“You have delusions of grandeur,” she said, staring right back.

“Your story was a section headline in The New York Times. I am not exaggerating the potential for publicity.”

After a moment’s silence, Heather spoke up. “I have to go with Anthony on this one.”

Anthony glanced sideways at her and blinked. “Really?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m still taking her to Europe.”

“I’m standing right here,” said Joan. “And nobody is taking me anywhere.”

“That a girl,” said Anthony. This was a moment in a million for an author. Joan needed to stay in the U.S., where she could capitalize on it.

“And I’m giving a tea.” She turned to Heather. “You want to stay and make your crab puffs?”

“Joanie, we can be in Paris for breakfast.”

“I’ll deliver the damn invitations for you,” said Anthony, whisking them out of Joan’s hands. He could only fight on so many fronts at once, and Heather’s Europe plan needed to be neutralized.

Once those invitations were out, he was willing to bet that Joan would stay put and host the party. He’d rather get her to New York, but Indigo was a lot better than Paris.


JOAN AND HEATHER watched Anthony’s rented black sports car back down the dirt driveway and pull onto Amelie Lane.

“So, are you sleeping with him?” asked Heather as she let the cotton print curtains fall back into place.

“No, I’m not sleeping with him.”

“Really?” Heather gave Joan the arched-brow, skeptical look that she’d perfected when they were growing up.

Joan felt a shiver of guilt, even though absolutely nothing was going on between her and Anthony. “He lives in New York. I hardly ever see him.”

Heather shrugged beneath her Anne Klein blazer and tucked her bobbed hair behind one ear. “Too bad. If you ignore the attitude, he’s pretty hot.”

Joan wasn’t about to disagree with that. Anthony was definitely hot. He also had an attitude.

“So, what did Mom and Dad say?” she asked, changing the subject to something only slightly more comfortable than her feelings for Anthony.

“That they were sure this was all some kind of a mistake.”

Joan moved back from the window and into the cluttered, brightly colored living room. “I’m sure they thought it was.”

Heather took a cushioned rattan chair and crossed one toned leg over the other. The seat was Joan’s favorite. Positioned beside a bank of windows, it overlooked the lawn, the cypress trees and the little pier that jutted out into Bayou Teche.

“What happened, Joanie? Last I heard you were writing history books.”

Joan sat down on the floral print love seat opposite. “Brian died,” she said softly, referring to her late husband.

Heather gave her a quizzical look.

“He was partway through a mystery novel,” Joan said. “And then he died. I finished it in his memory.” She smiled to herself. “And it was fun.”

“So you made up a pen name.”

“And I kept writing.” Joan spread her hands. “And now this.”

“What if you just denied it?”

“I’d be lying.”

Her sister lifted a brow again as if to question the relevance of that statement. “Yeah?”

“Aside from the ethics of the situation, I’m pretty sure I’d get caught.”

“Which makes me wonder…how did you keep it a secret this long?”

“A numbered company through Zurich.”

Heather’s dark red lips pursed in admiration. “Not bad.”

“It was Anthony’s idea.”

“I bet Daddy could hide your tracks.”

Oh, yeah, that was the answer. Engage her father in a conspiracy. “You thirsty?”

“Got a cosmopolitan?”

Joan stood. “Let me check.” She drank more wine than martinis, but lime juice was a staple in Indigo, and she entertained often enough to keep a stocked bar.

Heather rose gracefully from her chair and followed. “I don’t get what happened, Joanie.”

Joan pulled the cranberry juice and lime out of the refrigerator, setting it on the breakfast bar that separated the dining area from the kitchen. “Mysteries are a lot more fun than history books.”

“Did you want to be famous or something?”

“Of course not. I just wanted to have fun writing them. I figured, what’s the harm? And I did hide it for ten years.”

“See, that part blows me away. Ten years.”

Joan scooped some ice from the freezer and dumped it into the martini shaker. “Something like that.”

“So this wasn’t your first book?”

“Bayou was my twelfth. And there’s one more in line-editing.”

Heather blinked at her in silence.

“What?” Joan asked.

“Daddy’s going to freak.”

Joan reached for the Absolut. “There was a chance he wouldn’t freak over one book?”

“No. But now he’ll freak even more.”

