A Secret Life

by Barbara Dunlop

  “You’re sorry you kissed me?” Wasn’t that just what every woman wanted to hear?

  He clenched his fists. “Of course I’m sorry.”

  She tried not to let his words wound her. “I see. Thank you for clarifying that. I’d hate to have left the country thinking—”

  “Joan.”

  “What?” she snapped. So much for being reasonable and rational. As usual, it took all of thirty seconds for Anthony to make her crazy.

  His voice turned husky. “It was a mistake. A very big mistake.”

  “I got it, Anthony.” She really got it. She’d made a fool of herself last night. “I’ll go to Paris.”

  “Now that would be an even bigger mistake,” he said.

  “Yeah? Well, I guess it’s my turn to make one, isn’t it?”

  “Your mother is trying to torpedo your career.”

  “Leave my mother out of this.”

  “How can I leave her out of it? She is it. You’re talking crazy because of your family.”

  “Don’t you—”

  “The world is yours, Joan. You can write your own ticket.”

  “I don’t want to write my own ticket. I want to write novels.”

  “Then write them.”

  “I will.”

  “Good.”

  “In Paris. Under a new pen name.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence in which the frogs, cicadas and bird calls pressed in around them. Then Anthony’s face contorted, and he sputtered something that might have been a word in another language, but it certainly wasn’t in English. His complexion darkened, and for a second she thought he might be having a heart attack.

  “Anthony?”

  He finally breathed. “Do you have any idea what you’re throwing away?”

  “I don’t care about the money, Anthony.”

  “Normal authors kill for opportunities like this. They don’t throw them out like garbage.”

  “If people like my writing as Jules Burrell, they’ll like it just as well as John Smith.”

  “That’s not the way it works.”

  “That’s the way it’s worked so far.”

  He closed the space between them.

  Something splashed in the bayou, and she automatically glanced to see if it was an alligator.

  “It’s taken you ten years and a dozen books to get any notoriety at all.”

  She pursed her lips. “I don’t want notoriety.”

  “Notoriety brings sales. Sales bring opportunities, power, options. It’s a package deal, Joan. I’ve—we’ve—I’ve worked my butt off for ten years.”

  “Excuse me? Who wrote the books?”

  “Without me, they’d still be locked away in your bottom drawer.”

  That one hurt. It really hurt. “Is that what you honestly think?”

  She waited in silence while the afternoon heat flowed restlessly out of the moist ground, and sweat congealed in her pores.

  “No,” Anthony finally said, and all the fight went out of his voice. “I think you’re a genius, Joan. I think you are the finest writer I have ever had the privilege to represent. And right now I want to wring your mother’s neck for stealing you away from me.”

  Joan blinked, at a loss for words. How could she be his finest writer? Fine writing was Hemingway or Shakespeare. She messed around with edgy little mysteries.

  Anthony drew a breath. He moved closer, and his voice dropped. “Why don’t they care about you, Joan?”

  What an absurd thing to say. “Of course they care about me.”

  He shook his head. “Everything they’ve said, everything they’ve done has been in their interest, not yours.”

  “That’s because I’m the one who made the mistake.” Her actions had hurt them. She’d known she was taking a risk in publishing the books; she just hadn’t realized how badly it could blow up in her face.

  “And what mistake was that?” he asked.

  He knew the mistake as well as she did. He was just trying to bait her into another argument.

  “They care about me,” she repeated.

  “They have a funny way of showing it.”

  “They’re trying to protect me.”

  “From what?”

  Joan sighed.

  “Seriously, Joan. From success and money?”

  “From exploitation.”

  That shut him up.

  “So, that’s what you think of me?” he asked.

  “No, that’s what they think of you.”

  “That I’m exploiting you?”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “You just said it.”

  “Anthony.”

  He clasped a hand over the back of his neck. “Did you know Charlie Long Live has expressed interest in you?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Well, they have.”

  Despite herself, Joan was flattered. Charlie Long was a reputable journalist. His news show didn’t sensationalize issues the way cable talk shows did.

  “Why would Charlie Long want me?” she asked.

  “Because you wrote a good book. Because people are interested in Samuel’s story. They’ve invited you to headline the show.”

  Joan would be lying if she didn’t admit it was tempting. But she knew that was a selfish emotion at work. An appearance on Charlie Long would be good for her, and her alone. It would be devastating for her parents.

  “I have to stick with my instincts.”

  He took her hands in his, the slick pads of his thumbs smoothing over her tender knuckles. His voice went gentle. “And what are your instincts telling you now?”

  A bead of sweat formed at her temple and trickled down toward her jawline. She took a bracing breath and forced herself to look him straight in the eyes.

  Truth was, her instincts were at war with each other. But she told him part of it. “That when the going gets tough, the family has to stick together.”

  His jaw went tight, and he closed his eyes for a split second. “And what about you and me sticking together?”

  “We’re not—”

  “They’re selfish, Joan.”

  “They’re my family.” This was a hard decision, a wrenching decision. Why did he have to make it worse?

  “That’s not a family.”

  Her spine stiffened. He’d crossed the line with that one. “Really? What is a family, Anthony?”

