by Lizzie Shane
“I’m sorry,” she tried to backpedal.
“It’s fine,” he said, his voice hard, everything about him suddenly hard and stiff.
Awkwardness swamped her. The same awkwardness she’d felt when he’d pulled her down for a kiss. Not that he wasn’t a good kisser. Not that the moment hadn’t been perfectly choreographed. It was that fishbowl feeling. Like nothing about the moment was theirs. Like they were only kissing for the cameras. For the screaming fans eagerly downloading the shot.
As his lips had brushed hers, she’d had a sudden surge of empathy for Will and Kate and all the other royals with their staged balcony kisses and forced romantic moments. How perfectly miserable.
Though perhaps more miserable for her because she wanted him to want to kiss her for real. Not for the cameras. Not for the job. For her. If only wishing it could make it so.
And then she’d gone and said the stupidest thing possible.
She really needed to stop feeling sorry for herself. A gorgeous man had kissed her on the balcony of one of the most gorgeous villas in the world, looking out over what had to be one of the most gorgeous beaches in the world. Life didn’t get much better than that—even if it was only her life temporarily. She ought to be enjoying this, but she couldn’t seem to get her head in the right place. In any kind of place. Her thoughts kept skipping around, stones on a pond, the ripples bumping into one another, never still.
Ripples of his kisses. Of his dark eyes. Of the strong, direct way he spoke to her.
Far too many of her ripples were about Cross.
She needed to get her head on straight. She’d already screwed everything up once because she let her agitation drive her to the point of impulsiveness—which never ended well for her.
She needed to be calm. Zen. But there was nothing Zen about the way she felt when he shifted beneath her, settling her more firmly in his arms.
She wanted to talk to him, wanted to ask him the thousand questions that were on her mind, but she’d already overstepped and she needed to focus on sounding like Maggie. What would Maggie say to a new lover? What would Maggie want to know?
“Where’s Cecil?” The dog. She had been reduced to talking about the dog.
“Inside asleep on his bed,” Cross answered. “I think the sun might be too hot for him out here.”
“It’s almost too hot for me out here.”
She hadn’t meant to attach any innuendo to the words, but Cross looked down, the left side of his mouth tipping up in a wicked smile. “Maybe we should go inside and cool off,” he said, his voice low and sexy, and all at once she was drowning in innuendo.
She’d never thought the words cool off could sound quite so dirty.
“Good idea,” she whispered, suddenly breathless.
For a long moment, neither of them moved, then Cross slowly shifted, setting her off him just enough to unfold his long body and rise to his feet. She let him pull her up beside him—and tight against his chest.
It’s all an act, she reminded herself as her heart rate went into double time. This man, this serious, sexy, hunk of a man, was playing his part perfectly—and she needed to do the same. So she pushed back in his arms, slanting him a flirty look from beneath her shades, and wrapped her hands around the sun-warmed skin of his biceps, pulling him with her even as she walked backwards toward the balcony doors.
“You look overheated, Mr. Cross,” she purred.
“Do I?” he asked, the words dark as her back came up against the balcony doors and his front pressed against her, pinning her to the glass. Then his mouth was on hers and—shit, they hadn’t scripted this kiss.
It was hot and open-mouthed and left no question where this was going as he wrapped one arm around her waist, lifting her off her feet, against his body, until they were the same height and she could twine her arms around his neck and kiss him on his level. His other hand scrabbled beside her hip and it wasn’t until the door at her back suddenly gave way that she realized he’d been groping for the handle.
They staggered inside, locked together, the kiss going on and on, not stopping, not even for air. He shifted her weight to one arm again and she felt him reach blindly behind for the door, flinging it shut hard enough to rattle the glass—and Bree turned her head at the sound, breaking the kiss.
Cross lowered her to the ground slowly. Bree’s bare feet touched the floor, and she braced herself against him as her knees wobbled. The blinds were closed. They were inside. Out of sight. No more show to put on. But it took her a moment to step away from him. To find the strength in her knees.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, so soft she could barely hear the words. “I shouldn’t have ad libbed.”
“No, it was good,” she whispered back, trying to hide her breathlessness. It had been more than good. It had melted her, but he seemed so calm, like he could just flip a switch and turn off the performance. “The photographers may not have been able to see us in the lounge chair anyway.”
“I just don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage—that you have to go along with something you don’t want in order to stay in character.”
“You think Maggie Tate isn’t perfectly capable of asserting herself and shutting you down if she feels like it? The press would probably love that even more than a kiss.”
“I didn’t want you to feel like you have to.”
“Of course not. I wanted to.” And then, realizing what she’d blurted, she blushed, lowering her eyes.
“Right,” he murmured. “Good.”
Awkwardness filled the air between them. She’d never been so confused about where she stood with a man who’d kissed her multiple times before, kissed her like she was everything, but then she’d never pretended to be a famous movie star in a relationship before. That did have a way of complicating things.
She cleared her throat softly, trying to return to professionalism. “I think that went well,” she whispered.
