Read Online A Secret Life by Barbara Dunlop - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Barbara Dunlop
Tags: Suspense
Ads: Link
absorbing her essence.
“Did he drug you or something?” asked Heather.
“Thirty seconds,” said the producer. “Can we clear the set, please?”
One arm still around Joan, Anthony made his way through the set drapes to the studio door.
“Seriously,” said Heather, as she scrambled along behind them. “Joanie, how did he talk you into it?”
“He was right,” said Joan, and Anthony tightened his arm on her. “Playing hard to get only makes them more interested.”
“That’s men, not the general public,” said Heather as the door closed behind them and they started down the dark, narrow hallway that led to the green room.
“Principle’s the same,” said Anthony.
“He’s only trying to make money,” Heather accused.
“While you’re trying to stuff the genie back in the bottle,” said Anthony.
“I’m your sister, and I love you,” said Heather.
“Then call up your parents.” Anthony whisked Joan through the lobby, under the interested gazes of the studio staff. “Call up your friends. Tell them that Joan is an excellent writer, and they should all buy her books.”
“It’s not that simple,” Heather objected.
“It’s not that simple,” Joan agreed as they exited through the double glass doors.
Anthony knew he’d gone one step too far. Joan was aligning herself with Heather again, when he needed her to trust him.
He cursed himself silently. There was no doubt in his mind they’d get more interview offers. He needed her to be ready, and he needed her to be willing.
J OAN WAS STILL feeling buoyed when Anthony pulled into her short driveway in Indigo. The interview was over. Soon the hype would die down, Anthony would go back to New York, and she could get back to normal again.
She still felt uneasy at the thought of talking to her parents. But at least she could tell them they were past the publicity peak. Things would only calm down from here.
Her stomach fluttered at the thought of Anthony leaving, but she ignored that. He was her agent, not her best friend. They’d go back to talking on the phone every month or so. She could even fantasize about him in the dead of night—just as she’d done for years, ever since Brian had turned into a warm but distant memory.
Normalcy. How she craved it right now.
“Thank God we’re home,” moaned Heather from the cramped backseat. “My massage has been completely obliterated.” She stretched her neck back and forth.
Anthony shut down the engine, set the brake and opened his door. He unfolded his body and flipped the seat forward so Heather could escape.
Joan hopped out her own side and retrieved her purse and the boutique bag from the floor behind her.
“You left your door open,” said Heather.
Joan pushed it shut. “Give me a second here.”
“No. I mean that one.” Heather pointed to the house. “Your front door is open.”
Anthony stilled, twisting his head toward the house. “Stay here,” he ordered.
“It was probably just the wind,” said Joan, but an unsettling twinge shot up her spine. In ten years of storms off the Gulf, her door had never once blown open.
“I’m not staying out here,” said Heather, trotting behind Anthony.
Joan rounded the hood of the car, following suit. She wasn’t timid like Heather, but it was dark now and she didn’t relish the thought of standing outside amid the sound of the cicadas and sway of the hanging moss, wondering what might be lurking around the cypress trees.
Anthony strode up the stairs to the open doorway.
“You should really get a gun,” Heather muttered.
“Quiet,” said Anthony. He paused in the doorway and cocked his head.
Joan could hear the ticking clock, the gentle hum of the fridge motor and the wind rustling the oak leaves—no footfalls, no voices.
Anthony stepped inside. The floor creaked under his shoes. He reached to the right and flipped a light switch.
Joan blinked at the bright light, then gasped as the room came into focus.
Her
“Did he drug you or something?” asked Heather.
“Thirty seconds,” said the producer. “Can we clear the set, please?”
One arm still around Joan, Anthony made his way through the set drapes to the studio door.
“Seriously,” said Heather, as she scrambled along behind them. “Joanie, how did he talk you into it?”
“He was right,” said Joan, and Anthony tightened his arm on her. “Playing hard to get only makes them more interested.”
“That’s men, not the general public,” said Heather as the door closed behind them and they started down the dark, narrow hallway that led to the green room.
“Principle’s the same,” said Anthony.
“He’s only trying to make money,” Heather accused.
“While you’re trying to stuff the genie back in the bottle,” said Anthony.
“I’m your sister, and I love you,” said Heather.
“Then call up your parents.” Anthony whisked Joan through the lobby, under the interested gazes of the studio staff. “Call up your friends. Tell them that Joan is an excellent writer, and they should all buy her books.”
“It’s not that simple,” Heather objected.
“It’s not that simple,” Joan agreed as they exited through the double glass doors.
Anthony knew he’d gone one step too far. Joan was aligning herself with Heather again, when he needed her to trust him.
He cursed himself silently. There was no doubt in his mind they’d get more interview offers. He needed her to be ready, and he needed her to be willing.
J OAN WAS STILL feeling buoyed when Anthony pulled into her short driveway in Indigo. The interview was over. Soon the hype would die down, Anthony would go back to New York, and she could get back to normal again.
She still felt uneasy at the thought of talking to her parents. But at least she could tell them they were past the publicity peak. Things would only calm down from here.
Her stomach fluttered at the thought of Anthony leaving, but she ignored that. He was her agent, not her best friend. They’d go back to talking on the phone every month or so. She could even fantasize about him in the dead of night—just as she’d done for years, ever since Brian had turned into a warm but distant memory.
Normalcy. How she craved it right now.
“Thank God we’re home,” moaned Heather from the cramped backseat. “My massage has been completely obliterated.” She stretched her neck back and forth.
Anthony shut down the engine, set the brake and opened his door. He unfolded his body and flipped the seat forward so Heather could escape.
Joan hopped out her own side and retrieved her purse and the boutique bag from the floor behind her.
“You left your door open,” said Heather.
Joan pushed it shut. “Give me a second here.”
“No. I mean that one.” Heather pointed to the house. “Your front door is open.”
Anthony stilled, twisting his head toward the house. “Stay here,” he ordered.
“It was probably just the wind,” said Joan, but an unsettling twinge shot up her spine. In ten years of storms off the Gulf, her door had never once blown open.
“I’m not staying out here,” said Heather, trotting behind Anthony.
Joan rounded the hood of the car, following suit. She wasn’t timid like Heather, but it was dark now and she didn’t relish the thought of standing outside amid the sound of the cicadas and sway of the hanging moss, wondering what might be lurking around the cypress trees.
Anthony strode up the stairs to the open doorway.
“You should really get a gun,” Heather muttered.
“Quiet,” said Anthony. He paused in the doorway and cocked his head.
Joan could hear the ticking clock, the gentle hum of the fridge motor and the wind rustling the oak leaves—no footfalls, no voices.
Anthony stepped inside. The floor creaked under his shoes. He reached to the right and flipped a light switch.
Joan blinked at the bright light, then gasped as the room came into focus.
Her
Similar Books
