Samuel stepped inside, breaking the bottleneck.

Joan worked her way up next to Heather and froze.

Whoever had broken in wasn’t joking around. Closets were wide-open. Desk drawers were yanked off their tracks. And the doors of the entertainment center and kitchen cabinets were pulled halfway off their hinges, their contents spilled across the counters and the floor.

Samuel moved through the kitchen, glass crunching under his feet.

Joan swallowed as she silently followed behind.

If you looked past the destruction, it was obvious Samuel took pride in his surroundings. The living room walls and ceilings were painted a spotless cream, accented with exposed, redwood beams crisscrossing their length. She glimpsed a rich, gold-patterned carpet that covered a terra-cotta tile floor, and a redwood mantel finished off a stone fireplace.

The furniture was big and comfortable. Carved from white pine and covered in deep, muted plaid cushions, the sofa and chairs reflected Samuel’s stature.

Thankfully, the furniture at least seemed to be intact. And a giant portrait of Samuel’s parents still hung above the mantel. It wasn’t much of a consolation, but it was something.

“It looks mostly salvageable,” said Anthony, picking his way through the living room, surveying the layer of books, papers and kitchen utensils that covered the floor. He came to the bottom of the staircase and gazed up. After a minute, he put his hand on the rail and started to climb.

Heather hurried after him. “You see any broken panels up there?” she called. “Something on the wall that might…” Her voice trailed away as she disappeared down the upper hallway.

Standing next to Joan, Samuel drew in a huge breath. He glanced down at her. “I gotta tell you, my life was a whole lot simpler before you came along.”

“Sorry,” Joan whispered, her stomach cramping all over again. Disappointing people. There was no doubt she had a knack for it.

“I could hire someone to clean the mess up for you,” she offered. It was the least she could do, since this was pretty much all her fault.

He took a couple more steps into the room, shaking his head. “I have to go through everything myself anyway.”

Joan nodded in understanding. “You need to know if anything is missing.”

Samuel crouched down and flipped through a discarded photo album. “I doubt there’s anything missing.”

She glanced around at the destruction. “How could you know that?”

“I don’t remember the guy carrying anything.”

“Well, we know he didn’t find the money.” It had seemed like such a good plot twist at the time. Now she wished she’d used something else, anything else.

Samuel picked up a cracked picture frame, blew off the dust, and straightened to set it on an oak end table. “I have half a mind to hide some cash in the walls myself. Let them take it and put an end to all this.”

“A hundred thousand dollars?”

He turned his head and lifted his eyebrows.

“You have that kind of money?” she asked.

“I live a frugal life.”

He’d saved that much money on a carpenter’s salary? What was he doing working in Indigo, Louisiana? He should invest in the market, open his own business.

He reached down and picked up another leather-bound album. “Not that I want to blow it on some thief.”

“You know, Charlie Long says my stint on his show might reopen the investigation.” She wasn’t convinced Samuel’s father was innocent, but the possibility of looking at the case again might be a small consolation to Samuel.

“Might help me more if you told everybody there wasn’t any real money involved.”

“That’s true,” she said with a nod. It wasn’t a bad idea.

Samuel disentangled a lamp from the debris and straightened the shade. “I was joking. They’d never believe you. In fact, some people would take it as proof the money existed.”

“What makes you say that?”

“They’ll think you’re after it for yourself.”

“If I wanted it for myself, I would have stolen it before the book was published.”

“Maybe.” He paused. “Except that you didn’t expect people to ever find out you lived in Indigo.”

Wasn’t that the truth. She put a hand on his arm. “I really am sorry this turned out so bad for you.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Sure it is. I wrote the book.”

He cocked his head and gazed down at her. “You been beatin’ yourself up about this?”

She shrugged.

He cracked a smile. “Well, get over it, kid. Shit happens.”

Her eyes suddenly burned. With everything crashing down around their ears, Samuel had it in him to care about her feelings. He was an extraordinary man. She wished she’d taken the time to get to know him before this.

She sighed. “Sometimes I feel like everything I touch turns to crap.”

“You’re really not much like your sister, are you?”

Joan shook her head. No, she’d never been as capable as Heather.

“She got the confidence, and you got the guilt?”

“Maybe. But it’s only because everything she does turns out right.”

“That’s a laugh,” said Samuel.

“You should hear her play the violin.”

“It’s all an act.”

Joan rolled her eyes. “A person can’t fake playing the violin.”

“They can fake liking the violin.”

Joan shook her head. “I don’t think so.” Passion was what separated average musicians like Joan from great musicians like Heather.

“Heather fakes everything,” said Samuel.

Boy, did he have that wrong. “No, she doesn’t.”

“I think she hates her life.”

“Trust me, Samuel. Nobody hates a private jet, five-star hotel suites and first-run Broadway tickets.” Heather was vivacious, enthusiastic and happy doing pretty much anything. Joan was often envious.

Samuel’s smile turned speculative. “So, have you asked yourself why she’s still here? Instead of, say, taking in a Broadway play?”

“Because she wants to get me to Paris.”

“Why should she care if you go to Paris?”

Heather hadn’t made a secret of it. “Because I’m an embarrassment to the family.”

“You think?”

“What else is there to think?”

“No walls broken up here,” Heather called from the top of the stairs.

Samuel glanced up. “That she’s jealous.”

Joan blinked. “Of what?”

Samuel just smiled.

“It could still be a treasure hunter,” Anthony said as he trotted back down.

At the sight of Anthony, Joan’s stomach went tight.