  “People who support you through thick and thin.”

  “Like your family?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed then, but the sound was bitter. “Why don’t you tell me what your own sainted family would do under these circumstances?”

  “My family wouldn’t be under these circumstances.”

  “Of course they wouldn’t,” she snapped. “They’re too perfect for this.”

  “Well, they sure wouldn’t be ashamed of me. They’d have thrown my first book launch. They’d have bought copies for their friends, acquaintances and coworkers.”

  “Why? Is everybody they know trailer trash?” The second the words were out of her mouth, Joan cringed in horror.

  Anthony’s jaw snapped shut. A chill masked his eyes.

  She opened her mouth to apologize, but he held up a hand.

  “Don’t say another word,” he ordered

  She tried anyway.

  “Joan.”

  She shut her mouth, waiting for him to yell at her. She certainly deserved it.

  But he stood there for a long, silent moment, staring at her as if she were a stranger. Then he turned on his heel to stalk back down the pathway.

  Joan didn’t move. The splashing in the bayou increased, and she began to hope it was a gator. A big, hungry gator would put an end to all of her problems. Snap, snap, swallow, and she would stop letting everybody down.

  IT WAS a long day for Heather. Joan spent most of it in her room, giving only one word answers when Heather called through the door. But since the family jet was booked for their Paris fl
ight tomorrow, and since Joan wasn’t talking about canceling their plans, Heather decided to leave well enough alone.

  Anthony made himself scarce, and even Luc was busy working on the dock. The number of fans and reporters milling around Indigo was increasing, so Heather didn’t really want to venture into town. Out of desperation, she picked up Luc’s copy of Bayou Betrayal.

  She started reading around four o’clock. By six, she was cloistered in her room, riveted by the tension, the plot twists and even the sex in the story. Lost in the characterization, she forgot completely that it had been written by her sister.

  Then, sometime in the evening, she heard Samuel’s deep voice in the downstairs lounge. It sent a jolt through her stomach and increased her pulse.

  She felt the usual sexual buzz in response to him, but her heart also went out to the man. She didn’t know how much of Bayou Betrayal was true and how much was fiction. But Samuel was definitely Jared, the sixteen-year-old boy who had lost his parents to a horrible crime.

  She could see now why Samuel had turned out so tough. He’d stayed in his family cottage all on his own, worked in the evenings during high school, then got training as a carpenter. In a strange way, the rise and fall of his voice reassured her that things had turned out well for the boy in the story.

  Eventually, she moved closer to her bedroom door, letting the conversation downstairs become a backdrop.

  Then she moved to a nook in the breakfast room, flicking on a small lamp in the dark corner.

  She didn’t consider it eavesdropping, because she could only hear the occasional word. It was the cadence of the three male voices—Samuel, Anthony and Luc—that she found comforting while the danger increased for the characters at the story’s climax.

  “Heather?”

  She jumped at the deep voice so close to her. The criminals had now been caught, and she was into the payoff scene at the end of the book.

  “Sorry,” Samuel rumbled. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Hi,” she said softly, closing the book and setting it down on the table.

  He glanced at the title and grinned. “Good story?”

  She nodded. Then she shook her head, looking deep into his dark, unfathomable eyes. “How much is…” She bit her bottom lip. “I am so sorry for what you went through.”

  His smile turned sad. “It was a long time ago.”

  She came up on her knees on the padded bench seat, making her almost eye level with him. Then she put a hand on his bicep. “It must have been horrible for you.”

  He shrugged his big shoulders. “It was no picnic.”

  Guilt nipped at her. Her teenage years had been full of designer clothes, sports cars and the right parties. She’d known she was lucky, but she hadn’t realized the full extent of her good fortune. She felt her eyes go liquid with sympathy.

  “Hey.” Samuel tipped her chin up with his index finger. “Is there a soft heart under all that sarcasm?”

  She blinked and shook her head. “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “I like my women tough.”

  The sheen of tears evaporated completely. “Your women?”

  He nodded, moving his big palm along her cheek to cup her face, sending reaction sizzling up her spine. “Don’t pretend you don’t feel it, too.” He paused for a moment. “Anthony tells me you’re leaving tomorrow.”

  She nodded jerkily. “I’m taking Joan to Paris.”

  He shifted forward, crowding her space, leaning in and tipping his head to one side. “Then I guess this is my last chance.”

  Last chance? “To kiss me?”

  His lips curved into a lazy smile, and reflected light shone from his dark eyes. “For starters,” he drawled, and Heather’s pulse pounded in her ears.

  “Then,” he continued, “I’m going to show you things your white-bread Boston boys don’t even dream about.”

  She put on a show of bravado. “You think?”

  His smile widened meaningfully. “I know.”

  She couldn’t let him get away with this. She was nobody’s sex toy—no matter how rawly sensual he appeared. No matter how many erotic dreams he had spawned. And no matter how curious she’d become.

  She opened her mouth to tell him so, but he moved in even closer.

  His face was mere inches from hers, and she inhaled his woodsy scent. No designer cologne for this man. Her nose twitched at the unfamiliar sensation of real sweat and unadulterated pheromones.

