The second they switched to a commercial, Anthony was through the booth door. He brushed his way past cameras and assistants, stepping over extension cords to get to Joan just as she removed her microphone.
He drew her into his arms and hugged her tight to his chest. “You were magnificent,” he mumbled in her ear.
She molded against him, and he prolonged the hug, greedily absorbing her essence.
“Did he drug you or something?” asked Heather.
“Thirty seconds,” said the producer. “Can we clear the set, please?”
One arm still around Joan, Anthony made his way through the set drapes to the studio door.
“Seriously,” said Heather, as she scrambled along behind them. “Joanie, how did he talk you into it?”
“He was right,” said Joan, and Anthony tightened his arm on her. “Playing hard to get only makes them more interested.”
“That’s men, not the general public,” said Heather as the door closed behind them and they started down the dark, narrow hallway that led to the green room.
“Principle’s the same,” said Anthony.
“He’s only trying to make money,” Heather accused.
“While you’re trying to stuff the genie back in the bottle,” said Anthony.
“I’m your sister, and I love you,” said Heather.
“Then call up your parents.” Anthony whisked Joan through the lobby, under the interested gazes of the studio staff. “Call up your friends. Tell them that Joan is an excellent writer, and they should all buy her books.”
“It’s not that simple,” Heather objected.
“It’s not that simple,” Joan agreed as they exited through the double glass doors.
Anthony knew he’d gone one step too far. Joan was aligning herself with Heather again, when he needed her to trust him.
He cursed himself silently. There was no doubt in his mind they’d get more interview offers. He needed her to be ready, and he needed her to be willing.
JOAN WAS STILL feeling buoyed when Anthony pulled into her short driveway in Indigo. The interview was over. Soon the hype would die down, Anthony would go back to New York, and she could get back to normal again.
She still felt uneasy at the thought of talking to her parents. But at least she could tell them they were past the publicity peak. Things would only calm down from here.
Her stomach fluttered at the thought of Anthony leaving, but she ignored that. He was her agent, not her best friend. They’d go back to talking on the phone every month or so. She could even fantasize about him in the dead of night-just as she’d done for years, ever since Brian had turned into a warm but distant memory.
Normalcy. How she craved it right now.
“Thank God we’re home,” moaned Heather from the cramped backseat. “My massage has been completely obliterated.” She stretched her neck back and forth.
Anthony shut down the engine, set the brake and opened his door. He unfolded his body and flipped the seat forward so Heather could escape.
Joan hopped out her own side and retrieved her purse and the boutique bag from the floor behind her.
“You left your door open,” said Heather.
Joan pushed it shut. “Give me a second here.”
“No. I mean that one.” Heather pointed to the house. “Your front door is open.”
Anthony stilled, twisting his head toward the house. “Stay here,” he ordered.
“It was probably just the wind,” said Joan, but an unsettling twinge shot up her spine. In ten years of storms off the Gulf, her door had never once blown open.
“I’m not staying out here,” said Heather, trotting behind Anthony.
Joan rounded the hood of the car, following suit. She wasn’t timid like Heather, but it was dark now and she didn’t relish the thought of standing outside amid the sound of the cicadas and sway of the hanging moss, wondering what might be lurking around the cypress trees.
Anthony strode up the stairs to the open doorway.
“You should really get a gun,” Heather muttered.
“Quiet,” said Anthony. He paused in the doorway and cocked his head.
Joan could hear the ticking clock, the gentle hum of the fridge motor and the wind rustling the oak leaves-no footfalls, no voices.
Anthony stepped inside. The floor creaked under his shoes. He reached to the right and flipped a light switch.
Joan blinked at the bright light, then gasped as the room came into focus.
Her bookcase had been tipped over, and papers were strewn across the living room floor. The kitchen looked intact, but her writing nook was in complete disarray. Worst of all, there was a gaping hole where her computer had stood.
Anthony reached for his phone and dialed 911.
“I need to look upstairs,” said Joan, moving around Anthony. She kept backup disks in her bedroom closet.
Anthony grabbed her by the arm and pinned her to his side. “This is Anthony Verdun,” he said into the phone. “I’m at Joan Bateman’s house on Amelie Lane. There’s been a robbery.” He paused. “Yes.” Another pause. “I think they’re gone. Okay. We will.”
He closed the phone.
“You are not going anywhere,” he said to Joan.
“My backup disks,” she told him. “They’re in my bedroom.” She had to know if her work was safe. That computer represented hours and days and months of her life. She had a manuscript in progress and hundreds of research files stored on it.
If anybody could understand her panic, it was Anthony.
He glanced at her writing nook and gritted his teeth. “Okay.”
“I’ll go first,” said Anthony.
“Wait for the police,” said Heather. “
Anthony glared disdainfully down at her. “I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t care about you. I care about Joan.”
“I’m not going to let anything happen to Joan.”
Heather folded her arms over her chest. “Of course you won’t. She’s your meal ticket.”
Joan was mortified.
“Do the interview,” Heather mimicked. “Do the interview and everything will be all right. Does this look all right to you?”
Joan went cold. The interview. Could the break-in have something to do with the interview?
She scanned the disordered room once more. Priceless works of art were left untouched. Her hall closet door was closed. The kitchen hadn’t been disturbed. Only her desk. Her computer. Her writing.
She blinked up at Anthony. “Is this because of the interview?”
“No,” he said. But she could tell he wasn’t completely sure.
Joan backed away from him.
He’d been wrong.
She’d been wrong.
She should have gone with her own instincts and stayed out of the limelight. This would probably make the news, too. Soon her father would be storming Indigo with court orders and bodyguards.
She felt Heather’s thin arm go around her. “We’ll go to Paris,” her sister whispered.
Joan’s heart-rate sped up, and her breathing deepened. Maybe she should have gone to Paris in the first place.
POLICE CHIEF Alain Boudreaux concluded what Anthony had already guessed. A fan had broken in looking for souvenirs. One of the neighbors had reported a cluster of people in front of Joan’s house while they were away in
