She was standing there on the steps, her smile tentative, a streak of dust on her forehead. He was tempted to reach down and wipe it away with his fingers but he resisted the impulse. Instead, he stepped aside to let her in.
He saw a flash of uncertainty cross her face then she swallowed. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, her voice low, “but there was something I wanted to show you. To get your opinion.”
He felt a stab of guilt and almost winced. It was because of him that she looked so hesitant. The poor girl probably didn’t know where she stood with him. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile and tilted his head toward the extra chair.
“Rest for a minute,” he said gently. “You must be tired.”
She raised her eyebrows and looked liked she was going to decline but then her face relaxed and the tension left her shoulders. “Okay,” she said, her voice sounding more like the Sam he knew. “I could take a break right now.”
She climbed the two steps and entered the studio, her eyes darting around the room. She was obviously filled with curiosity and for a moment she did not speak. Then she said, “You love books.” It was not a question but a simple statement of fact. She’d stared at the walls lined with books and had immediately made a very accurate assessment.
“They’re my life,” he said simply and went back to his desk where he sat down and looked up at her.
She took that as her cue to finally sit and she looked at the notepad and laptop on his desk. “Are you working on a paper?” she asked, looking interested. “Doing research?” Then she held up her hand. “No, let me guess. You’re a professor.”
He laughed. “No, no and no. I’m a writer.”
Her eyes widened and the admiration was plain on her face. “A writer,” she said, her voice breathless. "I’ve always admired people who could create imaginary worlds on paper. Wow…”
As her voice trailed off, her eyes still trained on him, Jake shifted in his seat. He hated being in the limelight and that was why he’d never made public appearances. He didn’t have a single photo on his website. And now, even though it was just Sam, he could feel the prickling in his scalp that told him he was getting just a little bit too much attention. He cleared his throat but before he could speak she gasped and leaned forward, her eyes on the bookshelf just behind his head.
“McKoy,” she read aloud. “Killer Instinct.” Her eyes narrowed as she read the other titles. “Criminal Pursuit. Dead in December.” Her jaw dropped and her eyes flew back to his. “Jake, you’re not McKoy, are you? The world-famous suspense writer?”
He felt his face flush and he looked away. Blast it. Exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. Christ. Why hadn’t he remembered that he had those personal copies of his book on the shelf? If he’d remembered he probably wouldn’t have let her in.
“Jake,” she said, her voice insistent, “you’re not answering. That means you’re guilty. It really is you.” She gave a look of triumph that soon morphed into a look of awe. "I can’t believe it. I’m in the presence of one of the most successful authors on the planet. Do you know,” she whispered, “that you’re a billionaire?”
That caught him by surprise and despite his uneasiness, he burst out laughing. On top of all her wonderful traits Samantha Fox was a comedian. At the thought he laughed some more and soon she was laughing, too.
The tension broken, they both relaxed back into their chairs. Sam put up a hand to wipe her eye. “Seriously,” she said, “you are the ultimate suspense writer. I bet I’m the only one of your fans who’s actually seen what you look like.”
“You’re a fan?” he asked, still smiling.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ve got four of your books at home as we speak.”
“Thanks,” he said, feeling genuinely grateful. It was people like Sam who had made him the success he was.
She tilted her head to one side. “Your books simply state your author name as McKoy. A deliberate attempt to remain anonymous?”
His smile dissolved as his face turned serious. “Yes, and I want to keep it that way, Sam. I hope you understand.”
“But, of course,” she said quickly. She looked directly into his eyes and in her he saw an earnestness that banished any doubts he may have had. “I would never divulge your secret to anyone. I respect your right to privacy, Jake. You can trust me.”
And the strangest thing was, he knew he could. He’d known this woman for less than a month and yet he felt he could trust her with his greatest secret. A shock ran through him as another thought entered his mind. He actually felt he could trust Sam with his life.
“Jake,” Sam said, her voice gentle, “may I ask you a question?’
“Go ahead,” he said with a shrug.
“Don’t take this the wrong way but for a man who’s so wealthy, why would you want to live in a place like this?” She gave him a shy look, as if embarrassed by her own question.
“ When you say 'a place like this’ are you talking about the town,” he gave her a look of mischief, “or the house?”
“The house, of course,” she said with a laugh. “Or maybe both. This is sort of a sleepy town. Why’d you choose this one?”
“Well, you know me,” he said and cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Yes,” she said with a chuckle, “I do. The ultimate mystery man, staying out of sight. But you know you could have found nicer homes here, right?”
“I know,” he said, his voice casual, “but I didn’t buy this place for the house. I bought it for the bubbling stream, the beautiful bridge and this little haven at the bottom of the garden.”
She gave him a soft smile as she looked at him with eyes that seemed to twinkle in the subdued light of the studio. “That almost sounds poetic."
“Well, I am a writer.” His laughter echoed in the room. He got up from around the desk and stretched out a hand to her. “Come on. I’m sure you’re starving. I’ll make you some lunch.” When she rose he stepped back, leaving just enough space not to crowd her. “And then I can see whatever it was you wanted to show me.”