Passion (35 page)

She had begun her career twenty-five years ago working for an agency in Manhattan, a big one that filled an entire floor of
a high-rise office building. The offices had been purely functional and totally lacking in grace and charm. She had opened
her agency in equally impersonal, charm-free quarters in a lower rent neighborhood a few miles away, always with the intention
of someday moving to a place like this.

Someday had been a long time coming. After eleven years she still remembered the morning it had arrived in the form
of an unsolicited manuscript from an unpublished writer in Denver. The mere size of it—some seven hundred pages—had been daunting,
and if she’d had an assistant, she would have passed the thing on to her. But after five hard years on her own, it had still
been a struggle just to make expenses. Hired help was a luxury she couldn’t yet afford.

She had sat down with the manuscript, intending to read a chapter, two at most. If it was like the majority of unsolicited
work she received—unpublishable—that was a more than fair reading. If this unknown writer had a spark of genuine talent buried
underneath the usual first book mistakes, two chapters was enough to find it. Hours later, she had left the office for home
in a daze, overwhelmed by emotion and utterly astounded by her good fortune. She had carried the manuscript with her, clutched
to her chest like some magical talisman with the power to change her life.

That was exactly what it had turned out to be. That extraordinary manuscript and the once-in-a-lifetime talent that had produced
it had made both Rebecca and its author rich beyond their dreams. It had turned three relatively anonymous entities—the agency,
Morgan-Wilkes Books, and John Smith—into major-league players.

And John had blindly picked her agency out of a book.

Such incredible good fortune.

Retrieving her briefcase and bag, she turned toward the back of the house and her private office. She liked coming in early
Monday mornings so she could make this quiet, undisturbed walk through the business she had worked so hard to build. In another
hour, her staff would be at their desks, the phones would be ringing, and there would be a dozen things for her to attend
to, but for now, the place was all hers, and she had nothing to do but enjoy it.

When she reached the office before her own, she paused in the open door. She had arrived home from a dinner date with Paul
Saturday evening to find Teryl’s message on her machine. It hadn’t been much of a message—a brief apology and a promise that
she would make up the days she’d missed. Rebecca had assumed that her assistant was so unfamiliar with being unreliable that
she hadn’t known exactly
what to say. This morning Rebecca wasn’t quite sure what
she
was going to say. She would decide, she supposed, when she was face-to-face with Teryl, who would be, if she was back in
her routine, the next one in.

Judging by the looks of her office, she had already come in over the weekend, perhaps to get caught up. The disreputable chair
that she loved so much was pushed off to the side, the pillows she kept neatly stacked on the window seat were scattered carelessly
across the cushion, and a scrap of paper was caught underneath the chair’s wheel.

Rebecca bent to pick it up, recognizing it as part of a page torn from a book. That was odd. Teryl loved books. While she
might bend the corner of a cheap paperback, if there was such a thing these days, to mark her place, she would never tear
a page out.

With a shrug, Rebecca pushed the chair into its proper place, then bent to drop the paper into the wastebasket. What she saw
there made her stiffen.

It took only a moment to retrieve the scraps and the book underneath them, only a moment longer to fit the ragged pieces of
the title page back together.
To Teryl, with best wishes, Simon Tremont
.

Pulling the chair back again, she sank down and studied the pieced-together message. On the day of Simon’s visit to the office,
she had taken that copy of
Masters of Ceremony
from the bookcase up front and asked him to autograph it for Teryl. She had thought it might make up to her assistant at
least a little for missing out on meeting the man she had so admired all of her adult life. Simon had been flattered by the
request, had joked that it was the first autograph he’d ever signed and maybe if he wrote that as part of the message, it
would be worth something someday. But he hadn’t written it. He had settled for a pretty generic sentiment.
To Teryl, with best wishes, Simon Tremont
.

After he had gone, Rebecca had left the book on Teryl’s desk, with a slip of paper sticking out to draw Teryl’s attention
to the title page. Rebecca had been back in her office, on the phone with Simon’s editor at Morgan-Wilkes, when she’d heard
Teryl’s delighted shriek. The girl had been
thrilled, had assured Rebecca that she would treasure it forever.

