Passion (33 page)

Her own copy of the book, the one she had read and reread until the pages were dog-eared and the spine was creased, was at
home in her living room, sharing shelf space with all the other Tremont novels. This one was new, barely touched. It had been
taken from one of the bookcases in the parlor only a few months ago and placed right here, in the middle of her deskpad, where
she would find it when she returned from an afternoon dental appointment. She might have missed meeting her idol that day,
but she’d gotten a souvenir of the visit all the same: this book that Rebecca had asked Simon to autograph for one of his
greatest fans. Ordinarily, it held a place of honor on the upper shelf of her desk, but her last work day before leaving for
New Orleans, she had
locked it away in her drawer. It wasn’t that anyone in the office might develop a case of sticky fingers; if they wanted an
autographed copy, Rebecca would get them one. Still, it was one of the very few Simon Tremont autographs in existence and
her most prized possession. Better to be safe than sorry.

She fingered the artwork on the jacket, a street scene easily recognizable as the French Quarter: a corner building, a shop
below, an apartment above, the elaborate wrought-iron balcony, the lush plants trailing down, the spires of St. Louis Cathedral
rising into an ominously colored sky in the background, and, hardly noticeable on first glance, second, or even third, the
voodoo doll in the dimly lit apartment window. Even now, months since her last reading of the book, a brief glance at the
small doll, made of Spanish moss with sticks for arms and dressed in black and red cloth, was enough to send shivers down
her spine. Simon Tremont, whoever he was, had worked his magic extraordinarily well.

With a sigh, she opened the book, turning to the title page, and laid the sheet of notepaper John had signed above the blue-inked
message. The first part of the autograph was easily read:
To Teryl, with best wishes
. The signature—Simon Tremont—wasn’t. There was a swooping
S
and a recognizable
i
, a
T
that slashed across the page and a decent
re
, but the remaining letters in both names deteriorated into a series of loops and curves.

They looked absolutely nothing like the Tremont signature John had done for her a few hours ago. But why would they? John
had learned the Smith signature before Simon’s coming out. Before Simon had autographed anything with his pseudonym.

“What is that?”

Before she had a chance to react to the question or even to process the realization that she was no longer alone, John reached
over her shoulder and picked up the book. Abruptly, she scooted her chair to the side and stood up as he flipped the cover
shut. Harsh lines formed at the corners of his mouth when he recognized the book. They etched deeper when he opened it again,
when he saw the paper with his
own versions of the signatures, when he read the note inscribed on the page.

“He can’t do that! Goddamn it, he can’t take credit for my work! I won’t let him!” The notepaper fluttered to the floor as
he grasped the title page and ripped it out. He’d caught the next few pages, too, and Teryl, in shocked stillness, watched
the
Chapter 1
heading drift to the floor in a rain of paper fragments. “Do you know how hard I worked on this book? Do you
have any idea how many weeks I spent researching the story, how many weeks I spent writing it? And this bastard comes along
years after the fact and says, ‘It’s mine;
I
wrote it,’ and everybody believes him. Well, goddamn it, it’s
not
his, it’s
mine
!”

Filled with fury, he threw the book with all his strength. It crashed against the opposite wall, making her flinch; then it
fell to the floor, pages opened and bent back, the jacket half-off and creased, the binding weakened and torn near the top.
She flinched again when he turned toward her and drew back with fear in her eyes. It drained his anger and left him looking
guilty and ashamed. Even though his rage had passed as quickly as it had come, even though he was calmer now, she couldn’t
relax. She couldn’t force her muscles to loosen. She couldn’t fill her lungs with air. She couldn’t rid herself of the sudden,
aching need to cry for the loss.

With a weary sigh, he retrieved the book from where it had come to rest after bouncing off the wall. Crouching in front of
her, he picked up the ragged pieces of paper, and he offered the pile to her. “I’m sorry, Teryl.”

She made no move to accept it. She simply stared at it, her most prized possession, at the wrinkled jacket that hung loose,
at the scrap of paper on top of the pile, the one bearing the great curling
S
.