  His thumb stroked her cheek, and his lips brushed hers ever so gently. It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t anything, really.

  “Only one night,” he sighed. “Such a shame.”

  She was still wearing a pair of fleece shorts and a thin tank top after the heat of the day. A breeze wafted through the window screens and sensitized her bare skin. The scent of hydrangeas filled the air, but the scent of Samuel was stronger.

  He brushed a first kiss across her lips, and she thought her legs might give way. “My place,” he whispered.

  “I can’t do that.” But she was kissing him back, brushing the tips of her breasts against his chest.

  His fingers settled at her waist, finding a thin strip of skin between the elastic of her shorts and the hem of her tank top. “Sure you can.” He held back enough to keep the kisses gentle, nearly driving her mad.

  “I don’t even know you.”

  His hand crept slowly beneath her shirt. “So what?”

  It grazed the underside of her bare breast, and she sucked in a breath. “You could be…”

  He flicked his thumb across her nipple. “Dangerous?”

  “Yes,” she hissed, arching her spine.

  “Oh, I’m definitely dangerous.” He did it again, and fiery sparks shot the length of her body, leaving a pulsing glow behind them. “And I’m going to have you.” He kissed her properly this time. Finally.

  His lips overwhelmed hers, plenty of pressure and just the right suction. His tongue curled in, and she opened wide for him, arousal saturating her body.

  Then he drew back too soon, the pad of his thumb now circling her hard, sensitized nipple. His eyes were black, shimmering with knowledge. “It’s just a matter of where.”

  She wanted to argue with him. Nobody talked to her that way. Men treated her with respect and deference.

  Trouble was, he wasn’t only dangerous, he was right. Another five minutes, and they’d be making love on the kitchen floor. Even with her fading rational thought, she knew Samuel’s place was a much better choice.

  But she couldn’t let him have it all his way. She settled her hands on his shoulders, leaned forward from her kneeling position and kissed him this time. Another proper kiss. Another lingering, deep, moist, mobile kiss.

  “And if I say yes?”

  She felt him smile.

  “Have I said anything to indicate you have a choice?”

  “I don’t think I like where this is leading.”

  His fingertips feathered up the inside of her bare thigh. Her knees widened reflexively on the cushioned seat.

  “Oh, yes, you do.” He passed the hem of her loose shorts.

  Her hands gripped his shoulders as she lost track of the conversation. She expected him to stop, but his fingers kept on going, past her shorts, past her panties, to slip inside, until he was buried, all but lifting her from the seat.

  “My place,” he said.

  She didn’t answer, but then it wasn’t really a question.

  He kissed her one more time, then scooped her up in his arms and carried her to his truck. She spared a brief thought for what Joan, Anthony or Luc might think, but Samuel’s strong arms, erotic scent and whispered demands blotted out the rest of the world.

  On the short drive to his place, she watched his profile in fascination. He was a gorgeous man. There was a strength to his features, a wildness that reminded her of the pioneers and conquerors of the dense Louisiana bush. His ancestors hadn’t had an easy time of it. But then n
either had Samuel.

  Perhaps his strength was part lineage, part experience. Whatever it was, it was all sexy, and their midnight tryst had the feel of inevitability.

  Then, without warning, Samuel hit the brakes. “Shit!”

  Heather glanced frantically out the windshield, her hand shooting out to brace against the dashboard. “What?”

  “There’s a light.”

  “A what?”

  “In my house.” He killed the truck lights, shut off the engine and brought it to a smooth halt.

  “Maybe you left it on.” She peered at the front of his white cottage. It was prettier and more feminine than she’d imagined.

  “I didn’t leave it on.” There was absolutely no uncertainty in his tone. “You wait here.”

  Could it be another burglary? Another fan? Another souvenir seeker? “You should call the police.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Samuel.” She didn’t want him going into that house. Something was strange in all this, and her instincts hummed.

  But he opened his door and stepped out quickly, pushing it shut so that the dome light went off.

  He started down the driveway, and Heather sat forward, holding her breath in the darkness. Samuel was a big man, she told herself. He was strong, and he was capable. He’d easily be a match for whoever was in the house. And maybe then they could put an end to all this.

  Not that it mattered to her. She and Joan were going to Paris in the morning. But Samuel would still be here. She felt a little funny about that, but she didn’t know why.

  Samuel was halfway down the walk when the front door burst open. He broke into a run, but then a gunshot cracked the night air, an orange flash shooting out from the porch.

  Heather screamed, and Samuel went down.

  The shadowy figure vaulted the railing and took off, running through the neighboring yards.

  Heather raced to Samuel, screaming his name.

  She dropped down on the grass beside him. “Samuel?”

  He moaned, and she could see a blood stain spreading from his shoulder down across his chest.

  “Cell phone,” she cried, knowing she’d left hers at Luc’s.

  “Pocket,” he panted, and she searched the front of his pants.

  “Don’t you die on me,” she pleaded, as she fumbled to retrieve the phone. But she heard a siren in the distance. Obviously the neighbors had called the police.