TEN DAYS

by Jenna Mills

A thrill.

  "Why?" It was almost midnight. He'd been the star attraction all evening, something I already knew he detested.

  I'd expected him to stay in his office, maybe. His bedroom. Some place private, away from me and my questions. My camera—

  "Because you're a guest in my home."

  It was the perfect shot, the way he lounged there against the side of the arch, his tux jacket gone, the top several buttons of his white shirt unfastened, a glass in his hands...

  But I'd left my phone upstairs.

  "Did you forget which room was yours?" he asked, pushing from the arch to walk deeper into the study.

  It was caution that told me to step back.

  It was instinct that told me not to.

  "No," I said. "Wasn't tired."

  A faint half smile curved his mouth. "Then maybe you forgot what I said about closed doors?"

  He knew. That was the first thing that fired through me.

  Not just about the cabinet I'd been about to open, but upstairs. The doors.

  He knew.

  "What were you looking for?" he asked, opening a small door in the side table and pulling out a bottle of scotch. "Me? My room?"

  Him.

  His room.

  "Or maybe," he said, pouring a splash of amber into his glass, "it was all those skeletons you've read about?"

  I watched him lift the drink to his mouth. "Are you always so suspicious?" I cringed the second the words left my mouth. Yes. He was a horror writer. Suspicion was his stock and trade. "I was only curious—"

  He laughed. "That's why you're here."

  "Yes."

  "Then that's something we have in common," he said, pouring a second glass. "Curiosity—wanting to know what's going on when I'm not around." He lifted his eyes dead straight to mine. "A man in my position learns you can never be too careful."

  And yet he'd invited me into his home...

  "...did you know that my house was broken into four years ago?" he asked. "My office vandalized?"

  I was standing so still, it shouldn't have been possible to go even more still.

  But I did.

  "That's why I have cameras now," he said, glancing toward the ceiling, where a red light glowed. A light I had not noticed before. "Nothing happens here that I don't know about."

  Of course.

  Of course.

  It made sense.

  And yet, I'd never considered the possibility, nor had Uncle Nathan said a word.

  "Is there one in my room?" The question shot out before I realized it was there.

  The image formed just as quickly.

  Of me in my room, naked.

  Of him, watching.

  He stepped closer. "You've been reading too many books," he added, lifting the second glass toward me.

  No more than two feet separated us. I could easily have taken the glass.

  I didn't.

  "No," he finally said, and a single corner of his mouth curved. "There's no camera in your room."

  The breath rushed straight out of me.

  "Don't be afraid," he added, gesturing with the glass. "It's a good way to say goodnight."

  I should have told him I'd had enough to drink. That I was tired and really wanted to go to bed. That it had been a long day. But none of those words formed. The thoughts barely registered. There was only him, and me, and the scotch he offered, and before I could fully process what I was doing or who we even were—that he was Aidan Cross-my uncle's client, the boy I'd watched dribble a ball in my uncle's driveway all those crazy, blurry years ago—I was stepping closer and taking the glass.

  Hands. They're such a simple thing. Random. Basic.

  Except they aren't.

  Not when you really look, when you notice fingers—and scars.

  Not when flesh brushes flesh.

  And warmth slips from body to body.

  "You should smile more."

  Again, only words, but that low thrum inside me, they sent it thrumming even harder, and from one shallow breath to the next, I knew. I knew what the pulsing was. It was awareness. And caution.

  And thrill.

  All three, wound so tightly together.

  Deliberately, I looked up from the swirl of the amber to him, the swirl of his own eyes, so heavy-lidded now. "I smile when there's reason to."

  He seemed to consider that. "You did a lot when you were a little girl. Did you have more reasons then?"

  He was a man who noted everything, and forgot nothing. "I enjoyed visiting my uncle."

  "Everyone likes to escape."

  I lifted the glass to my mouth, and sipped. "He had a great house."

  "And he wasn't your mother."

  My throat burned.

  Because of the scotch, I told myself.

  That was all.

  Not because of what he said.

  "What about now?" he asked, settling down into a leather club chair that looked like it had been tailor-made for the darkly paneled room—and for him. He draped one leg draped over the curved arm, the other bent in front of him. "What makes you smile now?"

  My mouth tried to curve—I wouldn't let it. "Is that why you waited up for me?" I asked instead. "To find out what makes me smile?"

  I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't for him to laugh. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"

  I couldn't help it. This time I was the one who laughed. "Not for a second."

  For a long moment he just watched me. Then, slowly, he lifted his glass, and sipped.

  "Sit," he said motioning first toward the rich leather sofa, then my stilettos. "You don't need those anymore."

  Information, I reminded myself. That's why I was here. To get a look into his life. Unguarded. Uncensored.

  Midnight, barefoot, with a snifter of scotch—it was a good way to start.

  "Much better," he said after I kicked off the shoes and settled against the thick cushions. "I saw you, you know."

  "Saw me?"

  "With Sloan."

  I stilled. Because I knew. I knew everything had just changed. And I knew there was nothing casual about our nightcap. It was methodical, planned. He'd gotten me comfortable and relaxed, before casting his line and going for the kill.

