Nocturne by Syrie James Read Free Book Online Page B

had been cleaning this room every week for ten years, and she’d never suspected a thing. Nicole Whitcomb stepped in and figured it out inside of fifteen minutes. She wasn’t just a beautiful woman—she was smart, well-read, and very perceptive.
    “You got me,” he said finally, lifting his eyes to hers. “But since you know my work so well, I assume you also know that my personal life is something I prefer to keep confidential.”
    “Yes.”
    She was looking at him like a deer in headlights, stunned amazement wrapped up with a dose of awe. It was discomfiting, yet at the same time it was somehow . . . gratifying . In all the years he’d been writing and selling books, he’d only spoken to an actual fan a couple of times: once, in casual conversation when he’d dared to enter a bookstore where his novels were on sale; the other when he saw a nurse reading one of his books at the clinic. They hadn’t known who he was, of course, but it had been interesting to hear their views on his work nevertheless.
    He got his feedback solely through the Internet. There were various fan sites, and by now many thousands of reviews in the media and blogs across the globe. It was rewarding to know that people enjoyed what he wrote. It made all the effort worthwhile, made him feel like he was participating in the world again, making some sort of contribution. The comments about his historical accuracy always amused him. If anyone could write about the past with authentic detail, it was him. He had little need for history books, except as a refresher and to verify facts; most of it was there in his memory, ripe for the picking.
    “I hope I can count on your discretion?” he said quietly.
    “Of course,” she said quickly. “I won’t breathe a word. But . . . why?”
    “Why?”
    “Why don’t you want anyone to know who you are? I thought most authors enjoyed their fame.”
    “I can’t speak for most authors. I can only speak for myself. My personal life is my own. My readers enjoy the fictitious
    Nicole nodded and flicked her eyes away, biting her lip as if still a little in awe of him. “I get it now. I feel terrible. No wonder you don’t want me here.”
    He cringed at the bluntness of her statement. “I never said I didn’t want you here,” he said quickly.
    She darted him a look that said: please, don’t insult my intelligence . “I don’t blame you,” she added softly. “You must see me as a threat to the way of life you’ve built up for yourself.”
    Well, that was certainly true, for more reasons than one. Still, no matter how noble his intentions—he’d tried to keep her at arm’s length for her own good—he didn’t want to come off as a jerk. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel . . . unwelcome. As I said before, I’m just not accustomed to having visitors.”
    “I understand. It’s a relief, actually, to learn the truth. I thought it was something about me. Look: I don’t want to interrupt your work anymore than I already have. You were writing when I first walked in, weren’t you?”
    “No,” he admitted. “I’m in between books at the moment. I was just working up some ideas of what to write next.”
    “Oh. Still, I should get out of your hair.” She turned back to the bookcase and grabbed one of his Civil War novels, The Wind of Dawn . “I’ll read this one again, if that’s all right.”
    “That’s fine, but there’s no reason for you to rush off.” The statement escaped his lips before he could stop it. But now that he’d said it, Michael realized that he really didn’t want her to go.
    “I don’t want to disturb you,” she insisted.
    “You aren’t disturbing me. I don’t mind taking a break. And to be honest . . . I’ve enjoyed talking to you. And I promise it’s not just because you appreciate my work.”
    She laughed. “Really?”
    Really , he thought. It had been so long since he’d had a meaningful, face-to-face conversation with someone—and he liked her far