Passion

by Marilyn Pappano

Genres: Gothic

Synopsis

When a reclusive novelist announces an unprecedented book tour, his agent, Teryl, is thrilled to finally meet the man behind the books.

Release date: October 31, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 406

Sample

His arm throbbing from the stitches the doctor had put in, John Smith stood in front of his house—or what was left of it—and
watched the sheriff and his two deputies walk in a slow circle around it. The fire was out, except for occasional hot spots
that still flared, but the heat remained, radiating from the rubble and the ash. It would be tomorrow, the sheriff had decreed,
before the debris would be cool enough to allow his men to conduct an investigation, but no doubt, some sort of incendiary
device had been used.


No doubt, John drily agreed. Explosions didn’t just create themselves out of nothing, and there was the gasoline smell that permeated everything. He’d never kept gasoline around the house. He had no gas-powered generator,
no yard to require a lawn mower or weed whacker. The only gasoline legitimately on the grounds was inside his truck’s fuel
tank. No doubt someone had brought his own supply and had used it to destroy his home.


Leaning back against the truck, he shifted his gaze from the three men to the house. Shattered glass covered the ground, and
oily lumps—part of the roof—still smoldered, sending a thin smoke into the air. The only thing that remained relatively intact
was the foundation, and even that was split by great cracks. Virtually everything he owned
had been destroyed by the explosions or consumed by the ensuing flames. The three bombs had done their job well.


Bombs.

Jesus, someone had blown up his house. Having lived through the blasts and staring now at the evidence in front of him, he
still found it impossible to believe. Not many people in the county even knew there was a house up here—the sheriff hadn’t
known; his deputies hadn’t—and the few who did know were the closest thing to neighbors that he had. What reason could one
of them have for destroying his house?


Maybe it had simply been malicious mischief—nothing personal against him, just circumstance, location, and chance. But almost
immediately he discounted the possibility. He could accept a break-in at an isolated house if the intention was robbery. Terrorizing
whoever lived there was also possible. But building bombs? Going to the trouble to gather whatever materials were necessary
and carting them up into the middle of nowhere? It seemed like a lot of work when a five-gallon can of gasoline and a match
would give much the same satisfaction to a pyromaniac.


Maybe the motive had been more sinister. More personal. Maybe someone had wanted to destroy the very things John had come
back from Denver for: the evidence of his dual identity. The proof of his career. The paperwork that legally documented who
and what he was.


Maybe someone had wanted to be certain that they destroyed him.

Muttering a curse, he remembered the headline he’d read this morning in the hotel. Reclusive author comes out of hiding. Each newspaper had had its own version of the publishing world’s big news. It was those stories that had sent him straight
back home, those stories that had him packing his bags for a trip down South only seconds before the first explosion.


But the stories were a mistake or maybe part of a publicist’s game plan to sell more books. They couldn’t be connected to
this. No one in his publisher’s or his agent’s office
knew where he lived; the only address they’d ever had for him was the post office box ninety miles away in Denver. The post
office box to which, he’d discovered yesterday, they weren’t sending mail anymore.


Simon Tremont to step out of the shadows.

What if the stories weren’t a mistake or publicity hype? What if…

The idea forming in his mind was ludicrous, so ludicrous that he refused for a moment to bring the words and thoughts together
in a coherent body. But they kept gathering, kept echoing, until finally he was forced to face them. What if it wasn’t a mistake?
What if Candace Baker, his editor at Morgan-Wilkes, truly did have the latest Simon Tremont manuscript sitting on her desk?
What if Simon Tremont really was coming out of hiding?


It was impossible. Simon Tremont couldn’t come out of hiding for the simple reason that Simon Tremont didn’t exist. It was
merely the name John had chosen to hide behind, a name he’d made up, much the same way he’d made up names for his characters.
There was no Tremont, no new manuscript.


But Candace had said on the phone that there was a book. She’d said Resurrection was the best book Tremont had ever written.


Only he hadn’t written it.

Thrills and chills in New Orleans: Simon Tremont speaks.


In spite of the heat from the still-smoldering house, he felt a few chills of his own as he remembered the headline. What
he was thinking was so crazy, so implausible, so extraordinary, that even he, who had earned a living the last eleven years
making the implausible seem quite plausible… even he couldn’t begin to believe this tale.


But the facts were inescapable. Someone had blown up his house. Someone had written his book. Someone answering to the name
of Simon Tremont was scheduled to give an interview in New Orleans next week.


The conclusions, however outrageous, were also inescapable. Someone had taken his name. Someone bright,
cunning, and devious, someone talented, tormented, and dangerous as hell, had… Jesus, he was crazy to even think it, but he
had to.