“I had no right to do that. I know it was important to you.”

She didn’t say anything. She had no thoughts to put into words, no words to express the numbness left by sudden fear and greater
shock.

“I’ll get you another copy. He’ll be happy to sign it for you again.”

She still said nothing, did nothing.

He got to his feet. “Damn it, Teryl, please…” There was a frantic tone to his voice now, a pleading that she ignored. She
knew he had acted out of frustration and anger, and she believed he had genuinely meant it when he’d said he was sorry, but,
at that moment, she didn’t care. She didn’t give a damn how
he
felt. All she cared about was how
she
felt. Sorrowful. Dismayed. Heartsick.

Abruptly she took the book and all the little scraps, turned toward the corner behind her, and dropped them all into the wastebasket
there. The book landed with a thud. The papers didn’t make a sound as they floated down. Then she grabbed her bag off the
desk, switched off the lamp, and left the office.

She left him standing there alone.

He had screwed up again. Teryl had finally stopped looking at him as if she were afraid he was going to do something awful,
and with one stupid outburst, he had brought the fear back into her eyes. He had frightened her. Worse, he had hurt her, not
physically—not even anger could drive him to that—but spiritually. He had destroyed something that she treasured, had committed
a wrong that could never be put right. Even if she got another copy of the book, even if the bastard posing as Tremont signed
it again in exactly the same way, it would never replace the original. It would never mean the same thing to her.

He felt like a bigger bastard than Tremont could ever be.

Muttering a curse, John left the office and the house. Teryl’s key was stuck in the dead bolt; she was waiting, her back to
him, beside the Blazer. He locked the door and pocketed her keys, then hesitantly approached her. “Teryl.”

She stiffened and lowered her head.

“Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice was thick, husky, a little bit quavery.

Oh, hell, it sounded as if she were crying. He couldn’t deal with that, with knowing that he’d upset her badly enough to make
her cry. Laying his hands on her shoulders, refusing to
be shrugged off, he turned her to face him and saw that, damn it, yes, she
was
crying.

He had never made a woman cry before. His mother had never cared enough, and Janie had been too strong. No one else—from Chrissy
when he was a teenager to Marcia, the waitress—had ever cried because of him. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. He didn’t
know how to offer comfort.

“Please don’t cry, Teryl.” Tilting her face up, he clumsily brushed her hair back, then dried her cheeks. “Please… I’m so
damned sorry.”

She made a visible effort to stop the tears, to clear her throat, to regain control. The effort failed when she spoke. “If
I had to give up everything I own and could keep only one thing, it would have been that book. It was
mine
.”

He dried her tears again, then cupped his palms to her face. “It was
mine
, Teryl—mine with someone else’s signature in it. When this is over, you can have all the Tremont autographs in the world.
When I prove to you that that man is a fraud, that
I
wrote those books, I’ll sign anything you want, from books to checks.”

“What if you don’t prove it?” she whispered. “What if you can’t?”

“I
have
to.”

“Why?”

He stroked her cheek with his thumb, wiping away one last tear, before bleakly replying, “Because without my books, I’m nothing.
Because my writing has been my sanity. It’s been my life. Without it, I have no life. And because if I don’t prove it, you’re
never going to look at me again the way you did that first day, without the wariness, without the doubt. I
need
you to look at me, Teryl. I need…”

Letting the words trail away, he leaned closer, until his mouth was brushing hers. He waited, expecting her to pull away,
so sure she would that it took a moment for the realization that it wasn’t happening to sink in. Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t hot and erotic, as their first kiss had been, or so damned desperate, like the last kiss in that North Carolina
motel room. It was tentative. He kept waiting for her protest, for her to push him away, disgusted with him for kissing her
and with herself for weakly letting him do it. He waited for her good sense to kick in, to remind her that the last thing
she needed or wanted was to endure this with him.

It was sweet, as purely innocent as a kiss between two adults could be. It lacked passion and hunger, but it stirred them,
just a faint little need buried deep inside him, just enough of an ache to make its presence felt. He could stop kissing her
right now, and everything would be perfectly normal, or he could continue and slowly but surely bring to life an arousal as
sharp and raw as any he’d experienced in the last week.

