Passion (49 page)

For a time John said nothing. He simply lay there, his muscles taut, his thoughts full of doubt and suspicion. The more he’d
thought about the discrepancy in Lorna’s story last night, the more convinced he had become that Teryl was adopted, that she
was quite likely one of those kids who had been emotionally, physically, or sexually abused. She must have been very young
when she went to live with the Weavers, too young to remember those first frightening years. But not too young for nightmares
where horrible things happened that she couldn’t stop. Not too young to become irrationally afraid of thunderstorms. Not too
young to develop an unhealthy terror of being restrained.

Every night they’d been on the road, he must have stirred some terrifying memories hidden deep inside the protective recesses
of her mind.

God forgive him.

“I know it’s silly to be afraid now,” she went on. “I’m nearly thirty years old. I know storms aren’t evil. The only damage
they can cause is from the force of the wind or flooding from the rain or getting struck by lightning. I know they don’t call
for anything more than common sense.” Reluctantly she sighed and pulled out of his arms. “I’d better get ready for work. With
this weather, traffic’s going to be awful.”

“I’m going to take you.”

She looked at him for a moment, probably thinking that she needed to act like a nearly thirty-year-old woman and turn him
down. No doubt she considered it, but with a rueful smile, she simply accepted his announcement. “I appreciate it.”

It didn’t take her long to dress, pull her hair back, and put makeup on. John waited with her until she was done, then they
went to the kitchen together for breakfast. Finally, sharing the shelter of an oversize umbrella, they left the house and
made a dash for the Blazer.

They were only a short distance from the old Victorian that housed the offices when he announced his secondary motive for
bringing her. “When we get to the agency, I want to come in and meet Rebecca.”

Teryl gave him a sharp look. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I won’t be difficult. I won’t bring up Tremont. I just want to meet her.” He offered her a rusty smile. “I’ve been paying
this woman fifteen percent of my income for the last eleven years. She’s helped make me a rich man, and I’ve made her a wealthy
woman. I think it’s time I at least got an idea what she looks like.”

She was hesitant, and he couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t even being totally honest with her. There
was
one other reason he wanted to meet Rebecca. He wanted to remind her of something she’d once written in a note to him, wanted
to see if he could jog her memory. It had been a handwritten note, one of little importance; he’d read it, forgotten everything
except the last line, and thrown it away. Unless she was thoroughly compulsive, there wouldn’t be any record of it in her
files. She and the real Simon Tremont were the only two people who could possibly know about it.

As he pulled into the drive that led around to the parking lot, Teryl shrugged. “All right. Just don’t expect her to be happy
to see you.”

His grin was dry. “I don’t ever expect anyone to be happy to see me.” But that wasn’t true. He’d come to expect it of Teryl.

Once again they shared the umbrella from the truck to the back door. Inside, Teryl started a pot of coffee first, then led
the way to her office, where she tucked her purse away in a drawer and changed from the damp loafers she wore to a pair of
dressier sandals she’d brought. Finally, with a tight smile, she beckoned him to follow her down the hall.

Rebecca’s door was open, all the lights in the office on, the drapes behind her desk drawn shut on the dreary day. Music was
coming from the stereo on the shelves, something New Age and soothing, and she was sitting with her head back, her eyes closed.
She looked cool, elegant, and impossibly polite, but John knew she was tough as nails. She might appear every bit the well-bred
lady, but she was, first and foremost, a businesswoman.

For eleven years her business had been selling
his
books. Unless she’d changed her mind in the last few days, though, she’d now thrown in with the enemy. She intended to help
the man claiming to be Simon steal his career. And if she hadn’t changed her mind recently, maybe he could help her.

Teryl rapped on the door, then cleared her throat. “Good morning, Rebecca.”

The woman didn’t startle, as many would have done. She opened her eyes slowly, looking first at Teryl, next at John, then
raised her head. “Teryl.” Just as slowly, she stood up and came around the corner of the desk. “You must be John. I’m sorry.
Teryl didn’t mention your last name.”

