A Secret Life

gentle. “And what are your instincts telling you now?”

A bead of sweat formed at her temple and trickled down toward her jawline. She took a bracing breath and forced herself to look him straight in the eyes.

Truth was, her instincts were at war with each other. But she told him part of it. “That when the going gets tough, the family has to stick together.”

His jaw went tight, and he closed his eyes for a split second. “And what about you and me sticking together?”

“We’re not-”

“They’re selfish, Joan.”

“They’re my family.” This was a hard decision, a wrenching decision. Why did he have to make it worse?

“That’s not a family.”

Her spine stiffened. He’d crossed the line with that one. “Really? What is a family, Anthony?”

“People who support you through thick and thin.”

“Like your family?”

“Yes.”

She laughed then, but the sound was bitter. “Why don’t you tell me what your own sainted family would do under these circumstances?”

“My family wouldn’t be under these circumstances.”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” she snapped. “They’re too perfect for this.”

“Well, they sure wouldn’t be ashamed of me. They’d have thrown my first book launch. They’d have bought copies for their friends, acquaintances and coworkers.”

“Why? Is everybody they know trailer trash?” The second the words were out of her mouth, Joan cringed in horror.

Anthony’s jaw snapped shut. A chill masked his eyes.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but he held up a hand.

“Don’t say another word,” he ordered

She tried anyway.

“Joan.”

She shut her mouth, waiting for him to yell at her. She certainly deserved it.

But he stood there for a long, silent moment, staring at her as if she were a stranger. Then he turned on his heel to stalk back down the pathway.

Joan didn’t move. The splashing in the bayou increased, and she began to hope it was a gator. A big, hungry gator would put an end to all of her problems. Snap, snap, swallow, and she would stop letting everybody down.

IT WAS a long day for Heather. Joan spent most of it in her room, giving only one word answers when Heather called through the door. But since the family jet was booked for their Paris flight tomorrow, and since Joan wasn’t talking about canceling their plans, Heather decided to leave well enough alone.

Anthony made himself scarce, and even Luc was busy working on the dock. The number of fans and reporters milling around Indigo was increasing, so Heather didn’t really want to venture into town. Out of desperation, she picked up Luc’s copy of Bayou Betrayal.

She started reading around four o’clock. By six, she was cloistered in her room, riveted by the tension, the plot twists and even the sex in the story. Lost in the characterization, she forgot completely that it had been written by her sister.

Then, sometime in the evening, she heard Samuel’s deep voice in the downstairs lounge. It sent a jolt through her stomach and increased her pulse.

She felt the usual sexual buzz in response to him, but her heart also went out to the man. She didn’t know how much of Bayou Betrayal was true and how much was fiction. But Samuel was definitely Jared, the sixteen-year-old boy who had lost his parents to a horrible crime.

She could see now why Samuel had turned out so tough. He’d stayed in his family cottage all on his own, worked in the evenings during high school, then got training as a carpenter. In a strange way, the rise and fall of his voice reassured her that things had turned out well for the boy in the story.

Eventually, she moved closer to her bedroom door, letting the conversation downstairs become a backdrop.

Then she moved to a nook in the breakfast room, flicking on a small lamp in the dark corner.

She didn’t consider it eavesdropping, because she could only hear the occasional word. It was the cadence of the three male voices-Samuel, Anthony and Luc-that she found comforting while the danger increased for the characters at the story’s climax.

“Heather?”

She jumped at the deep voice so close to her. The criminals had now been caught, and she was into the payoff scene at the end of the book.

“Sorry,” Samuel rumbled. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Hi,” she said softly, closing the book and setting it down on the table.

He glanced at the title and grinned. “Good story?”

She nodded. Then she shook her head, looking deep into his dark, unfathomable eyes. “How much is…” She bit her bottom lip. “I am so sorry for what you went through.”

His smile turned sad. “It was a long time ago.”

She came up on her knees on the padded bench seat, making her almost eye level with him. Then she put a hand on his bicep. “It must have been horrible for you.”

He shrugged his big shoulders. “It was no picnic.”

Guilt nipped at her. Her teenage years had been full of designer clothes, sports cars and the right parties. She’d known she was lucky, but she hadn’t realized the full extent of her good fortune. She felt her eyes go liquid with sympathy.

“Hey.” Samuel tipped her chin up with his index finger. “Is there a soft heart under all that sarcasm?”

She blinked and shook her head. “No.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I like my women tough.”

The sheen of tears evaporated completely. “Your women?”

He nodded, moving his big palm along her cheek to cup her face, sending reaction sizzling up her spine. “Don’t pretend you don’t feel it, too.” He paused for a moment. “Anthony tells me you’re leaving tomorrow.”

She nodded jerkily. “I’m taking Joan to Paris.”

He shifted forward, crowding her space, leaning in and tipping his head to one side. “Then I guess this is my last chance.”

Last chance? “To kiss me?”

His lips curved into a lazy smile, and reflected light shone from his dark eyes. “For starters,” he drawled, and Heather’s pulse pounded in her ears.

“Then,” he continued, “I’m going to show you things your white-bread Boston boys don’t even dream about.”

She put on a show of bravado. “You think?”

His smile widened meaningfully. “I know.”

She couldn’t let him get away with this. She was nobody’s sex toy-no matter how rawly sensual he appeared. No matter how many erotic dreams he had spawned. And no matter how curious she’d become.

She opened her mouth to tell him so, but he moved in even closer.

His face was mere inches from hers, and she inhaled his woodsy scent. No designer cologne for this man. Her nose twitched at the unfamiliar sensation of real sweat and unadulterated pheromones.

His thumb stroked her cheek, and his lips brushed hers ever so gently. It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t anything, really.

“Only one night,” he sighed. “Such a shame.”