A Secret Life

by Barbara Dunlop

  Thank God.

  She leaned over Samuel, grabbing his hand and holding it tightly between both of hers. “Please, don’t die.” Her voice cracked. “Just don’t die.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She smoothed his hair back and he grimaced in pain. “Live,” she pleaded. “I’ll do anything you want. Any position, any kinky perverted thing you can dream up. I promise.”

  His chest heaved up and down, and she feared it was his last breath. “You’re—” he rasped.

  She leaned closer, holding his hand against her breasts, fear coursing though her body. “What?”

  “You’re…going to be…sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m…not…dying.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JOAN KNEW she had to apologize to Anthony. She’d put it off all day, vacillating between anger at his attitude and regret over her own thoughtless words. She’d rather not face him, but she was leaving for Paris in less than twelve hours, and there was no way she could let their relationship end on such a vicious note.

  Near midnight, she screwed up her courage and padded down the staircase to the second floor. Anthony’s was the room closest to the stairs, next to Heather’s closed door.

  Joan rapped softly.

  “Yeah?” came the gruff reply.

  She swallowed. “Anthony?”

  There was a silent pause, and she feared he was going to send her away.

  “Come in,” he finally said.

  She slowly pushed open the door. He was propped up in bed, bare-chested, the pages of a manuscript piled on the covers around him.

  “Hi,” she muttered, and slipped inside.

  “Everything okay?” he asked in a cool, professional voice.

  She nodded. Then she shook her head. “No, it’s not. I am so sorry.”

  He shrugged, but even in the dim light from the bedside lamp, she could see the distance in his eyes.

  “Anthony.”

  He looked back down at the page. “Don’t worry about it.”

  She took a few steps forward. “But I am worried about it. I insulted you, and I insulted your family.”

  He looked up sharply. “You think that’s why I’m mad?”

  She faltered, confused. “Yeah…”

  “I’m mad because you slammed yourself.”

  She blinked at him.

  “Do you honestly think only ‘trailer trash’ read your books?”

  She didn’t have an answer for that one. “I…”

  He flipped back the covers, and she tensed, afraid he might be naked. But he was wearing boxers.

  “They have you brainwashed,” he said, coming toward her.

  “I can’t do this right now,” she protested, her throat thickening. She’d come here to apologize, not to fight. She was heartsick at leaving him and heartsick at leaving her career, truth be told. More than at any other time in her life, she needed Anthony’s shoulders to lean on.

  He took in her expression, and the chill left his eyes. He moved forward and gently pulled her into his arms. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Her chest tightened, and she hiccupped, unable to speak.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, rocking her back and forth.

  “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled against him. She was sorry for insulting his family, sorry she couldn’t be what he wanted her to be, sorry she was leaving him.

  She looked up into his eyes, memorizing their intelligence, their sympathy, their passion.

  He lifted a hand and brushed her hair back from her temple, sending a familiar wave of desire through her body.

  She wouldn’t ask. Couldn’t ask. After being turned down, a woman didn’t beg twice. She had some pride.

  The seconds ticked by, and her body molded itself more tightly against his. His scent teased her, and the texture of his fingertips burned into her skin. Her core temperature rose, and her hormones swirled to life until the world contracted to the two of them.

  But she wouldn’t ask. She…would…not…ask.

  “Please?” the whisper slipped from her. “Oh, Anthony, please.”

  HER WORDS raked over Anthony’s soul. Powerless to resist, he swooped down to kiss her mouth. She was delicious, gorgeous in her sleep-disheveled state—an arousing, erotic goddess.

  The kiss went on and on. Her lips parted and her tongue met his, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as his hands roamed up her back, slipping over the thin silk of her robe.

  “I’ve missed you,” he groaned.

  He didn’t ever want to experience her anger or her distance again. If she was going to Paris, so be it. He would take her as Joan Bateman, as Jules Burrell, or as anyone else she wanted to be. If he had to fly to Paris to see her, he’d fly to Paris to see her.

  They finally broke the kiss, and she gazed up at him, her round, emerald eyes shinning in the lamplight. “I could come back.”

  He shook his head sadly. He knew deep down that this was the end. Her family was too powerful, they had too much influence over her. “You won’t come back anytime soon.”

  She didn’t deny it.

  “I shouldn’t have walked away last night,” he told her. “I should have dragged you into that bed and made love to you until neither of us could see straight.”

  She paused, her voice soft. “And now?”

  He smiled at her hesitance. He wasn’t feeling the least bit unsure. “I like to think I learn from my mistakes.”

  She smiled, reaching for her robe. “Good.”

  He followed the movements of her delicate fingers as they worked their way through the knot in her sash. The temperature in the room spiked, and her perfume, her delectable, familiar perfume, wrapped around him in a wave.

  He reached for the free ends of her sash and drew her against him. Her hair was loose, and he kissed it tenderly, inhaling deep, mouthing the softness. Then he kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, and worked his way back to her lips.

  With a moan of surrender, she twined her arms around his neck. Her body came flush against his, and all the sensations from the night before rushed back. She was soft where a woman should be soft, narrow where a woman should be narrow. Her hair was fragrant, her skin smooth as warm silk, and deep in her eyes he could see peace and paradise.

