Joan tucked her shoulder length hair behind her ears, as she laid out sheets
of embossed cardstock. Then she carefully opened her wooden box of calligraphy
pens and stretched out her fingers to make them limber. She was going to do this
right. A classy invitation to half a dozen influential people, salmon mousse,
fine champagne, possibly caviar, then she'd pepper the event with subtle messages
on the wisdom of keeping Indigo small and quiet--just the way it was.
That would be the beginning.
She opened a bottle of black ink, dipped her pen and began the lettering.
Halfway through addressing her first invitation, her telephone rang. She wasn't
expecting any calls, so she let the machine pick it up while she kept working.
"Joan?" A familiar voice came over the speaker. "This is Heather."
Joan kept writing. She could call her sister back any old time.
Heather's tone rose half an octave. "You have to tell me if it's true."
Joan stilled the pen and glanced over her shoulder.
"And if it's true," Heather continued as the machine tape whirred.
"Tell me what you were thinking. Call me. Soon."
"What?" Joan voiced the question out loud.
For Heather to pick up the phone, it had to be something big.
Of course big in Heather's world wasn't necessarily life and death in anyone
else's. A catering mix-up or a fashion disaster could wait a few hours.
Joan went back to writing, but the phone rang again.
It figured.
She finished the word attendance, wiped off her pen and rose from
her chair, heading across the room as the greeting played.
She reached for the receiver.
"Joan?" came an unfamiliar, masculine voice.
She snapped her hand back.
"This is Alain Boudreaux."
Alain Boudreaux? The Police Chief had never called her at home before.
Had he heard she was whipping up support against the music festival?
"I'd appreciate a call when you get this message."
As the machine clicked off Joan's heart thudded. She quickly went over who
she'd spoken to in the past week. She hadn't made a secret of not wanting to increase
tourism. But she thought she'd been fairly circumspect.
Suddenly, there was a pounding at her front door.
She jumped.
Could it be Chief Boudreaux that quickly? Was he upset? Had he brought a posse?
She debated whether to answer it, stay quiet, or bail out the back way.
Whoever it was, pounded again.
Curiosity got the better of her survival instincts, and she crept up to the
small, beveled glass window, squinting at the disjointed figure on her porch.
Anthony? What on earth was Anthony doing in Indigo?
"Joan?" he called, stepping back to gaze up at the white, two story
cottage.
"Anthony?" she called back.
He moved closer, squinting into the small window. "Let me in, Joan."
"What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
"About what?"
"Are you upset?"
"No." She wasn't upset. She was confused and getting a little jumpy.
In fact, she was starting to hope this was all some kind of a bizarre dream.
He rattled the doorknob, and the catch gave way. No surprise in that, there
weren't a lot of locks in Indigo. Just one of the things she was trying to protect
by opposing the music festival and the opera house.
The painted door swung open to reveal the man who was her literary agent and
lawyer. As always, the sight of Anthony took her breath away. Dressed in a very
well cut suit, he was an urbane, startlingly handsome man, with deep blue eyes,
thick hair, a strong chin and a body that made women sit up and take notice.
And that wasn't simply her opinion. She knew other women took notice, because
she'd watched them react to him for years. She also knew that Anthony knew. He
had his pick. Always had, always would.
"What are you doing here?" She buried her inappropriate reaction
down deep. "Did something go wrong with Bayou?"
The book had only been out a few days. It was a little too early to panic about
numbers.
Anthony peered closely at her expression, crossing almost cautiously into her
front hall and pushing the door closed behind him with a solid click. "Nothing's
wrong with Bayou. Sales are going great."
"Good to hear."
His gaze strayed, and she followed it to the dining table.
"I was just addressing some invitations," she explained the mess.
"I didn't mean to disturb you," he said.
She shook her head. "No problem. Can I get you--"
The phone rang yet again.
Anthony reflexively jerked toward it. "Don't answer that."
"I wasn't going to."
The greeting began.
Anthony crossed the room, then reached down and pulled the answering machine
plug.
It took Joan a second to react. "What are you doing?"
"We have to talk."
She blinked. "About what?" Her theory that this was all a bizarre
dream was quickly gaining credibility. She held still for a minute, waiting to
wake up and start Tuesday all over again.
"Something's happened," said Anthony.
Joan closed her eyes and gave her head a little shake.
"Joan?"
She opened one eye. "You're still here."
He frowned.
She glanced down at her white, pleated blouse and linen slacks. "And I'm
still here."
He took a step toward her, one hand tentatively reaching out. "Joan?"
She inhaled his spicy aftershave, wishing this really was a dream. What a perfect
time to lean up and kiss him. She'd wondered about those full lips for years.
"We have to talk," he repeated.
"Okay," she nodded, shelving the dream theory for now. Surely if
this was a dream, her subconscious would be making it a little sexier.
He looked way too serious. "Can we sit down?"
Maybe Bayou wasn't doing so well. Maybe he was going to drop her as
a client. She'd heard the publishing business was downsizing, and authors were
being let go all over the place.
"Just go ahead and tell me," she said, steeling herself.
He drew a deep breath and rubbed his chin. "It's like this..."
Joan waited, quickly growing impatient. "If it's bad news, it's bad news."
Whatever it was, she'd retain her composure. She'd draw on years of poise and
practice learned at her mother's knee and keep her feelings bottled tight inside.
"There was leak," he said.
She mentally shifted gears and glanced up at the ceiling. "Here?"
His shoulders dropped, and he shook his head. "Not that kind of leak."
"Oh."
"An information leak."
His point wasn't quite computing. "Information?"
He stepped closer. "Information about you." He paused. "Personally."
And then she got it. Her name had been leaked.
It was like being struck with a lightning bolt. "No," she
rasped, shaking her head in denial as the breath hissed out of her body.
Heather's words screamed through her brain. "What were you thinking?"
|