Someone had stolen his life.



Teryl Weaver was disappointed.


She knew it was silly. Just because Simon Tremont had been her favorite author since his very first book had come out was
no reason to expect so much from him. And, really, exactly what was it that she had thought he would be?


He was everything that befitted the master of the psychological thriller—dark, brooding, extremely bright, extremely driven.
There was an air of mystery about him, a feeling of unpredictability, a sense that this was no common man. He was handsome
enough to fuel more than a few female fantasies, with streaky blondish brown hair and a brown gaze so direct that it could
bore a hole through steel, and yet he seemed the sort of man other men could relate to. Whether the matter at hand was politics,
business, women, or sports, he looked as if he could hold his own.


She couldn’t even put her finger on what it was about him that bothered her—the lack of connection, maybe. After years of
admiring and idolizing his work, she had expected to admire and idolize the man. She had come to New Orleans to meet him assuming
that she already knew him, and she had been wrong. She didn’t know Simon Tremont at all, and what she had learned about him in this morning’s meeting,
she hadn’t anticipated.


With a sigh, she glanced at her watch. The interview they
had come here for was set to begin in an hour. Simon and Sheila Callan, the New York publicist who was coaching him and smoothing
his way, had left for the studio nearly an hour ago in a long, white limo. Teryl could come along whenever she was ready,
Sheila had informed her, or she could skip the interview entirely and go sight-seeing. Her implication had been clear: Teryl’s
presence wasn’t necessary, even if Simon had requested it.


Bless his heart for that request, she thought as she rummaged through her suitcase. She had long wanted to visit New Orleans,
and the first Tremont book set in the city years ago had served to sweeten that desire. Still, no one had been more surprised
than she when he had suggested that she make this trip. After all, she was just his agent’s assistant; until his arrival this
morning, their contact had been infrequent and limited to a few phone conversations. But, whatever his reasons, suggest it
he had, and because he was the sort of client every agent dreamed of representing—because he was the client who had single-handedly
made the Robertson Literary Agency such a success—Rebecca Robertson had given in.


In the depths of her suitcase, Teryl found a belt, held it to her waist, and checked in the mirror, then tossed it aside.
She should have unpacked when she’d arrived last night, should have set everything out in a neat, orderly fashion, but of
course, she hadn’t. She’d taken two minutes to hang up her clothes so the worst of the wrinkles would fall out and then she’d
been out the door for a quick tour. Her forty-eight hours in New Orleans were too precious to waste with such things as neatness
and order.


The belt she was seeking was in the corner of the suitcase, wrapped around a small vinyl cosmetics case. The case and its
contents—a gag gift from her best friend—made her pause in spite of her rush, and they brought her a smile. It was a New Orleans
survival kit, D.J. had told her. There was a small plastic case of aspirin for the headaches that came from drinking too much.
A pack of Band-Aids for sore feet from walking too much. A sewing kit for letting out the seams in her clothes after eating
too much. And, tucked in
the corner, tied together with a lavender ribbon, four plastic-encased condoms. For getting lucky, D.J. had said with a wicked
grin.


Getting Rebecca to pick up the tab for this trip was the luckiest she’d gotten in a long time, Teryl thought, her smile fading
as she threaded the belt around her waist. The last time she’d gotten lucky with a man was ancient history.


She gave her hair one last brush, slipped into her most comfortable dressy shoes, grabbed her bag, and left. Maybe she wasn’t
needed at the interview, but she wasn’t going to pass it up. She’d never been in a TV studio before. Besides, she wanted to
see how Simon did. She wanted to wish him luck, wanted to let him know there was a familiar face in the room. And, after all,
she was here officially as Rebecca’s representative, even if the only thing Rebecca had asked of her was to not get in the way.


Outside the hotel the bellman whistled for a cab, and less than ten minutes later she was making her way around the crowded
backstage area, looking for Sheila or Simon and not even trying to hide her wide-eyed curiosity or to act as if she belonged
there. Security was so tight that the only people who could get in were those with a legitimate right to be there, so no one
paid her any mind.


The show was called “New Orleans Afternoon”—catchy name, she thought drily. It came on at four o’clock, when most of the city’s
residents were still at work or fighting traffic trying to get home. They had debated—the publisher, the agency, and the PR
firm—making Simon’s debut on something bigger, something national, but Sheila had succeeded in choosing New Orleans. Start
small, she had recommended. Get him used to the cameras, give him some experience, and then move up.


