Passion (6 page)

Just the idea—her bottom pressed snug against his groin,
the long downward curve of her spine stretching out in front of him, as intimately joined as a man and woman could ever be
without any other contact—was enough to make him hard. Contemplating actually doing it was almost enough to make him come.

Again he swallowed hard as he turned away. His face was hot—with guilt, with shame, and the damnedest hunger he’d experienced.
His body was even hotter.

He would be downstairs in the lobby tomorrow morning, and he would wait—but not for the man claiming to be Simon. He would
wait for Teryl, and he would tell her his story, and he would try to persuade her to help him.

And when she didn’t believe him? When she got angry, when she realized that she had spent her evening indulging in intensely
passionate sex with a man who was certifiably nuts and the anger turned to fear?

He would do what he had to do, and may God forgive him, because Teryl never would.

Celebrity was going to be a wonderful thing, the man calling himself Simon Tremont acknowledged as a young brunette, dressed
all in white and just a tad too eager to please, escorted him through the hotel restaurant and outside through broad French
doors. The courtyard beyond was a popular place for hotel guests to breakfast on an early summer morning, when the sun hadn’t
yet risen high enough to clear the building next door, when it was still reasonably cool, when the splashing of water in the
stone fountain still sounded refreshing and the fragrance of the flowers planted in pots and beds around the tables hadn’t
yet become overpowering in the heavy air.

It was a truly lovely place… and for the next hour or so, it was off-limits to all hotel guests except those he had invited
to join him.

Ah, yes, after a lifetime of obscurity, celebrity was going to be fun.

The others were already seated at the table closest to the fountain: Sheila Callan, looking tough and brittle in spite of
the
elegant cut of her clothing; her fair-haired assistant whose name he couldn’t recall, whose jobs included running interference
and satisfying her boss’s every need, including, Simon suspected, those of a sexual nature; and the gum-chewing photographer
with the expensive cameras that, as far as Simon could tell, hadn’t once in twenty-four hours come off from around his neck.
They were all there and waiting. Waiting for
him.

All except Teryl.

His jaw tightened. He didn’t need to check his watch to know that she was late. He had been deliberately late himself, had
wanted to play the star role and keep them waiting just to prove that he could. Yes, he thought with a faint smile, it was
petty, but he was Simon Tremont. He could be petty if he wanted.

But Teryl wasn’t here. Teryl, who was along on this trip only because
he
had decreed it, had stood him up.

He sat down at the table, accepted the damask napkin that the pretty hostess offered, and took the menu that she’d opened
to the breakfast selections. So what was sweet Teryl doing this morning that precluded her from keeping their breakfast date?

Most likely getting laid.

He’d been surprised last night when he’d called her room on the off chance that she might be in, that she might be interested
in meeting him in the lounge for a drink. The man who had answered had sounded barely awake… or barely recovered from a bout
of hot and heavy sex. His presence there had been so unexpected that Simon had hung up without saying a word, which had been
best since the only ones in his mind at that moment had been angry.

It wasn’t that he begrudged a woman her fun. He just hadn’t expected it of Teryl. All of his contact with her—admittedly,
little enough—had led him to believe that she was quiet, a little reserved, less than sophisticated. He had figured her for
the type of woman who valued commitment ahead of physical pleasure. He had certainly expected some measure of caution from
her; she was too smart to pick up a stranger, to invite him back to her hotel, to take risks with
her safety, her health, and even, in these times, her life in exchange for one night’s diversion.

But, apparently, that was exactly what she had done. She had gone to the Quarter, picked up a total stranger, and let him
screw her.

If Sheila hadn’t interfered and insisted that he return to the hotel with her yesterday afternoon,
he
would have gone to the Quarter with Teryl. Maybe
he
would have been the one in her bed last night. He
should
have been the one. After all, wasn’t he her only reason for even being here?

