by Lexi Ryan
“Janelle, how are you, dear?”
“I’m okay,” I lie. Courtney’s disappearance made the news, but Officer Gormong made it very clear that they don’t want the surrounding details of the case leaked to the press yet. That includes the letters and the break-in at my condo. He requested that we only talk about it to trusted friends and family. My big-mouthed agent doesn’t really fit the bill. “How are you, Merriellen?”
“Fabulous. Helen has agreed to meet me later this week and discuss what’s best for the film. I think this is a very good sign. I saw the pictures of you and your cutie-pie boyfriend. Any chance I could tell her that’d you’d be open to bringing your beau to LA for dinner with her sometime?”
The mention of my would-be director has me shooting another glare at the bathroom door. This is the part where it would be very convenient to know exactly why Cade is here and why he’s changed his mind about pretending to be my boyfriend—though I don’t remember ever asking him to do any such thing—and to what extent he’s willing to do said pretending.
“Janelle?” Merriellen says. “What do you think?”
I would never choose Cade to be my pretend boyfriend. My lover? Yes, please. But part of an ongoing charade that could make or break my career? There’s a good chance we’d kill each other before a week was up. I’m not even sure I want to share this hotel room with him and his tangled web of mixed signals. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”
Really, what else can I say? It’s not like I’m making actual plans. This is the equivalent of telling someone you’d love to catch up over drinks “someday.” Everyone knows “someday” is elusive. When someday finally rolls around, my PR crisis will have passed and Cade can conveniently not be in my life anymore.
“Fantastic,” Merriellen says. “Now tell me all the details. Is your detective as good in bed as Cara Fray says?”
* * *
Cade
Janelle isn’t sleeping when I get out of the shower. She’s put on one of the hotel’s big terry cloth robes and curled into the chair by the window.
I’m not sure if this is better or worse than finding her in bed.
I stood under the ice-cold spray of the shower and imagined her long legs tangling in the sheets, her hair spread out across the pillow. When my imagination drifted to her hand sliding between her legs, I not-so-easily redirected my thoughts to getting her back to New Hope. The sight of her now, however, slingshots my brain right back to the tangled sheets image. Only this time, I’m not imagining her alone.
I don’t realize she’s on the phone until I hear her speak.
“I’m safe,” she says. “Yes . . . no. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. In fact,” she says, giggling, “I’m in a beautiful room at the Beverly Wilshire.”
Something surges in my chest, and I tell myself the unwelcome feeling is nothing more than aggravation over her disclosing her location. It’s not jealousy that some other man might be treated to that bright, happy laughter. Who’s she talking to? Did she call Tom as soon as I climbed in the shower? I can’t make out the words, but I can make out the rumble of a deep voice coming from the phone.
“No, I’m not alone.” She’s silent for a beat, then says, “Cade’s with me,” and I feel a rush of satisfaction. Whoever she’s talking to, I like the idea of him knowing I’m here.
She traces a pattern on the chair’s upholstery for long seconds as she listens, still seemingly oblivious to my presence. “I promise I’ll explain when I’m back in town. It’s complicated . . . Yeah, well, Hanna is overprotective. It’s not like you were the perfect prince when you two started dating.”
Hanna. Which means she’s talking to her brother. Relief loosens whatever unreasonable emotions were holding my lungs in a vise. My heavy exhale gets Janelle’s attention, and she holds up a single finger to indicate she’s almost done.
She grins at the phone then laughs. “I agree. What? You said it first. I’m just agreeing she could have done better.” She laughs again, so much more relaxed than she was fifteen minutes ago. “Okay. Give my nieces kisses for me. Love you too.” She ends the call and turns. “Nice shower?”
“Sure.” I sink into the chair across from her and instantly regret it. From this position, I can see her bare thighs peeking out from the slit in the robe. I scan the room and find her clothes in a neat pile on the dresser. She’s naked under all that fluffy white cotton. The smooth skin at the curve of her calf makes my hands itch to part the robe farther. Higher. To follow the path north to other stretches of softness I haven’t gotten to explore nearly long enough.
I force my gaze in the opposite direction that my hands want to go. Her toenails are painted light pink, and her feet have the prettiest arch to them.
Since when do I care about feet?
God help me.
“Sorry I, um”—she clears her throat— “invited myself to your shower.”
My head snaps up. We’re going to talk about this? For real? Most women I know would have never mentioned it again. “Not a problem.”
She steadies her gaze on me, studying my face as if she’s trying to figure me out. “You kissed me. It was a very convincing kiss.”
“Tom was standing there. He needed to see that.” I draw in a ragged breath. “There will be more of that in the coming days—kissing in front of people just so they see us. It would be a mistake to confuse what we need to do for an audience for what we do in private.”
She’s silent for a beat, as if she’s turning that over in her mind. “You may have missed your calling as an actor.”
I give her a hard look. I didn’t say anything about acting. Kissing her is easy. It’s the not kissing that’s going to be the death of me.
Her gaze slides over me, from my bare feet to my jeans and tank, halting at my face. “Are you feeling all right? Your lips are a little blue.”