It was comforting. Soothing. He didn’t know if it was doing much for her tears, but just being close to her, touching her,
sharing this small contact with her, was working wonders on his spirit.

At last, when he was starting to enjoy it too much, to kiss her harder, more greedily, to draw her closer and hold her tighter,
the rejection he’d been expecting came. She pushed against his chest, trying to work her way free, and reluctantly, having
no choice, he let her go.

Her cheeks were flushed, her lips red, her expression troubled. She liked kissing him. He had enough experience to recognize
that. But she didn’t want to like it, didn’t want to want him. He was smart enough to recognize that, too.

Christ, everything he did made her feel bad. She really needed him out of her life… while he desperately needed her
in
his.

She turned away, using the side mirror to comb her fingers through her hair, to check her face and to wipe away a bit of eye
makeup that her tears had smeared. When she finished, she faced him, but she couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “I’d like to go
home now.”

“What about lunch?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I am,” he lied. Faced with food, he imagined he would be able to eat, but the only appetite he was harboring right now was
of a sexual nature. It would be safer dealt with in a
restaurant, surrounded by other diners, than at her house, just the two of them alone.

“You can drop me off at the house, then go—”

He touched her hair, and she abruptly stopped speaking. “It was just a kiss, Teryl,” he said softly, regretfully. “You don’t
have to feel guilty for letting me kiss you. You don’t have to feel guilty for anything.”

“Please… don’t…” She moved away, her hair tangling briefly around his fingers before sliding free.

Once again he let her go. He gave her the space she wanted, the distance she needed, the distance that he thought just might
drive him crazy. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll take you home.”

Back at the house, Teryl tossed her keys into a basket on the kitchen counter, laid her purse beside it, and turned toward
John. “I’m going to go upstairs,” she said, and right away a new layer of guilt darkened his eyes. He obviously thought she
was retreating to her room because she was still upset over what had happened at the office—the damage he’d done to her one
and only signed Tremont and the kiss outside. It was true. She
was
upset. But that wasn’t the reason she wanted to be alone in her room.

She had phone calls to make.

As she started to walk past him, he extended his hand, blocking her way. “Teryl, I’m—”

She cut him off. “Don’t apologize again, please. I just want to be alone now.”

He stepped back, as she’d known he would, and she slipped past. She felt him watching her all the way down the hall, and when
she turned at the end to climb the stairs, she could see him, just standing there.

Upstairs in her room, she closed and locked the door behind her, then turned on the stereo. After a moment’s hesitation, feeling
sneaky and guilty, she sat down on the bed, pulled the phone book and a notepad from the nightstand drawer, and reached for
the phone. It was a simple matter finding the area code she needed for Florida; for Colorado,
she made a note of the two numbers that covered the entire state. Locating Rapid River without a map would be a matter of
trial and error, but at least the choices were limited.

First she dialed information for Verona. There was no listing for Jane or Janie Smith, but there were seven J. Smiths, and
she coaxed the disinterested operator into giving her the numbers for every one of them. What were the chances, she wondered
as she doodled around the numbers on the notepad, that one of these was John’s Janie? What were the odds that his thirty-something
sister had never married or, if divorced, was still using her maiden name?

Hell, even if she was married, even if her name was no longer Smith, she was a high school Spanish teacher in a small town.
How difficult could it be to find her?

With the first two calls, she was informed that there was no Janie at those numbers. The third netted her a recording:
Hi, this is Jack. I’m not home right now
… The fourth was another wrong number, and the fifth was busy. Luck was with her, though, on the sixth. The message on the
tape was standard, the voice feminine but no-nonsense, as befitted a teacher, and the accent was indistinct—a result of growing
up on the West Coast, perhaps, tempered by living on the East Coast?
Hi, this is Janie. I can’t take your call right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number at the beep, I’ll get back to
you as soon as I can. Adios, amigo
. A Spanish farewell. This had to be the one.