Chapter 22
“Poppy, what are you writing now?”
Nick listened as his girl answered the next question. She was a pro. Watching her filled him with pride. The shy, socially awkward kid from college was long gone.
“It’s like she’s two people,” Sam whispered. “The woman who is not big on interacting, and her.” He nodded to where Poppy sat in a red chair beside Hillary Bailey. “The hot, famous author.”
Nick jabbed Sam in the ribs.
“What?” his brother wheezed. “I can’t call her hot?”
“No.”
“Got it bad,” Sam sang under his breath.
She’d been up there an hour now, and the questions kept coming. The interviewer had introduced both Poppy and Hillary. Then he’d asked some questions, and now it was the audience’s turn.
Poppy smiled at the man, who now had the microphone in the back row close to where Nick sat. It was sweet and genuine and made warmth flood his chest.
“Poppy, my name is Garrett Johns.”
“Hi, Garrett. What’s your question?” she asked.
“What is your annual income? My wife is writing a book, but I’m not sure it’s worth her time financially.”
“Is that guy for real?” Sam whispered. “Who the fuck asks something like that?”
Nick’s temper spiked. It was downright rude and out of line, as far as he was concerned. He thought about telling the man that, but Sam shook his head.
“We promised her we wouldn’t make a scene. Let her handle it, Nick. I’m sure she’s had worse.”
“Doesn’t make it right,” Nick said under his breath. Watching Poppy and Hillary Bailey exchange a look, he sensed they were no strangers to this question.
“Is your wife here, Garrett?” Poppy asked, nothing in her tone giving away how pissed off and insulted she must be.
A woman in the seat beside the dickhead raised her hand.
“Do you enjoy writing?” Poppy asked her, and the woman nodded. “Well then, you write your book and worry about the rest when it’s finished. Writing isn’t all about numbers. There has to be passion and enjoyment involved too.”
“But what do you make?” Garrett Johns persisted, and Nick tried to rise, but Sam’s hand held him down.
Poppy looked at the man for a few seconds and then said, “How about you tell me what you earn first, and then I’ll tell you mine.”
Nick snorted. It was the perfect answer. Johns threw out a number, and Sam coughed out, “Bullshit.”
“Well, Garrett, that’s an excellent salary, but I don’t talk about what I earn. Let’s move on to the next question.”
The man sat down, and Nick could tell he was annoyed but didn’t pursue it, which was just as well for him.
“We’re not shy,” Sam said. “But this makes me itch.”
“Public eye, bud, comes with the territory.”
“Yeah, but much respect for Poppy—that smile hasn’t slipped.”
It hadn’t. The woman was beautiful standing up there, doing her thing. It wasn’t just the outside, which was hot, but how she seemed to glow when she talked about her work.
“And that’s the last question,” the man interviewing said. “Please help yourself to refreshments.”
Now that the questions were wrapped up, those guests with books surged forward. Sam wandered off to get food, and Nick moved closer to Poppy. He listened as she talked and signed, taking the time with each fan, and then Garrett Johns reached her.
“I answered your question, Poppy. Now it’s just me and my wife here, so you can answer mine,” he said.
“Garrett,” his wife said, clearly uncomfortable, “enough.”
“I’m just interested.”
Nick climbed onto the platform and stood behind Poppy, crossing his arms. Garrett caught his eye, and the man took a step back.
“Let’s go, Lucy.” He grabbed his wife’s arm and left.
Nick retreated, and Poppy had no idea, thankfully, what he’d just done. She was independent, and he got that, but no way was anyone being anything but respectful to her.
“Can we have a photo with your man and you?” the next lady to get her book signed asked Poppy. “Someone pointed him out to us.”
Nick thought she was closer to his grandmother’s age of eighty. She wore a floral dress and beige shoes like the ones his uncle got after foot correction surgery. A thick Velcro strap secured them in place. He smiled when her eyes ran over him.
“Man?” Poppy looked behind and found him. “He’s?—”
“Happy to have a photo,” Nick cut her off.
He had a special affection for seniors. They’d done their time and now could do what they wanted, as far as he was concerned.
Putting an arm around Poppy, he pulled her close for the picture and then retreated before she could speak. Billy had sent him a picture of the assface, so he wandered around the room double-checking he wasn’t here.
Nick had done some research on people who appeared normal but weren’t.
How they could function on a daily basis mimicking those around them but in fact were far from sane.
His guess was this Malcolm Davy was that.
They just had to prove it, as clearly the man was fixated on Poppy.
He also wasn’t dumb. Billy had said a smart criminal was a nightmare, but a smart, insane one was even worse.
He found Sam at the refreshment table talking to a group of women.
“That scene when Maggie leaves Jake, though, that made me cry,” he was saying when Nick arrived. “I had to skip to the last page, just to make sure they ended up together.”
“Romances are usually HFN or HEA,” one of the women said. “Sometimes there can be cliff-hangers, but I’m not a fan of those.”
“HFN?” Sam asked before Nick could.
“Happy for now, and happily ever after,” she said.
“Huh,” Sam said. “I didn’t know that.”
Nick ate a sandwich the size of his thumb and drank a cup of coffee one of the hotel staff handed him. Half listening as his brother talked about the books he’d read, he kept studying the room.
“So, do you read romance, or are you into thrillers?” a man arriving at the refreshment table asked him.
“Thrillers,” Nick said, because he had read Poppy’s last book, and he’d never read anything with romance in it.
He stayed by the table talking and eating until he was sure Poppy would have finished signing books and had some time to cool off.
“Excuse me, are you Mr. Atherton?” One of the hotel staff approached him.
“I am.”
“Miss Sylvester asked me to tell you she was in the office, and could you join her there, sir?”
He nodded, suddenly tense for no reason other than he was sure Poppy wouldn’t have sent for him unless she was desperate.
“Show me where she is, please.”
“What’s going on?” Sam asked.
“I don’t know, maybe nothing.”
“But you don’t think it is?”
“It’s through there, Mr. Atherton,” the staff member said, pointing to a door off the hall.
He found her standing at the windows, arms wrapped around her waist.
“What’s wrong?”
She turned at his words, and he saw the fear again.
“Tell me. Poppy, what’s going on?”
“Jesus,” Sam said from behind him.
It was then Nick saw the long white box on the desk that he’d missed when he’d walked in. It looked like something long-stemmed roses would be delivered in.
“What the fuck?” Sam snarled.
“I’m so angry!” The words exploded out of Poppy’s mouth.
Nick grabbed her, pulling her to his side as he made his way to the desk. Looking in the box, he saw grotesque faces staring back at him. One woman had a bullet hole in her forehead; the other, a rope around her neck.
“They’re pinatas,” Sam said, reading the back of the card that must have been inside. “Sick ones.”
“I hate him,” she growled.
Nick walked Poppy backward until he reached a chair, then lowered her into it. “Stay,” he said, then kissed her softly.
“I’m not a dog.”
“Please stay.” He ran a hand down her arm.
She gave a jerky nod.
Nick pulled out his cell phone to call Billy. The phone on the desk rang as he found his cousin’s number. Sam picked it up.
“This is not your office, Sam!” Poppy hissed. “You can’t just answer the phone.”
“Yeah, she’s here. Who is this?” Sam said into the receiver. “It’s your publicist, Poppy.” He held it out for her.
“Billy, assface has struck again,” Nick said when his cousin answered.
“Hi, Astrid,” Poppy said, taking the phone as Nick talked to Billy with his eyes on her.
“Astrid?” Sam looked confused.
Nick watched as she listened to whoever was speaking. The color drained from her face, and her eyes then shot to his.
“Leave me alone, Malcolm!”