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glowered. “You’ve yet to explain why you refuse to go on with the charade. It’s easy to hide behind a pen name. You can even pretend that the bad reviews are not yours, since they aim at Flint.”
    Funnily, the insult fell short. He managed a downcast smile. “It doesn’t work like that. I am Flint.” Marcus took a deep breath. “I owe it to myself—and the fans—to tell the truth. I can’t hole-up indefinitely. Someone will find out sooner or later and people will lash out anyway.”
    “Don’t you fear…” He expected a question about dropping sales or sexism, wrapped in more bitter sarcasm. Deb struck closer to the heart. “Don’t you fear another block?”
    He stared at a golf cart bouncing to a stop next to the clubhouse, before he turned his head to look at her. “I can’t be sure it won’t happen if I don’t do it.”
    The aquamarine ice melted slowly. It would take her a while to accept his choices. But she understood the important things: the gnawing doubts, the reason why he had to risk his reputation and his career. She understood him . He couldn’t ask for more.

Chapter Five
     
    The minute they stepped inside the lobby, the hotel manager cut off their route. “Mr. Turner, may I have a minute? We, we have a situation.”
    Deb looked away. She’d had enough of Marcus’s situations . Her article was the perfect excuse to escape. She grappled with his revelations. Her hand fisted around her pendant. She needed time to process everything he had told her, from his alter ego to his … indiscretion.
    He had exposed their intimacy for everyone to gibe. He sacrificed a part of their history to save his career, for money. She realized she was being unfair, but he had no right to toss it out that way. The time they’d spent in Vegas was special. It was theirs .
    The worst was, she’d loved that scene. It was sexy, it was sweet, it was…
    Jerk.
    How was she supposed to react? People always wondered if fiction matched reality. Once he revealed himself as Flint, people would hypothesize, dissect every word, every sentence. They would uncover how much of his personal experiences he’d put into his books. She felt soiled at the thought. “I’m going to my room.”
    “I’m very sorry, Miss Stone, that’s not possible,” said the manager. “The police…”
    “The police? Why? What happened?”
    What kind of situation requires the police to search my room?
    Marcus stroked her back. She sidestepped to escape the touch. His hand fell to his side. “Someone broke into our rooms, Deb. Mine, and yours, too.”
    “Broke into—but, my clothes? My laptop?”
    “Trashed, Miss. I’m sorry.”
    Deb glared at the sling bag Marcus dragged everywhere. Of course his belongings were safe. Mister-Bestseller here wouldn’t risk losing his tools. Her knees shook. Her whole world was on that laptop. Her contact lists, her photos, her music .
    Marcus secured his arm around her waist and said, “We’ll ask an IT specialist to recover the data on your hard-drive. You have a back-up, don’t you?”
    When was the last time she had copied her files to an external drive? The quakes got to her upper body. The need to kick him in the shin grew bigger in tune to the craving to cuddle against him.
    “Who did this? You have cameras. I want to see the feed, I—”
    “My security staff is scanning the tapes as we speak, Miss Stone.”
    She held to her anger, using it as a shield against the growing despair which threatened to engulf her. “That’s the very least you can do. And I expect the hotel insurance to cover—”
    “Deb, that’s not all.”
    Marcus’s tone was too sharp. Her legs buckled. His hand found her hip again. She reached for it and squeezed, hard.
    “Is someone, is someone hurt?”
    “No! No, nothing like that.” Marcus pulled her to him and she held on tight. “But it seems Flint’s cover is blown.”
    ****
    He spoke literally. Deb contemplated the handle that rose from Marcus’s book