And now she’d torn it to bits. Forever had lasted only a few months.

Had something happened with Simon in New Orleans? Had he been such a tremendous disappointment to Teryl that she’d lost all
her admiration for the man
and
his work? Rebecca had to admit that he wasn’t exactly what
she
had expected after eleven years of working together. He was egotistical, but that wasn’t uncommon. In her experience, most
writers had tremendous egos, offset by tremendous insecurities. He was arrogant, but that wasn’t an unusual trait in a rich
and powerful man. What was unusual was the creepy feeling he gave her. As if he weren’t quite safe. As if he weren’t quite
sane.

She had tried to tell herself that it was simply a reaction to his books; when it came to creepy and eerie, his were the best.
But she knew plenty of other authors who wrote psychological thrillers or straight horror, nice, normal people whom she wouldn’t
hesitate to invite to dinner. It wasn’t the books.

It was Simon himself.

Maybe Teryl had picked up on his peculiarities. Maybe she’d been turned off by his arrogance. Or maybe something else had
happened. Maybe he had somehow been part of her decision to stay over in New Orleans. Maybe he’d made a pass at her or had
made demands of her that she’d needed time to deal with. Or maybe…
Maybe
he was the mystery man Debra Jane Howell had been talking about. Granted, Sheila Callan had accompanied him from the hotel
to the airport; in fact, she had flown as far as Charlotte with him. There they had separated, Simon making his connection
to Richmond, Sheila continuing to New York. But maybe Simon’s connection hadn’t been to Richmond. Maybe he had simply turned
around and flown back to New Orleans, where Teryl was waiting.

With a sigh, Rebecca slid the scraps of paper inside the book, then took it with her when she went to her own office. Teryl
would be in soon, and she would find out then exactly
what had happened last week. Until then, she wouldn’t let her imagination run wild.

John was in the kitchen drinking a cup of instant coffee when Teryl came down. She was dressed for work in her favorite dress—cool
and comfortable, red linen, businesslike but stylish enough to make her feel pretty whenever she wore it. She had pulled her
hair back and fastened it off her neck with a gold clasp, had put on her favorite gold jewelry and added a pair of heels.
This morning, facing John now and Rebecca later, she felt the need for whatever confidence she could muster. Like a protective
suit of armor, the clothing helped.

“You look nice.”

She accepted his compliment with a brief smile, thinking at the same time that he did, too. He was wearing his usual faded
jeans, and the shirt this morning was a polo shirt in deep crimson. He looked better than nice. He looked damned good.

He offered her a cup of coffee, which she refused, and half of a toasted bagel spread with raspberry jam, which she accepted.
Waiting until she took the first bite, he said, “I’ll take you to work today.”

She shook her head as she chewed; finally managing to swallow, she disagreed. “I’ll drive myself. You might get lost, and
there’s no need for you to be out in rush hour traffic.”

“I have an excellent sense of direction. I know exactly how to get to your office and back.”

“I need my car. Sometimes I run errands for Rebecca, and she doesn’t like to let me use her car.”

“So you can call—”

After those phone calls yesterday—one checking out his story, the other seeking his sister’s help in getting rid of him and
getting help for him—she felt guilty asking for his trust, but she interrupted him to do just that. “Except for that first
night when I tried to escape, I haven’t done a thing to make you suspicious. I’ve been good. I’ve talked to strangers without
asking for help. I’ve talked to D.J. and my mother without hinting that there was something weird going on. I’ve let you move
into my house, and I’ve gone through confidential records with you. I’ve cooperated as much as I possibly could. I’ve trusted
you, John. Now you’ve got to trust me.”

He stood motionless for a long time. How long had it been, she wondered, since he’d trusted anyone, even himself? How long
since he’d let anyone get close enough that trust had even become an issue? Years, she would bet. About seventeen of them.