Besides, she had pointed out, five of Simon’s best and most popular books had been set in New Orleans. They shared a common
theme, recurring characters, and legions of fans who still clamored for a sixth book in the series. The readers had formed
so strong an association between him and the city that any mention of New Orleans and authors always brought Simon Tremont’s
name in response. For this first
time out, he would likely be too nervous to make an effort at being witty, impressive, or even particularly interesting, but
for a man who had written about their city with such authority, such familiarity and grace, the locals would overlook his
flaws.


The hostess was a former beauty queen and a stereotypical Southern belle, pretty, airy, and about as bright as a ten-watt
bulb. A Twinkie, Sheila called her. But that was all right. She wouldn’t ask any hard questions—she probably wouldn’t be able
to think of any, Teryl thought uncharitably. Even if Simon totally flubbed the interview, he would come off looking good in
comparison to Miss Magnolia Blossom.


Then, once this debut was out of the way, they would hit the big time. Sheila and Rebecca were sorting through offers, making
deals, negotiating. After the press release last week that Tremont was coming out from behind his well-woven cloak of mystery,
they had been flooded with requests from the likes of Oprah, “Today,” and Larry King.


Of course, while Simon made the rounds of New York, Chicago, and L.A., she would be back at work in Richmond. But that was
all right. She’d met her idol in the city his books had made come alive for her.


Spotting Simon in a distant corner, she started his way. The great man—that was what Rebecca called him—was standing alone,
his thoughts someplace far from a New Orleans television studio. Fearing the worst from a recluse, Sheila had scheduled time
this morning for an inspection and, if necessary, a shopping trip, but Simon had arrived with a wardrobe that was decent by
anyone’s standards, although maybe a tad casual. But what did it matter if he looked as if he were dressed for a lazy anonymous
afternoon with friends instead of a television interview? So what if his shirt was a little loud, if his trousers were a shade
away from matching the shirt, or if his shoes were run down, broken in, and worn without socks? After all, writers were supposed
to be eccentric, right? And writers who had hidden themselves away in the Colorado Rockies for the last ten years were entitled
to be excessively so. Besides, his fans didn’t care how he looked or dressed.



Hell, when you could write like Simon Tremont, when you could breathe such power into the written word, when you could bring
unrelenting terror to millions of people the world over and keep them coming back for more, you could be flat-out nuts, and
no one would care.


“Can I get you anything, Simon?”

He glanced up, his gaze connecting with hers with enough force to make her take an involuntary step back. “No, thanks. I’m
just relaxing.”


“Nervous?”

“A little. This is my first interview.” Raising one hand, he carelessly combed his hair back. “But it’ll be fine.”

She’d been about to say the same thing, but it sounded different coming from him. His confidence—arrogance, a sly voice whispered
in her head—along with the look he was giving her sent a little shiver of uneasiness down her spine. Maybe that was part of
her problem with him, she thought—those intense, measuring looks that made her feel much too exposed, like an insect mounted
on a presentation slide.


But just as she’d reached that decision, he backed off, even though physically he didn’t move at all. It just seemed that
suddenly there was more breathing space between them. “Thank you for agreeing to fly down here for this.”


A moment ago she would have had to force her smile. Now it came naturally. “Believe me, coming to New Orleans was no hardship.
I’ve always wanted to spend some time here.” His books had created the desire, had led her to other books and to movies—mercy,
yes, movies—about the city. After seeing The Big Easy, she’d had fantasies of traveling to New Orleans and finding a Remy McSwain all her very own—minus the corruption, of course,
but complete with the sexy body, the adorable grin, the charming Cajun accent, and—ooh la la—the passion.


She needed some passion in her life.

“Mr. Tremont?” With Sheila at his side, the producer gave Teryl a nod before turning his attention to Simon. “We’ll be ready
to start soon. If you’ll come with me…”


After they walked away, Teryl wandered off, watching the activity, wondering if the people who worked here found
their jobs as interesting and exotic as she did. Probably not. She had friends at home who thought working in the publishing
business, even as far out on the fringes as she was, must be glamorous and exciting. Truth was, it was a regular job. Nothing
more, nothing less.


The set for the show was on the spare side. There were two big overstuffed chairs that looked wonderfully comfortable for
curling up in front of the TV, both upholstered in some nubby black fabric, and a couple of low tables with a matte black
finish. The wall behind and the carpet were gray, perfectly neutral and plain. The only real color came from the floral arrangement
on the black table in the back—tall, rather sparse, blood red.


“So he’s the one.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a man standing in the shadows, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on Tremont. He
wasn’t aware of her, and he didn’t seem to notice that he’d spoken out loud. He didn’t look like one of the crew, but security
had let him in, so obviously he belonged.


