Passion (25 page)

He would have treated her like the slut she apparently was, and she would have liked it.

If
the rumor was true.

Soon he would find out. Eventually Teryl would come home, and when she did, getting her into his bed would be a simple matter.
After all, he was Simon Tremont, and Teryl Weaver
adored
Simon Tremont. She would do anything for him.

He was counting on that. He’d been counting on it for a long, long time.

In the meantime, his own bed wasn’t lonely. Even now it wasn’t empty, but for all he cared, it might as well be. The woman
there was merely a means to an end. She satisfied his requirements at this time. When that was no longer true, he would remove
her from his life. He would replace her with Teryl.

Once again he arrived at the family photo on the credenza. This time he picked it up, holding the silver and brass frame in
both hands. It was an old picture, taken long ago on a bright summer day when the sun cast long shadows and cutoffs and T-shirts
were the uniform of the day. They were smiling, both of them—happy, healthy people with their entire lives ahead of them.

Now they were dead, and—the woman in his bed notwithstanding—he was alone.

That was the way he liked it, the way he wanted it.

At least, until the time was right to change it.

With a cool smile, he returned the frame to the credenza, but he didn’t use the easel back to stand it upright. Instead he
laid it facedown. The photograph was one of his most treasured possessions, but he didn’t want to see it anymore. He didn’t
want any reminders of what once was. He would focus only on what would be.

Simon Tremont. Author. Celebrity. Star.
Legend.

Richmond, the highway sign read. Forty-six miles.

John had never looked forward so much to arriving in a city… or dreaded it so much, either. On the one hand, he was itching
to get into Rebecca Robertson’s office. More than anything in the world, he wanted to prove to Teryl that he
was
Simon Tremont. He wanted to prove to her that he wasn’t lying, that he wasn’t crazy, that he wasn’t someone deserving of
being warily watched all the time.

And what if all that wasn’t enough? What if she still refused to believe him? What if the impostor knew as much about Tremont
as
he
did? After all, the guy
had
written the most impressive work she’d ever read.

What if he couldn’t convince anyone, least of all Teryl?

What then?

The question was too bleak to consider.

Beside him, Teryl stretched, yawned, resettled. Like yesterday afternoon, she’d been pretty quiet today, though not an angry
sort of quiet. Not frightened or moody or pouting. Just thoughtful. What would it take to persuade her to share those thoughts
with him?

Things that he didn’t have. Such as her trust.

“I wonder if Rebecca’s fired me yet.”

The look he gave her was sharp, surprised. He had been so intent on taking her home to Richmond and not letting his best chance
at reclaiming his life escape that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. He hadn’t considered the possibility
that her boss could, indeed, fire her—missing work for two days without clearing it first certainly seemed good grounds for
it—but it was a very real one. If she did get fired, if she was cut off from access to the records in Rebecca’s office, where
did that leave him?

“Do you think she has?”

She smiled faintly. “No. The job may not be much, but I’m good at it. Before she hired me, Rebecca went through assistants
like water. She tends to be a little demanding. She expects a lot from herself and from the people who work for her—too much,
I think sometimes. Anyway, I’m a great assistant, I have no ambition to move up and onward, I don’t mind running personal
errands for her, and I don’t mind her demands. Besides, I make amaretto coffee exactly the way she likes it.”

His sudden uneasiness calmed, he turned his attention back to the road. “How long have you been working for her?”

“You tell me,” she replied, just a hint of a challenge in her voice.

He thought back over the years of correspondence that was now scattered in ashes over the mountains where he had lived. His
contact with the agency had never been extensive. When he sent in a proposal for a new book, he had always gotten back a note
saying that Rebecca had received it and would be in touch with Candace Baker at Morgan-Wilkes, who got her own copy from him.
Between the proposal stage and the completed manuscript, there were more notes, one accompanying the contracts Rebecca sent
in triplicate for him to sign and return, another accompanying the copy of the contract that eventually made its way back
to him. If Candace wanted revisions either on the proposal or the manuscript, Rebecca sent him notes stating her own thoughts
on the matter.

She always sent him copies of the best-seller lists. In more years than he could remember, not a single week had gone by that
he wasn’t on the
New York Times
list with one book or another; when a movie based on one of his books was released, it wasn’t unusual for him to have two,
three, or four
titles in the top ten at the same time. She also sent him reviews wherever they cropped up, along with holiday greetings and
a card every year on the anniversary of the representation agreement they’d signed eleven years ago.

The first few years there had also been frequent memos announcing changes in the agency—the move from New York City to Richmond,
another move from their first Richmond address to the current one, and personnel changes. One assistant was out and another
was in; then a year or six months or three months later, that assistant would be gone, too. Until she’d hired Teryl.

“Four or five years,” he replied. “You were working there by the time the fourth Thibodeaux book came out.”

She gave him one of those steady, measuring looks that made him want to squirm, but he didn’t give in to the urge. Instead,
he simply looked back at her.

“How do you know that?” she asked, her tone conversational.

“Because you liked the book enough to say so when you forwarded some reviews. I’d always gotten plenty of feedback from Rebecca
herself, but that was the first time one of her assistants had responded. Until then, I wasn’t sure her assistants even read
any of the books she handled.” He glanced at her again. “I even remember some of their names. Caryl with a y and Gina and
Mary Kay.”

Teryl—with a y, he thought with a faint grin—looked very serious and just the slightest bit troubled. “I replaced Caryl. For
the first six months I worked there, Rebecca was constantly calling me by her name.”

He let a mile or so pass in silence before asking, “So what are your plans?”

She gave him a blank look.

“You said you have no ambition. You’re not interested in moving up and on. What
are
you interested in? Being Rebecca’s glorified receptionist and gofer for the rest of your life?”