Cross nodded silently, glancing at the closed blinds as if looking for the microphones or sonic lasers or whatever crazy technology the paparazzi would use to listen in on them. “I should go,” he mouthed, and her heart sank.
She hadn’t realized how badly she’d wanted him to stay until that moment, when he squeezed her hand—as if to say good job, a nice little pat on the back—and then he was walking away from her. Stealthily out the door of her bedroom, leaving her there in a puddle of want.
Was he just being a gentleman? Was that why he was walking away from her? Trying not to pressure her? Trying not to cross a line? Because that was sexy and all—but it also left her in a welter of doubt about what he wanted.
On the balcony when he’d pulled her into his arms, so fast and perfect, there hadn’t been any doubt. But as soon as the door shut between them and the outside world, he’d come to his senses.
Did he not really want her? Was he only playing a part? When she’d said she’d wanted to kiss him, he hadn’t said it back. He’d just said good—whatever that was supposed to mean.
Was she the one taking advantage of him? She’d kissed him the first time. The only times he’d initiated anything were when they had to for the cameras. Was he really not interested?
She wished she knew him well enough to know. She only had a few pieces of the puzzle that made up Cross. Had she offended him by mentioning his mom again?
Did he even like her?
Bree flung herself on her back on her bed, staring up at the tray ceiling and trying not to groan in frustration. Trying to figure out the puzzle of Cross.
An image flashed in her mind—like one of her collages with the small photos creating the larger whole, but this time it wasn’t a street scene or a wave, it was Cross’s face. And each puzzle piece that created the whole was another confusing moment. The kiss. The jet-ski. Those moments in the dark when he’d been moving, all fluid grace. She could see it—the pieces of him composing the larger whole—but sadly it didn’t tell her anything else about what he wanted.
The man. The myth. The mystery.
Who she really needed to stop falling for.
She needed to keep her distance. That was the only solution. Now if only she could do that while pretending to fall in love with him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
You look overheated, Mr. Cross.
Those words. That sexy little purr.
Overheated didn’t even begin to cover it. His body temperature had been in the red zone ever since she’d given him that little come-hither grin—but she’d turned her face away the second the door had closed behind them, when they didn’t have to keep up the act anymore, the signal clear.
I wanted to.
Her voice echoed in his thoughts—so maybe the signal hadn’t been so clear, but he’d walked away. For his own self-preservation if nothing else. They were working together—albeit in an unusual way—and they needed to keep things as professional as possible. He already had Candy smirking at him every time they Skyped. He’d already snapped at his colleague about putting him in for the job—the last thing he needed was her pushing more of her meddle-in-his-love-life agenda.
He was perfectly capable of making his own choices, damn it. And he didn’t need to do anything else to muddy the waters of his professional relationship with Bree.
Her kisses may be hot enough to get him hard in two-point-two seconds, but he needed to keep his distance. And a cold shower—something to stop the highlight reel of that kiss from playing over and over again in his mind.
His room was dark when he entered, the drapes drawn against prying eyes, and Cross didn’t bother to turn on a light, moving straight to the bathroom and only flicking on the light over the shower after he kicked the door shut behind him. He cranked on the water, shucking his board shorts and stepping beneath the spray before it had time to warm up—and swearing profusely at the chilly blast.
Which did nothing to dispel his thoughts of Bree.
He should have stayed in the master suite. That had been the plan. Kaydee was in the house somewhere. She might see that he wasn’t with Maggie right now and suspect that their “relationship” wasn’t all Bree had been telling her it was—but he’d known if he stayed in the master with Bree, with the enormous bed so close, something would have happened that was far from professional.
He shuddered under the water as it slowly warmed, doing his damnedest not to think of how she’d looked and felt stretched out in the sun. She’d looked relaxed, but he’d felt the tension in her body. Bree may know how to throw herself into fun, but she didn’t know how to do nothing any better than he did. The lazy, lounging photo op hadn’t suited her any more than it had suited him. Though she’d certainly looked the part.
The bikini covered more than most—but he knew that was because it was also designed to amplify what she had up top. He knew from seeing her in the gym that her natural lines were more streamlined. Not willowy, that wasn’t the right word. It implied a flimsiness that didn’t fit. No. Bree was more aerodynamic. Like a high end sports car. All sleek lines and lethal sex appeal.
Cross cursed, closing a fist around the erection that refused to go away. It wasn’t natural, this reaction to her. He needed to get it under control. Take the edge off. His hand worked roughly up and down his shaft, eyes closing and head falling back as the muscles in his neck went loose. All he was seeing was Bree anyway. Challenging him with her eyes. Teasing him with her smiles. Pushing the limits, always pushing. She’d be like that in bed—enthusiastic. Demanding. Her hands on him. Her mouth…
He groaned roughly, working himself to a fast, rough release, leaning into the forearm he’d braced against the tiles. He breathed hard, the water pouring over his shoulders, warm now, almost too hot, and felt the heat seep into his bones.
But the relaxation didn’t penetrate all the way. That edge was still there. Beneath the surface.