“Are you a fan?” she asked, moving a few steps closer to the man.

At first he seemed startled that he wasn’t alone, but it quickly faded. He glanced at her, looked at Tremont again, then back
at her. “I’ve read everything he’s ever written.”


His tone was dry, and he hadn’t answered her question—meaning he wasn’t a fan? she wondered. “You know, he’s probably one
of the most talented authors writing in this country today,” she remarked.


That earned her a smile every bit as dry as his last words. “So I’ve heard. Are you his publicist? Cheerleader? Or just a
fan yourself?”


She laughed. “I work for Rebecca Robertson, his agent. She let me tag along on this trip on the condition that I stay out
of everyone’s way, not cause any trouble, and not act like a starstruck fan.”


“Are you?”

“Starstruck?” She considered her reaction to Simon—her uneasiness, the intensity of her discomfort beneath that unnerving
stare of his, her disappointment—and answered in
the affirmative anyway. “Absolutely. I’ve read all his books numerous times.” Finding out that Simon was one of Rebecca’s
clients had been the highlight of her employment at the Robertson Literary Agency. Actually meeting him was supposed to have
been the highlight of her life. Considering how dull and normal her life was, she acknowledged wryly, even with the disappointment,
it still might be.


“Tremont… I always figured that was a pseudonym. Is it?”

Teryl shifted her gaze to the set, where Simon, Sheila, and the producer were now talking to the beauty queen. Of course it
was a pseudonym, but few people realized it. Most of his readers assumed there really was a man named Simon Tremont tucked away
somewhere, turning out best-seller after best-seller. An enterprising soul could find out the name behind the pen name, but
Simon’s real name was so common as to be a joke. Every state had dozens, hundreds, of men by that name, and the biography
that appeared in his books offered no help. Simon Tremont lives in the western United States.

When he had first approached Rebecca weeks ago about doing publicity for Resurrection, it had been agreed that his name would remain their closely guarded secret. For a time, until the novelty wore off, he would
be in great demand. The only way he could hold on to any sort of peace—other than scurrying back to his Colorado mountain
retreat—would be with his real name. Simon Tremont would be famous.


John Smith wouldn’t.

That decided, they had gotten into the habit of calling him by his pen name. They didn’t want to risk letting his real name
accidentally slip sometime. She had gotten so used to it that lately she’d begun thinking of him as actually being Simon Tremont.


“Tremont is the only name I know for him,” she lied, turning back to the man. “Speaking of names, mine’s Teryl Weaver.” She
extended her hand, and, after a moment, he shook it.


“I’m John.”

What a coincidence, she thought wryly—although John
probably was the single most common man’s name in the country. “You don’t sound like a native—what is it they call people who live in
New Orleans?”


“Lucky,” came his response.

“Don’t I know it. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, and I’ve got to leave in another thirty or so. I’ve been thinking
about not sleeping tonight so I can use those extra hours for sight-seeing.”


He gave her a long look, but didn’t respond. It was just as well, because the interview was about to start. The shadowy studio
grew even darker, and the lights coned in on the blonde. On cue she smiled a practiced smile and said, “Welcome to ‘New Orleans
Afternoon.’ I’m Tiffany Marshall.”


Another smile, a shift to a second camera. “Today we have a very special guest for you. He’s been called the master of the
psychological thriller. He’s one of the top-selling authors in the country. He’s written twelve international best-sellers,
and lucky thirteen, due in the stores in August, is rumored to be his best work ever. You all know his books and the movies
made from them, but until today no one has known the man. Please join me this afternoon in welcoming him for his first interview
ever. Ladies and gentlemen, Simon Tremont.”


All in all, Magnolia Blos—Tiffany Marshall was pretty good, Teryl decided. She gave the impression that she might actually
have even read one of Simon’s books, an impression that was no doubt courtesy of the producer, a great fan of Tremont’s, who,
like John beside her, had read everything Tremont had ever written.


Listening to the interview with half a mind, she turned her head just enough so she could see John. He wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous,
but he was better looking than anyone she’d seen lately, including Simon. His hair was sandy blond, his eyes blue, his expression
intense. This was a man under a great deal of stress—like everyone she knew in business today. There was always a deadline
to beat, a meeting to run, an account to land, a promotion to fight for. She wondered if he ever relaxed. She wondered if
he ever smiled. He had the sort of mouth that was made for smiling.



She wondered if he was married.


In the dim light, with his left hand in the shadows, it was impossible to see whether he wore a ring, which, of course, meant
nothing. She knew enough men whose wedding rings went into the pocket once they’d left the house—she’d known one entirely
too well—and plenty of others who didn’t care enough to try to hide it.


