Passion Read online

  “YOU DON’T HAVE TO WAIT FOR MARDI GRAS TO BE WICKED,” HE MURMURED.

  He came a step closer, then another, until he was right behind her—not touching her, but close enough for her to hear his slow, measured breathing. Close enough to make her tremble.

  He wasn’t subtle, or shy. With confidence he rested one hand on her shoulder and slid the other inside her vest. Later she would feel guilty, Teryl acknowledged, but at the moment the sensations were exquisite and only heightened by the fact that they were standing on the sidewalk where anyone might pass, where anyone might see them.

  Pushing her hair away, he pressed his mouth to her ear and murmured, “Unbutton your blouse for me, Teryl. Let me touch you.”

  Her hands trembled. This was crazy, wrong—reckless as hell—but it felt incredibly right…

  PRAISE FOR “EXTRAORDINARILY TALENTED”* MARILYN PAPPANO AND HER RECENT CONTEMPORARY NOVEL,

  IN SINFUL HARMONY

  “EVOCATIVE… COMPELLING… EARTHY… AS STEAMY AS A LOUISIANA NIGHT IN AUGUST.”

  —Rendezvous

  “WONDERFUL AND THOUGHT-PROVOKING READING.”

  —*Romantic Times

  ALSO BY MARILYN PAPPANO

  In Sinful Harmony

  Published by

  WARNER BOOKS

  Copyright

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1996 by Marilyn Pappano

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/grandcentralpub

  First eBook Edition: October 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-446-56872-2

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter 8

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  His arm throbbing from the stitches the doctor had put in, John Smith stood in front of his house—or what was left of it—and watched the sheriff and his two deputies walk in a slow circle around it. The fire was out, except for occasional hot spots that still flared, but the heat remained, radiating from the rubble and the ash. It would be tomorrow, the sheriff had decreed, before the debris would be cool enough to allow his men to conduct an investigation, but no doubt, some sort of incendiary device had been used.

  No doubt, John drily agreed. Explosions didn’t just create themselves out of nothing, and there was the gasoline smell that permeated everything. He’d never kept gasoline around the house. He had no gas-powered generator, no yard to require a lawn mower or weed whacker. The only gasoline legitimately on the grounds was inside his truck’s fuel tank. No doubt someone had brought his own supply and had used it to destroy his home.

  Leaning back against the truck, he shifted his gaze from the three men to the house. Shattered glass covered the ground, and oily lumps—part of the roof—still smoldered, sending a thin smoke into the air. The only thing that remained relatively intact was the foundation, and even that was split by great cracks. Virtually everything he owned had been destroyed by the explosions or consumed by the ensuing flames. The three bombs had done their job well.

  Bombs.

  Jesus, someone had blown up his house. Having lived through the blasts and staring now at the evidence in front of him, he still found it impossible to believe. Not many people in the county even knew there was a house up here—the sheriff hadn’t known; his deputies hadn’t—and the few who did know were the closest thing to neighbors that he had. What reason could one of them have for destroying his house?

  Maybe it had simply been malicious mischief—nothing personal against him, just circumstance, location, and chance. But almost immediately he discounted the possibility. He could accept a break-in at an isolated house if the intention was robbery. Terrorizing whoever lived there was also possible. But building bombs? Going to the trouble to gather whatever materials were necessary and carting them up into the middle of nowhere? It seemed like a lot of work when a five-gallon can of gasoline and a match would give much the same satisfaction to a pyromaniac.

  Maybe the motive had been more sinister. More personal. Maybe someone had wanted to destroy the very things John had come back from Denver for: the evidence of his dual identity. The proof of his career. The paperwork that legally documented who and what he was.

  Maybe someone had wanted to be certain that they destroyed him.

  Muttering a curse, he remembered the headline he’d read this morning in the hotel. Reclusive author comes out of hiding. Each newspaper had had its own version of the publishing world’s big news. It was those stories that had sent him straight back home, those stories that had him packing his bags for a trip down South only seconds before the first explosion.

  But the stories were a mistake or maybe part of a publicist’s game plan to sell more books. They couldn’t be connected to this. No one in his publisher’s or his agent’s office knew where he lived; the only address they’d ever had for him was the post office box ninety miles away in Denver. The post office box to which, he’d discovered yesterday, they weren’t sending mail anymore.

  Simon Tremont to step out of the shadows.

  What if the stories weren’t a mistake or publicity hype? What if…

  The idea forming in his mind was ludicrous, so ludicrous that he refused for a moment to bring the words and thoughts together in a coherent body. But they kept gathering, kept echoing, until finally he was forced to face them. What if it wasn’t a mistake? What if Candace Baker, his editor at Morgan-Wilkes, truly did have the latest Simon Tremont manuscript sitting on her desk? What if Simon Tremont really was coming out of hiding?

  It was impossible. Simon Tremont couldn’t come out of hiding for the simple reason that Simon Tremont didn’t exist. It was merely the name John had chosen to hide behind, a name he’d made up, much the same way he’d made up names for his characters. There was no Tremont, no new manuscript.