  He lifted her from the floor, continuing with a kiss that felt bittersweet. It was Joan, finally, and he was losing her in the morning.

  The satin of her nightgown slipped against his bare chest. He drew her head into the crook of his shoulder, stroking her soft hair. “I need you,” he whispered honestly, rocking her against his body.

  “I need you, too,” she confessed, and the world started to spiral out of control.

  He took the last few steps to his big bed. There he placed her gently on the sheets, following her down to lie beside her.

  Her lacy, satin V-neck revealed the mounds of her creamy breasts. He traced the line of lace and felt her tremble beneath his fingers. Then he dipped beneath the fabric, and she sucked in a breath.

  He propped himself up with his elbow. “I’ve dreamed of you,” he told her, staring into eyes that had gone opaque with her arousal. “For years and years, I’ve dreamed of having you in my arms.”

  A shy smile curved her lips. “I never thought you noticed me.”

  He chuckled. “Noticed? It’s been a struggle to keep my hands off you. Every time we get together, I lecture myself on appropriate behavior.”

  “You don’t say?” she mumbled, burying her face into his bare shoulder.

  “I do say.”

  She pulled back, and her smile turned coquettish as she dropped one strap of her nightgown.

  His gaze feasted on her soft shoulders and her creamy cleavage.

  Her eyes turned from jade to smoke as she dropped the other strap. Then she pulled one end of the bow holding her bodice together.

  He covered her hand with his. “Let me.”

  She released the tie, and he slowly drew out the sa
tin strip. The bow melted to nothing, and he loosened the final knot. The ties slipped through the eyelets as he eased the silky fabric apart, revealing her breasts, the smooth curve of her stomach and the dusky triangle at the apex of her legs.

  “Gorgeous,” he breathed, bending to kiss one breast.

  Her hands tangled in his hair as he drew her nipple into the heat of his mouth. She squirmed beneath him, her breathing going shallow.

  He moaned her name. Then he kissed his way toward her mouth while his hand closed over her damp breast. His tongue tangled with hers, and his fingertips continued an erotic exploration of her body. He tried to take it slow and gentle, but passion surged through him, desperate and impatient.

  He trailed his fingers through her silky down, finding his way to her center. His fingers teased her, making her arch toward him.

  She groaned his name, fueling his fire, while her fingers fumbled with the waistband of his boxers. Then her hot mouth came down on his flat nipple, and his arousal jacked up to critical.

  “Joan,” he moaned, grabbing at his boxers.

  There was a sharp clatter in the hall.

  Anthony swore. He barely had time to flip one end of the quilt over Joan’s naked body, when the door burst open, whacking against the far wall.

  “Anthony?” Heather cried.

  Anthony turned and stared at her, expecting a quick apology, followed by an even quicker retreat.

  But Heather just stood there. “Anthony,” she repeated, dragging air in and out of her lungs.

  Joan sat up, clutching the quilt to her chest. “What’s wrong?”

  Heather gripped the doorjamb, her knuckles going white under the pressure. “Samuel’s been shot.”

  THE FIRST PERSON Anthony saw in the hallway of the Indigo clinic was Alain Boudreaux.

  He headed straight for the police chief, looking for information. “Is he going to be okay?”

  Alain nodded. “Doc says he’ll be fine.”

  Anthony raked a hand through his hair and breathed a sigh of relief. Joan gave Heather a tight hug.

  “Do we know what happened?” asked Anthony.

  “Burglary,” said Alain. “Somebody ransacked the house, and Samuel walked in on it.”

  “Does this happen often?” asked Anthony. Somebody had broken into Samuel’s two days ago. He claimed they took nothing. So was this someone new, or were they back?

  “We don’t know what’s going on,” said Alain. “But we’re starting an investigation.”

  “Good.”

  Joan moved forward, pale as a ghost. “Is it connected to me?”

  “We don’t know that, ma’am,” said Alain.

  “But it probably is. Why else—”

  Anthony took her hand. “They don’t know anything yet.”

  She closed her mouth and nodded.

  Anthony turned back to Alain. “Do we know anything about the shooter?”

  “Samuel could only say it was a male Caucasian with graying hair. And Heather didn’t get a look at him.”

  Heather shook her head to confirm Alain’s statement. She looked small in the clinic foyer, still dressed in her shorts and a thin tank top. “I was in the truck. All I saw was a flash, and then Anthony fell. The ambulance came, but I lost the phone…” Her voice broke on the last words, and Joan rubbed her shoulder.

  Heather sniffed back a tear, rubbing her arms as she started to shiver. “Can I see Samuel yet?”

  “Soon, I think,” said Alain. “He’s in surgery.”

  Anthony glanced around and scooped a blanket from a housekeeping rack, draping it over Heather’s shoulders.

  “You’re not going to take him to St. Martinville?” Joan asked.

  The Indigo facility was just a clinic. The surgical capabilities had to be rudimentary.

  “The bullet’s lodged in his shoulder,” Alain answered. “They considered it safer to take it out here than risk the trip.”