Freak was probably the right word. Joan’s stomach lurched again and, after a split-second hesitation, she poured some extra vodka into the shaker. “You want a double?”

“You bet.” Heather perched herself on one of the high swivel chairs at the breakfast bar. She tapped her long, red fingernails against the Arborite. “I don’t get why you had to publish them.”

“Because that’s what you do with novels.”

“But why sell them at all? You don’t need the money.”

Not a bad question. Joan supposed she could have kept the manuscripts to herself. But it wouldn’t have been the same. As much as she protected her privacy and solitude, she loved reading the reviews, and she got a big kick out of the reader comments that were sent to the unofficial Jules Burrell Web site. There was something satisfying in knowing a story she’d created spoke to people in so many different corners of the world.

“Joan?”

“It wouldn’t have been the same,” said Joan, capping the lid on the shaker.

“You bet it wouldn’t have been the same.” Heather gave a hollow laugh. “Hundreds of Daddy’s friends and associates wouldn’t have read your sweaty little saga and second-guessed his parenting skills.”

Joan flinched. She hadn’t meant to hurt her family. She knew the Batemans ranked popular fiction writing right up there with mud wrestling.

“Do you think he read it?” she asked, shaking the martinis.

Heather shook her head. “No.”

“Did you read it?”

“When would I have read it? I called the jet right after reading the article this morning.”

Joan poured the cosmopolitans into long-stemmed glasses, wondering if her family might be pleasantly surprised if they read her work. She realized that a big part of her was proud of her stories. “I could give you a copy. Are you curious at all?”

Heather stared contemplatively at her drink. “Quite frankly, I’m scared to death.”

“Of what?”

“Of finding out that it’s even worse than I thought.”

Ouch.

“I’m at the Heidelberg Strings Friday night,” Heather continued, oblivious to the fact that her insult had hit home. “With Jeffrey Plant. I don’t want to have to explain your book to him and his mother.”

Okay. Now that one definitely hurt. Joan contemplated her own drink for a long moment. “Yeah? Well, there’s a bondage scene on page two-twenty-one. You might want to point that out to them.”

Heather froze, glass halfway to her lips. “That’s not even funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” Joan took a healthy swig. “Say hi to Monica Plant for me, will you?”

Heather’s face blanched. A violinist herself, Heather considered her connections in the music community to be vitally important. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

Joan shrugged. She probably had. Her parents were going to kill her. And it wasn’t as though she couldn’t see their point.

Bayou Betrayal was a heart-pounding, action-packed, titillating read, aimed squarely at the mass market. It had little redeeming social value. It was simply a fun write and, hopefully, a fun read.

As Heather downed half of her own martini, there was a knock on the door.

Heather grabbed Joan’s hand across the countertop. “You think we should hide?” she stage-whispered.

“It’s probably Anthony,” Joan whispered back.

“Would he knock?”

Joan put down her glass. “Of course he would knock. I told you, we meet maybe once or twice a year.” She headed for the door.

“I think you should be careful.” Heather pattered behind her. “You’ve got enough problems without a news crew sticking a camera in your face.”

Joan flashed her sister a look of disbelief. “News crew? You’re starting to sound like Anthony.” Still, she peeked through the beveled window before opening the door.

Not Anthony.

And not a news crew.

It was Samuel Kane, and Joan’s stomach did a slow-motion slide to her toes. Samuel should have been the first person she thought of when her name went public.

In the past, she’d always been careful not to base her stories on real people or on real events. They all took place in Cajun country. And yes, the small town was similar to Indigo. But the stories themselves were pure fiction.

Until this one.

The murder-suicide of Samuel Kane’s parents had formed the germ of her idea for Bayou Betrayal.

“Who is it?” Heather hissed from behind her.

Joan took a bracing breath and opened the door.

“Ms. Bateman?” Samuel Kane nodded, his tone low and melodious. He was a big, burly man with cropped black hair, deep-set eyes and a wide nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once. His skin was the color of burnished copper both from his hours in the sun as a carpenter and from his mixed heritage.

Joan sometimes saw him at church, and they’d certainly met around town, but they’d never engaged one another in conversation. There was only one reason for him to show up at her door today-he’d already read Bayou Betrayal, and she hadn’t been nearly as vague as she’d hoped.