  But Candace had said on the phone that there was a book. She’d said Resurrection was the best book Tremont had ever written.

  Only he hadn’t written it.

  Thrills and chills in New Orleans: Simon Tremont speaks.

  In spite of the heat from the still-smoldering house, he felt a few chills of his own as he remembered the headline. What he was thinking was so crazy, so implausible, so extraordinary, that even he, who had earned a living the last eleven years making the implausible seem quite plausible… even he couldn’t begin to believe this tale.

  But the facts were inescapable. Someone had blown up his house. Someone had written his book. Someone answering to the name of Simon Tremont was scheduled to give an interview in New Orleans next week.

  The conclusions, however outrageous, were also inescapable. Someone had taken his name. Someone bright, cunning, and devious, someone talented, tormented, and dangerous as hell, had… Jesus, he was crazy to even think it, but he had to.

  Someone had stolen his life.

  Chapter One

  Teryl Weaver was disappointed.

  She knew it was silly. Just because Simon Tremont had been her favorite author since his very first book had come out was no reason to expect so much from him. And, really, exactly what was it that she had thought
he would be?

  He was everything that befitted the master of the psychological thriller—dark, brooding, extremely bright, extremely driven. There was an air of mystery about him, a feeling of unpredictability, a sense that this was no common man. He was handsome enough to fuel more than a few female fantasies, with streaky blondish brown hair and a brown gaze so direct that it could bore a hole through steel, and yet he seemed the sort of man other men could relate to. Whether the matter at hand was politics, business, women, or sports, he looked as if he could hold his own.

  She couldn’t even put her finger on what it was about him that bothered her—the lack of connection, maybe. After years of admiring and idolizing his work, she had expected to admire and idolize the man. She had come to New Orleans to meet him assuming that she already knew him, and she had been wrong. She didn’t know Simon Tremont at all, and what she had learned about him in this morning’s meeting, she hadn’t anticipated.

  With a sigh, she glanced at her watch. The interview they had come here for was set to begin in an hour. Simon and Sheila Callan, the New York publicist who was coaching him and smoothing his way, had left for the studio nearly an hour ago in a long, white limo. Teryl could come along whenever she was ready, Sheila had informed her, or she could skip the interview entirely and go sight-seeing. Her implication had been clear: Teryl’s presence wasn’t necessary, even if Simon had requested it.

  Bless his heart for that request, she thought as she rummaged through her suitcase. She had long wanted to visit New Orleans, and the first Tremont book set in the city years ago had served to sweeten that desire. Still, no one had been more surprised than she when he had suggested that she make this trip. After all, she was just his agent’s assistant; until his arrival this morning, their contact had been infrequent and limited to a few phone conversations. But, whatever his reasons, suggest it he had, and because he was the sort of client every agent dreamed of representing—because he was the client who had single-handedly made the Robertson Literary Agency such a success—Rebecca Robertson had given in.

  In the depths of her suitcase, Teryl found a belt, held it to her waist, and checked in the mirror, then tossed it aside. She should have unpacked when she’d arrived last night, should have set everything out in a neat, orderly fashion, but of course, she hadn’t. She’d taken two minutes to hang up her clothes so the worst of the wrinkles would fall out and then she’d been out the door for a quick tour. Her forty-eight hours in New Orleans were too precious to waste with such things as neatness and order.

  The belt she was seeking was in the corner of the suitcase, wrapped around a small vinyl cosmetics case. The case and its contents—a gag gift from her best friend—made her pause in spite of her rush, and they brought her a smile. It was a New Orleans survival kit, D.J. had told her. There was a small plastic case of aspirin for the headaches that came from drinking too much. A pack of Band-Aids for sore feet from walking too much. A sewing kit for letting out the seams in her clothes after eating too much. And, tucked in the corner, tied together with a lavender ribbon, four plastic-encased condoms. For getting lucky, D.J. had said with a wicked grin.

  Getting Rebecca to pick up the tab for this trip was the luckiest she’d gotten in a long time, Teryl thought, her smile fading as she threaded the belt around her waist. The last time she’d gotten lucky with a man was ancient history.

  She gave her hair one last brush, slipped into her most comfortable dressy shoes, grabbed her bag, and left. Maybe she wasn’t needed at the interview, but she wasn’t going to pass it up. She’d never been in a TV studio before. Besides, she wanted to see how Simon did. She wanted to wish him luck, wanted to let him know there was a familiar face in the room. And, after all, she was here officially as Rebecca’s representative, even if the only thing Rebecca had asked of her was to not get in the way.

  Outside the hotel the bellman whistled for a cab, and less than ten minutes later she was making her way around the crowded backstage area, looking for Sheila or Simon and not even trying to hide her wide-eyed curiosity or to act as if she belonged there. Security was so tight that the only people who could get in were those with a legitimate right to be there, so no one paid her any mind.

