Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

A manda Johnson massaged her lower back and stared into the glass case, wondering if she should have ordered something to go along with her pumpkin-flavored latte. She was more tired than hungry, but the scones looked delicious. After spending two hours squirming in a chair more suited to a torture chamber than a Manhattan hotel, Amanda figured she deserved a treat. One look at the line forming in the coffee shop, however, and she changed her mind.

The barista yawned, propping an elbow on the counter as she dispensed caramel into a tall cup. At this rate, Amanda would be lucky to get her drink before dinnertime.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to a woman she'd met at the conference earlier in the day. The woman held up a copy of Amanda's cookbook and smiled. "Thanks again."

Amanda's heart fluttered as it did whenever she saw her book, the raised letters of her pen name leaping from the cover. When she'd signed the book earlier, she'd tried to quell the giggle and look professional and detached, as if people asked her for her autograph every day. "Anytime."

Amanda watched the woman walk away. At least she wasn't the only one skipping the keynote address. She'd seen a group of writers in the lobby bar when she'd come down the escalator, but she had no desire to join them. She'd already attended the seminar on social media and blogging, which made sense. Amanda had been blogging for years, and her following had grown faster than she'd ever dared hope. Whether the blog fueled her cooking classes or the classes fueled the blog, who knew? She just knew they were both doing very well. And now with a cookbook in print, Amanda had somehow become known as an expert. A reporter from the Boston Herald had described her blog as, "Entertainment tips for the rest of us. . . Martha Stewart meets the Pioneer Woman."

Accolades aside, being a blogger didn't make her a writer, and frankly, neither did writing a cookbook. How many ways were there to say, "Add a cup of sugar and stir"? Being at this conference, surrounded by real writers, made her feel like barbecue sauce at a French bistro.

The barista finally started on her latte. Amanda massaged her back again, cursing her afternoon in the stiff chair, and willed the woman to move faster.

She'd gotten some good ideas in the seminar, like better ways to connect with her audience. The rest of the seminars looked to be about the craft of writing, and Amanda wasn't interested. She'd bled over the pages of her memoir, and she never wanted to write something like that again. Not that it had been hard to get those words on the page, not really. Reliving the past, dredging up the memories—that had been the hard part.

That, and dealing with Mark. After all her hard work, what did he say? That she shouldn't publish. He was afraid the subject of her memoir—and her nightmares—would discover what she'd done. Or so he said. More likely, he was afraid his mother would find out. The woman already hated her, so what difference would that make?

And she hadn't seen him in years. Dr. Gabriel Sheppard. She shuddered at the thought of him. Amanda would keep everything under wraps until the book was in print. And it would be in print, too. If no publisher showed interest, she'd self-publish and sell it on her blog. Then she'd let the name of her seducer slip, and he'd be ruined.

Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

When the barista finished Amanda’s latte, she snatched the cup and stepped into the hotel's towering lobby. She couldn't go back to her room, not while her roommate nursed a migraine. The downpour drenched the idea of a stroll around Central Park. The lobby would have to do.

The scent of rain followed soggy guests through the sliding glass doors. The clink of dishes and occasional laughter filtered across the expanse from the bar. The ding of elevators and murmur of travelers almost drowned out the soft music playing in the background.

She headed for a seating area about thirty feet from the front desk. The chairs were white, contemporary and boxlike, with sides as tall as the backs. Three were pushed together, arm-to-arm, and faced a wide, lightly-stained coffee table. She set her latte on the table and tugged a novel out of her bag, leaving the bag propped against the edge of the chair. Slipping off her shoes, she lifted her stocking-clad feet onto a chair and opened the book, settling into her hiding place.

She'd finished three chapters when a shadow fell across her novel. Her gaze traveled from a pair of trouser-clad knees, to a leather belt, to a suit jacket and tie, and finally to the face of the man she'd been hiding from for twelve years.

His lips stretched into a familiar smile. "I thought that was you."

Everything seemed to stop. Her heart. Her breathing. She scanned the lobby, searching for help. Rain still fell outside the double doors. Glasses still clinked in the lounge. Travelers still waited beside luggage in the check-in line. Nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

He'd found her.

She swung her feet to the floor and slipped them into her shoes as Gabriel Sheppard moved her latte and sat on the coffee table across from her. His knees spread and almost reached the arms of her chair. His shoulders hid her from passers-by, his head towered over her. He'd trapped her. Her hiding place had become a cage.

She blinked. "What . . . ? I mean . . . wow, it . . . It's been a long time."

"Twelve years, two months and"—he glanced toward the ceiling—"sixteen days, if I'm not mistaken."

"Right." Her voice shook. She cleared her throat. "You always were precise."

