A Secret Life

“Can somebody fax me copies of her original contracts?” he asked. He was making sure the publisher stuck to every single provision he’d negotiated for reprints.

Bo chuckled again. “Of course we can.”

“I’ll read them over before we talk further.”

“Always an eye on business,” said Bo.

“I like to think so.”

“Here’s the thing.”

Anthony braced himself.

“Bayou Betrayal is shaping up for a placement of at least twenty-five or thirty on the New York Times list.”

Anthony struggled to quell a surge of excitement. He had a best-selling author. Professionally, this was phenomenal.

“With the right circumstances,” Bo continued, “she might break the top ten.”

Now Anthony struggled not to hyperventilate.

“And then there’s the backlist. We’re prepared to launch a national media campaign, volume discounts, premium store placement, and any book tour she cares to name.”

This was it. This was the big time. For him, for Joan, for Prism.

“What do you say we start the ball rolling with Charlie Long?”

Anthony’s stomach congealed. They had him.

Of course they’d want the talk shows. They needed the talk shows. And Joan needed the talk shows, too.

Opportunities like this were lightning strikes, fleeting and never to be repeated. A couple of days from now, the news cycle would move on, and Joan would be out in the cold.

“I’ll do my best,” he heard himself say, struggling to come up with a strategy he could sell to her.

“Fantastic,” said Bo. “You know, Anthony, if it would help…we could see if Charlie’s willing to make the call personally.”

Anthony hesitated. Ask Charlie Long to contact Joan? It was a risk. But it might be the only thing that would sway her.

He drew a deep breath.

“We’ve done it before,” said Bo.

“Fine,” said Anthony, gritting his teeth. “No harm in asking if he’s willing.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

JOAN FELT as if she were fourteen years old all over again. It happened every time she upset her mother. Normally, she tried very hard not to upset her mother.

“Because it’s the only way to nip this untenable situation in the bud,” her mother said tartly.

“If we give them some time,” Joan tried, “people might get used to the idea.”

She’d already apologized in half a dozen ways, but there was no backpedalling from this one. Going forward was her only hope.

Her mother’s voice rose. “We don’t want them to get used to the idea. We want them to forget all about the idea. You had to know this couldn’t end well.”

“I didn’t think much about the ending,” Joan confessed, tracing her finger along the outline of the wild-flower pattern on the breakfast room wallpaper.

If only The New York Times hadn’t picked up the story. If only Samuel hadn’t gone in front of the cameras. And if only she hadn’t included that bondage scene in Bayou Betrayal. She then might have had a chance to smooth things over.

But all those ships had sailed.

Paris was looking better and better. Maybe she could find a little garret off the Champs Elysees and come up with a different pen name. She sighed at the thought of starting everything from scratch. But what was her choice?

“This is all so typically you,” her mother sighed. “Plunging into some wild scheme without giving a single thought to the consequences. It’s like the time you played piano for that awful rock and roll band, and we had to-”

“I’ll go to Paris, Mom.” Joan glanced up just in time to see Anthony freeze in the breakfast room doorway, cell phone in his hand.

There was a pregnant pause all around.

Her mother was the first to break it. “Now you’re making some sense,” she enthused.

Anthony shook his head, and his voice went hoarse. “No.” He took a jerky step forward, but Heather moved in front of him.

“I’ll get your father to call the pilot right away,” said her mother.

Joan shrank against the sideboard as Anthony tried to jockey his way around Heather without manhandling her.

“I have to go, Mom,” said Joan.

“But we need to make plans,” her mother complained.

“Get out of my way,” Anthony growled.

“She’s going to Paris,” said Heather.

“Heather said the jet could land at St. Martinville.” Her mother’s words sped up. “I’d suggest you-”

“We can go commercial,” said Joan.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Anthony grasped Heather by the shoulders and all but lifted her out of the way.

“Gotta go, Mom.”

“But-”

Joan disconnected.

Anthony stopped in front of her, his breathing deep, neck muscles pumped. “We have to talk.”

“She’s going to Paris,” Heather repeated.

“Outside,” said Anthony.

“Don’t do it, Joanie.”

Joan leaned around Anthony to look at her sister. “We’re just going to talk.”

“I don’t trust him.”

Joan rolled her eyes. She owed Anthony an explanation. She’d tell him reasonably and rationally that she wasn’t willing to hurt her family. She’d never sought fame in the past, and she didn’t want it now.

Sure, the interview yesterday had been a bit of a lark. There were even parts of it that she’d enjoyed. And, although she’d never admit it to another living soul, the crew and the interviewer’s enthusiasm at meeting her were a nice little ego boost.

She’d lived in her father’s shadow, her mother’s shadow, even Heather’s shadow her whole life. For once it had just been her. “Joan,” they’d called her, not Conrad Bateman’s daughter or Heather’s sister. Just Joan.

She almost sighed in regret, but quickly brought herself back to reality. She’d caused this problem. She had to fix it.

“We can talk outside,” she said to Anthony.

“What about the reporters?” asked Heather. “The fans? There are people out in the lane.”

“I ordered them off the property,” Luc put in.

“We’ll go down to the gazebo,” said Joan, wanting to get it over with. “It’s private.”

Anthony latched on to her arm. “Let’s go.”

“They’ll see you.”

Luc’s voice overrode Heather’s. “Only access is through the B and B. They’ll be safe.”

“This is none of your business,” said Heather.

“Fair enough,” said Luc. “But they can still use the gazebo.”