“Smith.” As if she didn’t know it damned well. He took the hand she offered, and she gave him a strong shake.

Rebecca’s smile was tightly controlled and more than a little mocking. “Oh, yes, John Smith. What a coincidence. I’m Rebecca
Robertson, but you probably know that. Are you
here to discuss Simon Tremont with me? Because, if that’s the case, let me save us all some time and tell you that I won’t
discuss my client’s business with anyone.”

“Actually, I gave Teryl a ride this morning because of the weather, and, as long as I was here, I just wanted to see if you
lived up to my image of you.”

She gave him a long look. “And what’s the verdict?”

“You do.” He had envisioned her, for no reason he could recall, as a brunette instead of a graying blond, but, other than
that small detail, she was pretty much what he’d expected.

“I must say, you’re nothing like I expected.”

“And what did you expect? A raving lunatic? Wild hair and wild eyes?” He smiled faintly. “Sorry to disappoint you, but the
only thing I’m crazy about is Teryl.”

Rebecca leaned against the front of her desk, crossing one ankle over the other. At his side, Teryl was standing behind one
of the two chairs, resting her arms on the high, curved back, clasping her hands together. Neither woman looked particularly
comfortable. “I understand you’re visiting here from Colorado by way of New Orleans,” Rebecca remarked. “How long will you
be staying?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Where will you go from here? New York?”

It was the obvious choice, John acknowledged. If he was intent on playing out this scam—or if he really was crazy enough to
believe that he
was
Simon Tremont—the next likely target, Candace Baker at Morgan-Wilkes, was in New York. “I haven’t decided that, either,”
he replied, fixing his blue gaze on her. “But, you know, I always thought New York might be a nice place to visit—see the
Statue of Liberty, catch a Broadway show, maybe take a tour of the house that Jack built.”

There was a moment of utter stillness as Rebecca went stiff, her smile frozen on her unmoving mouth, and her eyes widened
in shock. So she did remember that long-ago note. John allowed himself only the faintest smile of triumph as he went on. “You
lived there a long time, didn’t you? If I decide to go, maybe you could make a few recommendations—you
know, hotels, restaurants, sights to see.” He paused. “Maybe a lawyer.”

She was still staring at him as, without waiting for a response, he claimed Teryl’s hand and began pulling her toward the
door. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Robertson. I’d better be going, Teryl. Come and walk me to the door.”

Teryl didn’t speak until they were at the back door again. Looking puzzled, she offered him the umbrella, but he refused it
with a shake of his head. “What did I miss back there?” she asked. “What gave her such a shock?”

“Jack is a nickname for John, right?”

She nodded.

“And Morgan-Wilkes is a publishing house that was pretty small-time until they bought the first Tremont book.”

“Which made a name for them and helped turn them into one of the big boys in the publishing world. Hence, the house that John
built—or, in keeping with the nursery rhyme, the house that Jack built. I assume this is a private joke between you and Rebecca.”

He shrugged. “Not exactly. It’s just something she mentioned in a note a few years back, and it stuck in my mind.”

“Apparently, it stuck in her mind, too.”

Nodding, he opened the door and stood there for a moment, watching the rain. The storm had passed, although if the black clouds
off to the west were any indication, another system was moving in fast. The rain didn’t look as if it ever intended to stop.
He knew he should leave, should go on home before the next storm hit, but it was still early. No one else was in the office,
and he wasn’t keeping Teryl from work.

She stood beside him in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the wood frame on the opposite side. “Did anyone ever call
you Jack?” she asked, her voice soft, her curiosity idle.

“No. Sometimes Tom and Janie called me Johnny, usually when something else had gone wrong between our parents and me.” When
they were trying to cheer him up or calm him down. When they were trying to make him forget that, no matter what kind of kid
he was, no matter how good or
bad, their folks were never going to love him the way they loved their older son and younger daughter. He had often wondered
whether they had ever loved him at all. Today he knew it didn’t matter. His parents were a long-ago part of his past. They
had no place in the present and no place at all in his future.