He would run it off. He pushed away from the wall, briskly washing himself off and turning off the water. Five minutes later he was in workout clothes, jogging down the stairs to the fitness studio.
He didn’t see Kaydee—or Bree—as he avoided the windows—since as far as the paparazzi knew he was getting a different kind of exercise—and strode quickly into the cool, air-conditioned quiet of the studio.
He only realized he’d been straining his ears for the whirr of the treadmill as he approached when he found the room silent and empty. He moved to the treadmill, stepping on and cranking it up until he could stretch out his stride without bothering with a warm up—his muscles were plenty warm, thank you very much.
His feet pounded and he cranked up the speed again.
He’d never liked running on machines. For lifting weights they were fine, but when it came to running he’d take a track or a beach or pretty much any place where he could see the ground disappearing beneath his feet rather than a machine. He never felt like he got anywhere. Never felt like he accomplished anything. And if he wanted to put on an extra burst, to challenge himself up a hill or try to lap another jogger on the track, he had to ask the freaking machine to give him that program.
Did Bree prefer running on the treadmill? Or was she only doing it because she couldn’t run outside as Maggie?
I wanted to, her voice whispered in his mind and he shuddered. How much of what she did here was her and how much was because she was trapped in Maggie’s life? He didn’t really know her—just as Candy had taunted him—and the more he learned, the more he felt there were more layers to uncover.
He hadn’t realized how restless being caged in the house was going to make him. How restless it must have made her. They were alike in that, he knew. The agitation.
She got it. Because she felt it too.
His ex had never understood. Not that she’d tried very hard.
He shook away the thought. Why the hell was he thinking about Lauren? His ex was ancient history. And comparing her to Bree? He barely knew Bree. All he knew was how she kissed. And that was the kind of thinking-with-his-dick shit that had gotten him married to Lauren in the first place.
The fitness studio door swung inward and Bree froze on the threshold in her own snug little workout outfit, her wide eyes locking with his in the mirror. He saw the moment she made the decision to leave, her gaze shuttering before it flicked to the side and she murmured, “Sorry,” starting to turn away.
“Wait. Bree.” Cross broke stride, nearly braining himself on the nearby stationary bike as he leapt off the whirring treadmill to intercept her.
He slapped a hand on the door to the fitness studio to keep it from closing between them, ready to sprint after her, but she’d stopped at the sound of her name, though her expression remained wary as she faced him. Uncertain.
I wanted to. That voice again. Bree’s voice. Cross frowned, realizing for the first time that his father’s voice had been quiet the last few days. He didn’t hear it around her. That thing inside him, constantly pushing him to be more, to never stop, to always try harder—it was quieter in her presence. He could breathe with her. And he didn’t want her to walk away. He didn’t want to lose that.
“Can we talk?”
*
He wanted to talk. She’d just finished giving herself a pep talk about staying away from him and now the man who had done such a good job of keeping himself distant from her wanted to talk.
Of course he did.
She stood in the small hallway outside the fitness studio, hyperaware of every gorgeous inch of him, and knew she should say no even as she heard herself murmur, “Sure.”
He caught her hand—and Bree was so distracted by the feel of his warm, calloused fingers curled around hers that they were several feet down the hall before she realized she was following along obediently.
“Come here.” He ducked into the theatre room—one of the few rooms in the house without windows or exterior walls and therefore one of the few places they could talk privately. He released her hand and turned to shut the door behind them—and Bree tried not to deflate at the
loss of contact as he sealed them inside.
She’d been in this room a half a dozen times in the last two days, but suddenly she had a new awareness of the intimacy of the dark wood paneling—and of the giant couch that looked more like a bed that could sleep six.
Bree carefully avoided looking at that couch, moving toward one of the overstuffed ottomans.
“What did you want to talk about?” she asked, her voice low even though this was one of the few places in the house they could speak freely.
“I thought maybe we could get to know each other a little. It might make things easier, don’t you think? For the roles we’re playing?”
For the roles. Of course. She blushed, embarrassed that she’d thought he might actually be pulling her in here to have his way with her. “How is knowing me going to help you seduce Maggie?”
She needed to squash this stupid crush she had on him. He was a jock, an achiever, the kind of person who glided through life from success to success, king of all he surveyed, and she was the weird art chick who didn’t have the talent to succeed in the non-conformist art world. Their lives were too different. They were too different.
Cross shrugged, moving to the couch/bed and lowering himself on the edge as if it was nothing. “It could make us more comfortable around each other.” Half of his mouth tipped up in a crooked grin. “Honestly, I like being around you. I have these…I don’t know, not voices in my head, I’m not crazy, but sometimes I hear echoes of things people said to me once, haunting me, you know? Like they’re half my thoughts and half memories I can’t escape, but when I’m with you, they’re quieter. It’s like they don’t matter so much.”
She felt her face heating, always blushing with him, her heart humming with warmth at his words, though she tried to keep her voice professional. “I have those too,” she admitted softly. Those awful echoes. Not everyone has what it takes. You can’t just decide to be an artist. “Why are we never haunted by people telling us how awesome we are?”