
“We’re going to be late.”
“I haven’t even said yes.”
He put a hand on the small of her back and urged her toward the changing room. “But you will.” He paused. “You’re a smart woman, Joan. I don’t represent dummies.”
“And you’re a devious man, Anthony.” She liked the feel of his hand on her back. She resisted just enough so he’d keep it there.
“That’s what you pay me for.”
“I don’t pay you to be devious.”
“You pay me to look after your best interests.”
She stopped and turned to look into his eyes, a buzzing sexual arousal combining with a truth she’d never faced before. “I didn’t realize I was paying you to do my dirty work.”
“We set up an offshore account through three numbered holding companies. What did you think I was doing?”
Her voice went husky in a moment of pure honesty. “Protecting me.”
His palm slipped ever so slightly down the curve of her spine. “I’m still protecting you, Joan. This interview is the best way I know to protect you.”
She remembered his solid presence in her living room last night when he’d planted himself between her and potential danger. They go through me to get to you, he’d said. Right now, watching his eyes darken to a midnight sky, she believed every word.
ANTHONY WORKED to quell his nerves as he watched Joan through the control room window. Clearly thrilled with the opportunity, Karen St. Claire peppered her with friendly, chatty questions about her story ideas and her quiet lifestyle in Indigo.
They’d met with Ray and Karen before the interview, making sure everyone was clear on the rules. Still, Anthony could tell Joan was nervous by the way she twisted her little ruby ring around and around her finger, but she was doing a fabulous job. She smiled openly at Karen, answered the questions directly and articulately, leaving just enough to the imagination. If he’d known she was this poised and beautiful in front of the cameras, he’d have pushed her on publicity a lot harder a lot sooner.
The five-minute mark went by, but nobody made any move to shut it down. If the networks were still carrying the interview, this was the publicity coup of a lifetime. He could see daytime talk shows in their future.
“Were you angry when the Prism Agency leaked your name?” Karen asked.
Anthony tensed. It was the first question that wasn’t on his approved list.
Joan’s smile didn’t falter. “Not at all, Karen. Anthony Verdun and I keep in very close touch, and the move didn’t surprise me.”
Brilliant. And it was the third time she’d dropped Anthony’s name. He owed her big-time.
“Are you saying you authorized the release of your identity?”
“Mr. Verdun works within parameters that allow him to make the best choices for my career on a wide range of issues.”
Anthony could barely sit still. She was good. She was better than good. His cell phone vibrated against his chest, but he ignored it.
He vaguely heard the booth door open behind him. He ignored that, too.
Then Heather’s voice hissed in his ear. “You set me up.”
He spared her a sideways glance. “I merely distracted you.”
“You’re an evil little man.”
Anthony glanced through the window to the hallway. He and Joan had gone through two separate security checks. “How’d you get in here?”
Heather crossed her arms and gave him an imperious look. “You’re joking, right?”
He took in her clothes, her hair, her makeup and a demeanor that had wealth and breeding stamped all over it. Silly question. Heather could get into the inner sanctum of the CIA if she put her mind to it.
“She’s doing great,” he said, nodding to Joan.
“What great?” Incredulity crept into Heather’s hushed voice. “I call Samuel Kane off the tabloids yesterday, only to have you stuff her in front of a camera today?”
“This is different.”
“No. It’s not.”
Not that he owed Heather any explanation. “I picked the interviewer. I approved the questions.”
“You’re throwing her to the wolves to further your own interests.”
“Karen St. Claire is hardly the wolves.” Anthony’s phone vibrated again.
“You hurt my sister, and I’ll hunt you down.”
The threat didn’t worry him. Not that Heather couldn’t have him killed, or worse. He simply had no intention of hurting Joan.
Out in the studio, Karen St. Claire straightened the index cards on the news desk in front of her. “Can you tell us a little about your late husband?”
Joan’s expression faltered, and Anthony jumped up. “End it,” he called to the news director.
The news director signaled to Karen, and she smoothly wrapped it up.
The second they switched to a commercial, Anthony was through the booth door. He brushed his way past cameras and assistants, stepping over extension cords to get to Joan just as she removed her microphone.
