“Don’t be. Got what he deserved. Me? I made more money writing mysteries than I ever would have romances.” She seemed fine with it, but I wondered if she really was. That was a hard thing, having a friend steal your work...and your man.
Something clicked. If Greta were to be believed, Natasha stole someone’s work. And I doubted it was a stranger. I had a feeling whoever it was had been close to Natasha. But whom? Boy, did I want to see that manuscript.
Chapter 18
To Catch a Thief
THE PARTY WENT LATE, but I begged off around eleven. This whole adventure was making me tired, what with the jet lag and the murders and whatnot. Cheryl happily stayed behind to hang out with Max. I wondered wearily if I was seeing a romance in the making. Maggie and Lu stayed at the party, too. Maggie wanted to see what her archenemy was up to, and Lu was keeping an eye on Maggie “in case she goes postal.” Lucas was nowhere to be seen. Schmoozing in his author persona, no doubt.
It was nice to get my pajamas on, take off my makeup, and curl up in bed with a good book. For once I needed the quiet. I was feeling a little overwhelmed by everything.
I hadn’t been in bed long when there was a knock on the door. “Do you know what time it is?” I snarled without getting up.
“Yes. But I think you’ll find it worth your while.”
Lucas Salvatore. With a growl, I tossed back the duvet, climbed out of bed, and jerked open the door. “This had better be good.”
Gone were the khakis and Hawaiian shirt. He was in a pair of worn jeans that fit him like a glove and a soft, gray t-shirt. Frankly, he looked good enough to eat.
“Believe me, it is.” He held up a thumb drive.
I frowned. “What’s that?”
“Natasha’s last book.”
“How the heck did you get that?” I asked, dragging him inside.
He laughed. “Hey, I have my ways. I just had a nice chat with Greta, and she agreed to let me see the manuscript, but only if it couldn’t be traced back to her. Hence the drive.”
“Gimme.” I snatched it from him and padded down the hall to the living area. Turning on the light, I flipped open my laptop and inserted the thumb drive. I quickly opened the files. The only thing on the drive was a single manuscript titled Lovers Lost.
“Doesn’t sound terribly exciting,” I said with a frown.
“Greta assures me it is.”
I started reading the first chapter, Lucas leaning over my shoulder to read along. I was keenly aware of his presence. The way he smelled, the heat coming off his skin. If I wasn’t careful, I could easily fall for Lucas Salvatore. And wouldn’t that be silly? I didn’t have time for romance. Especially what would no doubt be a long-distance one. Besides which, I was still a murder suspect.
After a few pages, I knew what I was reading. “There is no way Natasha wrote this,” I said. “I’ve read her drivel.” I considered it a good policy to stay on top of the best-sellers in my genre. “This isn’t even close to her style. The phrasing. The words the author uses. It isn’t Natasha.”
“Do you recognize it?”
“No,” I admitted, “but I think I know who will.”
“Who?”
“The one person who knows Natasha’s writing better than anyone.”
“Piper Ross,” he said.
I nodded. “Do you think maybe this is what I saw Yvonne and Greta arguing about? Surely Yvonne knew this was a plagiarized book. She worked with Natasha too long to be fooled. Perhaps Greta was uncomfortable with it or something.”
He shrugged. “Makes as much sense as anything. Maybe you’ll know more once you talk to Piper.”
I cleared my throat and folded my hands primly on the table, suddenly nervous. “It’s a little late to go banging on her door. How about a glass of wine?”
His grin widened. “Sounds like a great idea.”
I pulled a bottle of cabernet sauvignon from the cupboard. I’d picked it up at the local grocery store the day I arrived. Not my favorite label, but then I preferred Pacific Northwest wines, snob that I was. I made short work of the cork and, after pouring out two glasses, joined Lucas in front of the Juliette balcony overlooking the sea. It was a perfect night: warm, but not overly humid for once, with a nice breeze coming off the ocean.
“Are you always this determined?” he asked, eyes dark pools in the moonlight. He leaned against the wrought-iron railing, the wind teasing his dark hair. Man, I wanted to run my fingers through that hair. I bet it was soft as silk.
I gave myself a mental shake. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this murder thing. You seem almost obsessed with it.”
I shrugged. “Wouldn’t you be if someone accused you of being the killer?”
“I suppose I would be, but I admit I’d probably leave it to the professionals. They’d figure it out eventually.”
I snorted. “Maybe, but I’m not going to count on it.”
“So are you this determined in other aspects of life?”
I thought about that a moment. “I suppose. I mean, my writing certainly. I always wanted to be a writer ever since I was a kid, but I never did much about it. Not for years. Once I decided to go for it, I did. Full out, no holds barred. I figured if I was going to try it, I was giving it everything or nothing. So I gave it everything.”
He nodded. “That I can understand. What about...relationships?”
I gave him a sideways glance. What was he getting at? “Depends on the relationship, I guess. Some are easy. Like Cheryl and me. We’ve been friends for years. Get on like a house afire. It’s easy. Others, not so much. Some really aren’t worth the effort.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience.”
“I do,” I said, but my tone put an end to that part of the