“Johnny.” She tilted her head to one side and studied him, then grinned. “I can see that.” Before he could fully savor the
sound of the nickname in her voice, she gestured outside. “The rain seems to be letting up a bit. Go now so you don’t get
soaked.”

He gave her a kiss, then started for the truck. Halfway across the parking lot, he turned back and found her watching him.
“Hey, Teryl?” Feeling suddenly awkward, he hesitated, then blurted out, “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Believing me. Trusting me. Helping me.”

She smiled in response, and he turned again, skirting a puddle at the back of the truck. A moment later, he heard the door
close, but just before it did, he swore he heard a soft murmur.

“Any time, Johnny.”

Given a choice, Rebecca never would have left her office for lunch on such a miserable day, but thanks to Teryl and this crazy
man she’d gotten hooked up with, she didn’t have a choice. She had to keep the appointment she’d made this morning. She had
to reassure herself that her suspicions—Teryl’s suspicions and this John Smith’s claims—were unfounded.

This crazy man
. Truth be told, John Smith didn’t strike her as mentally unstable. She had certainly understood her assistant’s attraction
to him. He was handsome, and he seemed nice enough, friendly enough. And, face it: there was something about a big man that
made a woman, feminist or not, simply feel safe. Cared for. Protected. She would bet that John Smith made Teryl feel cared
for in every way.

Funny how, at the same time, he made
her
feel that her world was at risk of coming apart.

The house that Jack built
. As a woman who was always all business and serious work, she occasionally had a clever moment, and just such a moment had
produced that description of Morgan-Wilkes. Although she had often thought of the publisher that way, beyond the one time
she’d included it in a note to her client, she had never repeated it to anyone else. That meant there were only two ways John
could have learned it: if her client had repeated it to him, or if he
was
her client.

Oh, Christ, don’t let that be the case
, she silently prayed. Please let the man approaching her now be the real Simon.

He drew no attention as he crossed the dining room. If anyone recognized him as the man from the “New Orleans Afternoon” interview,
they didn’t show it. Maybe it was his appearance; he wore a baseball cap that covered most of his light brown hair and plastic-framed
glasses that gave his eyes an overlarge owlish look, and he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in two days or more. Or maybe it
was simply that the other diners didn’t expect to find the great Simon Tremont in their midst for lunch. Whatever the reason,
he seemed to be traveling pretty much unrecognized.

From what little she knew of him, that probably didn’t make him very happy.

“Rebecca.” He sat down across from her and laid a black folder on the table. “I was surprised by your invitation this morning.
I figured a luncheon appointment would be scheduled at least a few days in advance.”

She responded to the chastisement in his voice with an apology, even though it annoyed her. “I’m sorry for the short notice,
Simon. It won’t happen again. I had intended to clear this with you last week, but there was a mix-up,” she lied.

“It seems your assistant isn’t very reliable. It would probably be in the agency’s best interests if you replaced her.”

She gave him a long, unwavering look. She wasn’t feeling kindly toward Teryl this morning, but her employees were rather like
family:
she
could criticize them, but she didn’t
care to hear someone else do it. “My assistant is
very
reliable, Simon. I would find it very difficult to replace her.”

Picking up the menu, he shrugged as if he couldn’t care less. “It’s your business. So… what was it you wanted that required
a trip into town in weather like this?”

“It’s nothing important, really. I just thought that, since you’re ready to give up all the mystery, it would be a good idea
for us to get together periodically—you know, to discuss the future, look ahead, make plans.”

He gestured with a nod toward the folder he’d brought with him. “There’s the future.”

“What is it?”

“The first two chapters of my next novel.”

“May I see it?”

He shrugged and continued to study the menu. She reached for the folder, withdrawing the stack of pages tucked inside. She
delayed reading only long enough to order a salad and iced tea when the waiter came; then she turned her attention to the
chapters. Moment after moment passed. She was only vaguely aware of the waiter bringing their drinks and of Simon, passing
the time by tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. By the time she finished reading, the young waiter was serving their
meal.