by Lizzie Shane
“No girlfriend,” he grunted. “I’m more the married-to-my-work type. Will you come inside now?” He held the balcony door for her and she hesitated, trying to think of some reason, any reason, to keep him here, talking to her.
“Me too.” She pushed off the railing, moving slowly, reluctant to let the moment end. “Married to my work, I mean.”
Why did she tell him that? Why did she need him to know she was single? Available…
“Must be a hard way to make a living,” Cross commented as she stepped into the light, the carpet plush beneath her bare feet. He closed the door softly behind them, sealing them in the relative privacy of the master. “Art.”
“It is,” she acknowledged. Which was why she wasn’t really making a living. Just making enough to string her hopes along that something could break for her. That it might still happen.
Cross pulled the drapes to block out the beach—and a shiver rippled down Bree’s spine at the thought of being alone with him where no one could see them.
Until his phone rang.
Cross shifted away from her as he reached into his pocket, his body language somehow putting even more distance between them than the two feet that separated them. He glanced at the screen and his expression closed off before he shoved the phone back into his pocket without answering.
“You can take it,” Bree urged, moving back to give him more space, suddenly feeling awkward after the delicious tension that had tightened her bones vanished as if it had never existed.
“No, it’s fine,” he said curtly. “I know what it is. Just another reminder to call my mother.”
“I get that. I dodge my mom’s calls all the time.”
Cross frowned, visibly irritated. “I’m not dodging her. I don’t do that.”
“Okay.” Her easy capitulation seemed to bother him just as much as her implication that he was avoiding his mother, so she tried again. “My mom drives me crazy sometimes too. There are lots of times when I ignore her calls.”
“I’m not ignoring her,” he snapped. “Just stay off the balcony.”
Crap. She’d done it again. She always seemed to say the wrong thing, but before she could apologize, he was halfway to the door, his long strides eating up the yardage.
“Cross…” But he was already gone.
Leaving her feeling stupid in his wake. She always did that. Crossed some line she never saw until she was past it.
She wished she could talk to someone. Someone who would tell her how to smooth things over. Andi. Or her mom. But even if she could have risked using her phone, she’d have to admit where she was if she called. Which would mean admitting she hadn’t gotten the Hwang exhibit as she’d originally implied. And she wasn’t ready to admit the truth.
At least not until she knew whether she’d be able to afford to stay in LA a while longer.
Two weeks and five days. She just had to be Maggie for two weeks and five days more. But she hadn’t realized how lonely it was going to be inside the fishbowl. How isolated she was going to feel. Or how badly she would want advice on how to deal with a certain sexy bodyguard. The man who felt like a lifeline every time she saw him. The only thing that was real.
*
Cross stalked out of Bree’s room, nearly bumping into the Kaydee, who was standing entirely too close to the door. What the hell was she doing there?
“Have you seen Cecil?” she asked before he could figure out how to ask how long she’d been lurking there without making it look like he had something to hide, coming out of the master suite at night.
“He’s downstairs. I just walked him.”
“Great. Thanks!” she bubbled, moving quickly away—and in no way putting his mind at ease.
Had she heard anything?
He frowned, staring after the girl, but if she had overheard something there was nothing he could do about it now. He didn’t think they’d said anything that couldn’t have been said by Maggie. Bree had given him a hard time about ignoring his mother. He’d told her to stay off the balcony. Nothing scandalous there.
He walked to his room, replaying the conversation in his head—and getting irritated all over again.
He wasn’t dodging his mother’s calls. Cross didn’t do that. That wasn’t him. He didn’t run away from things. He ran at them. Screaming at the top of his lungs, making the other guy shit himself. That was who he was, damn it.
Except…he should have called her days ago. When Mayor Mike first asked.
His mother had always been the first champion of his father’s legacy. The charter member of the Aaron Cross Senior Fan Club. He’d expected her to RSVP for the dedication of the field house on the first possible day. For her to now say she was thinking about not even going…
Something was wrong. And his brain was supplying a thousand versions of what might be wrong. And he didn’t want to know which one of them might be right.
But he wasn’t avoiding her. Even if Bree’s appeasing okay did dig underneath his skin and make him want to go ten rounds with the punching bag in the fitness studio.
His phone binged with a voicemail alert, but instead of listening to Mayor Mike’s latest rant, he pulled up his mother’s number as soon as he reached his room. She answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Are you sick?”
“Aaron? Where did that come from?”
He hadn’t meant to ask that. He hadn’t meant to blurt out his worst fear. That she was dying. He’d joked at one point that only mortal illness would keep his mother away from an event celebrating his father, but it didn’t seem like a joke anymore. “This stuff about not going to the dedication—are you okay? Is something wrong? You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If something happened? If you were sick?”
Linnea Cross—for all her husband’s fame and glory—was an intensely private person, sharing little of herself with her friends and even less of her troubles with her son. It was her job to worry about him, she’d tell him whenever he wanted to shoulder some of the burdens.
“Is that what you thought? Oh, Aaron, no. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I just wasn’t sure it was a good idea.”
