LEAD ME ON by Julie Ortolon (find a book to read TXT) 📕

came closer to retrieve the sterling silver coffee urn from its warming stand, he leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, “I’ll give you my idea and we can share the money.”

She turned to him with a startled frown.

“Hey, I have a thought,” Colonel Grubbs said. “I could give you my idea, you could write the book, and we could share the money.”

Allison’s eyes widened and Scott arched a brow, enjoying the moment of shared humor. Although, for one flicker of an instant, he actually considered the man’s offer—proof that he was truly getting desperate. He knew from experience that ideas from non-writers were never doable. Especially when those ideas were based on personal experience.

Fortunately, he was saved from his moment of insanity when an attractive black couple wandered into the room.

“Good morning, Keshia, Franklin,” Allison greeted them as she headed around the table with the coffeepot. “I see you’re up early.”

“Too early.” The woman shook off the end of a yawn as the two of them joined Scott at the buffet. “Since we checked in so late last night, I was hoping to sleep until a reasonable hour. But, no, Franklin’s eager to strap on our scuba tanks and check out the shipwreck.”

“Come on, baby.” Franklin slipped an arm around her waist. “You like scuba diving, too.”

“Around coral reefs where there’s something to see,” she said. “Not in the murky water of Galveston Bay.”

“Actually,” Allison said, “our cove is protected enough that it’s surprisingly clear. And who knows, you might get lucky and find some pirate gold.”

Keshia frowned. “I thought the ship was a Confederate blockade runner, not a pirate ship.”

“It was,” Allison said. “But the captain, Jack Kingsley, was the grandson of one of Jean Lafitte’s men. Some people think a portion of Lafitte’s missing treasure was on the Freedom when she went down. Unfortunately, most of the ship is covered in silt from the nineteen hundred hurricane, so no one’s been able to explore her completely.”

“Pirate gold?” Keshia considered. “Okay, now that’s worth getting up early.”

Scott carried his plate to the chair where Allison had already poured him a cup of coffee.

“Well, treasure or not, I’m looking forward to seeing the ship.” Franklin chose a chair across from Scott and extended his hand before taking a seat. “Franklin Prescott.”

“Scott Lawrence.” He shook the man’s hand, deciding there was no sense trying for anonymity at this point.

“The author?” Keshia’s brows shot up. When he nodded, she beamed at him and took a seat. “Well, isn’t this my lucky day. I’m Keshia Prescott.” She shook his hand. “News anchor for KSET in Houston. My producer was just talking about doing a series of author interviews as a special segment. I don’t suppose you’d agree to an interview.”

“Keshia, we’re on vacation,” Franklin complained.

“I know.” She flashed her husband a dazzling smile that had probably won the hearts of thousands of viewers. “I wasn’t talking about interviewing him right now, just setting it up.” She turned back to Scott. “So, how about it?”

“I don’t do TV interviews.”

“Why not?”

For the same reason I don’t have my photo on the back jacket of my books, he thought. He didn’t want every Joe on the street recognizing him. Plus, in a live interview, he had less control. On the other hand, interviews did help sales. “I tell you what,” he said. “I’ll consider it on two conditions. One, we schedule it for the fall, when my next book comes out.” Mentioning the release date sent a small streak of panic through him since he hadn’t even started the book. “And two, I get to set some boundaries on what’s off limits.”

Keshia’s eyes narrowed. “How strict are the boundaries?”

“We talk only about my books. No questions about my personal life.” He could tell she didn’t like that, since the personal angle was what all reporters wanted.

“All right,” Keshia finally agreed. “Although there is one question I’d like to ask you now.”

“Keshia...” her husband warned.

“It’s just one question,” she insisted, then turned back to Scott. “In The Flier, the one about the pilot whose daughter is kidnapped, I swear my heart stopped about ten times during the dogfight scene at the end of the book. How do you come up with stuff like that? Where do you get your ideas?”

Scott glanced at Allison and found her watching him, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

“Plots.com?” she suggested.

“Or the author’s mail order catalogue.” He smiled at her. “But you have to know the secret code word to subscribe.”

“Okay.” Keshia held up her hand. “I can take a hint.”

To smooth over the moment, Allison introduced the Prescotts to the Grubbs. With the attention off him, Scott watched the others while he ate, mentally collecting fodder for future books. Even without the benefit to his writing, people fascinated him: their gestures, expressions, the cadence of their voices. It was one of the main reasons he liked living in the French Quarter. When his niece, Chloe, came to visit, they would sit on his balcony and play “What’s their story?” for hours.

This morning, though, only Allison held his attention for long. She moved about the table with the posture and grace of a dancer, so he assumed she’d taken ballet. What other lessons had she taken? Piano, voice? He watched her hands as she refilled coffee cups and removed dirty dishes, her movements simple but agile. What would it feel like to have her trail those slender hands over his body?

He shifted in his chair as heat flowed through him.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked as she came around behind him.

“No, I’m done.” He leaned sideways as she reached for his plate and her scent drifted to him—a subtle blend of fragrances he couldn’t quite sort out. Lavender? Vanilla?

“Are you going to write today? Or see the sights?” She stepped back, leaving only a trace of her scent to tease him.

He thought about the laptop waiting upstairs—the screen as blank this morning as it had been yesterday afternoon—and about the