Barbara Dunlop - A Secret Life

There was a local newspaper on the coffee table in front of him, and he’d already found a page three article on Joan. It had a picture, but it was an older one, and he didn’t think any of the salon employees or patrons realized who she was, particularly considering her face was bare of makeup and her hair was a mass of foil paper and gelatinous liquid.

She caught his eye, and he shot her a smile. He was happy to see her looking relaxed for the first time since he’d arrived.

“Raymond Miller here,” came a voice on the other end of Anthony’s cell phone.

Anthony turned away from Joan. “Mr. Miller. This is Anthony Verdun.”

“So my assistant informed me.”

“Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. I’m with the Prism Literary Agency in New York City.”

“Is this a joke?”

“This is not a joke. I represent Joan Bateman. She writes as-”

“I know who Joan Bateman is. I’ve left three messages at your office.”

“I’m in Lafayette at the moment.”

“Really?” The man’s tone changed. “Call me Ray.”

Anthony smiled. “Before we go any further, Ray, are you able to set up a live network feed?”

“Are you offering me an interview with Joan Bateman?”

“Let’s just say I’m exploring my options.”

“You have a competing offer?”

“It’s not about money.”

“Okay.”

“Can you do the live feed?”

“Absolutely. Hang on.” The sound went muffled for a second. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” said Anthony. “I’ll be honest with you, Ray. Joan is shy, and I’m not sure I’ll get the go ahead today.”

Ray chuckled. “I’m more than willing to set it up on spec.”

“Great. I want a female interviewer. Low-key, nobody aggressive. I’ll be right there with Joan and I’ll shut it down in a heartbeat.”

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.

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.”