She couldn’t blame him for being reluctant now. In the last five days they hadn’t been more than a hallway and a stairway
apart. Now she was asking to travel halfway across the city alone. Of course, in those hours apart here in the house, she
could have called for help at any time, but he’d still held the trump card: her. She could have called the police, and they
would have come, but she still would have been John’s hostage. If she called the cops today, she would be miles away, safely
out of his reach, when they came.

Didn’t he see that it wasn’t any easier for her to trust him? He had kidnapped her, for heaven’s sake, had taken her against
her will on a cross-country journey, had tied her to the bed every night they were on the road. But she had come to believe
that he wouldn’t hurt her. She had learned to trust him.

But she had more faith to give, she suspected, and gave it more easily than he ever would. His parents and that damnable accident
had seen to that.

When he finally spoke, his misgivings were clear in his voice. “All right. You can go alone. Just don’t…”

Don’t let me down
, he had whispered in her ear before leaving her alone with D.J. Sunday morning. As soft as his voice had been, she’d heard
the pleading that had underlaid the soft words. She heard it now, unspoken between them. “I won’t,” she promised. For a moment,
she held his gaze, seeing no sign of the trust he was offering so reluctantly. With a sign, she stopped looking for it. “What
are you going to do today?”

“Get in touch with my bank.”

She nodded once in acknowledgment, then opened the junk drawer next to the refrigerator and sorted through its contents until
she found what she was looking for. She offered him the key, crossing the few feet necessary to lay it in his palm. “Here’s
my extra key in case you need to go out. I get off at five, and I’ll be home shortly after that. If you need to call, the
number—”

“I know the number.”

It was an honest assumption that he wouldn’t. Whether he was Simon Tremont or just a deluded impostor, he’d had no occasion
to ever call the agency. It was only fair to expect him not to know the number.

“I usually go to lunch about noon. Why don’t I come home and bring some sandwiches?”

His smile was very faint, practically nonexistent, when he nodded.

Taking her keys from the basket, she said good-bye and left. She walked quickly to her car, parked beside the Blazer, and
climbed in, backing out as she adjusted the air-conditioning vents, the stereo, and the mirrors.

Since she’d awakened nearly two hours ago, she had resisted thinking about Rebecca, but now she couldn’t avoid the nagging
worries. The idea of facing her boss after the stunt Rebecca thought she had pulled last week made her muscles clench and
stirred more than a few butterflies in her stomach. Rebecca would surely be disappointed in her. Would she also be angry?
Unforgiving? Quietly censuring? Would she fire Teryl?

That would be the worst possible outcome. Teryl might downplay the importance of her job to others, but she loved it. It was
the best use she could make of her English degree; she liked the others in the office; she admired and respected her boss.
She enjoyed talking to and occasionally meeting the authors the agency represented, and she liked reading their books. She
especially liked discovering new authors in the manuscripts sent to Rebecca for consideration. It was a tremendously satisfying
feeling to read and like a brand-new author’s work, to recommend him or her to Rebecca or one
of the others, and, a year or two later, to see that book on the shelves at the local bookstores.

She loved her job. She didn’t know what she would do if she lost it.

Maybe she would help John prove that he was Simon Tremont, and he would be so grateful that he would reward her in some outrageous
fashion. Maybe he would hire her as his assistant or secretary. She could answer mail, do research, run errands, and make
coffee for him as easily as she did it for Rebecca.

Of course, if he
was
Simon, chances were good that he would be looking for a new agent when all this was over. Chances were very good that whatever
trust he’d placed in Rebecca would be lost. Maybe she was naïve, but Teryl liked to think that she was as capable of acting
as his agent as anyone else. Simon Tremont was such a valuable commodity that there was little negotiating to do. Morgan-Wilkes
came to the contract table with one simple question: What can we do to keep Simon happy? Rebecca always gave a reasonable
answer, and Morgan-Wilkes always agreed. After all, if they didn’t, there were plenty of other publishers out there who would.
Over the years, John—Simon, she corrected herself—had shown no inclination for making unreasonable demands, and she was perfectly
capable of presenting whatever requests he did have.