  Once you're in his world, you're in his story.....

  "What did he tell you?" he asked quietly. "That he's a friend?"

  I thought about lying. I thought about a lot of things. About playing games and evasive tactics, about trust—and consequences.

  In the end, the truth seemed a better option. "No."

  "Then what?"

  I toyed with my glass—instinct told me not to tell him everything. "He was curious about me and why I was with you."

  "And what did you tell him?"

  The curve of my mouth was slow, deliberate. "Nothing."

  Aidan's eyes darkened. "There. You smiled."

  The rush was automatic, a blast of heat from the inside out.

  I was going to have to be more careful around him.

  "He doesn't like you," I said.

  "No, he doesn't."

  "Why?"

  The shadow fell, despite the shadows already there. "Because he loved my wife."

  Silence kept whispering. Stillness kept pulsing. And Aidan, he stayed where he was, right there in his chair with the sleek white cat, watching me watch him. I knew he was looking for some kind of reaction to his words, words that hung between us with the finality of a last breath.

  Thousands of little pieces. That's what makes up our lives. Pieces that shape us and pieces that destroy. Some fit together easily, snugly. Others never do. They're too broken. Too worn down. Some are distorted, lost. There are big pieces and little pieces, pieces that shape us and every breath we take, while others are no more than window-dressing or pops of color.

  This, I instinctively knew, was one of those pieces, the ones that shaped.

  And he'd handed it to me, of his own free will.

  Maybe I should have been exc
ited or satisfied, patting myself on the back for a job well done, but the memory of Sloan's words echoed through me, and all I could find myself wondering was why. Why would Aidan tell me, a virtual stranger, this on our first night together?

  "This is when you ask me a follow-up question," he prompted, as I continued to study him.

  My silence made him uneasy. It was a fascinating realization, one that made no sense.

  How do you know?

  Are you sure?

  Did she love him, too?

  Those were the questions he wanted me to ask. I made note of that, as well as the importance of finding answers from someone other than him.

  "How long have you known each other?" I asked instead.

  Aidan's eyes narrowed. "Sloan? Since third grade."

  Not the answer I was expecting. "Were you friends then? When you were boys?"

  "Inseparable."

  A quick little twist went through me.

  "He was best man in my wedding."

  I worked hard to keep my expression blank. "Did he love her even then?" I asked, edging closer to the questions he wanted me to ask.

  Aidan leaned back, resting his head against the leather of the chair. The cat didn't move. "Yes. But he thought she was happy, and that was his gift to her."

  There was no missing the bitterness to his words. "He told you that?"

  Aidan laughed. "No. She did."

  My eyes widened before I could stop them, and Aidan laughed again, more softly this time. "Not what you were expecting me to say?"

  So much hit me, all that I didn't know laid out in a perfect minefield around me. Lies, secrets, truths, all masquerading as the same.

  My expression carefully blank, I looked at Aidan sprawled so benignly in his chair, with the big white cat draped like a limp scarf along the back.

  "What's her name?" I asked.

  He reached back, running a hand along her fur. "Stella."

  Watching him, I took a slow sip. "She follows you everywhere."

  "She was my wife's." The words were matter-of-fact, his eyes cool, unreadable. "So how am I doing?" he asked. "Am I giving you enough dirt for your little exposé?"

  I winced. "It's not an exposé."

  "No?" His eyes were narrow, Stella's a hypnotic green glow. "What are you calling it then?"

  "A feature article."

  "Ah." It was barely more than a breath. "Article."

  It was impossible to tell if he was resentful, cautious—or sad.

  Or maybe all three.

  "I'm not here for dirt," I went on. "Only to help the public get to know you better. To give them a glimpse inside your process—your life." Rehearsed. It all sounded so rehearsed. "People today want a more intimate relationship with celebrities. With social media, they're getting never-before access—"

  Aidan rolled his glass around in his hands—he might as well have rolled his eyes. "What if I prefer to choose who I'm intimate with?"

  That stopped me.

  Intimate.

  It was my word.

  "What if I don't want to be an open book—a whore for whoever wants me?"

  My fingers tightened against the glass.

  "What if I've found it wise to keep some doors closed?" he asked. "Is that a crime?"

  The words he chose, the images they created, sent something uncomfortable humming through me. "You can close whatever doors you want to. Lock them if you need. I'm not here to force you into anything."

  Maybe not the smartest response. I wasn't even sure where the words came from. That wasn't generally how I spoke and absolutely wasn't how I planned to conduct our sessions. Professional, I reminded myself. Make him comfortable. Let him feel like he was calling the shots...

  But don't play back. Don't forget the objective—the rules.

  "Maybe you should tell that to them," he said, sliding something from his pocket.

  My heart gave a quick little thud. I don't know if it was the dry amusement to his voice, or the way he was looking at me, the gleam in his eyes as he handed me his phone, but instinctively I looked down at the screen, and everything stilled.

  "I told you it wouldn't take long."