He drew her into his arms and hugged her tight to his chest. “You were magnificent,” he mumbled in her ear.
She molded against him, and he prolonged the hug, greedily absorbing her essence.
“Did he drug you or something?” asked Heather.
“Thirty seconds,” said the producer. “Can we clear the set, please?”
One arm still around Joan, Anthony made his way through the set drapes to the studio door.
“Seriously,” said Heather, as she scrambled along behind them. “Joanie, how did he talk you into it?”
“He was right,” said Joan, and Anthony tightened his arm on her. “Playing hard to get only makes them more interested.”
“That’s men, not the general public,” said Heather as the door closed behind them and they started down the dark, narrow hallway that led to the green room.
“Principle’s the same,” said Anthony.
“He’s only trying to make money,” Heather accused.
“While you’re trying to stuff the genie back in the bottle,” said Anthony.
“I’m your sister, and I love you,” said Heather.
“Then call up your parents.” Anthony whisked Joan through the lobby, under the interested gazes of the studio staff. “Call up your friends. Tell them that Joan is an excellent writer, and they should all buy her books.”
“It’s not that simple,” Heather objected.
“It’s not that simple,” Joan agreed as they exited through the double glass doors.
Anthony knew he’d gone one step too far. Joan was aligning herself with Heather again, when he needed her to trust him.
He cursed himself silently. There was no doubt in his mind they’d get more interview offers. He needed her to be ready, and he needed her to be willing.
JOAN WAS STILL feeling buoyed when Anthony pulled into her short driveway in Indigo. The interview was over. Soon the hype would die down, Anthony would go back to New York, and she could get back to normal again.
She still felt uneasy at the thought of talking to her parents. But at least she could tell them they were past the publicity peak. Things would only calm down from here.
Her stomach fluttered at the thought of Anthony leaving, but she ignored that. He was her agent, not her best friend. They’d go back to talking on the phone every month or so. She could even fantasize about him in the dead of night—just as she’d done for years, ever since Brian had turned into a warm but distant memory.
Normalcy. How she craved it right now.
“Thank God we’re home,” moaned Heather from the cramped backseat. “My massage has been compl
etely obliterated.” She stretched her neck back and forth.
Anthony shut down the engine, set the brake and opened his door. He unfolded his body and flipped the seat forward so Heather could escape.
Joan hopped out her own side and retrieved her purse and the boutique bag from the floor behind her.
“You left your door open,” said Heather.
Joan pushed it shut. “Give me a second here.”
“No. I mean that one.” Heather pointed to the house. “Your front door is open.”
Anthony stilled, twisting his head toward the house. “Stay here,” he ordered.
“It was probably just the wind,” said Joan, but an unsettling twinge shot up her spine. In ten years of storms off the Gulf, her door had never once blown open.
“I’m not staying out here,” said Heather, trotting behind Anthony.
Joan rounded the hood of the car, following suit. She wasn’t timid like Heather, but it was dark now and she didn’t relish the thought of standing outside amid the sound of the cicadas and sway of the hanging moss, wondering what might be lurking around the cypress trees.
Anthony strode up the stairs to the open doorway.
“You should really get a gun,” Heather muttered.
“Quiet,” said Anthony. He paused in the doorway and cocked his head.
Joan could hear the ticking clock, the gentle hum of the fridge motor and the wind rustling the oak leaves—no footfalls, no voices.
Anthony stepped inside. The floor creaked under his shoes. He reached to the right and flipped a light switch.
Joan blinked at the bright light, then gasped as the room came into focus.
Her bookcase had been tipped over, and papers were strewn across the living room floor. The kitchen looked intact, but her writing nook was in complete disarray. Worst of all, there was a gaping hole where her computer had stood.
Anthony reached for his phone and dialed 911.
“I need to look upstairs,” said Joan, moving around Anthony. She kept backup disks in her bedroom closet.
Anthony grabbed her by the arm and pinned her to his side. “This is Anthony Verdun,” he said into the phone. “I’m at Joan Bateman’s house on Amelie Lane. There’s been a robbery.” He paused. “Yes.” Another pause. “I think they’re gone. Okay. We will.”
A Secret Life Page 6