“I don’t talk about my sex life.” His dark eyes glowed with raw sensuality, while his voice dropped to a throbbing bass. “But I’d be happy to give you a free demonstration.”
A hot rush flared from the pit of her stomach. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“And I can’t believe you blushed.”
“That’s shock and disbelief.”
“You sure?”
No, she wasn’t sure. Her traitorous body was showing all the signs of arousal. Stupid body. Definitely time to get the heck out of this conversation. “Why don’t you tell me what they took?”
“Who?”
“Whoever broke into your house.”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing? Nobody breaks into a house and takes nothing.”
“You accusing me of lying?”
There wasn’t a doubt in Heather’s mind that Samuel would lie. Probably recreationally, certainly if it would gain him something.
The sound of tires and a car engine put off his response. Heather turned to see a black, panel-sided van round the corner. The satellite dish on the roof could mean only one thing, and she groaned out loud.
It rocked to a halt beside them, the door immediately sliding open, while a thirtyish man with slicked hair and an angular face hopped out. He wore khaki slacks and short-sleeved dress shirt. And he carried a microphone.
“Joan Bateman?” he asked, stuffing it in her face.
Heather shook her head, but she knew better than to utter a single word.
Samuel smoothly but firmly positioned his body between them. Then he urged her back with his broad palm. Her stomach contracted under his touch, but she moved the way he guided.
“I’m looking for Joan Bateman,” said the reporter, glancing around in eager expectation.
“She’s not here,” said Samuel.
“And you are?”
Samuel didn’t answer.
“He’s Samuel Kane,” shrieked a woman from the driver’s seat, clattering into the back of the van on high heels. “That old murder-suicide. He’s her muse.”
“You’re Samuel Kane?” asked the reporter.
“What about it?”
The man’s focus snagged on Samuel, and he thrust the microphone forward again. “Do you agree with Joan Bateman’s version of your parents’ murders?”
“I don’t know,” said Samuel in an impressively neutral tone. “I haven’t read the book.”
Oh yeah. Samuel could lie, all right. He could take the witness stand for her any old time.
“But you think your father was innocent?”
“So I’ve said. Many times.” Samuel turned and linked Heather’s arm, pulling her along as he walked away.
“Do you think your father was framed?” the reporter called after them.
Samuel headed for the driveway, and Heather struggled to keep up. She could feel the tension in the muscles of his forearms.
“Where are we going?” she demanded under her breath.
“Mr. Kane?” The reporter caught up with them. “Do you have any comment on the theory that your father was framed?”
Samuel stopped. His jaw hardened. He turned and pasted the man with a menacing glare, holding his ground, leaning slightly forward.
The reporter opened his mouth.
Samuel raised his eyebrow.
“Thank you,” the reporter sputtered as he backed off.
“Wow,” said Heather.
“There should be a law against that.”
She’d been talking about Samuel’s ability to make grown men run for cover, but she didn’t correct him.
“My truck’s around the side,” he said. “You want a lift?”
Heather nodded. “Yes. Please.”
She needed to warn Joan about the reporters. And she needed to warn her about Samuel’s comments. And she’d better get on the phone to her parents, quick. Joan’s interview was one thing, but if they caught her and Samuel on the evening news, there was going to be a whole lot more explaining to do.
THE ONLY GOOD THING about Heather’s story was that it acted as a buffer between Joan and Anthony over breakfast. Bad enough that she’d kissed him last night. Okay, so
But then she’d called him back.
He was almost to the door, and she’d practically begged him to stay. Luckily, he was smart enough for both of them and kept going. Which made the morning after even worse.
“You have to call Mom,” said Heather, taking another drink of her coffee but ignoring the fresh croissant on the plate in front of her.
Joan shook her head. “I’m not calling Mom.”
“It’s your book.”
“You’re the spy. You report in to headquarters.”
Anthony interrupted with a harsh sigh. “You are both grown women. Will you start acting like it?”
Joan looked at him for the first time. “Excuse me?”
He set down his coffee cup. “Call your parents, already.”
“Like you would.”
“Of course I would.”
“With disastrous news.”
“In my family, this wouldn’t
“Oh, and they’d be
Anthony took his napkin from his lap and tossed it on the table. “They’d be happy to see me succeeding at something as tough and competitive as fiction writing.”
Joan knew he was trying to manipulate her. “And their friends, their colleagues, their social contacts-”
“Would be happy for me, too.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Honestly, Joan. I don’t know what kind of world you two grew up in.”
“But you people have some serious issues.”
Luc Carter strode in through the doorway. “You guys better take a look at this,” he said, turning on a small television on the countertop.
Anthony came to his feet as Samuel and Heather appeared on the screen. “Turn it up.”
Heather groaned. “Look at my hair!”
“It’s fine,” Joan lied, glancing sideways at her sister. Heather on television with bed head. What were the odds?
“Shhh,” said Anthony.
“I already told you what we said,” Heather put in.
The shot of Samuel’s angry scowl faded from the screen, and the announcer reappeared, smoothly segueing into the next story.
“You’ll probably want to call Mom now,” said Heather.
Joan closed her eyes and struggled to come up with a spin,