  There I was, in the moonlight—and his arms. His face was tilted down to me, mine up to him. And his hands, I hadn't realized. I hadn't realized how they'd splayed against my back, holding me like that, so possessively.

  The rush was automatic, a vague, unexpected whisper deep, deep inside. My first night in New Orleans, my first public appearance with Aidan, and already I was being cast as his new lover—and as I read further, warned to stay away.

  "Mystery man and his mystery woman?" I couldn't help it. I laughed. "Kinda catchy."

  He still leaned toward me, close enough that the warmth of his body slipped against mine. "But lazy," he said.

  "Not to mention inaccurate."

  His eyes met mine. "You think anyone cares about what's real or true? As long as it's a good story?"

  There was no denying he had a point. "Telling stories has worked out pretty good for you so far, hasn't it?"

  "I've never pretended to tell the truth."

  "Can I quote you on that?"

  "Can I stop you?"

  My smile was slow, knowing. "Are you really going to tell me anything you don't want me to share?"

  "Depends upon how subtle you are," he said quietly, and then he had his phone back in his hands and he was leaning back in his chair, lifting his glass for a long deliberate sip. "Why are you here, Kendall?"

  His voice was quieter than before, hoarser, way more dead serious. So were his eyes. They were narrow, focused...and locked directly onto mine.

  The sun. That was all I could think. It was like being blinded by the sun in the middle of the night, and the urge to look away, turn away, was strong.

  I didn't.

  "Haven't we covered that?" I asked—but clearly he didn't believe me. The realization caught me off guard.

  But it shouldn't have. Truth and lies were the sea Aidan Cross navigated every day of his life—and I could hardly wait to get upstairs to start writing.

  "I can get my list of questions, if you like—" I offered.

  "No." Still leaning forward, he kept watching me. "Anyone could ask me those. They could have been emailed. I'm talking about you. Why you're really here."

  The breath rushed out of me.

  "I know what your uncle wants, and I know what he says is in it for me. What I don't know is how you fit in. What's in it for you, Kendall Rose? Why are you the one here?"

  Kendall Rose.

  He remembered.

  He shouldn't have.

  We'd barely spoken all those years ago.

  "Why not me?" I asked.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. "You have to want something more than just digging up dirt—"

  "I told you. This isn't about dirt."

  "Whatever. You have to want something else. There's got to be something in it for you."

  Of course there was.

  "Are you trying to get your foot in the door?" he asked. "To prove yourself? Learn something?"

  I indulged a long, slow sip of scotch, wishing there was more, a lot more, when the glass ran dry. "Maybe all of the above."

  "Whose idea?" he asked. "Nathan's—or yours?"

  The memory flashed, of the Christmas dinner several months before, when my uncle had been lamenting Aidan's upcoming book release, his declining sales, and his tarnished public image.

  "His," I lied. I had no idea why, because again, I felt a nudge of guilt the second the words slipped out. But caution warned me not to give Aidan Cross anything he could use against me.

  "I see," he said. "So tell me...where do you want to begin?"

  A breath of cold

  I wrote it all down, every impression and discovery from my first day. Still not tired, I crossed the guest room, dropped onto the velvet settee, and reached inside my purse for my phone.

  The feel of something small and unfamiliar stopped
me. I'd put a few essentials into the clutch. That was all. But there in the shadows, my fingers closed around something other than my phone or wallet or lipstick, something small and thin. Cardboard.

  A matchbook, I quickly discovered. For a French Quarter Hotel: Maison de R.

  I sat there a long moment, trying to remember. Trying to remember picking up the matchbook. Trying to remember someone giving it to me. If maybe it was already in the purse when the evening began.

  Trying to remember putting my purse down—

  —or getting close enough to someone else.

  I'm not sure what made me flick the cover open. I'm not sure what made my heart slam before I even looked inside. But I know what sent the breath of cold stabbing through me.

  Eight words.

  A question.

  Neatly printed on the inside cover.

  Do you have any idea what you're doing?

  Man of Mystery

  He stands tall at the back of a glittering ballroom. Adoring fans surround him. Live music plays. Cameras flash. And yet he is utterly alone.

  Because that's the way he likes it.

  Or at least, that's what he wants everyone to believe.

  There are those who say he works all night and sleeps all day. Some say he can be seen walking the streets of the Garden District, while the rest of the world sleeps. There are those who believe he becomes his characters. That he lives his stories. That he's deceptive, manipulative, a master of illusion. That he knows how to stage the perfect crime, how the police think, and how to outsmart them. That he used this knowledge to kill his wife, and get away with murder.

  Still others maintain he is tragic, a man alone in the ruins of his life.

  That he's private.

  Tortured.

  Barely a few hours in his world, and I can see hints of every rumor and allegation I've read.

  Ten days. That's what I have. Ten days to pull back the curtain on the man behind the carefully-cultivated persona. The real man. Not the media creation. Not the fangirl fantasy. Ten days to learn what makes him tick, how his mind works, what drives him—haunts him. To find what makes him smile, laugh.

  Ten days...to find his pulse.

  Ten nights.

  Already I know they they will never be enough.

  Day 2