Frankly, though, when he’d come up with the idea of having her come along for this interview, it hadn’t been with the intention
of bedding her. It had been, plain and simple, a test of his power. Coming out in the open after eleven years of hiding behind
his pseudonym, after eleven years of living in anonymity, had been a new, frightening—and heady—concept for him, and he had
wondered just how far he could push it. How much could he ask for? How much would being Simon Tremont get him?

And so he had made his first request—Teryl’s presence—and Rebecca Robertson and Sheila Callan had agreed without so much as
a blink of an eye. Next he had asked for a limo. For a suite in this, one of New Orleans’ oldest and finest hotels. For first-class,
red-carpet treatment from everyone at the TV studio and everyone at the hotel. For the courtyard to be barred to other guests
while he dined this morning.

Little things, little wishes, and every one of them granted. Every one of them an affirmation of the power Simon Tremont wielded.
Would that power have gotten him into Teryl’s bed last night? Maybe, he thought as a white-jacketed waiter served him champagne
in a delicate flute and a plate of fruit—fresh, exotic, prettily arranged on a crystal dish. Or maybe not. Someday…

He speared a plump strawberry with his fork and watched as the red juices dribbled onto the plate, then lifted it to his mouth.

Someday he might find out.

* * *

Teryl was slow to awaken, in spite of the steady, annoying beep of the alarm clock on the nightstand. After a minute or two,
she flung one arm out from beneath the covers, searching for the clock in its usual spot between the lamp and the phone, only
to belatedly remember that she wasn’t in her bed in her tiny little house in Richmond. This was a hotel room, and the city
was New Orleans. The Crescent City. The Big Easy.

The city, she thought with a drowsy smile half-buried in the pillow, where being easy could help good little girls be very,
very bad.

Then she realized that she was alone in the bed, and her smile slowly faded. Lifting her head from the pillow, she listened
for a moment, but the only sound was the soft whoosh of the air conditioner. She would have to leave the warmth of the bed
and go around the corner to see if the bathroom was occupied, but already she knew that it wasn’t. John’s clothes were no
longer scattered around the floor with her own, her suitcase had been retrieved from the floor where they’d dropped it and
placed on the dresser, and the room simply felt empty. No one else was sharing the space with her.

John was gone.

Pushing her hair from her face, she rolled onto her back, tucked the covers securely around her, then felt the sheets on the
opposite side of the bed. Even under the blankets, they were cold. Other than the crinkled plastic packets on the opposite
nightstand—
three
of them, she thought, her amazement tempered only slightly by shame—there didn’t seem to be any sign that anyone else had
ever been there.

She sighed softly. In a way, it had been sweet of him to make his exit while she was asleep. After all, waking up for the
first time with someone you knew wasn’t always easy; she imagined it could be pretty darn uncomfortable with a stranger. So
he had saved her from the awkwardness of dealing with him in the bright morning light—of dealing with the morning-after regrets.
Right now he was probably home, showering, getting dressed for work, likely giving no thought at all to her.

Which was exactly what she should be doing. Simon was expecting her downstairs for breakfast, and she—

Rolling over, she snatched up the clock, then swore aloud. Simon was expecting her at seven o’clock, and
she
had forgotten to reset the alarm last night. It was already seven-forty-five.

Throwing back the covers, she got quickly to her feet, allowing only a moment to wince at her body’s soreness. She’d been
so long without passion in her life that she’d forgotten the residual aches and pains that could accompany it. The discomfort
was shameful, because she hadn’t even known the man, and wicked, because she had certainly enjoyed learning the few things
she did know about him.

It was also bittersweet, because she would never have such an experience again. Once she returned home to Richmond, she would
go back to being the same old Teryl, the one who still, in spite of last night’s pleasure, believed her mother’s teachings
about sex, that bad girls did and good girls didn’t. D.J. had been bad since she was fifteen and couldn’t imagine any other
way to be, but Teryl had always been good—good enough, D.J. had always gently taunted her, for both of them.

But just this once, she thought with a self-satisfied grin,
she
had been the bad one.

And it had been very, very good.

