Suddenly, there was a pounding at her front door.

She jumped.

Could it be Chief Boudreaux that quickly? Was he upset? Had he brought a posse? She debated whether to answer it, stay quiet or bail out the back way.

Whoever it was pounded again.

Curiosity got the better of her survival instincts, and she crept up to the small, beveled-glass window, squinting at the disjointed figure on her porch.

Anthony? What on earth was Anthony doing in Indigo?

“Joan?” he called, stepping back to gaze up at the white, two-story cottage.

“Anthony?” she called back.

He moved closer, squinting into the small window. “Let me in, Joan.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Are you upset?”

“No.” She wasn’t upset. She was confused and getting a little jumpy. In fact, she was starting to hope this was all some kind of a bizarre dream.

He rattled the doorknob, and the catch gave way. No surprise in that; there weren’t a lot of locks in Indigo. Just one of the things she was trying to protect by opposing the music festival and renovation of the opera house.

The painted door swung open to reveal the man who was her literary agent and lawyer. As always, the sight of Anthony took her breath away. Dressed in a very well-cut suit, he was an urbane, startlingly handsome man, with deep blue eyes, thick dark blond hair, a strong chin and a body that made women sit up and take notice.

And that wasn’t simply her opinion. She knew other women took notice, because she’d watched them react to him for years. She also knew that Anthony knew. He had his pick. Always had, always would.

“What are you doing here?” She buried her inappropriate reaction down deep. “Did something go wrong with Bayou?”

The book had only been out a few days. It was a little too early to panic about numbers.

Anthony peered closely at her expression, crossing almost cautiously into her front hall and pushing the door closed behind him with a solid click. “Nothing’s wrong with Bayou. Sales are going great.”

“Good to hear.”

His gaze strayed, and she followed it to the dining table.

“I was just addressing some invitations,” she explained.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said.

She shook her head. “No problem. Can I get you-”

The phone rang yet again.

Anthony reflexively jerked toward it. “Don’t answer that.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

The greeting began.

Anthony crossed the room, then reached down and pulled the answering machine plug.

It took Joan a second to react. “What are you doing?”

“We have to talk.”

She blinked. “About what?” Her theory that this was all a bizarre dream was quickly gaining credibility. She held still for a minute, waiting to wake up and start Tuesday all over again.

“Something’s happened,” said Anthony.

Joan closed her eyes and gave her head a little shake.

“Joan?”

She opened one eye. “You’re still here.”

He frowned.

She glanced down at her white, pleated blouse and linen slacks. “And I’m still here.”

He took a step toward her, one hand tentatively reaching out. “Joan?”

She inhaled his spicy aftershave, wishing this really were a dream. What a perfect time to lean up and kiss him. She’d wondered about those full lips for years.

“We have to talk,” he repeated.

“Okay.” She nodded, shelving the dream theory for now. Surely if this was a dream, her subconscious would be making it a little sexier.

He looked way too serious. “Can we sit down?”

Maybe Bayou wasn’t doing so well. Maybe he was going to drop her as a client. She’d heard the publishing business was downsizing, and authors were being let go all over the place.

“Just go ahead and tell me,” she said, steeling herself.

He drew a deep breath and rubbed his chin. “It’s like this…”

Joan waited, quickly growing impatient. “If it’s bad news, it’s bad news.”

Whatever it was, she’d retain her composure. She’d draw on years of poise and practice learned at her mother’s knee and keep her feelings bottled tight inside.

“There was a leak,” he said.

She mentally shifted gears and glanced up at the ceiling. “Here?”

His shoulders dropped, and he shook his head. “Not that kind of leak.”

“Oh.”

“An information leak.”

His point wasn’t quite computing. “Information?”

He stepped closer. “Information about you.” He paused. “Personally.”

And then she got it.

It was like being struck with a lightning bolt. “No,” she rasped, shaking her head in denial as the breath hissed out of her body.

Heather’s words screamed through her brain. “What were you thinking?”