“Why wouldn’t it be a good idea? You love Harris. You love Dad. You love all things Harris and Dad—I thought this would be right up your alley.”
A slow pause seeped through the phone. “Did you get the package I sent you with the latest bills?”
He frowned. Why was she changing the subject? Was this about money? Did she think he’d spent too much on the field house? She’d never said much about the project, pro or con, but he’d always thought she was in favor of it. “I got it, but I haven’t gone through it yet. Why?”
“No reason,” she said quickly. “I just wanted to make sure it hadn’t gotten lost in the mail.”
“I got it. Thank you for forwarding that stuff. I know it probably hasn’t been fun having all of it come to your house, but it’s almost over.” He stared out over the black ocean. After he left here, he’d be heading straight back to Harris for the big event. “So you’ll go to the dedication? I can tell Mayor Mike you RSVP?”
“Sure. All right,” she agreed, still strangely subdued.
They spoke for a few more minutes before saying goodnight and he didn’t hear any red flags, but he still disconnected the call with a frown on his face.
He’d thought she’d be excited. Admittedly, the multi-year project had been a marathon and in Harris no one had been able to escape it. If he was ready for it to be over, she had to be doubly so, but he’d never expected her to balk at the idea of attending the dedication. She was a very private person, so maybe it was the idea of being on display that bothered her. She’d never liked that.
Maybe that was all it was. She would tell him if it was something serious. Wouldn’t she?
CHAPTER TEN
After a restless night, Cross was up at dawn. Back in go mode. Checking the perimeter with Cecil scurrying around his ankles. Checking his emails and shooting upda
tes on their status to Max in California and Candy in Fiji. Going for a quick run—familiarizing himself once again with all the paths around the compound, swinging by the security office at the main resort to touch base with the men there and ensure there had been no developments he should know about. Pushing himself faster on the return to the villa, pushing his own limits until he was breathing hard, the air thick in his lungs and against his skin until he stepped into the arctic blast of the air conditioning in the villa and the sweat on his skin chilled in an instant.
The villa was still, silent as Cecil scampered over to greet Cross, releasing a single, echoing yelp. He crouched to pat the dog—and decided now was the perfect time to get some squats in. He’d spotted free weights in the fitness studio. He may not be as fit as he’d been when he was sprinting down the field after wide-receivers every Sunday, when his entire life had been about his physical capabilities, but he still needed to stay toned in his current job. To stay sharp.
His phone pinged with an alert and he listened to a weather report tracking the beginnings of a tropical storm that might have the island in its path if it gathered momentum. It was early in the season for a hurricane, but Cross liked to be aware of every possible risk and variable, and a hurricane was a pretty freaking big one.
The details of wind speed and likely trajectories filled his ears—so he didn’t register the treadmill whirring until he opened the door to the fitness studio.
She had a gorgeous stride. Long and graceful. A runner’s stride.
She wasn’t watching anything on the tablet this morning, no giant noise-canceling headphones on, and her head turned toward him the second he opened the door. “Hey.” She was breathing fast, the color high on her cheeks.
“Hey.”
He remembered suddenly, viscerally, the way she’d looked last night, wrapped in silk and moonlight, but forced the unprofessional thought from his mind. “You’re up early.”
She made a face as she continued to run, her pace remaining steady and strong. “Mel had a lazy morning scheduled. I don’t know how Maggie stands it—being told when to eat, when to sleep. It would drive me crazy.”
He shrugged. “The price of fame.”
“Which keeps us all employed.”
“Mel seems to know Maggie’s habits pretty well. It’s probably less restrictive when it’s tailored to your natural routine. And I somehow doubt Maggie lets Mel tell her to do anything she doesn’t already want to do.”
“Yeah. She owns it. I need to own it.” Her feet pounded hard on the treadmill. “I shouldn’t be complaining about being told to sleep in, but this whole thing has me on edge and I’ve never been good at sleeping in unless I was up all night the night before.”
He shoved images of what could keep her up all night out of his brain. “Painting?”
Her brows pulled into a sudden frown. “I don’t paint.” She hit a button and the treadmill instantly slowed. “Not that kind of artist.” She climbed off the machine, grabbing for the towel hanging on the bar. “Look, about last night…I shouldn’t have said anything about your mom—”
“It’s fine,” he cut her off before she could get going. “We’re fine,” he assured her. He didn’t mean to say more, but he heard himself explaining, “My hometown is dedicating a building to my father and my mom has been acting strangely. Like she didn’t want to go. I was worried something might be wrong, but I talked to her last night. She’s fine.”
“Oh.” Bree blinked. “Good. I mean, I’m glad.”
“I got an update from the other team,” he offered, moving to the free weights. “So far so good. No paparazzi on their tail.”
“None on ours either from what I can tell.” She grabbed a water bottle from the treadmill cup holder and drained a third of it. “I keep staring at the bushes, expecting to see some guy with a camera lurking in them, but so far it’s almost annoyingly quiet. Are we really doing our jobs as decoys if the paparazzi don’t even know we’re here?”
