Passion by Marilyn Pappano Page A

if Tremont was a pseudonym, and she had lied. This morning he had asked where Tremont called home,
     and her only answer had been a nonanswer. She wasn’t going to answer this time, either, she decided. She wasn’t going to tell
     him anything he could use to support his delusions.
    But, if she was reading the grimly accepting expression on his face correctly, he didn’t really expect an answer. His words
     confirmed it. “Let me tell you what you know about him. He’s been with the Robertson Agency from the beginning. He signed
     with Rebecca while she was still in New York City, and with his first two books, she earned enoughto move the agency to her hometown of Richmond. She had never met Tremont, never even spoken to him—until recently, at least—and
     neither had anyone else, not even his editor at Morgan-Wilkes. All of their contact with him had been by mail.”
    So far, so good
, Teryl thought. But none of this information was private. Every devoted Tremont fan knew that much. It was all part of his
     mystique.
    “He lives—” John broke off with a pain-filled grimace, then started again. “He lived in Colorado in a place so remote that
     most people in the area never knew he was there, and he got his mail at one of those mailbox places in Denver. At least, he
     did until a few months ago.”
    The muscles in her jaw clenched and tightened. How many devoted Tremont fans knew he’d lived most of the last eleven years
     in Colorado? How many knew his mailing address had, indeed, been a Denver box? For that matter, how many people knew his real
     name was John Smith?
    But none of that would be impossible to uncover, she silently insisted. In this high-tech age, if you were resourceful enough—and
     fanatical enough—you could learn virtually anything about anyone. And if you were claiming to be that person you were interested
     in… Well, that was fanatical enough for her.
    “You want to know how much Tremont made last year? So much that he quit counting the zeroes on his checks. So much that if
     he quit the business today and never wrote another word as long as he lived, he still couldn’t spend all that money.”
    “You haven’t told me anything that isn’t common knowledge,” she said, her voice quiet and even, carefully pitched not to upset
     or anger him. “All of Tremont’s fans are well acquainted with the mystery surrounding him. As far as the money, he’s the best-selling
     author in the country. Of course he makes a fortune.”
    He looked at her for the first time since he’d released her, his troubled gaze settling heavily on her. “Are all of his fans
     also well acquainted with the fact that the Thibodeaux books are your all-time favorite Tremont books? While they’re allasking for Philip’s story, do they know that you’re more interested in Liane’s? That you even included a note with one of
     his contracts asking if he was going to write her story?”
    A chill settled deep in her stomach. Her friends who also read Simon’s books knew how much she loved the Thibodeaux series.
     They knew that, while she found Philip interesting, she was fascinated by the younger sister. But he wasn’t her friend, damn
     it, and not even they knew she had written that note. Hell,
no one
knew except her… and Simon… and this man.
How?
    “It wasn’t a contract,” she disagreed, hostility—and fear—sharpening her voice. “It was a royalty statement. How do you know
     about that?”
    “Because you sent it to me, damn it!”
    His shout, and all the rage behind it, made her flinch, shrinking back against the door until she could retreat no farther.
     “This is crazy,” she whispered. “How could you be Simon Tremont? I’ve
met
Simon. I’ve talked to him. I’ve sat across a table from him. I’ve
read
his work.”
    Lowering his head, he rubbed his eyes with both hands, then blew his breath out. When he looked at her again, the anger was
     gone, not just controlled but completely