"The last time I saw you, we made plans to see each other during Christmas break. Then you disappeared."

Amanda turned the corner of the page down to keep her place and closed the book, mostly to give her a moment to collect her thoughts before she faced him again.

"And if I remember correctly," he said, "we'd planned to go away for a weekend that spring. I expected you to contact me. But you were gone."

He reached forward.

She startled and pushed back against the cushion behind her. His musky cologne assaulted her, flashing a hundred memories. Gabriel grabbed the lanyard hanging around her neck and studied it. "M.L. Johnson. That explains a lot."

His eyes captured hers. She swallowed and tried a smile. "That's my pen name."

Looking again at the name tag, he read the line beneath her name. "Cookbooks?"

"Yes."

"You're published?"

"One book."

He dropped the name tag and glanced at her naked left hand, no doubt seeing the tan line where her ring had been.

"Was Johnson a married name, Amanda? Are you divorced?"

She forced a laugh. "I'm married. Not divorced. I left the house late this morning," she lied, "and I forgot to put on my ring."

He nodded slowly. "I see."

With a sigh, he gazed at the ceiling. Whenever he was frustrated or angry with her, he looked up, as if for guidance. Funny, because she knew he searched no further than what he considered his own brilliant mind when he needed wisdom. Just his attempt to make her nervous. After all these years, she should be immune to his manipulations, but her hands trembled like crystal in an earthquake.

He'd aged in the twelve years since she'd seen him. His once dark brown hair was thinner and graying. The wrinkles were deeper around his eyes and mouth. His cheekbones were less pronounced, the skin on his cheeks sagging under the weight of the years. The suit looked familiar, though. Not that it was the same one. Gabriel would never wear a suit for more than a year or two. She pictured the labels she'd seen on his clothes so many times. Brooks Brothers had been his favorite.

He caught her staring .

"Have I changed that much?"

He could still read her mind. "No."

He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her face to the left and right.

His hand was hot, his grip, tight. She wanted to angle away, but some things hadn't changed in twelve years. She was a coward.

"I wasn't sure it was really you." He dropped his hand, grabbed the edge of the table beneath him, and leaned forward. "But I always knew fate would bring us back together someday."

"Fate? This isn't fate. This is . . . What are you doing here, anyway?"

He sat back, and she inhaled a mouthful of refreshing air.

"Research. I had a meeting with a professor at Columbia. But now that I see you, I know you're what really brought me."

Amanda let the comment pass—as well as its implications. "Research for what?"

"I'm working on a book myself. I doubt it'll be as interesting as your cookbook. I'm writing a textbook for psychiatry students."

"Oh." A psychiatry textbook, so he could influence the next generation. How . . . discomforting. He looked at her expectantly, so she added, "Interesting."

He smiled. It didn't disarm her like it used to. She saw him now as a chocolate-covered cockroach, a candy-coated scorpion.

"I don't see patients anymore. I gave up my practice a few years ago to teach college full-time."

"I see."

A quick, humorless chuckle. “What happened, Amanda?"

"I . . . I met someone else."

"So quickly? You loved me in August, and by December, you'd already replaced me?" His gaze flicked to her left hand. "Was it him?"

"No. Just . . ." Beads of sweat broke out on her upper lip. "I just . . . I decided after I got away from you . . ."

His right eyebrow rose in an accusing question mark.

"Not that I had to get away from you. I just mean that once we were apart, and I had some perspective, I realized . . . I couldn't do it."

"You couldn't do what?"

The truth wasn't an option. Amanda swallowed her fear. "I couldn't break up your marriage. You had kids to worry about, and?—"

"So you disappeared? To protect my kids?"

Now it was her turn to eye his ring finger. The diamond and gold band glittered, just like it always had. "It worked. You're still married."

"No phone call. No letter. Nothing. You just . . ." He snapped his fingers. "Disappeared. Did you pick your husband because of his last name? Easy to hide behind a name like Johnson."

A flash of anger. "Right. Because everything I do is about you. How incredibly arrogant?—"

He leaned forward and grabbed the arms of her chair in his huge hands. His face loomed inches from hers. "We were engaged."

Her answer was just as cold. "You were already married. And I was . . ." A kid. That's what she wanted to say. Eighteen when she'd left him, but only sixteen when the affair had started. What had he expected?

And why didn't she have the courage to say it aloud?

He sat back and folded his arms. She mirrored his posture, staring boldly into his blazing eyes, though her anger dissipated quickly, evaporating in the steam of simmering fear. She looked at his knees, at the crease in his charcoal slacks as they fell over his kneecaps .