At this moment, Joan didn’t honestly know what she’d been thinking. She’d put her faith in Anthony. She’d trusted him when he said he’d take care of her.

Now, she stared up at him, feeling as though she were seeing him for the very first time, wondering how he could have turned on her. “How could you-”

“Not me.” A look of horror came over his face.

“Who else?” It couldn’t have been anyone else.

He didn’t answer.

“Who else knew?”

“There was a confidential file.”

“You wrote it down?”

Blind trusts and numbered companies from here to Switzerland, and he wrote it down?

His eyes turned bleak, and he raked a hand through his hair. “Joan, I am so…”

She wanted to rant. She wanted to rave.

But she knew that wouldn’t change a thing. All she could control now was how she reacted.

She called on every ounce of composure she could muster and compressed her lips. She had to think. There had to be something they could do, some way to salvage the situation.

“Who else knows?” she asked hoarsely. There was her sister, obviously. There was Anthony. There was the person with the confidential file and two lawyers in Atlanta.

Anthony glanced down at his feet and shifted.

“Who knows?” she repeated. She’d figure out exactly what they were dealing with, and they’d take steps to control the problem.

He glanced back up. And then he sighed. “The greater readership of The New York Times.”

She staggered back. “It’s…”

“In the paper. Yesterday.”

Oh, no. No, no.

“And CNN picked it up this morning.”

The room spun around her. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

Anthony stepped forward, his hands closing around her shoulders. “Take a deep breath.”

“That won’t help.” They’d still know. They’d all still know.

And it was her own fault. She’d grown complacent. After ten years, she thought she was home free. She thought the secret would stay locked forever behind the corporate screen Anthony had built.

So with Bayou Betrayal, she’d let loose. She cringed. “It has a bondage scene.”

“Yeah, but that’s the antagonist.”

“My mother’s going to read it. My grandmother’s going to read it.”

“It’s fiction.”

She started hyperventilating. “They’ll think-”

“They’ll think you’re a creative and talented author.”

“They’ll think I’m a hack with loose morals.”

“Who cares?”

“They’re my family.”

“Then they should be proud of you.”

Joan sagged. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“It’s going to be fine.”

“Not it’s not.” It might never be fine again.

“Joan.” His voice sounded far away. “I know we can make this work.”

After a second, his words registered.

Make it work?

Of course he’d make it work. Despite his show of sympathy, he had to be elated by the turn of events. He’d been after her for years to do some publicity.

“You sure it wasn’t you?” she asked.

He looked offended. “Joan!”

“It occurs to me that you have to be pretty happy about this.”

“I’m not the least bit happy about this.”

Did she believe him? Was she a fool to believe him? In the end, it didn’t really matter. It was a done deal. Her family would shun her, and Anthony would head back to New York. And she’d be left here on her own.

All the more reason Indigo had to stay the same. She took another breath. She knew now how to mitigate the problem.

Crossing to the table, she sat down and picked up the calligraphy pen.

“Joan?” Anthony ventured from behind her.

“I’m a little busy right now.” She drew a curved capital P with a flourish. “But thanks so much for stopping by.”

He went silent.

She focused and finished the word please. “About the new manuscript,” she said, dipping her pen. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but could I have another couple of weeks to figure out the timing?”

Between books, she always did some spring cleaning, painted the shutters, wallpapered the den. There was something emotionally therapeutic about getting the clutter out of her life before she started a new project.

She was feeling extremely cluttered right now.

“Joan.” Anthony shifted closer, his suit jacket swishing and his scent invading her space.

Her stomach tightened, but she ignored it. “I think it might be the music festival.”

“The music festival?”

She nodded, still carefully forming letters. “It’s taking up my mental space, and I really can’t come up with a new story with all that going on.”

The phone rang again, jangling through the cottage, making Joan’s hand twitch a black streak over the page.

Anthony strode across the room and yanked the plug out of the wall. “I’m here to help.”

“You know calligraphy?”

“You can’t pretend this isn’t happening.”

“What isn’t happening?”