  The show was called “New Orleans Afternoon”—catchy name, she thought drily. It came on at four o’clock, when most of the city’s residents were still at work or fighting traffic trying to get home. They had debated—the publisher, the agency, and the PR firm—making Simon’s debut on something bigger, something national, but Sheila had succeeded in choosing New Orleans. Start small, she had recommended. Get him used to the cameras, give him some experience, and then move up.

  Besides, she had pointed out, five of Simon’s best and most popular books had been set in New Orleans. They shared a common theme, recurring characters, and legions of fans who still clamored for a sixth book in the series. The readers had formed so strong an association between him and the city that any mention of New Orleans and authors always brought Simon Tremont’s name in response. For this first time out, he would likely be too nervous to make an effort at being witty, impressive, or even particularly interesting, but for a man who had written about their city with such authority, such familiarity and grace, the locals would overlook his flaws.

  The hostess was a former beauty queen and a stereotypical Southern belle, pretty, airy, and about as bright as a ten-watt bulb. A Twinkie, Sheila called her. But that was all right. She wouldn’t ask any hard questions—she probably wouldn’t be able to think of any, Teryl thought uncharitably. Even if Simon totally flubbed the interview, he would come off looking good in comparison to Miss Magnolia Blossom.

  Then, once this debut was out of the way, they would hit the big time. Sheila and Rebecca were sorting through offers, making deals, negotiating. After the press release last week that Tremont was coming out from behind his well-woven cloak of mystery, they had been flooded with requests from the likes of Oprah, “Today,” and Larry King.

  Of course, while Simon made the rounds of New York, Chicago, and L.A., she would be back at work in Richmond. But that was all right. She’d met her idol in the city his books had made come alive for her.

  Spotting Simon in a distant corner, she started his way. The great man—that was what Rebecca called him—was standing alone, his thoughts someplace far from a New Orleans television studio. Fearing the worst from a recluse, Sheila had scheduled time this morning for an inspection and, if necessary, a shopping trip, but Simon had arrived with a wardrobe that was decent by anyone’s standards, although maybe a tad casual. But what did it matter if he looked as if he were dressed for a lazy anonymous afternoon with friends instead of a television interview? So what if his shirt was a little loud, if his trousers were a shade away from matching the shirt, or if his shoes were run down, broken in, and worn without socks? After all, writers were supposed to be eccentric, right? And writers who had hidden themselves away in the Colorado Rockies for the last ten years were entitled to be excessively so. Besides, his fans didn’t care how he looked or dressed.

  Hell, when you could write like Simon Tremont, when you could breathe such power into the written word, when you could bring unrelenting terror to millions of people the world over and keep them coming back for more, you could be flat-out nuts, and no one would care.

  “Can I get you anything, Simon?”

  He glanced up, his gaze connecting with hers with enough force to make her take an involuntary step back. “No, thanks. I’m just relaxing.”

  “Nervous?”

  “A little. This is my first interview.” Raising one hand, he carelessly combed his hair back. “But it’ll be fine.”

  She’d been about to say the same thing, but it sounded different coming from him. His confidence—arrogance, a sly voice whispered in her head—along with the look he was giving her sent a little shiver of uneasiness down her spine. Maybe that was part of her problem with him, she thought—those intense, measuring looks that made her feel much too
exposed, like an insect mounted on a presentation slide.

  But just as she’d reached that decision, he backed off, even though physically he didn’t move at all. It just seemed that suddenly there was more breathing space between them. “Thank you for agreeing to fly down here for this.”

  A moment ago she would have had to force her smile. Now it came naturally. “Believe me, coming to New Orleans was no hardship. I’ve always wanted to spend some time here.” His books had created the desire, had led her to other books and to movies—mercy, yes, movies—about the city. After seeing The Big Easy, she’d had fantasies of traveling to New Orleans and finding a Remy McSwain all her very own—minus the corruption, of course, but complete with the sexy body, the adorable grin, the charming Cajun accent, and—ooh la la—the passion.

  She needed some passion in her life.

  “Mr. Tremont?” With Sheila at his side, the producer gave Teryl a nod before turning his attention to Simon. “We’ll be ready to start soon. If you’ll come with me…”

  After they walked away, Teryl wandered off, watching the activity, wondering if the people who worked here found their jobs as interesting and exotic as she did. Probably not. She had friends at home who thought working in the publishing business, even as far out on the fringes as she was, must be glamorous and exciting. Truth was, it was a regular job. Nothing more, nothing less.

  The set for the show was on the spare side. There were two big overstuffed chairs that looked wonderfully comfortable for curling up in front of the TV, both upholstered in some nubby black fabric, and a couple of low tables with a matte black finish. The wall behind and the carpet were gray, perfectly neutral and plain. The only real color came from the floral arrangement on the black table in the back—tall, rather sparse, blood red.

  “So he’s the one.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a man standing in the shadows, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on Tremont. He wasn’t aware of her, and he didn’t seem to notice that he’d spoken out loud. He didn’t look like one of the crew, but security had let him in, so obviously he belonged.