“Cold shower.” Setting my jaw, I shrug as if it’s every day I have to freeze my balls off to resist a woman.
The corners of her mouth twitch, but she doesn’t comment. “What is this?” she asks, waving her hand between us. “You’re here and suddenly going to act like my boyfriend? Why?”
“Isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that the solution to all your problems?”
She shifts in her chair, folding her legs under her, and the robe gapes above her breasts. There’s nothing indecent about the amount of skin she’s showing, but try telling that to my sex-starved brain. “You made it very clear you wanted nothing to do with my efforts to fix my reputation,” she says. “What changed?”
Right. The explanation I was too much of a dick to give her before my arctic shower. “Officer Gormong is an old friend. He called me because he thought you and I were together. His wife had seen the pictures.”
“I haven’t had a chance to set the story straight.” She rubs a hand over her face. “I got home and saw the flowers on my bed, and then everything got a little crazy.”
“He thought I’d want to know what happened to you,” I continue. “When he told me, I didn’t correct his assumptions about our relationship. I decided it would be better not to.”
“I never intended to get you involved. There was another guy at the party Matt had hired to . . .” She shifts awkwardly. “Matt hired a guy to play the part of my boyfriend. I knew he’d be there dressed as Batman. We were going to introduce him to my family and friends and make out at the party. Then we were going to pretend to get engaged and pray my director would take note and forgive my lapse of judgment with Tom.”
As much as I’d like to think she’s as conniving as Cara, I’ve thought a lot in the last day about the look on her face when she lifted up my mask. She was surprised, and then she ran in the other direction. I was the one who chased after her. “You kissed the wrong Batman,” I say.
Part of me wishes I gave her the chance to explain as much back at Nate’s house, but it wouldn’t have changed anything. She’s still part of a world I can’t stomach. My attraction to her and
any illusions said attraction is planting in my brain have nothing to do with my decision to come here.
She takes a deep breath. “When I took you to Maggie and Asher’s, I had no intention of involving you in my plans to repair my reputation.”
I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, and study her. “But by the time you took me to Asher’s, you’d seen my face. You knew I wasn’t your hired stud.” It’s not a question, and she doesn’t reply. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you leave that party with me when the guy you needed for your plan was waiting inside?”
Her cheeks flare pink, and she cuts her eyes to the side. “I guess I was running.”
“From what?”
“From the plan Matt had already set in motion.” She shrugs but holds my gaze. “I don’t care for what Matt Hailey does, and I think what he did to you was unconscionable.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Not much. Enough. I’ve proven that I’m not above using Matt’s services,” she says, grimacing, “but I would never lie to someone the way Cara lied to you.”
“And yet you were willing to lie to your friends and family. To tell them a relationship was real when it wasn’t.”
“Touché.” She gives a sad smile. “I’m sorry about the way it unfolded, and I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to untangle you from my lies.”
“I’m not.”
Her lips part in surprise. “What?”
“I’m not sorry. It’s true I didn’t want to have anything to do with the plans you made with Matt, but now I’m glad I have an excuse to stay close to you.”
“Is this about Cara?” she asks. “Are you trying to get back at her or something?”
It is about Cara, but not in the way she thinks. “I don’t give a shit what Cara thinks about me and my love life. Not anymore.”
“So . . .” She arches a brow. “Am I understanding you? You’re actually offering to pretend to be my boyfriend so I can fix my reputation?”
“I’m pretending to be your boyfriend so I have an excuse to stay close to you and keep you safe until they catch this guy. I’m not doing interviews or going out of my way to make the media think we’re madly in love, but I’ll be by your side. If you can resist your ex’s bullshit and not fuck around with him, I imagine you’ll get what you set out for.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not having an affair with Tom.”
I shrug. “Not my business.”
“I know the press makes it sound like he and I have been sleeping together, but I wouldn’t do that. It really was just that one night and just that one kiss. He said he’d left her. A lie, and that’s on him. But he also said he missed me. He said leaving me was the biggest mistake he’d ever made. I believed him, and that’s on me.”
There it is. That goddamned vulnerability. I weave around it like I’m dodging a punch. “Your past doesn’t matter to me beyond what I need to know to protect you.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not that I don’t appreciate your Rambo efforts to save the day, but doesn’t this seem like an overreaction? Someone has been sending me creepy letters and then broke into my apartment and left me a creepy message. Courtney’s temporary disappearance may not even be connected, and she’s fine. I’m not sure the situation calls for you to play bodyguard.”
“They found Courtney at her house.”
“I know.” She frowns. “And she wasn’t hurt, right?”
“She doesn’t remember anything from the time she was missing. She was partying at an LA club and the next thing she remembers, she was waking up in the bathroom at Highland Park Station. They’re doing blood work right now, and I expect it will show high doses of Rohypnol or a similar drug. That would explain why she doesn’t remember, and why she can’t explain the ligature marks on her wrists and ankles.”
“Ligature marks?” she repeats in a whisper. “Like someone had her tied up.”
“They’re also performing a full physical exam. And a rape kit.” I pause and allow that to sink in before I continue. “This isn’t nothing, Janelle. This is real and it’s scary, and until they arrest whoever’s behind it, you’re in danger.”
