Barbara Dunlop - A Secret Life

She shifted into second.

The man might run, but he couldn’t hide from Heather Bateman. She followed the crescent around the town lawn, pulling into the opera house parking lot. She shut off the engine and set the park brake, exiting into the sharp sunshine and deep humidity of the Indigo afternoon.

The pillared front porch of the old building was covered with building materials and equipment-a circular saw, two-by-fours, a box of hand tools and bundles of cedar shakes. A machine chugged away on the gravel at the corner of the building, with a hose that wiggled all the way up the white siding. Loud, rhythmic cracks came from somewhere on the roof.

Looking up, Heather maneuvered carefully across the uneven gravel in her new Etienne Aigner heels. A leg came into view up on the gabled roof, and she recognized Samuel’s faded blue jeans and leather, steel-toed boots. She stumbled but quickly righted herself as she moved from the parking lot onto the lawn.

“Samuel?” she called over the thwacking noise of the machine.

No response.

“Samuel?” she called a little louder, making her way to the bottom of the ladder that stretched up two and a half stories.

Nothing.

Either he couldn’t hear her, or he was deliberately ignoring her. She had to admit, it was comforting to know he’d gone straight back to work. She had visions of him heading for the nearest pay phone to make a deal with a newspaper.

It was bad enough that her parents had to deal with twelve- twelve -of Joan’s novels coming to light. If they had to cope with a salacious murder connection on top of it, they’d faint dead away.

“Samuel!” she tried one more time.

Nothing.

Great.

She glanced from side to side across the emerald lawn. There was nothing but houses and small businesses in the distance. She could try to find someone to help-maybe that Anthony guy would climb up and get Samuel for her. Or she could wait it out down here in this steam room of a yard until Samuel was finished.

She glanced at her watch. Two o’clock. The man could be up there for hours. Asking Anthony pain-in-the-butt Verdun for help wasn’t a particularly appealing choice, either. Besides, he’d probably refuse just to spite her.

Fine.

She took a deep breath and reached for the nearest rung, reminding herself her family’s honor was at stake. The ladder was painted a cool, smooth gray, thank goodness. Splinters would have added insult to injury. She was careful not to damage her ruby manicure, and she placed her shoes just so on each rung so that she wouldn’t break a heel or scuff a toe.

She glanced down once, blinking away vertigo, but was happy to see there was still no one beneath her. It wasn’t the greatest day to be wearing a thong. But then it was a hundred degrees out here.

Three more rungs.

Two more.

Finally, her head came up above the roofline.

Samuel had his back to her, about twenty feet away, up the pitch of the shake roof. He was on his hands and knees punching nails with a deafening air gun.

Heather climbed up two more rungs, then carefully maneuvered her leg around the side of the ladder, placing her knee on the rough shakes. Good thing she wasn’t wearing stockings. She glanced at the surrounding buildings one more time. She was about to flash any Indigo residents within a hundred yards.

She put a hand on the rough roof, gritted her teeth, and inched her other leg around the ladder.

There. She’d done it.

She crawled a few feet from the edge, then stood up, straightening her clothes.

“Mr. Kane,” she called between cracks of his nail gun. “Samuel.”

He jerked his head around. “What the hell?”

She walked closer. “I need to talk to you.”

He came to his feet. “We’re nearly three stories up.”

“I tried calling.”

“Are you a lunatic?” With the advantage of the roof pitch, he had an awful lot of height on her. She was reminded all over again what a big man he was.

His faded blue jeans clung to his slim hips, but his chest and shoulders tapered out like a football player’s. His biceps strained against his thin T-shirt sleeves, and the muscles of his chest were delineated against the damp fabric.

His face was attractive, in a rugged, dangerous kind of way that sent an unexpected shiver up Heather’s spine.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” he growled.

Another shiver. “I need to talk to you.”

“I’m off work at six.”

Oh, no. She wasn’t leaving him alone until six o’clock. She wanted this deal worked out before he had a chance to contact anyone else. “I need to know what you’re going to do with your story.”

His dark eyes narrowed, and his hands went to his hips. “I assume you’re talking about my parents’ murders?”

“Anthony seems to think there’ll be a lot of publicity around Joan’s book.” Heather was hoping Anthony was wrong, but she couldn’t afford to take any chances.

“So?” asked Samuel.

“So, I can see how a guy like you might be-”

“A guy like me?”

“Yes.”

“What exactly am I like?”

She gestured to his clothes with her hand. “A…uh…working man.”

He stared at her in silence, a grim tightness to his full lips. Chip on his shoulder or what?

She fluffed her sweaty hair, deciding to get right to the point. “I’m prepared to make you an offer.”

His brows went up.

“Ten thousand dollars.” She hoped that was enough. Surely ten thousand dollars was a lot to a carpenter in Indigo, Louisiana.

“For?”

He hadn’t struck her as slow.

“Keeping this whole business to yourself, of course.”

He laughed then. It was a deep chuckle of disbelief that rumbled through his broad chest but definitely didn’t meet his eyes.

Damn. She’d insulted him. “Twenty thousand?”

“To keep my mouth shut?”

“I’m sure you can see-”

“What gave you the impression I could be bribed?”

Anybody could be bribed. “It’s not a bribe.”

“The hell it’s not.”

“Thirty thousand.”

“Get off my roof.”

“Forty?”

He gave her an insulting once-over from her breasts to her toes and back again. “Listen, lady. I talk to who I want, when I want. And no spoiled brat’s checkbook is going to change that.”

Spoiled brat? She drew herself up to her full five foot four and crossed her arms over her chest. “There’s no need to get insulting.”

“You started it.”

“I’m not insulting you.”

“You just offered me forty thousand dollars in hush money.”

“You don’t want forty thousand dollars?”

“I’m not for sale.”

“Listen, you-” Heather just barely stopped herself from delivering the scathing retort. Joanie was what mattered here, Joanie and the Bateman reputation. She swallowed her pride and reframed her offer. “In consideration of the money you could likely make selling your story to the media, I’m prepared-”

Samuel took a step closer, peering down at her. “What have I ever said or done that would lead you to believe I’d sell my parents’ murders to the highest bidder?”

Heather opened her mouth. Was he saying he wouldn’t go to the media? Was he insulted because she’d suggested he would? She searched his expression, trying to decide if this was about a moral code or upping the ante.

“You’re not going to tell your story?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“So you are going to sell the story.” Just how high was she going to have to go?

His expression flickered no more than a millimeter. “I’m going to throw you off this roof in a minute.”