Passion (2 page)

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.

“Are you a fan?” she asked, moving a few steps closer to the man.

At first he seemed startled that he wasn’t alone, but it quickly faded. He glanced at her, looked at Tremont again, then back
at her. “I’ve read everything he’s ever written.”

His tone was dry, and he hadn’t answered her question—meaning he wasn’t a fan? she wondered. “You know, he’s probably one
of the most talented authors writing in this country today,” she remarked.

That earned her a smile every bit as dry as his last words. “So I’ve heard. Are you his publicist? Cheerleader? Or just a
fan yourself?”

She laughed. “I work for Rebecca Robertson, his agent. She let me tag along on this trip on the condition that I stay out
of everyone’s way, not cause any trouble, and not act like a starstruck fan.”

“Are you?”

“Starstruck?” She considered her reaction to Simon—her uneasiness, the intensity of her discomfort beneath that unnerving
stare of his, her disappointment—and answered in
the affirmative anyway. “Absolutely. I’ve read all his books numerous times.” Finding out that Simon was one of Rebecca’s
clients had been the highlight of her employment at the Robertson Literary Agency. Actually meeting him was supposed to have
been the highlight of her life. Considering how dull and normal her life was, she acknowledged wryly, even with the disappointment,
it still might be.

“Tremont… I always figured that was a pseudonym. Is it?”

Teryl shifted her gaze to the set, where Simon, Sheila, and the producer were now talking to the beauty queen. Of course it
was
a pseudonym, but few people realized it. Most of his readers assumed there really was a man named Simon Tremont tucked away
somewhere, turning out best-seller after best-seller. An enterprising soul could find out the name behind the pen name, but
Simon’s real name was so common as to be a joke. Every state had dozens, hundreds, of men by that name, and the biography
that appeared in his books offered no help.
Simon Tremont lives in the western United States.

When he had first approached Rebecca weeks ago about doing publicity for
Resurrection,
it had been agreed that his name would remain their closely guarded secret. For a time, until the novelty wore off, he would
be in great demand. The only way he could hold on to any sort of peace—other than scurrying back to his Colorado mountain
retreat—would be with his real name. Simon Tremont would be famous.

John Smith wouldn’t.

That decided, they had gotten into the habit of calling him by his pen name. They didn’t want to risk letting his real name
accidentally slip sometime. She had gotten so used to it that lately she’d begun thinking of him as actually being Simon Tremont.

“Tremont is the only name I know for him,” she lied, turning back to the man. “Speaking of names, mine’s Teryl Weaver.” She
extended her hand, and, after a moment, he shook it.

“I’m John.”

What a coincidence, she thought wryly—although John
probably
was
the single most common man’s name in the country. “You don’t sound like a native—what is it they call people who live in
New Orleans?”

“Lucky,” came his response.

“Don’t I know it. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, and I’ve got to leave in another thirty or so. I’ve been thinking
about not sleeping tonight so I can use those extra hours for sight-seeing.”

He gave her a long look, but didn’t respond. It was just as well, because the interview was about to start. The shadowy studio
grew even darker, and the lights coned in on the blonde. On cue she smiled a practiced smile and said, “Welcome to ‘New Orleans
Afternoon.’ I’m Tiffany Marshall.”

Another smile, a shift to a second camera. “Today we have a very special guest for you. He’s been called the master of the
psychological thriller. He’s one of the top-selling authors in the country. He’s written twelve international best-sellers,
and lucky thirteen, due in the stores in August, is rumored to be his best work ever. You all know his books and the movies
made from them, but until today no one has known the man. Please join me this afternoon in welcoming him for his first interview
ever. Ladies and gentlemen, Simon Tremont.”

All in all, Magnolia Blos—Tiffany Marshall was pretty good, Teryl decided. She gave the impression that she might actually
have even read one of Simon’s books, an impression that was no doubt courtesy of the producer, a great fan of Tremont’s, who,
like John beside her, had read everything Tremont had ever written.

Listening to the interview with half a mind, she turned her head just enough so she could see John. He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous,
but he was better looking than anyone she’d seen lately, including Simon. His hair was sandy blond, his eyes blue, his expression
intense. This was a man under a great deal of stress—like everyone she knew in business today. There was always a deadline
to beat, a meeting to run, an account to land, a promotion to fight for. She wondered if he ever relaxed. She wondered if
he ever smiled. He had the sort of mouth that was made for smiling.

She wondered if he was married.

In the dim light, with his left hand in the shadows, it was impossible to see whether he wore a ring, which, of course, meant
nothing. She knew enough men whose wedding rings went into the pocket once they’d left the house—she’d known one entirely
too well—and plenty of others who didn’t care enough to try to hide it.

On the set the hostess was smiling prettily at the camera and asking in an obsequious voice, “Why all the secrecy, Simon?”

He shifted in his chair, just getting more comfortable, but the movement made him look edgy. “The books I write are for everyone,”
he replied. “They appeal to all ages, all classes, all types. To pull that off, I have to remain in touch with everyday life,
with the average American experience. That’s far easier when no one knows who I am. Americans tend to make celebrities out
of their authors. For instance, it was announced less than a week ago that I would be doing interviews, and now everyone is
interested in seeing me on television. Ten days ago no one cared. Now Barbara Walters is asking to do an entire show about
me.” He looked mildly amazed, but Teryl knew from this morning’s meeting that he thought the honor no less than he deserved.
His acting skills, it seemed, were almost on a par with his writing skills. “I’m on the network news. And that will surely
change the way I see the world, the way I see life. It will surely have to change the way I write.”

Teryl shook her head. She recognized the major part of his spiel from an early Tremont novel, the one about the world-famous
actor who had lived and worked shrouded in secrecy, who had made a fortune playing anonymous roles behind masks or heavy makeup.
Still, there was a certain truth to it. His life
was
going to change. Exactly how depended on him. How much adulation could he embrace? How much worship could he accept without
letting it go to his head? Just how much could his ego grow before it became unbearable?