Still, the quiet here unsettles me, so I stride right to Trevor’s desk, positioned outside my own office door, because that’s where the manuscript I’ve come looking for should be. I turn on his lamp, thumbing through the orderly stack of envelopes in the center of his desk. These are our most recent submissions, and it only takes a moment to spot the one I’m looking for. Eagerly, I pull it from the pile—in fact, a bit too eagerly, because another packet dislodges and careens right to the floor. It must have been hidden on the bottom of the stack—I never saw the dang thing coming. Neither did my poor big toe, which smarts so painfully that I let loose with a few choice expletives, wiggling it inside my strappy sandal.
That’s when I spot the familiar logo of The Bourne Agency, and it’s no wonder I’m cursing. They’re a swanky London firm that boasts some of the U.K.’s best authors, including my least favorite English author ever, Julian Kingsley. Frankly, I don’t care if he’s the second coming of Shakespeare, I’ll never like him. Not considering how many times he’s hurt my best friend. The very same best friend who saved my life three years ago, so my protective loyalty toward him runs pretty darn deep.
The envelope’s already been opened, with a log number printed on the outside in Trevor’s proper handwriting. So he’s already handled the materials. Fresh warning bells sound in my head, this time of a different variety. They’re of the “my-friend-is-hiding-something-massive” kind, I think, tugging a thin sheaf of paper from within the packet’s confines. Imagine my surprise when I find a proposal emblazoned with none other than Julian Kingsley’s cocky-sounding name.
I stare at the cover sheet for twenty, maybe thirty seconds in disbelief. Finally, I reach for the phone, ready to call Trevor and issue stern lectures about the danger of flirting with an ex-boyfriend’s latest book. Only I think better of it, wondering if I shouldn’t wait and see what he’s up to. After all, Julian is Trevor’s Achilles heel, the one wound that never fully mends. Something tells me that confronting him head-on about this newfound secret isn’t such a good idea. There must be a reason he didn’t mention Julian’s proposal. Probably because he knows just how worried any of his communications with his former lover always leave me.
Like last summer when I found out they’d been e-mailing sporadically for a few months. Trevor and I got into a screaming match over it, and I wound up crying in the middle of the bar where we’d set up for the night. I knew their past and had reason to be afraid.
“Sweet girl, sweet girl,” Trevor shushed me, pulling me into his arms protectively. I don’t think any man has ever hated to see me cry like he does. “I’m not doing anything with Julian except trading a few e-mails.”
“I don’t want him to hurt you anymore,” I blubbered loudly, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “Not again.”
“He won’t, all right?” He slipped a soft handkerchief into my hand. “He’s sober now, and so far, behaving like a perfect gentleman.”
“But you might trust him again,” I wailed plaintively, burying my face against his strong shoulder. I was tipsy enough to be oblivious to anyone else, especially those who might be eavesdropping on our conversation. Thank God we were off in Sherman Oaks, away from our usual gossipy Hollywood crowd. “What if you get back together with him?”
“I won’t do,” he reassured me firmly. “Rebecca, dear, I won’t do.”
That was last summer, and sitting in the dark now, staring at this mint proposal in my hand—one reported in publishing trades only a few days ago—I can’t help but feel the hackles of my old suspicions rising once again. Trevor wouldn’t lie to me, not him of all people. Would he?
***
I despise Julian Kingsley. With the fire of ten blazing furnaces, I truly hate the guy. I’m sitting at my desk, reading the last of his ten-page story synopsis, and it infuriates me that he’s this talented. I contemplate phoning Trevor and owning up to my small act of espionage, admitting that his ex-boyfriend is brilliant. But I can’t shake the fact that he kept this from me, and for some reason I want to play along for a bit. See if he’ll confess that he pulled the materials in-house; see if he passes them to another creative executive here. To Ed Bardock himself, maybe, without giving me a look. What will Trevor do, that is my question.
I can’t stand distrusting him like this; he’s my rock, the one person besides my mother and father who I would trust with my life. It’s like this tiny fissure of suspicion has opened between us, and I already feel it trying to swallow our friendship whole.
But the proposal is truly amazing, and I’m actually toying with pursuing the project. Which could theoretically put Julian stateside, right here in Los Angeles, and that scares me on principle. No, I have to be truthful with Trevor, tell him about finding the proposal on his desk, so I reach for my phone receiver.
That’s when a loud banging sound jars me right out of my seat. For a moment I do nothing, remembering the earlier sensation of someone following me. My heart thunders, causing my chest to rise in quick panting breaths of fear. Nobody should be knocking on the bungalow door on a Saturday. Nobody.