He shrugged, stacking weight. “It’s Mel’s show. She certainly knows what she’s doing when it comes to the publicity crap.”
“But don’t you wish we could do something?”
“Of course,” he acknowledged, beginning his reps.
“Then why can’t we? We were hired to draw attention to ourselves, weren’t we?”
“Not my call.”
Bree made a sound that was almost a growl. “What good does it do Maggie if we’re sitting here on our hands and no one knows we’re here?”
“We aren’t sitting on our hands. We’re planning a wedding. And Mel is confident the news will leak when it needs to.”
Bree shook her head, thumping the water bottle against her thigh. “Doesn’t that bother you?”
“How so?” His muscles began to ache with the familiar pull of the exercise.
“Lying to everyone. Letting them think they’re going to get to host this amazing wedding, but what happens to them when the truth comes out? It doesn’t feel right. Aren’t you at all uncomfortable with the fact that they don’t know?”
“We’re protecting Maggie.”
“How?” she burst out. “If the people at the resort are doing such an amazing job of protecting our privacy that no one knows we’re here, how are we protecting her? Doesn’t it feel wrong to you?”
She had a point. As much as it went against his instincts to expose the client to publicity, that was exactly what they needed to be doing in this case. They were doing too good a job of protecting her.
He set the weights gently back into the cradle. “I’ll talk to Mel.”
Her smile was blinding—bright and fast and so artless it was a pure Bree expression, without any of Maggie’s careful nuances.
“Talk to Mel about what?” Another voice came from the doorway and Bree spun toward the manager as she stepped inside the small room—and Cross kicked himself for not hearing the door open.
“About getting out there and being seen,” Bree said when Mel shut the door behind her. “We aren’t doing anyone any good if no one knows we’re here.” Mel frowned, but Bree rushed on before she could object. “The paparazzi don’t even seem to be on the island. Or if they are, they aren’t bothering me. Shouldn’t we do something to draw attention away from the real Maggie? Even if I just go sunbathing over on the non-VIP part of the island and get caught on some tourist’s cell phone? What’s the point of being the decoy if no one knows we’re here? We’re supposed to be a distraction. So let me distract!”
“It will get leaked organically at some point and be more believable if we aren’t fishing for attention—”
“I’m not saying we should go fishing, but the resort is being diligent, taking such good care of us and guarding our privacy so carefully. If we leave things organic no one may ever know we’re here, which totally defeats the purpose. And screws the hotel over. If they aren’t going to get the publicity of the wedding later, the least we can do is give them some exposure now.”
Cross watched the exchange with interest—and saw the exact moment Mel warmed to the idea, her eyes going speculative.
“You aren’t entirely wrong,” the taller woman acknowledged. “Maybe it wouldn’t be such a terrible idea to be more visible. But we have to be careful about how we go about it. It has to be authentic to Maggie.”
“Perfect.” Bree bounced on her heels. “What would Maggie do?”
Mel eyed her. “How do you feel about jet skis?”
*
They needed a believable excuse for Maggie to go to the public side of the island. Luckily, Maggie’s affection for jet skis was well documented. And just as luckily, Bree had spent her childhood summers careening around Martin Lake.
She would go out, zip around the island, get close enough to be seen by swimmers or boaters or whoever looked most likely to post on social media about her presence, and then retreat back to the villa to await the inevitable ripples her presence would send out.
Cross would follow her on a sec
ond jet ski, to ensure no rogue pirates tried to kidnap her between one side of the island and the other, or whatever it was he was afraid would happen to “Maggie” on this little expedition.
On their private pier, Bree swung her leg over the jet-ski, settling into position. The padded bra she wore beneath the swim-suit cover-up made her life-jacket feel unnaturally tight and she fiddled with the straps, trying to get a little more breathing room as Cross mounted up beside her.
She resisted the urge to look at him while Mel’s eagle eyes were on her. The manager had not been pleased to find Bree and Cross alone together in the fitness studio again—though it hadn’t been Bree’s fault Cross had showed up to use the weights while she was running. Mel hadn’t been impressed by the excuse…and Bree couldn’t blame her. She was the one who had stayed to watch the gun show, though she’d done her best not to openly drool.
The man was built like a freaking action star and watching all those muscles in action…whoo, mama.
But now she kept her eyes virtuously forward, while the jet-ski guy went over the controls with the bodyguard.
Bree may have spent the better part of her childhood zipping around on the lakes of northern Minnesota, but Cross’s Iowa upbringing had apparently not included the same training. She snuck a glance at him from behind her sunglasses without turning her head, and found him frowning intently as he listened to the operational instructions.
It was sort of hot—that focus. That concentration. The visible need to master this. To be the best.
Overachiever in action.
“You ready for this?” she called when the jet-ski guy fell back.
“Ready,” he shouted back, crisp and precise.
Bree bared her teeth in a grin and shoved away from the private pier with one foot, floating a couple yards away before she cranked the engine and it roared to life, the machine shivering beneath her. “Try not to fall behind!” she shouted over the noise, and shot off over the water.