A Stranger's Baby. Kerry Connor
research for me with resources she says I’m probably better off not knowing about. I have a feeling she’s right about that. All that matters is she can find out just about anything I need.”
“Research?” he echoed. “Maybe I should be asking what you do.”
She hesitated and lowered her eyes, her sudden tension clear. “I’m a writer.”
“What do you write?”
Another hesitation. “Books.”
“Anything I’d have heard of?”
“It’s kind of private.”
“More private than what you told me last night?”
She sighed and said nothing. For a moment he wasn’t sure she was going to respond. “You heard of Brock Marshall?”
It took him a few seconds to make the connection. Brock Marshall was the main character in a series of action thrillers, a globe-trotting mercenary whose sex-filled, überviolent escapades had slowly developed a loyal audience. The fourth one had come out a couple months ago and quickly become the biggest one yet, making a bunch of bestseller lists. There was even talk of a movie being developed, except none of the current stock of Hollywood pretty boys could live up to the embodiment of raw masculinity that Marshall represented. Jake had read a couple of the books himself and knew plenty of guys who loved them, even among men who didn’t do much reading beyond the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. The books were written by—
His train of thought came to a screeching halt. He whipped his head toward her in disbelief. “You’re S.J. Carson?”
Her eyes were downcast and there was a tightness in her expression, as if she was bracing herself for his reaction. “I see you have heard of him.”
He quickly returned his attention to the road. “Sure.” S.J. Carson was the credited author of the Brock Marshall books. The book jacket didn’t say much about the author, just that he was a world traveler working on his next book or something.
Except now that Jake thought about it, the short one-line bio didn’t exactly say Carson was a he. That just seemed to be the natural assumption. Given the sense of authenticity surrounding the militaristic and espionage elements, the author seemed likely to be someone with military experience, obviously well-traveled, perhaps presenting a highly exaggerated, idealized version of himself.
Certainly not a young woman with a shy smile and retreating gaze.
A burst of surprised laughter rose in his throat.
Until he glanced over and saw the expression on her face.
She grimaced at him, her gaze almost apologetic. “Not what you were expecting, am I?”
“No,” he said honestly. “I can’t say that you are.”
“I figured. Somehow I doubt when people imagine S.J. Carson, I’m what they would picture.”
“That’s what you were going for, right? By using your initials instead of your real name?”
“My publisher thought it would sell better if we were a little circumspect about my identity. It didn’t seem likely anyone would want to read an action novel about a soldier of fortune if they knew it was written by a chubby twenty-three-year-old girl who’d never been out of the country.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I expected it. I mean, J.K. Rowling was asked to use her initials so boys wouldn’t be turned off reading the Harry Potter books.”
“But eventually it came out that she was a woman, and it wasn’t a problem.”
“So it turned out little boys are more accepting than big ones. Research shows a lot of men won’t read books written by women, especially with male protagonists, as though they’ll be too girly and full of people talking about their feelings.”
“That sure doesn’t sound like any of your books.”
A faint hint of her earlier grin returned. “I’ve found sudden explosions and unexpected shootings are good ways to break up an overly emotional moment.”
“So prove them wrong. Everybody knows your books now.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know that it’s worth the risk. If a bunch of readers decide they don’t want to read the books because I’m the one writing them, what then? You can’t unring a bell. Besides, I’m about as interested in being a celebrity as you are. I’d rather my readers like my stories without worrying about whether they like me.” A sad, almost defeated note climbed into her voice as she said the final words, as though she’d already decided that they wouldn’t.
He glanced at her and frowned.
“Twenty-three, huh?”
“I wrote the first book in college. While all the other English majors were working on their depressing tomes about how terrible life is, I wanted to write something where the good guys win and everything ends well.”
“You’re an optimist,” he said, unable to keep it from sounding like an insult.
A dry laugh burst from her throat. “Hardly. I think the reason we need happy endings in fiction is because they’re so hard to find in real life.”
“Why Brock Marshall? Why not write about a woman?”
“Why? Because women are only supposed to write about women?”
From the sudden sharpness in her tone, he’d hit a nerve. “No. Just wondering.”
As if realizing her overreaction, she sent him an apologetic glance. “Because the books are as much an escape for me as they are for the reader. That wouldn’t be the case if I was writing about someone like me. I wanted to write about someone as far from me as possible.”
“I don’t know if that’s true. You didn’t have any trouble with that gun last night. Seems like something Brock Marshall would do.”
“Chalk it up to research,” she said with a soft smile, the sight of it sending another twinge through his chest. “I needed to know how to shoot a gun to write about it, so I took a few lessons at the firing range. Then it seemed like a good thing to have on hand for protection.”
“Guess you proved that one true.”
“Trust me, I would have rather not had the opportunity.”
Her cell phone must have given some indication she had a new message, because she suddenly reached into her bag and pulled it out. “That was fast.” She hit a few buttons and read the screen. “The car is registered to a Roger Halloran of Boston.”
“Someone you know?”
“I’ve never heard of him,” she murmured, typing a return message. “I’ll ask Raven to see what she can dig up for me, and I’ll do a search online when I get home.”
She was just putting the phone away again when he pulled onto their street. As their houses—or maybe just hers—came into view, he felt her tense beside him. He understood the instinct. She might have a lead on whoever had attacked her, but hadn’t accomplished much in terms of preventing it from happening again. The prospect of going home couldn’t hold much appeal for her.
“You should change your locks,” he told her. “Do you know a locksmith around here?”
“No, but I’m sure I can look one up.”
“I can change them for you. Let’s go back into town and stop by the hardware store.” Frankly, he should have thought of it before.
“You don’t have to do that. Besides, I’m not entirely sure I want to stay at the house right now.” She shook her head, rubbing a hand over her belly anxiously. “I keep thinking that maybe I should get a room somewhere, but for how long? I can’t hide forever, and without knowing why someone broke in or why they’re watching me, I have no idea how long I’d have to stay away before they give up. If