He looked so relaxed, so at ease, so unconcerned that they were never going to see each other again.

“I’m going to announce there isn’t any money,” she said, striving for the same air of unconcern. “On Charlie Long. I’ll tell the whole world what’s true and what’s fiction.”

“I told her it wouldn’t work,” said Samuel.

“You’ll only fuel more speculation.” Anthony sounded certain.

“I have to do something.” She’d leave for Paris today if she thought it would help. She’d recall every copy of the book if she could. But it wasn’t fair to just sit here and let Samuel’s life spiral out of control.

“We could torch the house,” Anthony suggested.

“No!” Heather jumped forward. “This is a heritage house. Look at the moldings. Look at the scrollwork-”

“I was joking,” said Anthony.

Heather scowled. “It wasn’t funny.”

“We could do a stakeout,” said Samuel. “Lie in wait and catch them when they come back.”

Heather stared at him. “What makes you think they’re coming back?”

Samuel gave her a cocky grin. “To get the money.”

“I’m in,” said Heather with a rapid nod.

Joan sighed. “I have to go to L.A.”

“That’s important, too,” said Anthony.

“Right,” she said. While Heather helped Samuel fix her sister’s screw-up, Joan herself would be sitting in a green room somewhere, contributing to the effort by sipping champagne.


JOAN BATEMAN was destined for greatness.

Anthony could see it. Charlie Long could see it. Even the script girl could see it.

The other two guests scheduled for Friday’s show got bumped, and Charlie finished the complete hour with Joan. Anthony had never admired her more. And he’d never felt like a bigger fool. He’d blown the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

Charlie thanked and congratulated her. What’s more, he took that extra five minutes to chat with her and introduce her around. She was on her way to the top, all right.

Anthony realized he had to find her a new agent before he went back to New York. Off the top of his head, there was Calvin Brick. Of course, he was more of a publicity hound than Anthony. Or Tristan Tremayne. But Tristan was known to sleep with his clients. No way was Anthony pushing Joan toward him when she might be feeling vulnerable.

Adrianna Carmichael had handled plenty of bestsellers, but she had burned some editorial bridges, too. That wouldn’t be in Joan’s best interest. Scratch her off the list.

His cell phone vibrated in his breast pocket.

While Charlie introduced Joan to the producer, Anthony flipped it open, plugging the opposite ear. “Yeah?”

“Remind me to move you to a corner office,” boomed Stephen.

“She was good,” said Anthony, watching Joan laugh and exchange small talk. The network headed straight into the six o’clock news, and Anthony had to believe a huge audience would have caught the last few minutes of her interview.

“She was money in the bank,” said Stephen.

The studio audience was still on its feet, craning their necks for a look at her, even though security was trying to usher them into the aisles and out the doors.

“I’ll tell her you said so.”

“Tell her we’re scheduling a book tour.”

“I don’t think so.” Anthony would never be scheduling anything for her ever again. But he wasn’t sharing that bit of information with Stephen until it was absolutely necessary.

“You got her on the show,” Stephen reminded him.

“And it wasn’t easy,” Anthony pointed out. In fact, it had come at a very big price.

Joan disengaged herself from the crowd. For a woman who hated publicity, her eyes were shining under the stage lights. But then her gaze caught Anthony’s, and the glow disappeared. Her smile faded as she started toward him.

Something slammed into his guts. “Gotta go.”

“Wait-”

He shut the phone. “You were very good,” he said when she got within earshot. She was behind the curtain now, and the sound of the crowd died down.

She tucked her highlighted hair behind one ear. “Charlie seemed pleased.”

“Did he invite you back?”

Her eyes narrowed.

Anthony held up his hands. “Just making conversation.”

“No.” She headed for the hallway to the green room. “He didn’t ask me back.”

Anthony sighed and tucked his phone back into his pocket.

She walked gracefully in front of him down the wide hallway, her head high, her shoulders square, and her perfect backside swaying ever so slightly beneath a tight pin-striped skirt and a cropped blazer.

He didn’t often see her in high heels, and the sight of her long legs made his pulse pound. It gave him a flashback to their interrupted lovemaking, forcing him to set his jaw and shake off a rush of the inappropriate hormones.

He did a quick step to catch up. “Hungry?” he asked over her shoulder.

She shrugged.

“We have to eat,” he persisted, wanting to keep their lines of communication open a little longer, at least until he could get her set up with someone else. “There’s a nice seafood place over on Sunset.”

And, if he recalled correctly, the restaurant had a great deck overlooking the ocean, and the service was ridiculously slow. They’d have a chance to talk.

“I was thinking I’d head for the airport,” she said.

“Our flight’s not until tomorrow.”

They emerged into the opulent green room, and Joan headed straight for the attendant behind a small desk near the entry. “Could you please call me a taxi?”

The uniformed woman smiled and picked up the telephone. “No need, ma’am. One of our drivers can help you.”

“Thank you,” said Joan.

“You’re going to spend the night at the airport?” The network had given them a huge, three-bedroom hotel suite.

She moved away from the desk, and he followed.

“I’m sure I can find a flight.”

“The red-eye?”

“Whatever.”

“Joan?” He touched her arm, but she shook him off. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, jockeying around to try to look her in the eye. Surely she didn’t want to say goodbye in a studio green room.

She kept her back to him.

“Joan?” he repeated, glancing up at the attendant to make sure they weren’t being overheard.

She finally turned, and her eyes looked haunted. “Can’t you just let it die?”