On the set the hostess was smiling prettily at the camera and asking in an obsequious voice, “Why all the secrecy, Simon?”

He shifted in his chair, just getting more comfortable, but the movement made him look edgy. “The books I write are for everyone,”
he replied. “They appeal to all ages, all classes, all types. To pull that off, I have to remain in touch with everyday life,
with the average American experience. That’s far easier when no one knows who I am. Americans tend to make celebrities out
of their authors. For instance, it was announced less than a week ago that I would be doing interviews, and now everyone is
interested in seeing me on television. Ten days ago no one cared. Now Barbara Walters is asking to do an entire show about
me.” He looked mildly amazed, but Teryl knew from this morning’s meeting that he thought the honor no less than he deserved.
His acting skills, it seemed, were almost on a par with his writing skills. “I’m on the network news. And that will surely
change the way I see the world, the way I see life. It will surely have to change the way I write.”


Teryl shook her head. She recognized the major part of his spiel from an early Tremont novel, the one about the world-famous
actor who had lived and worked shrouded in secrecy, who had made a fortune playing anonymous roles behind masks or heavy makeup.
Still, there was a certain truth to it. His life was going to change. Exactly how depended on him. How much adulation could he embrace? How much worship could he accept without
letting it go to his head? Just how much could his ego grow before it became unbearable?


And how would it affect his writing? His books were successful, in part, because he put ordinary people in ordinary situations,
then let extraordinary things happen to them.
After all the interviews, all the adoration, all the praise, would he still be able to relate to those ordinary people? Or
would he lose touch with them, lose touch with the strength that had brought him such fame?


She waited for the obvious question: If coming out will change the way you write, then why are you doing it? Why are you tampering with what’s proven enormously
successful for eleven years? She assumed she knew the answer already—the man had an enormous ego; he had enjoyed the fortune for eleven years, and now
he wanted to bask in the fame—but she would be interested in hearing his answer anyway.


But Tiffany merely continued the interview, harmless questions, harmless answers. It didn’t get any better than that one reply,
which he’d written years ago and had come close to memorizing word for word. The rest of the questions were simple or silly,
his answers stilted and uninspired.


But he would get better. Sheila would work with him, and as he got more comfortable with the interview process, as he graduated
to more accomplished interviewers, he would get better.


When it was over, she turned to John. She wasn’t sure exactly why—to ask his opinion, to try once again to see if he wore
a wedding ring, or just to get another look at him—but he was gone. Somehow, while her attention had been on Tremont, the
best-looking guy she’d seen in a long while had slipped away without her even noticing.


That was the kind of luck she had, she thought with a wistful sigh. And D.J. thought two nights in New Orleans and her wicked
little survival kit could change all that. Her friend was too optimistic by a mile.


Turning back, she saw Simon approaching her. He didn’t look nervous, as she would have, or glad to have the ordeal over with.
Instead, there was a hint of annoyance deep in his expression that made her wish, for one uncharitable moment, that she had
disappeared along with John.


“What did you think?”

She smiled a bit. “It was fine. You were fine.”

“It should have been better.”


She was about to reassure him—Simon, it was your first interview; you’ll learn—when he continued.


“I was all in favor of doing the interview here because of the connection with the New Orleans books, but I should have insisted
on a more capable interviewer. They can’t expect brilliance when I have to work with talent like that.”


Teryl’s smile froze in place. His arrogance was another part of her disappointment in him, part of the unpleasant surprise
of the man as opposed to the ideal she had admired so long. In reading and rereading his novels, she had never suspected an
arrogant Simon Tremont. She had known that he had to be aware of the tremendous talent he possessed, but she had never sensed
this.


“Oh, well…” He brushed it off with an impatient gesture. “What do you have planned for the rest of the evening?”

“I thought I’d go sight-seeing—head down to the French Quarter.”

“Sounds like fun. How about if I join you—”

Rescue came in the form of Sheila Callan. “Not so fast, Simon.” Holding a videotape in one hand, she slipped her free arm
through his. “A tape of the show. We can use it to prepare for the next interview. We want you to be perfect next time out.”
The woman spared only the briefest of dismissive glances for Teryl. “We won’t need you tonight, Teryl. Enjoy playing tourist.”


She was about to make her escape when Simon stopped her. He didn’t touch her, but merely raised his hand as if he were going
to. It was enough to keep her in place against the wall. “Will I see you tomorrow?”


Another forced smile. “Of course.” She was taking an evening flight home, while both Simon and Sheila