Barbara Dunlop - A Secret Life

Anthony and Heather both stared at her in silence.

She glanced from one to the other. “What?”

“You actually think there’s a chance in hell I’d leave?” Anthony’s jaw went hard and his lips compressed.

“Of course.” But Joan’s voice faltered. He didn’t look like a guy who was leaving anytime soon.

He moved forward. “Take off and just leave you to fend for yourself?”

Okay. This was getting silly. Joan rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “I’ve been fending for myself for ten years now.”

Something flickered in Anthony’s expression, but she couldn’t quite place it.

“Well, I’m going to bed,” said Heather. “I feel a lot better knowing Anthony is here.” With a toss of her blond hair, she turned and headed up the stairs.

“See that?” said Anthony. “Even Heather admits I should stay.”

“Heather’s sleeping in the guest room,” said Joan, trying to turn his attention to the practicalities of the situation. “And my couch is way too small for you.”

It was ridiculous for him to sleep in her cottage just because something went bump in the night.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said.

“You’re not going to sleep on the floor.”

He moved closer still, and his blue eyes darkened for a split second, making her shiver with awareness.

“Where would you suggest I sleep?” he asked softly. If it was anybody but Anthony, Joan would have interpreted the words as innuendo.

“In your bed. At Luc’s B and B.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Anthony.”

“What?”

“I can’t let you do this.”

They stared at each other. It was a test of wills, and the air crackled between them.

A small smile grew on his face. “You, my dear, have no choice.” He crossed to her wicker couch.

“It’s my house.”

“And I’m your lawyer.”

“You’re my agent.”

He shrugged. “Same difference.” He tested the floral patterned cushions with the flat of his hands. “Besides. I don’t see how you’re going to stop me.”

This was ridiculous. He was a good foot longer than the narrow couch. She approached him, folding her arms over her chest. “Fine. You take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

He straightened. “Yeah. Right.”

She tipped her head, all but falling into his slumberous eyes. Their gazes caught and held. They were both silent as the bayou croaking rose around them and the tree branches creaked in the yard.

His tousled hair made him more approachable than usual. His shadowed face and the dim light played tricks on her senses. His musky scent wafted around her, and his lips parted ever so slightly, ever so invitingly.

She swallowed.

“You don’t get it, do you, Joan?” he rumbled, and she wished he would reach out and touch her. A brush with those hands, on her face, on her shoulder, on her breasts.

She swayed a little. “Get what?”

“They go through me to get to you, not the other way around.”

He looked down at her peach nightgown, and his blue eyes turned to a midnight sky. Her muscles tensed and her skin tingled as he made his way from her breasts to her stomach to her bare legs.

What would happen if she touched him?

What would happen if she kissed him?

While her imagination tested the sensations, his hand rose. His fingertips brushed her hair back. The touch on her skin was light, insubstantial, but it ricocheted through her, igniting sensations in every corner of her body.

She covered his hand with hers, pressing it against her cheek, wishing, yearning, wondering how she’d gone so long without discovering…

Their eyes locked.

She waited. But he didn’t lean forward, didn’t close the gap. As the seconds ticked by, she wondered if she’d misinterpreted his touch. She loosened her hand, suddenly embarrassed.

Anthony interested in her?

The idea seemed ridiculously far-fetched.

She drew away, adopting a matter-of-fact tone. “I don’t think they’ll be back.”

He let his hand fall to his side. “You’re probably right.”

“Is there any point in me asking you to leave?”

He shook his head.

She took another step back. “Then I’ll get you a pillow and blanket.”

She turned and ducked her head, unwilling to meet his eyes again. She’d obviously misread the signs. She was just another woman to him. Just another in a long line of those who found themselves attracted to his good looks and lazy charm.

She opened the linen closet and extracted a plump pillow and a cream-colored quilt. Good to know up front. Embarrassing, but not as bad as if she’d become a notch on his bedpost.

ANTHONY’S CHANCE at sleeping was shot. Even if his legs hadn’t hung over the arm of the narrow couch, his acute arousal and his memories of Joan’s smoky jade eyes would have done him in for the night.

He’d thought from the first second he met her that she was a gracious, attractive and highly sensual woman. Of course, he’d ruthlessly squelched that reaction, since she was married at the time.

Then she was newly widowed. And after that, she was a valued client. She was still a valued client, and he had absolutely no business lusting after her-even if it was the middle of the night, even if she did look like a tousled goddess in that short little lacy number, and even if her eyes sent messages straight to his heart, all but begging him to pull her into his arms and kiss her until time stood still.

He couldn’t kiss her. He couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t even think about kissing her or touching her.

He was here to take care of her, to see her through this crisis and make sure it didn’t ruin her career.

He punched the pillow and shifted his cramped legs on the little torture chamber of a sofa. He had to figure out how to get her in front of an interviewer of his choice, not some bozo who was willing to camp out on her porch. If he handled this situation properly, he was sure he could boost her career and for the most part keep her privacy intact.

Shortly after six, footsteps sounded on the ceiling above him. He assumed it was Joan, since Heather didn’t strike him as an early riser. He pushed into a sitting position and shook off the vestiges of fatigue and frustration. He’d managed on less sleep than this, and he could keep his lust in check when necessary.

NORMALLY, Anthony wasn’t bothered much by guilt, particularly when he knew the end would justify the means. So when Joan announced she had a hair appointment that morning, he shamelessly thought up all the ways to use it to his advantage.

First, he was more than happy to move her out of Indigo and into the anonymity of Lafayette. And secondly, Lafayette was the home of a small network affiliate, giving him his first realistic interview possibility.

He convinced Joan and Heather to get full makeovers and manicures at the salon by offering to pick up the tab. His plan might not ultimately work, but having a camera-ready Joan within a few miles of a television studio definitely gave him a running start.

He was sitting on a soft, cream-colored leather sofa in the waiting room of Très Jolie, downing complimentary coffee while waiting patiently to get through to the news director at KCLA. He was sure he’d get better service if he mentioned Joan’s name, but he didn’t want to get specific with anyone but the top decision-maker.

There was a local newspaper on the coffee table in front of him, and he’d already found a page three article on Joan. It had a picture, but it was an older one, and he didn’t think any of the salon employees or patrons realized who she was, particularly considering her face was bare of makeup and her hair was a mass of foil paper and gelatinous liquid.