She shivers and wraps her arms around herself. “Who is he?”
“We don’t know. Honestly, at this point we don’t have any evidence that the perp is male.” We don’t know much of anything, and considering how careful the perp has been thus far, I don’t expect Courtney would have been left in that bathroom with any kind of DNA evidence on her. “I know you didn’t ask me to come here or to stay with you, but I need to. And I need you to promise me you’ll take this seriously.”
“Of course.” She stands, looking a little dazed, and I feel like a dick for the second time since we walked into this room. I hate seeing her scared, but fuck, she needs to be scared. “I need a shower and some sleep.”
“I need a few hours myself,” I say, eyeing her cautiously. “I’ll take the couch.”
“No, please. Take the bed. I can sleep anywhere.”
“I’ll take the couch,” I repeat, going to the closet for extra pillows and blankets.
I’m settling onto my makeshift bed when I hear the shower turn on. I force my eyes to close, wondering if it’s even possible to doze off with so much lust and adrenaline poisoning my blood. The worry hardly has a chance to settle before I fall asleep.
When I wake up, the sun is low in the sky, and the room is quiet. I stand and stretch quietly. I hope Janelle was able to sleep too, but I don’t want to wake her.
Only, when I turn to the bed, she’s not there. “Janelle?” I call, spinning slowly and already knowing I’m alone in the room.
Tamping down instinctive panic, I search the room, check the bathroom, step into the hallway, and even look in the fucking closet.
“Janelle!” I call again, louder this time.
She’s gone.
Chapter 7
Janelle
“I should really go,” I say over the music for the third time, but there’s no conviction to my voice. I don’t want to go anywhere right now—not because hanging with Matthew is so great, but because every alternative I’ve come up with blows.
Matt shrugs and signals the waitress for another round. “Or you could keep me company.”
“Hmm . . .” I pretend to think it over. “Sure. I guess.”
Really, there’s nothing to think about. I could stay here at the HiLo, sipping cosmos and escaping reality for another thirty minutes, or I could return to that too-small hotel room with broody Cade of the broad shoulders and smoldering eyes. Cade, whose words and actions seem to contradict each other in every moment. He doesn’t like me, but he flew across the country to protect me. He doesn’t think we should touch in private, but he looks at me like he wants to lick every inch of me.
Maybe I’m projecting on that last one. It could be that I think he wants to lick every inch of me because I want him to. Or because I want to lick every inch of him.
The waitress brings my martini and I sip, absently tugging at the too-short skirt Matt bought for me when I asked him to bring me clothes. On one side of me, Jamaal sits, quietly scanning the crowd and generally looking like a badass. He’s wearing a black suit and his shoulders take up half the booth. Jamaal worked personal security for my brother for years, and I still consider him a good friend. When Matt texted about meeting tonight, I knew I shouldn’t leave the hotel without some sort of bodyguard. I’m still pretty freaked about what may have happened to Courtney while she was missing, and I figured Cade wouldn’t be quite so pissed about me slipping out if he knew I had extra protection.
On the other side of me, Matt prattles on about some diva who just landed her first big film role. “She thought I’d work for her for free,” Matt says. “For, like, the honor, or the experience or some shit.”
I pretend to listen to Matt’s gossip, but my mind is on Cade. Any number of people are capable of keeping me safe until the police track down this creep. Why is Cade so determined to do the job him
self? He’s so hellbent on protecting me that he’s willing to fake a relationship, something he sneered at just yesterday morning? It doesn’t add up. There’s more he’s not telling me.
Pathetically, I keep circling back to our conversation when we first arrived at the hotel.
“Fuck you.”
“That wasn’t in my plans, but it could be arranged.”
If only. If Cade were really interested in fucking me, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d be exploring the muscles that contour his chest and abs. Finding out what noises he makes when he comes. It’s not fair, really. During our one night together, he explored my body with his hands and mouth, but I never got my turn.
He’s not like the guys here in LA—the kind who wax their chests to make their muscles more prominent. Cade doesn’t need to wax and would probably laugh at anyone who suggested it. He is one hundred percent male, with a smattering of chest hair to prove it. I’d like to trace my fingers along the path of soft hair beneath his navel, like to wake him from a deep sleep by following it with my tongue.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I snap my head up. As if my fantasies alone conjured him, Cade is standing at the end of our table, glaring at me. It could be the martinis talking, but he looks absolutely edible—jeans slung low on his hips and a dark button-up shirt rolled up his forearms. This morning’s stubble has gotten thicker, making him look a little wild. Dangerous. Even his scowl is sexy, and I want to rub against him and purr.
Jamaal is halfway to his feet when I grab his wrist to stop him. “It’s okay. That’s Cade,” I say. Jamaal settles back into our booth, not relaxed but at least not ready to pounce.
Matt winces, hunching his shoulders as if Cade might take a swing at him. “Watts. Good to see you again.” Matt offers his hand.
Cade ignores Matt and shifts that hot and angry gaze back to me. He opens his mouth to speak, then seems to reconsider as he closes it. Irritation washes over his features as he asks, “Are you okay?” He’s practically shouting to be heard over the music.