She adjusted the thermostat as she passed it, then went into the bathroom. It was empty, confirming her suspicion that John
had been long gone. She wondered when he had left, it he had lain with her most of the night or if he had simply waited for
her to fall asleep before he made his exit. She would have liked to say good-bye, she thought wistfully. She would have liked
one more kiss, one more appreciative look from those hazy blue eyes of his.

She would have liked to thank him.

Quickly she brushed her teeth, then dressed in one of her two remaining outfits, a sundress that was light and cool. It was
long enough that she needn’t worry about hose, bright enough that for a quick trip downstairs she didn’t have to bother with
makeup to put color in her face. She would find
Simon, she planned as she slipped into a pair of sandals, and apologize profusely for missing their breakfast date. She would
see him off to the airport, then come back up, shower, and head off to explore the city again.

She intended to play the I-can’t-believe-I’m-actually-here tourist role to the hilt. She was going to ride the St. Charles
streetcar, gawk at the beautiful houses in the Garden District, take a buggy ride around the French Quarter, eat beignets
at the Café du Monde, and walk until she could walk no more. After sitting by the river to regain her strength, she would
venture out again, would eat too much and listen to the musicians in Jackson Square, watch the street performers and shop
for souvenirs.

Then tonight, like Cinderella, her magical time would end. At nine o’clock she would board a plane bound for Virginia, and
tomorrow morning she would be plain Teryl Weaver again. She would go to work every day, meet friends for lunch, and spend
most evenings home alone. She would occasionally wonder why there were no men in her life, and when one did eventually come
along, she would wonder why she had wanted him in the first place.

But, she thought with a melodramatic sigh, she would always have New Orleans.

And one wicked night with John.

Sliding her room key into her pocket, she left, taking the elevator to the lobby. It was a cavernous place, the marble floor
softened by Oriental rugs, the high ceiling decorated with ornately carved moldings and medallions, and the walls painted
with thirty-foot-tall murals depicting scenes from the city’s history. Lush plantings created small islands of privacy for
the sofas and chairs scattered about, and the babble of water from a central fountain served to mute the sounds of guests
coming and going.

She was passing the massive marble registration desk when she heard her name. Turning, she found the man she was looking for
standing beside one of the free-form beds that provided the lobby with its rich, earthy scent. With the fronds of a fern providing
the perfect backdrop for his bright-patterned shirt and faded khaki trousers, he looked more at
home, she thought, than he had anyplace else since arriving in the city. He looked more at ease. More handsome.

Less threatening.

She approached him, her apology bubbling over before she reached him. “Simon, I’m so sorry about this morning. I forgot to
set the alarm last night, so I overslept. I’m really very sorry. You should’ve called and awakened me instead of waiting.”

“It’s all right. We barely missed you.”

His expression, as close as it had come to friendly since they’d met, didn’t waver with his last words, which somehow served
to make his barb a little sharper. Holding her head a little higher, she smiled coolly. “I’m glad I didn’t inconvenience you,
but I do apologize. So… what did you think of your first foray into the world as Simon Tremont?”

“It’s been an experience.”

“A pleasant one?”

“For the most part, yes.”

“You know, what you talked about in the interview yesterday will come true. People will recognize you wherever you go. Fans
will want your autograph. Your life is bound to change significantly. Are you prepared for that?”

His direct blue gaze locked with hers, making her feel once again like an insect under observation. “I’ve been preparing for
that for eleven years,” he said with a quiet, and not entirely pleasant, intensity. “I’ve lived and worked in obscurity, Teryl.
The time has come to accept the recognition that’s rightfully mine. I’ve earned it.” Before she could think of a response
to that, he continued in a more normal tone. “I understand you’re staying over in the city.”

“Only until this evening. I want to see everything I can. I may never get the chance to come back.” Glancing around the lobby,
she saw Sheila at the cashier’s end of the registration desk. Any moment now the other woman would finish and would join them,
offering her a totally disinterested farewell and hustling Simon outside to the limo that was probably already waiting.