* * * *
Frustrated, Greg shook his head. He needed his agent’s support for this to work, but Ken had been more and more argumentative since the accident.
“That’s what I said, Ken. Don’t plan any more personal appearances for a while. Sheena needs me more than my adoring public. I’ll stay at Haven until spring. If you want autographed copies send the books to me, and I’ll sign them there.”
“But, what about the movie? Graven Image is halfway through production. They need you in Nevada.”
“No, they don’t—not really. I’ve finished the screen play, and delivered it when I was there last week. I’m as anxious as you are to see the final product. Look, the director and producer have my email address. There isn’t anything we can’t do online these days.”
“If you say so, but…”
“I’m going to use the time to work on a new book—you’re going to love it. That should make you happy.”
Greg listened to his agent’s forced laughter come over the speaker phone.
“Okay, don’t get your knickers in a knot, old boy. I understand this is a trying time for you. Do what you have to, but remember all publicity is good. Sales are up again. Family comes first, of course, but keep in touch. How is Sheena?”
“She’s recovering nicely.”
“Do the police have any leads on who might have planted the bomb? I still think Nadia was the target. It’s hard to believe someone’s after you.”
“Well, believe it. Progress on the case is slow since the authorities were looking in the wrong direction, but things should move more quickly now.”
He hated lying to Ken, but that man’s office was like a sieve. If he wanted the world to know what was going on, that was the place to tell it. Within the hour, it would be leaked to the media in an effort to squeeze another buck out of representing him. Could someone in Ken’s office be behind all this? Their annual bonuses were linked to the firm’s profits.
“Will Sheena be able to compete again?” Ken asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s of no consequence. I’ll not use my private life for gain. Anything to do with Sheena is off-limits.”
“I know, George, I know, but you can’t blame an agent for trying.” Ken referred to him by his pen name as he always did. “If this pans out, there are another half-dozen Thomas Ingram novels waiting for them. Think of the money. It would go a long way towards Sheena’s medical bills. By the way, is the new book a Thomas Ingram?”
“No, I’m trying something new.”
Ken was quiet for several moments before he spoke again.
“Be careful. You know it’s not always a good idea to venture out into new territory. Remember what happened to Jensen.”
“I’ll remember, but Jensen sold a million copies despite the controversy.”
“Yes, but Jensen almost lost it all on his next one when no one was willing to look at it. One bad book can condemn several good ones. Your fate isn’t the only one at stake.”
Greg sighed.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Take care of yourself. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my number one author.”
Greg hung up. Ken had been his agent from the beginning. Over the years, they’d become friends, but since the man’s divorce five years ago, Ken had changed. It was as if a light had gone out in him. He was still a good friend and a great agent, but money had become his god.
Lorna had been the love of his life. Ken had done everything he could to make her happy, but there was something strange about her, something that had set Greg’s teeth on edge from the moment he’d met her. She’d been high-strung, unstable. She needed lots of attention—he was certain some of it should have been medical—but he didn’t think she’d ever gotten it, and in some ways, she’d made Ken’s life a living hell. He wished Ken would find someone. A man needed a legacy.
He turned to the computer and checked his e-mail, but other than the usual messages, nothing popped out at him. He went onto his fan page and noted a private message sent last week. He had to remember to check this page more often. What he needed was a secretary—one like Tim’s Mavis—someone he could trust. He opened the message, hoping it wasn’t something important. He didn’t expect the studio would use this email address, but anything was possible.
Looking forward to LA. We have unfinished business, lover.
He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He looked at the name, and checked the IP address, but he didn’t recognize them, and the avatar was a cartoon redhead. Probably some crazy woman who’d come to the book signing. There’d been enough of them. What was it about him that seemed to attract neurotic fans? He remembered Ken’s comment last year. Did he really look like a romance novel cover hero?
Not anymore. He’d cut his hair, and grown a beard. He’d have to shave and wear a wig in New York, but after that signing, George Stanton would disappear for good, whether Ken liked it or not. Jack’s men had come in handy more than once in LA. He deleted the message.
He picked up the slip of paper with the information he’d requested about the high and mighty Livy from Jack’s secretary and looked at it. The name seemed familiar. Pulling up the browser, he typed in Olivia Cummings, and pressed search.
The page quickly filled, and his breath caught in his throat. He clicked on the first picture. It was from a six-year-old sports’ article. The headline read, US Olympic Ski Team Chosen. He opened the link and stared at the picture of the woman he’d seen minutes earlier in the elevator. This was Livy?
She was younger, but there was no mistaking those green eyes. She wore a skin-tight blue racing suit that hugged her curves. Her hair was half-hidden by the hood which would have covered her head on her ski run. She stood between a blonde who resembled her, and a young man who had his arm possessively around both women. Greg took an immediate dislike to the man. He read the caption under the image. Olympic hopefuls. From left to right: Tamara Cummings, Erik Franke, and Olivia Cummings.
He went down the page of images, looking at her in various poses—alone, with Erik, with Tamara, with other skiers, and stopped at one of her alone with a cast on her left arm. She looked distraught and wore black. She was coming out of a church, supported by a giant of a man with red hair who had to be her father. Again it was a newspaper article. Olympic Skiers Killed in Avalanche, Cummings Injured, Unable to Compete.
The red-haired vixen in the elevator, the one who would protect his daughter, the one who was about to become his wife, was none other than Olivia Cummings, two-time women’s world downhill champion. Who said God didn’t have a sense of humor? He’d been attracted to the fiery redhead. Now, he’d be married to her, the only woman who’d captured his attention in years, and he couldn’t touch her. The next few weeks were going to be murder. He sobered at the analogy. He certainly hoped not.
He began to read the article.