Barbara Dunlop - A Secret Life

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The tenth book in the Hotel Marchand series, 2007

Dear Reader,

I’ve only visited New Orleans once in my life. But I was immediately struck by the grace of the architecture and the passion of the people. From the music to the food to the clothing and art, everything about the city throbs with passion and a zest for life.

When I was offered an opportunity to participate in the Hotel Marchand continuity series, the sights and smells and sounds of Louisiana immediately returned to me. I took my characters through the historic architecture, let them indulge in the unique foods and stranded them in a pounding thunderstorm far up in the wilds of the bayou.

I had experienced a thunderstorm during my own trip. It stranded me with a group of friends in a quaint little restaurant next to a courtyard where the deluge clattered against wax-leaved, tropical plants. It was a glorious afternoon, and I learned then and there that Louisiana doesn’t do a single thing in moderation.

New Orleans is a jewel. It is also tenacious and audacious. I know this great city, and the great state of Louisiana will be back, bolder and better than before.

I’d love to hear from readers with their own Louisiana stories, or from those who just want to say hi. You can reach me through my Web site at www.barbaradunlop.com.

Happy reading!

Barbara Dunlop

ANTHONY VERDUN knew he should feel guilty, but he hadn’t felt anything but free since three o’clock Friday afternoon when he fired Clarista Phillips. He drew a deep, cleansing breath as his feet pounded the pathway between the pond and the artists’ gate of Central Park on his Monday morning jog.

The woman was great with word processing and appointments, but her flirtatious manner had become embarrassing. Her fixation on Anthony had culminated in a pair of red lace panties in the interoffice mail, along with an explicit invitation involving peaches, whipped cream and silk scarves.

It wasn’t that he had anything against silk scarves, or lace panties for that matter. But he was an old-fashioned guy. He preferred a little dinner, maybe even a drink before the first blatant proposition. He tapered his run to a jog as he exited the park, slowing for the traffic lights on Sixth Avenue, and finally switched to a walk.

His wet, khaki T-shirt clung to his skin in the warm, September breeze, while beads of sweat dampened his short, dark hair. He stretched his neck from side to side, listening to the vertebrae pop in relief as he crossed the street and headed for the Moulin Coffee Bar. The bells on the door jingled against the rush hour traffic sounds, and the aroma of fresh coffee beans greeted him like an old friend.

He approached the counter, picking up a newspaper from the rack and stuffing it under his arm as he smiled at one of the regular counter clerks. “Large, black Colombian, please.”

Young and pretty, with a tousled ponytail and bright red lips, she returned his smile as she rang in the purchase. The glint in her eyes invited conversation, but Anthony had a full day ahead of him. And after Friday’s experience, he sure wasn’t in the mood for ingenuous chitchat.

He pulled his cell phone from the hip pocket of his jogging shorts, pressing the speed dial for Kent Livingston’s direct line. As he waited for the connection, he considered the bagels and sticky buns behind the glass case. He’d made time around the lake this morning, and he was in the mood to celebrate, so he pointed to the sticky bun and held up one finger.

Kent picked up on the first ring. “Livingston, here.”

“Hey, Kent. It’s Anthony.”

“Anthony,” Kent cooed in a singsong voice. “You sly son of a bitch.”

“Huh?”

“Congratulations.”

Anthony handed the clerk a twenty, trying to zero in on Kent’s meaning. Had he heard about Clarista? If so, it was more than a little embarrassing. He sure hoped nobody else in the tight-knit New York literary world knew why he’d fired his assistant.