She was quiet so long that he thought she wasn’t going to answer. He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t. Answers to a question
like that could weigh heavily on the personal side,
and, God knew, she didn’t have a reason to confide anything personal in him. Still, when he was about to give up and find
some other direction to send the conversation in, she gave a faintly mocking laugh. “I always thought I would be like my mother.
She worked for a while after she was married, but when I was born, she quit. She stayed home and took care of the kids. She
was a full-time housewife and mother, a Little-League coach, a Girl Scout leader, a homeroom mother—for as many as five or
six homerooms at a time. She went on class trips and was a volunteer for all the school plays and pageants. She baked cookies
and sewed and taught us all how to throw a mean fastball. She and Daddy have always been the most popular parents in the neighborhood.
They loved all the kids, and all the kids loved them.”

“So you wanted to get married and devote the rest of your life to taking care of husband, home, and kids. Such a fifties idea
for a nineties woman.” Her faint mocking was echoed in his voice, although he didn’t feel it, not really. It was more of a
defense mechanism, he guessed, because the life she was describing sounded damned familiar—and as alien as life on another
planet.
His
mother had been a full-time housewife and mother, too. She had also been a Scout leader—for Janie—and a homeroom mother—for
Tom. She had gone on class trips and baked cookies, but she hadn’t loved all the kids in the neighborhood. Hell, she hadn’t
even managed to love all the kids in the family.

“True feminism is about choice,” she replied, a little defensive now herself. “I don’t have to want a career. I don’t have
to try to prove that I’m equal to or better than the men in my chosen field. I don’t have to live up to someone else’s expectations.
When I get married, if it’s financially possible, I can stay home and have a half dozen babies and take in a few dozen more
the way Mama and Daddy have, and it’s no one’s business but mine and my husband’s.”

That was something he could do for her, John acknowledged grimly. When this was over, if he survived it, he could repay her
for her help by making it financially possible for her to take in all the parentless kids in the entire state of Virginia.
He could make it possible for her to give countless
children the sort of upbringing she’d had—the sort
he
hadn’t. He could make it work for her.

And her husband, whoever the lucky bastard might be.

He had never given any real thought to marriage. Back before Tom’s death, he’d been too young, had been having too good a
time to consider settling down with one girl for the rest of his life. He hadn’t wanted to make a commitment in the present,
much less one that extended until death. After Tom died, he had suddenly become too old. Spiritually, he had aged a century
or two in a twenty-four-hour period. The good times had disappeared while he’d gone off searching for peace, for absolution;
not finding that, he would have been grateful for the sweet release of death… or so he had thought.

That was the real reason he’d started writing. He’d found himself at sea on that freighter, miserable and dying bit by bit
inside while long hours of hard work kept his body stronger and healthier than ever. They had been somewhere in the Atlantic
when he’d gone on deck one night for fresh air and a change from the depressing cramped quarters he called his own.

Hundreds of miles from land, his world had consisted of only the ship, the stars, and the ocean. The water had beckoned him,
had drawn him. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go, the waves had whispered against the hull. Just slip over the side, swim away
from the ship to avoid the huge propellers, then float off to oblivion. Soon he would grow tired. Soon, instead of riding
the waves as he’d done for much of his life, he would sink beneath them. With each breath water would replace the oxygen in
his lungs, and in a very short time it would bring him peace. As long as he didn’t panic, as long as he didn’t struggle, it
wouldn’t turn nasty. And why would he struggle? For him, living was the struggle. Surviving the nights, when he was haunted
by dreams of his sins and his failures, was a struggle. Waking up every morning, facing another bright sunny day when his
brother would never see a sunrise again, getting out of bed and walking away from it when his sister would never walk again—those
were struggles.

Knowing that he was utterly alone in the world, utterly unloved… That was a struggle.

Dying would be easy.

Only it hadn’t been.

He had tried. Looking back now, he could see that he’d been trying from the moment he’d held Tom’s lifeless body. He’d taken
on risky jobs and made every reckless mistake he could. He’d tried to drink himself into the ground. A time or two he had
picked fights that had gotten him beaten senseless. That night on the ship he had gone so far as to climb over the thick cables
that served as a railing. The freighter had been loaded with cargo bound for the Port of New Orleans, so it rode low in the
water. It would have been as easy as diving into a pool, and he’d been doing that since he was five years old.

He had tried that night to put himself out of the misery his life had become, had stood there leaning over the water, nothing
holding him back but his left hand, wrapped tightly around the cable. His brain had given the order to release it, to let
go and dive into the blessed dark water, but his fingers had refused to obey. He had stood there one minute, three, five,
ten, and then he had climbed back to the deckside of the lines. He had gone below, wanting to put a few thoughts in writing,
and had scrounged up some paper and a pen.

Before the night was over, those few thoughts had filled half of a legal pad. By the time they reached port and he’d collected
his pay and headed off for Colorado, he’d had the makings of a book. He had discovered that he had a talent for writing—he,
who had failed at virtually everything he’d ever tried. More importantly, it made him feel good.

Not being able to write, on the other hand, had brought back all the misery, although this time without the self-destructive
tendencies. He had no desire to die—not today, not next week, and sure as hell not so some deceitful, manipulative bastard
could claim everything
he
had worked for.

As they drove across a bridge, Teryl spoke again, echoing the question he’d asked her only a few miles back. “What are
your
plans?”

He didn’t think he had any long-term plans beyond staying
alive, certainly nothing like hers. He wasn’t likely to get married, wasn’t likely to meet any woman who thought he was worth
spending the rest of her life with. He wasn’t sure he was a decent candidate for fatherhood, either, not with the example
his own father had set for him. He would rather live alone the rest of his life than make an innocent kid feel the way his
parents had made
him
feel.

When he didn’t answer right away, she clarified her question. “When we get to Richmond…”