Barbara Dunlop - A Secret Life

“It’s all an act.”

Joan rolled her eyes. “A person can’t fake playing the violin.”

“They can fake liking the violin.”

Joan shook her head. “I don’t think so.” Passion was what separated average musicians like Joan from great musicians like Heather.

“Heather fakes everything,” said Samuel.

Boy, did he have that wrong. “No, she doesn’t.”

“I think she hates her life.”

“Trust me, Samuel. Nobody hates a private jet, five-star hotel suites and first-run Broadway tickets.” Heather was vivacious, enthusiastic and happy doing pretty much anything. Joan was often envious.

Samuel’s smile turned speculative. “So, have you asked yourself why she’s still here? Instead of, say, taking in a Broadway play?”

“Because she wants to get me to Paris.”

“Why should she care if you go to Paris?”

Heather hadn’t made a secret of it. “Because I’m an embarrassment to the family.”

“You think?”

“What else is there to think?”

“No walls broken up here,” Heather called from the top of the stairs.

Samuel glanced up. “That she’s jealous.”

Joan blinked. “Of what?”

Samuel just smiled.

“It could still be a treasure hunter,” Anthony said as he trotted back down.

At the sight of Anthony, Joan’s stomach went tight.

He looked so relaxed, so at ease, so unconcerned that they were never going to see each other again.

“I’m going to announce there isn’t any money,” she said, striving for the same air of unconcern. “On Charlie Long. I’ll tell the whole world what’s true and what’s fiction.”

“I told her it wouldn’t work,” said Samuel.

“You’ll only fuel more speculation.” Anthony sounded certain.

“I have to do something.” She’d leave for Paris today if she thought it would help. She’d recall every copy of the book if she could. But it wasn’t fair to just sit here and let Samuel’s life spiral out of control.

“We could torch the house,” Anthony suggested.

“No!” Heather jumped forward. “This is a heritage house. Look at the moldings. Look at the scrollwork-”

“I was joking,” said Anthony.

Heather scowled. “It wasn’t funny.”

“We could do a stakeout,” said Samuel. “Lie in wait and catch them when they come back.”

Heather stared at him. “What makes you think they’re coming back?”

Samuel gave her a cocky grin. “To get the money.”

“I’m in,” said Heather with a rapid nod.

Joan sighed. “I have to go to L.A.”

“That’s important, too,” said Anthony.

“Right,” she said. While Heather helped Samuel fix her sister’s screw-up, Joan herself would be sitting in a green room somewhere, contributing to the effort by sipping champagne.

JOAN BATEMAN was destined for greatness.

Anthony could see it. Charlie Long could see it. Even the script girl could see it.

The other two guests scheduled for Friday’s show got bumped, and Charlie finished the complete hour with Joan. Anthony had never admired her more. And he’d never felt like a bigger fool. He’d blown the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

Charlie thanked and congratulated her. What’s more, he took that extra five minutes to chat with her and introduce her around. She was on her way to the top, all right.

Anthony realized he had to find her a new agent before he went back to New York. Off the top of his head, there was Calvin Brick. Of course, he was more of a publicity hound than Anthony. Or Tristan Tremayne. But Tristan was known to sleep with his clients. No way was Anthony pushing Joan toward him when she might be feeling vulnerable.

Adrianna Carmichael had handled plenty of bestsellers, but she had burned some editorial bridges, too. That wouldn’t be in Joan’s best interest. Scratch her off the list.

His cell phone vibrated in his breast pocket.

While Charlie introduced Joan to the producer, Anthony flipped it open, plugging the opposite ear. “Yeah?”

“Remind me to move you to a corner office,” boomed Stephen.

“She was good,” said Anthony, watching Joan laugh and exchange small talk. The network headed straight into the six o’clock news, and Anthony had to believe a huge audience would have caught the last few minutes of her interview.

“She was money in the bank,” said Stephen.

The studio audience was still on its feet, craning their necks for a look at her, even though security was trying to usher them into the aisles and out the doors.

“I’ll tell her you said so.”

“Tell her we’re scheduling a book tour.”

“I don’t think so.” Anthony would never be scheduling anything for her ever again. But he wasn’t sharing that bit of information with Stephen until it was absolutely necessary.

“You got her on the show,” Stephen reminded him.

“And it wasn’t easy,” Anthony pointed out. In fact, it had come at a very big price.

