“I’m not panicking.” He was taking logical, reasonable steps to ensure her safety and to keep control of the story. The last thing in the world he needed was for her to be accosted by an aggressive reporter or a local resident looking to make a few thousand dollars from the National Inquisitor.

“Getting changed now,” she taunted over her shoulder as she headed for the staircase to the second floor.

“Barring the door now,” he called back.

“You can’t keep me prisoner.” Her springy footsteps sounded on the hardwood steps.

“Watch me try.”

He was glad she wasn’t intimidated by the press. It showed self-confidence and spirit. Maybe she’d even agree to an interview.

He liked that idea. If they picked the right host and the right network, they could get out in front of this. Well-executed publicity would have a huge impact on sales. Pellegrin was already planning a second print run. There was a chance they could parlay it into a third and a fourth.

He pulled out his BlackBerry and did a quick check of the online bookstores. While he scrolled through some fine-looking numbers, there was a rap on the door.

Glancing at the staircase to make sure there was no sign of Joan, he tucked the BlackBerry into his pocket and headed for the small foyer.

He opened the door to a haughty blond woman wearing a pressed, pink linen suit, dangling earrings and an impressive diamond necklace against a perfect tan.

“Can I help you?” he asked, taking in her expensively streaked hair and precise makeup.

“Who are you?” she asked, tipping her chin and perusing him with blue eyes that catalogued, assessed, then dismissed.

“None of your business,” he told her.

“Where’s Joan?”

“Also none of your business.”

She definitely wasn’t a reporter, and he’d bet she wasn’t local. A fan? Interesting demographic.

“Do I have to call the police?” she asked.