She sighed. “Natasha would have probably gotten away with it. I don’t read her drivel anymore since it’s not my job. She knows it, too. Knew it. She could have published this, and I would have never found out. But why? She makes millions. Why would she steal my book?”
“Because it’s good. No, scratch that, it’s amazing.” I had a feeling Piper was telling the truth. She really didn’t know Natasha had stolen her work.
She flushed. “Thanks. But I guess good only gets so far.” She sighed again.
“Natasha’s publisher was going to publish this under Natasha’s name,” I said. “They clearly want the book.”
“Yeah. Because they think Natasha wrote it. Natasha’s name would sell a takeout menu.”
I pondered that. “True. But they have to know how good it is. I know some people. Let me talk to them. Perhaps something can be worked out. Or, if you prefer, you could always self-publish. That’s how I make my living.”
“You’d do that for me?” She seemed a bit suspicious. Couldn’t say I blamed her.
“Of course,” I assured her. “I’m not one of those writers who believes other writers are my competition. There’s plenty enough to go around, believe me.”
“Thanks,” she said with a small smile, sipping her massive mug of coffee.
I nodded and returned to my own coffee. I didn’t let her see my disappointment. Because if Piper hadn’t killed Natasha for stealing her story—which she didn’t because she didn’t even know it had happened—then I was back to square one.
Chapter 19
Something Wicked this Way Slithers
THE TALK ON TRENDS in historical romance—yes, I know how ironic that sounds—was as interesting and informative as I hoped it would be. I even got to meet some of my fellow historical romance writers, whom I’d only talked to online or whose books I’d read and admired. I was feeling particularly star struck as I met Maisie Williams, basically historical’s version of Natasha Winters. Except Maisie was gracious, humble, and totally hilarious with her broad New Jersey accent and layers of silk shawls and jet beads. I wasn’t sure if her hair was real or a wig, but it was big and blond and tightly curled in a way that hadn’t been “in” since the eighties. She wore another silk scarf tied artfully in a band around her forehead. She looked like an old carnival fortune teller. I half expected her to whip out a tarot deck and offer to read my fortune.
I told her I’d enjoyed her latest book and how big a fan I was. She squealed in excitement and, in a loud, nasal voice to rival Maggie’s, said, “Sweetheart, I love it. You made my day.” Only “sweetheart” came out more like “sweethaht” and “day” had at least one extra syllable.
Maisie patted me on the back and launched into a story about the time she met her own author heroine, Dame Barbara Cartland. “You wouldn’t believe it,” she said, slapping me on the shoulder, “but she was a lovely woman. Lovely. No airs or graces at all. So genuine and down to earth, you couldn’t help but just love her. Of course, she had her opinions, let me tell you, and she wasn’t exactly the pillar of feminism, but really, such a character.”
I finally extracted myself from Maisie and headed back to my room for a nap. I had two hours before the next class I wanted to attend, so I’d decided to catch up on some much-needed sleep. All this investigating really took it out of a person.
Tossing my dress over a convenient chair, I threw on my pajamas and climbed into bed, snuggling into the plump pillows with a sigh. The Egyptian cotton sheets were smooth and cool against my overheated skin, and I was soon headed toward dreamland. I was just drifting off when something brushed against my foot. Something muscular and scaly. I froze. It moved again. A glance at the shape beneath the duvet and I knew exactly what it was. Snake.
Spiders were my personal kryptonite. Snakes weren’t far off, but I’d seen enough documentaries to know that shrieking and carrying on are surefire ways of getting bitten. Keeping absolutely still could save my life.
My phone lay on the bedside table, so I reached out carefully, one slow inch at a time, and grabbed it. I dialed the first number that came up.
“Hey, Viola. What’s up?”
“Cheryl, I need you to be calm.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“Someone put a snake in my bed.”
There was a shriek from the other end of the line that nearly deafened me. I winced. “I told you to keep calm.”
“I hate snakes.” There was an edge of panic in her voice.
“I realize this,” I whispered, “but you’re not the one in bed with one.”
There was a pause. “Good point. Blame the lack of coffee. What should I do?”
“There are poisonous snakes in Florida, and I can’t see it. It’s under the duvet, so I can’t move. Go to the front desk, get the manager. Tell him what’s happening. If he doesn’t take you seriously, get Lucas to help.” People had a way of listening to Lucas Salvatore. “There should be somebody that knows what to do.” At least I sure hoped so.
It felt like hours, but was probably only about fifteen minutes, before I heard someone outside my door. The snake had curled right up against my leg, apparently enjoying my body heat. Oh goodie.
There was a light knock. The door handle rattled slightly, and the door swung open. A strange man with bushy brown hair poked his head in. “Ms. Roberts?” he said softly. He was wearing a khaki uniform and an official-looking badge. I didn’t bother answering. “My name is Brian. I’m with Fish and Wildlife. I’m going to help you. I just need you to keep absolutely still, okay?”
I shot him a glare. What did he think I’d been doing? Keeping still was not nearly as easy as it sounded. It was downright painful, actually. Plus I