Joan disengaged herself from the crowd. For a woman who hated publicity, her eyes were shining under the stage lights. But then her gaze caught Anthony’s, and the glow disappeared. Her smile faded as she started toward him.

Something slammed into his guts. “Gotta go.”

“Wait-”

He shut the phone. “You were very good,” he said when she got within earshot. She was behind the curtain now, and the sound of the crowd died down.

She tucked her highlighted hair behind one ear. “Charlie seemed pleased.”

“Did he invite you back?”

Her eyes narrowed.

Anthony held up his hands. “Just making conversation.”

“No.” She headed for the hallway to the green room. “He didn’t ask me back.”

Anthony sighed and tucked his phone back into his pocket.

She walked gracefully in front of him down the wide hallway, her head high, her shoulders square, and her perfect backside swaying ever so slightly beneath a tight pin-striped skirt and a cropped blazer.

He didn’t often see her in high heels, and the sight of her long legs made his pulse pound. It gave him a flashback to their interrupted lovemaking, forcing him to set his jaw and shake off a rush of the inappropriate hormones.

He did a quick step to catch up. “Hungry?” he asked over her shoulder.

She shrugged.

“We have to eat,” he persisted, wanting to keep their lines of communication open a little longer, at least until he could get her set up with someone else. “There’s a nice seafood place over on Sunset.”

And, if he recalled correctly, the restaurant had a great deck overlooking the ocean, and the service was ridiculously slow. They’d have a chance to talk.

“I was thinking I’d head for the airport,” she said.

“Our flight’s not until tomorrow.”

They emerged into the opulent green room, and Joan headed straight for the attendant behind a small desk near the entry. “Could you please call me a taxi?”

The uniformed woman smiled and picked up the telephone. “No need, ma’am. One of our drivers can help you.”

“Thank you,” said Joan.

“You’re going to spend the night at the airport?” The network had given them a huge, three-bedroom hotel suite.

She moved away from the desk, and he followed.

“I’m sure I can find a flight.”

“The red-eye?”

“Whatever.”

“Joan?” He touched her arm, but she shook him off. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, jockeying around to try to look her in the eye. Surely she didn’t want to say goodbye in a studio green room.

She kept her back to him.

“Joan?” he repeated, glancing up at the attendant to make sure they weren’t being overheard.

She finally turned, and her eyes looked haunted. “Can’t you just let it die?”

“No,” he answered honestly. “Can you?”

She glanced away.

After a moment of terse silence, he dragged his hand through his hair. “Is that it, then? We say goodbye here?”

Her lips were pursed tight, and she fixed her stare on the far wall.

“You have the greatest moment of your professional career.” He tried unsuccessfully to keep his voice from breaking. “And then you walk away from me forever?”

Her tone was bitter. “You think that was the greatest moment of my professional career?”

“It was Charlie Long.”

“Ma’am?” queried the attendant.

Joan looked up.

“Your car is out front.”

“I’m coming with you,” said Anthony.

“No, you’re not.”

“Is there a problem?” asked the attendant, coming around the small desk to frown at Anthony.

“No problem,” said Joan, increasing her pace.

“No problem,” Anthony echoed, keeping up.

“Go away,” she hissed.

“Not a chance.”

“You’ve been fired.”

“Not until we’re out of L.A.”

Joan stopped abruptly and turned back to the anxious attendant. “Could you please call security?”

Anthony couldn’t believe he’d heard right. “Don’t be ridicu-”

“This man is bothering me.”

HEATHER CAME to a halt beside Samuel at the bottom of a ladder-like staircase that disappeared into the gloom of the opera house cupola. They’d already explored the dusty, cluttered attic above the stage in their quest for a safe stakeout. Fading light filtered through the cupola windows, adding to the illumination of Samuel’s flashlight.

“If you’re afraid to climb-” there was a thread of amusement behind his jab “-you can always wait here.”

“I’m not afraid,” Heather lied, eyeing the steep staircase, working on quelling the butterflies in her stomach. She was pretty sure she could make it to the top. It was getting back down that might kill her.

“You sure?” he asked.

There were numerous windows in the cupola, and Samuel had assured her they’d have a view of his house from three sides. They were armed with a low light camera in the hopes of getting a shot of whoever had broken in. Vertigo or not, Heather wasn’t missing out on the action.