Barbara Dunlop - A Secret Life

“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?”

“Now that I know Samuel is okay, yes.”

Joan considered Heather’s profile, trying to make sense of her relationship with Samuel. Last she’d checked, they didn’t like each other.

“So, uh, what were you doing at his cottage?” she asked.

Heather gave her lacy pillow a couple of whacks, then propped it against the white wicker headboard. “He was going to give me a tour.”

“Why?”

“Because it was in your book.”

“So?” Samuel’s exact cottage wasn’t in her book. It was an amalgamation of his, her own and several other Creole cottages in the area.

“So, I read your book today.”

Joan stilled.

Heather grinned. “It was terrific.”

Emotion built in Joan’s chest until it was hard to breathe. She sat straight up, dragging a fluffy, white pillow into her lap. “Are you just saying that?”

“Does ‘just saying that’ sound like me?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m not just saying that. I liked it. It was…” Heather gazed at the ceiling. “I don’t know. It was exciting and sexy and enthralling.”

“Enthralling?” That was definitely more validation than Joan had ever hoped for from a member of her family.

“You’re a good writer, Joanie.”

Joan blinked against a sudden burning in her eyes. “You think Mom and Dad will like it?”

Heather choked out a laugh. “Mom and Dad will hate it.”

Joan tried to hide her disappointment.

“Face it,” said Heather. “The better you write these things, the more popular you’ll become, and the more they’ll hate it.”

“Aarrgghh!” Joan pulled the pillow over her face.

“You can’t win on this.”

“I know.” Joan’s voice was muffled. “I know.”

Heather patted her shoulder. “You really should have taken up poetry.”

“And write about ‘the green grass kissing the morning dew’ for the rest of my natural life? I don’t think so.”

“Don’t talk heresy,” said Heather.

Joan looked up. “So you really liked my book?”

“I really liked your book.”

Joan sighed in satisfaction. Until this very moment, she hadn’t realized how much Heather’s opinion meant to her.

“But we have to talk about the other thing now,” said Heather.

“What other thing?”

Heather tilted her head sideways and leaned in close. “I walked in on you and Anthony.”

Oh. That other thing. “Well…” Joan started slowly. “I guess, under the circumstances, we forgive you.”

Heather gave her a shove on the shoulder.

Joan tried really hard not to think about what Heather must have seen.

“I thought you said you weren’t sleeping with him.”

“I wasn’t. I’m not.”

“What do you mean, you’re not.”

“I mean…” Joan stopped herself short, realizing she was about to make the situation worse.

Heather blinked at her for a second. “Oh my God.” Her shriek of laughter rang out, and Joan buried her face in the pillow.

Footsteps clattered on the stairs.

Before Joan could get her mind around what was happening, the bedroom door crashed open. Anthony and Luc burst into the room, rifles drawn.

“What?” Joan cried.

“You screamed,” Anthony roared, his gaze darting to every corner of the room.

Luc turned his back to Anthony’s, pointing his weapon at the French doors.

“That was me,” said Heather.

“It’s nothing, nothing,” Joan hastily assured them with a frantic shake of her head.

Both men stopped and stared at them.

“You screamed for nothing?” asked Anthony.

Heather swallowed. “I was…uh…laughing.”

They lowered their weapons. Luc shook his head in disgust and left the room.

“Laughing?” asked Anthony, his voice incredulous.

Heather swallowed. “At something Joan said.”

If Heather went into details, Joan was absolutely going to die.

“I’m glad you find this all so amusing.” Anthony raised his weapon and clicked the safety back on.

“It was Joan’s book that was funny,” Heather snapped. “Not Samuel getting shot.”

“Joan’s book isn’t funny,” said Anthony.

“It’s funny that I liked it.”

His expression changed, and he glanced at Heather with renewed interest. “You liked it?”

“It’s brilliant.”

He gave a grunt of satisfaction. “See?” he said to Joan.

“Doesn’t mean anyone else is going to change their mind,” she retorted.

“You thought Heather would hate it.”

“My parents will definitely hate it.”

“Gotta go with Joan on this one,” said Heather.

Anthony shook his head and set his rifle on the table. “I give up.”

He crossed the floor to Joan’s side of the bed, looking calmer than he had since he’d heard the news about Samuel. He smoothed her hair with his broad palm, then leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. “You’re hopeless.”