He rested his forearms on his thighs, touching his fingertips together between his knees. She studied his manicured fingernails, the dark hair sweeping across the backs of his hands. She stared at the white edges of his shirtsleeves, folded like wings preparing for flight. His onyx cufflinks suspended between his wrists, staring at her like the peering eyes of a bird of prey.

"I'm sorry. I should have contacted you. I thought you might try to talk me out of it."

"I would have. Not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of you."

Unfortunately, she could say the same.

"So, you write cookbooks."

She looked up and blinked. "Um, yeah?—"

"You ever write anything else?"

"Nothing special." She pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her trembling hand barely cooperating.

One eyebrow rose. "Really?"

She remembered the paperback gripped in her fist. She fanned the corner of it and swallowed. The last thing she wanted was Gabriel lurking on her blog. It was probably too late, now that he knew her pen name, but she wasn't about to direct him to it. "I've written a few articles here and there."

"You write any other books?"

"Nope. Just cookbooks."

He shifted toward her, grabbed her knees, and squeezed. His hands were hot, confining. She clutched the arms of the chair and shifted further back until she felt her tailbone push into the cushion.

"What about your memoir?" he asked.

"I . . . What?" How did he know? "I don't know what you mean."

His hands slid up her slacks, his gaze locked onto hers. "You have a compelling story to tell, don't you? "

She was trapped, a mouse in an eagle's talons. His giant hands squeezed tighter.

"Stop it. Take your hands off me."

"Don't do it." In his most soothing, trust-me voice, he added, "Remember your promise, Amanda."

She scanned the lobby. An Asian couple stood at the end of the line for the front desk, but they were too far away.

A woman and three small children headed toward the elevators on her left. What could they do to help?

Amanda turned in the other direction. A woman from the conference, someone she'd met earlier that day, rounded the corner near the coffee shop, walking beside a man. They headed across the lobby.

"Brenda!"

Both Brenda and the man stopped and looked around.

Amanda lifted her hand to get Brenda's attention, slipping further under Gabriel's touch. "Over here!"

Brenda followed the sound of her voice, and she took a few steps in their direction. "Hey." She stared at Gabriel for a brief moment before turning to her.

Gabriel slid his hands off Amanda's thighs and sat back, twisting to face Brenda and her companion.

Brenda wrote children's books and spoke with a gentle lilt that probably melted the hearts of the toughest kids. Gabriel would send her away smiling.

Amanda looked at the man who stood beside her. She realized now who it was, Alan Morass, an editor whose picture she'd seen before on her publisher's website. The jacket of his business suit almost hid the slight paunch hanging over his pants. He'd brushed graying light brown hair to one side over nondescript eyes. He was no match for Gabriel, but he was all she had.

"You going to the thing?" She squeaked the words. She couldn't remember if there was a conference thing at that hour. She hoped they saw the pleading in her expression.

Brenda tilted her head to the side. "What?"

"Of course." Alan walked to the end of the coffee table, his eyes flicking back and forth between Gabriel and her. "Why don't you walk with us?"

"I'd love to." Finding her courage, she turned toward Gabriel. "Will you excuse me?"

He wore a polite mask as he stood and side-stepped to the opposite end of the coffee table. "Certainly."

She jumped up and practically lunged toward Brenda and Alan, catching her heel on the leg of the chair. Alan grabbed her upper arm to keep her from falling. "You okay?"

She nodded and began walking.

Gabriel's deep voice called after her. "Amanda."

She wanted to bolt, but Alan and Brenda stopped. She froze, trapped, and slowly turned.

"You forgot your bag.” He stood beside the chair. Her leather laptop case dangled from his right hand, the novel she'd dropped he held in his left.

Fear paralyzed her.

Gabriel closed the space and held out the items.

She grabbed them , stuffed the novel into the bag, and slid the leather strap over her shoulder, trying not to think about what would have happened if he'd kept it. Inside were her laptop, her hotel key, and her wallet. He'd have had access to everything.

"Thanks."

Alan, still holding her upper arm, led her and Brenda away. They'd gone only a few yards when he tried to steer her toward the elevators. She couldn't bear to stand there and wait for the infernally slow doors to open.

"Escalator, please," she whispered .

Halfway there, Brenda turned to Amanda. "You okay, sweetie? You look terrible."

Amanda couldn't answer.

Alan held her arm tighter and looked at Brenda. "Why don't you go ahead to your meeting? I'll see you tomorrow."

Brenda looked at Amanda. "I'm sorry, but I do have to run. I have a meeting with my agent. Do you need me to stay with you?"

Amanda managed to shake her head, and Brenda peeled off toward the restaurant.

Alan led her to the base of the escalator. They were just stepping on the moving staircase when she heard Sheppard's deep voice.

"See you soon."