A Secret Life by Barbara Dunlop Page B

coffee but ignoring the fresh croissant on the plate in front of her.
    Joan shook her head. “I’m not calling Mom.”
    “It’s your book.”
    “You’re the spy. You report in to headquarters.”
    Anthony interrupted with a harsh sigh. “You are both grown women. Will you start acting like it?”
    Joan looked at him for the first time. “Excuse me?”
    He set down his coffee cup. “Call your parents, already.”
    “Like you would.”
    “Of course I would.”
    “With disastrous news.”
    “In my family, this wouldn’t be disastrous news.”
    “Oh, and they’d be so happy to have you publicly involved in a sordid murder inquest?”
    Anthony took his napkin from his lap and tossed it on the table. “They’d be happy to see me succeeding at something as tough and competitive as fiction writing.”
    Joan knew he was trying to manipulate her. “And their friends, their colleagues, their social contacts—”
    “Would be happy for me, too.”
    “Yeah, right.”
    “Honestly, Joan. I don’t know what kind of world you two grew up in.”
    Low blow. She glared at him.
    “But you people have some serious issues.”
    Luc Carter strode in through the doorway. “You guys better take a look at this,” he said, turning on a small television on the countertop.
    Anthony came to his feet as Samuel and Heather appeared on the screen. “Turn it up.”
    Heather groaned. “Look at my hair!”
    “It’s fine,” Joan lied, glancing sideways at her sister. Heather on television with bed head. What were the odds?
    “Shhh,” said Anthony.
    “I already told you what we said,” Heather put in.
    The shot of Samuel’s angry scowl faded from the screen, and the announcer reappeared, smoothly segueing into the next story.
    “You’ll probably want to call Mom now,” said Heather.
    Joan closed her eyes and struggled to come up with a spin, any spin that would make the situation sound better.
    Thing is, Mom, I’m a closet mystery writer. There’s a bondage scene in my latest novel. And the funniest part, it’s based on this murder-suicide…
    Okay. That sure wasn’t it.
    Anthony’s cell phone rang, but instead of answering it, he focused on Joan across the table. “You okay?”
    “I’m perfect.”
    His phone rang again, but he continued to hold her gaze.
    He was obviously worried about her. She’d seen that look a hundred times. But something had changed. After last night, there was a wall of hesitation between them.
    He didn’t seem to know how he should act.
    Well, she sure didn’t know how she should act, either.
    The phone rang a third time.
    “Excuse me,” he finally said with obvious reluctance. He turned and walked through the doorway to the public lounge, flipping open his phone. “Verdun here.”
    “Wow,” said Heather, as Luc shut off the television and followed Anthony out of the breakfast room. “Forget calling Mom.”
    Joan felt a small ray of hope. “You’ll do it?”
    Heather shook her head. “No. I want to talk about Anthony.”
    “What about Anthony?”
    “What’s going on between the two of you? I’ve got a nose for tension, and wow. ”
    “There’s no tension between us,” Joan lied, even as the tension buzzed its way through her limbs. Last night might have been a bigger mistake than she realized. Where did their relationship go now?
    Heather shook her head, moved forward and lowered her voice. “What on earth did I miss?”
    “Nothing,” said Joan, staring her sister straight in the eye.
    “You lie.”
    “I’m calling Mom.”
    “Okay, now I know it’s something big. Did you sleep with him? Huh?”
    “No, I didn’t sleep with him.” Joan headed for the phone in the corner of the breakfast room, but Heather followed on her heels.
    “Because yesterday you two were all chummy and touchy.”
    “We weren’t touchy.”
    “Oh, yes, you were.”
    “Well, a few things have changed since yesterday.” The interview, for one. The break-in, for another. The kiss…Joan