famous
.
Arrogant bastard. That was
John’s
recognition he was talking about,
John’s
talent,
John’s
fame. There was nothing about Simon Tremont’s career that that son of a bitch could rightfully lay claim to.
Except
Resurrection
. The most impressive work Teryl had ever read. He needed to see it. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to read what someone
else had made of his life, of Tom’s and Janie’s lives. He didn’t want to find out, God help him, that someone else had done
it better, but he had to know. He had to know just how talented this impostor was. He had to know just how much of his life
this man had taken.
Getting a copy of the manuscript was one more favor he would have to ask of—would have to coerce from—Teryl. It was one more
thing she would do for him, however unwillingly, because he wouldn’t—couldn’t—give her a choice. It was one more thing she
would hold against him.
Across the lobby, the elevator came to a stop and she stepped off, and, at that moment, the only thing in the world he wanted
her to hold against him was her body.
His choked-back laugh was bitter. Jesus, that was corny. He was in sorry shape when he could even think such a line.
She had pulled her hair back and clipped it off her neck. The dress was gone, folded away in the suitcase the bellman behind
her carried; now she wore an outfit similar to last night’s—shorts, shirt, vest, and sandals. It should have looked casual
as hell, but the shorts were pleated and cuffed and pin-striped white on khaki, the shirt tailored and crisp, the vest fitted
and also pin-striped, khaki on white. She looked very neat, very pretty and feminine in spite—or perhaps because—of the clothes’
obvious masculine influence.
She smiled when she saw him, a sweet, welcoming smile that made him feel every bit the bastard. She was happy tosee him, happy to be spending the day with him. She expected him to show her the sights, to share the last day of her fantasy
vacation with her, and, before nine o’clock tonight, to deliver her safely to the airport.
By 9:00 P.M ., he figured, they would be somewhere in Georgia or maybe even South Carolina. By 9:00 P.M ., she would be afraid of him… or would hate him… or both.
It took her a few minutes to check out, took a few minutes more for the valet to retrieve his Blazer from the garage and deliver
it to the main entrance. Teryl climbed into the front seat, glancing back as he placed her suitcase on the rear seat beside
his own. Why didn’t the suitcase strike her as odd? he wondered as he circled around to the driver’s seat, climbed in, and
closed the door, automatically hitting the lock button as he did so. She believed he was a businessman, an employee at the
television station where Tremont’s interview had been taped yesterday. She believed he lived right here in New Orleans. So
why didn’t she find it curious that he would keep a suitcase in his car?
“I really appreciate this,” she said, reaching for her seat belt after she watched him fasten his. He had learned seventeen
years ago about wearing seat belts. “What are we going to do first?”
“How about breakfast?” He turned onto Canal Street and headed away from the hotel. “I know this little place. It’s not too
far.”
“How about the Café du Monde?”
He forced himself to smile and hoped it bore some semblance of normalcy as he looked at her. “Everybody goes to the Café du
Monde. I bet you had beignets there yesterday.”
She nodded. “If they hadn’t been busy—and I hadn’t been meeting Simon—I could have sat there all day and watched the people.”
“You’ll get to go there again,” he assured her. When this was all over and done with, he would compensate her for the inconvenience,
for all the lies and the fear, for all the things he was doing and all the emotions he would be putting her through, and he
was a generous man. Not that money
.
Arrogant bastard. That was
John’s
recognition he was talking about,
John’s
talent,
John’s
fame. There was nothing about Simon Tremont’s career that that son of a bitch could rightfully lay claim to.
Except
Resurrection
. The most impressive work Teryl had ever read. He needed to see it. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to read what someone
else had made of his life, of Tom’s and Janie’s lives. He didn’t want to find out, God help him, that someone else had done
it better, but he had to know. He had to know just how talented this impostor was. He had to know just how much of his life
this man had taken.
Getting a copy of the manuscript was one more favor he would have to ask of—would have to coerce from—Teryl. It was one more
thing she would do for him, however unwillingly, because he wouldn’t—couldn’t—give her a choice. It was one more thing she
would hold against him.
Across the lobby, the elevator came to a stop and she stepped off, and, at that moment, the only thing in the world he wanted
her to hold against him was her body.
His choked-back laugh was bitter. Jesus, that was corny. He was in sorry shape when he could even think such a line.
She had pulled her hair back and clipped it off her neck. The dress was gone, folded away in the suitcase the bellman behind
her carried; now she wore an outfit similar to last night’s—shorts, shirt, vest, and sandals. It should have looked casual
as hell, but the shorts were pleated and cuffed and pin-striped white on khaki, the shirt tailored and crisp, the vest fitted
and also pin-striped, khaki on white. She looked very neat, very pretty and feminine in spite—or perhaps because—of the clothes’
obvious masculine influence.
She smiled when she saw him, a sweet, welcoming smile that made him feel every bit the bastard. She was happy tosee him, happy to be spending the day with him. She expected him to show her the sights, to share the last day of her fantasy
vacation with her, and, before nine o’clock tonight, to deliver her safely to the airport.
By 9:00 P.M ., he figured, they would be somewhere in Georgia or maybe even South Carolina. By 9:00 P.M ., she would be afraid of him… or would hate him… or both.
It took her a few minutes to check out, took a few minutes more for the valet to retrieve his Blazer from the garage and deliver
it to the main entrance. Teryl climbed into the front seat, glancing back as he placed her suitcase on the rear seat beside
his own. Why didn’t the suitcase strike her as odd? he wondered as he circled around to the driver’s seat, climbed in, and
closed the door, automatically hitting the lock button as he did so. She believed he was a businessman, an employee at the
television station where Tremont’s interview had been taped yesterday. She believed he lived right here in New Orleans. So
why didn’t she find it curious that he would keep a suitcase in his car?
“I really appreciate this,” she said, reaching for her seat belt after she watched him fasten his. He had learned seventeen
years ago about wearing seat belts. “What are we going to do first?”
“How about breakfast?” He turned onto Canal Street and headed away from the hotel. “I know this little place. It’s not too
far.”
“How about the Café du Monde?”
He forced himself to smile and hoped it bore some semblance of normalcy as he looked at her. “Everybody goes to the Café du
Monde. I bet you had beignets there yesterday.”
She nodded. “If they hadn’t been busy—and I hadn’t been meeting Simon—I could have sat there all day and watched the people.”
“You’ll get to go there again,” he assured her. When this was all over and done with, he would compensate her for the inconvenience,
for all the lies and the fear, for all the things he was doing and all the emotions he would be putting her through, and he
was a generous man. Not that money
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