Heather snickered.

He straightened, looking Joan straight in the eye and sending a shiver right down to her toes. “No more accidental screaming, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed.

He gave a sharp nod of acknowledgment, then grabbed the rifle and headed out the door, clicking it shut behind him.

Heather turned to raise her eyebrows. “Explain to me again how you’re not sleeping with him.”

SLEEP WITH Anthony?

This morning, Joan was seriously considering killing Anthony.

How could he have set her up like this?

“Ms. Bateman?” prompted Charlie Long from the other end of the line. His voice was as smooth and melodious on the telephone as it was on the television. “I asked if you’d consider flying to L.A. for Friday’s show.”

Joan scrambled for an excuse. “I…uh…have to-”

“You’d get top billing,” he continued.

She closed her eyes and tried to think clearly. A network talk show was a really bad idea. But Charlie Long seemed like a very nice person, and who wouldn’t be flattered to get a call in person?

“I’d like to talk about your book, of course. Maybe take the slant that an injustice has been done to the Kane family. It might help to get the case reopened,” he added, sweetening the deal.

Joan hadn’t thought of it from that angle. But it made sense. Her appearance on Charlie Long might actually help Samuel. And she certainly did owe him after yesterday.

But her mother. Oh, her mother.

“I read Bayou Betrayal,” said Charlie Long. “Loved it.”

“Thank you,” said Joan automatically. “And I admire your show, too.”

“You do?” He sounded genuinely pleased. “So…how about helping out a fellow artist? My producers are putting a lot of pressure on me over this one.”

“I hear you,” said Joan, with genuine empathy. She knew all about pressure. Then she grew angry at Anthony all over again. How could he have put her in this position?

“What do you say?” asked Charlie.

“I need some time-”

“Afraid I’ve got to have an answer right now. I’m in makeup, and we’re promoting Friday’s show today.”

He was in makeup. Charlie Long was in makeup before his live network show, chatting with her on the phone. Joan went hot, then cold again.

“Help me out, Joan?”

“Sure.” Even as she said the word, she couldn’t believe she was doing it.

“Great! You’re a trouper. I’ll see you on Friday.”

The line went dead.

Joan clamped her hand around the phone. Deep down, she knew she should be angry with herself. But Anthony made a much more appealing target.

ANTHONY WAS on his feet at the first knock.

“Anthony?” Joan’s voice echoed through the door panel.

“Here!” His voice was hoarse as he grabbed the gun and crossed the bedroom, wrenching open the door, checking both ways down the hallway.

But Joan was alone. She stood hale and hearty, eyes squinting at him, arms crossed over her chest. “That was a low-down, dirty rotten trick you pulled.”

Anthony lowered the gun and raked back his messy hair, struggling to get his bearings. He checked both ways down the hall again just to be sure. “Huh?”

She stormed past him into the room. “Charlie Long?”

Anthony turned, setting the pistol down on a table and pointing it toward the wall. “Charlie Long what?”

“He called.”

Anthony went stone-cold. “He called you?”

“Yes, he called me. Did you know?”

Anthony didn’t answer. He’d asked Bo to test the waters. But he never expected Charlie Long to make the call without giving him a heads-up.

“Anthony!” Joan cried.

“It was before Samuel got shot.”

“That’s your excuse.”

Not exactly. “It was-”

“You’re fired.”

For a second, Anthony thought he’d misheard. But Joan’s expression left no doubt.

She pointed a finger, her voice all but shaking with emotion. “I mean it, Anthony. I’ll go to L.A. and do the show, because I promised-”

“You said yes?” He couldn’t believe it.

Her voice went shrill. “That’s so typical.”

“It was just a question.” If she’d said yes, why was she firing him?

“It’s all about business with you, isn’t it? Every second of every day. No matter what’s going on-bullets flying, nooners with your clients.”

Now that wasn’t fair. “We never had a nooner.”

She glared at him, and he shut up.

“I must be pretty damn important to have Mr. Long call me himself.”

“Of course you’re important.”

“You knew I wouldn’t be able to say no. You knew it.”

“I didn’t-”

“Forget it. You can turn it off now, Anthony. In case you missed it, I’m no longer your client.”

“Fine,” he said.