  “He can’t die,” Heather all but wailed, and Anthony realized how traumatic it must have been for her to witness a shooting.

  Looking at Joan’s stricken face, Anthony pulled both women against his chest, cradling each in one of his arms. He took in Alain’s grim expression and wondered just how far this insanity was going to go.

  A doctor appeared through a swinging door at the end of the hall, wearing a blue gown, a paper cap and shoe covers.

  Heather tore herself from Anthony’s arms and rushed forward. “Is he okay?”

  The doctor nodded his head. “He’s fine. As gunshots go, it was a minor wound. He’ll be groggy for a while, but you can go see him.”

  Heather nodded, her shoulders sagging in relief as she headed for the swinging doors.

  Anthony’s arm tightened on Joan. “This is getting out of hand.”

  She nodded as Alain and the doctor bowed their heads in conversation.

  Anthony pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in Luc’s number. He kept his arm around Joan, having no intention of letting her out of his sight. This situation had officially stopped making sense two hours ago. Fan or random burglar, Anthony wasn’t taking a chance that the shooter might come after Joan.

  Luc picked up.

  “Samuel’s going to be fine,” said Anthony without preamble.

  “This is bloody strange,” said Luc.

  “You got that right,” said Anthony. “I’m going to bring the girls home. You got any weapons in the house?”

  “There’s a rifle and an old twelve-gauge.”

  “That’ll do.”

  “You need some help with this?”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks.” Anthony snapped the phone shut.

  “You’re joking,” said Joan, blinking up at him.

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  She swallowed. “So you do think this is my fault?”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “But you do think it’s connected to my book.”

  “I don’t know anything yet.”

  Joan pulled back, squaring her shoulders. “Samuel got shot because of something I wrote.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  She trembled slightly. “It’s my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Her voice went shrill. “Then whose fault is it?”

  Anthony stared hard into her eyes. “The guy with the gun.”

  Heather reappeared through the swinging doors.

  Joan went to her sister, and Alain approached Anthony, handing him a business card.

  “My cell number’s on the back. If Heather remembers any more details, call me right away.”

  Anthony pocketed the card. “Heather’s leaving for Paris in the morning.”

  “No, she’s not,” said Heather, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands.

  “Be better if she stayed,” said Alain.

  “Be safer if she left,” said Anthony.

  “I don’t think she’s in any danger. My men are at Samuel’s house, and I don’t think the guy came looking to shoot him. It was a case of wrong place, wrong time.”

  “It is his house.”

  “That’s true. And Clem says it’s been trashed pretty thoroughly. I’m betting whatever they came for, they found.”

  “Well, I’m getting the women out of town anyway,” said Anthony.

  “I’m not leaving town,” said Joan.

  “You’re going to Paris.”

  She shook her head. “Not until we figure out who shot Samuel.”

  “How is your staying going to help?” A small part of Anthony couldn’t believe he was arguing for Paris. But a bigger part of him was frightened for Joan.

  “It’s my book. Maybe there’s something—”

  “No, there’s not.”

  “You can’t make me leave.”

  “Yesterday I couldn’t make you stay.”

  “I’m fickle.”

  “That’s true,” said He
ather.

  They both turned to look at her.

  “Well, it is,” she affirmed, breaking the tension.

  Alain tucked his notebook into his breast pocket, turning his attention to Joan. “If you’re going to be in town, I do wish you’d reconsider endorsing the music festival, ma’am.”

  Joan pointed a finger at Alain. “See? He doesn’t think I’m in any danger.”

  Anthony glared at Alain. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “I’ve had fifteen years in law enforcement,” said Alain. “I’d take precautions, but there’s no need to panic.”

  Joan poked Anthony in the chest. “Hear that?”

  “Thanks a ton,” he said to Alain.

  Alain shrugged.

  “For that,” said Joan, “I will endorse the festival.”

  Alain tipped his hat. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very generous of you.”

  “It’s my damn books that are ruining Indigo,” Joan muttered under her breath. “Not the music festival.”

  “You’re going to Paris,” Anthony told her.

  ALL THE WAY back to the B and B, Joan insisted she wasn’t going to Paris, obviously frustrating Anthony.

  “Keep the blinds closed and the lights off,” he barked as he moved toward the door of the attic suite. “I’m taking the first shift, and Luc’s taking the second.”

  Heather blinked beside her under the covers in the giant bed. “I feel like we’re seven.”

  “That’s because you’re acting like you’re seven,” said Anthony.

  Heather stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Nice,” said Anthony, clicking the door shut as he left.

  Joan couldn’t help but grin. She didn’t blame Anthony for being worried, but she’d given it a lot of thought. The only thing that made sense was a souvenir hunt gone wrong. Even if somebody was mad at her for writing Bayou Betrayal, there was no reason to shoot Samuel. And if they meant to harm Joan, they would have been at her place or the B and B, not his.

  “Protective guy,” said Heather into the dim light.

  “You know it,” Joan agreed. Usually she kind of liked his protective streak. But this time it was proving inconvenient.

  She reached for her sister’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’re okay, right?”