Not that she remembers, I thought ruefully.
The five-course luncheon concluded with an overview of my expense account. A fucking huge expense account. The astronomical limit was to cover any emergencies that might come up – I assumed that was code for 'bail' – plus a new wardrobe. As I was to blend in with the socially elite LA crowd, it was expected that I wear designer labeled suits. I would also have to expense food, nightclub cover charges, and whatever other costs associated with the exclusive venues Leighton most frequently visited. I was getting the impression this wasn't so much my expense account as it was me curtailing Leighton's spending habits.
“Oh, good,” Leighton said, flicking her eyes up from her phone. “I love doing makeovers.”
“No, dear, I'm sure Rutherford will be able to direct Mr. Welch toward a reputable tailor,” Devlin said, his tone almost dismissive.
Who the hell was Rutherford?
She rolled her eyes and said, “Take the fun out of everything.” She sounded like a child, but I saw a flash of hurt cross her eyes and knew that her grandfather's tone hadn't been lost on her.
Devlin checked his expensive watch and pushed his chair back. “I'm glad you accepted this position, Mr. Welch.”
“Please, call me Haze,” I said, standing to shake his hand. I gave him a smile. “It's what I'm used to answering to.”
The smile he returned didn't tell me if he was going to change what he was calling me. “I trust you can find your way back to your quarters?”
“Yes, thank you, the guest house is more than generous,” I said.
Devlin nodded at me, but his mind was clearly elsewhere as he left the dining room. As soon as he disappeared, Leighton was up from the table, wandering off, her eyes glued to her phone.
“I'm sorry,” Ian said as he stood. “She really isn't like this all the time.”
He hurried after her, and I saw him grab her elbow. He hissed in her ear, but they were too far away for me to hear. It didn't matter though. It wasn't my business.
Before the young soldier had a chance to drag a reluctant Leighton back to the table, I turned and found my way through the kitchen and out past the pool. Behind the Grecian-style pool house was a Wisteria-obscured cottage. The guesthouse had two stories, three bedrooms, and a workout room in the basement. I opened the door and wondered if I would ever use the chef's appointed kitchen, the wide stone fireplace, or the secluded back patio complete with a private hot tub.
Time to unpack.
I went upstairs and into the bedroom I picked out before I'd gone to the house for lunch. I'd chosen the one that overlooked the cobblestone path to the pool and main house since it had the best vantage points. My duffel bag was already on the bed and I unzipped it. I stared down at the contents. How many times had I done this? Put my entire life into a single bag.
I ran my hand through my hair and closed my eyes. What the hell was going on here? My head was starting to pound and my muscles were stiff after the flight. I needed a shower. And a drink. The second wouldn't happen while I was on duty, but I could at least manage the first. I rubbed the back of my head, so distracted by what happened that I leaned too far to the right.
A sickening wave of dizziness rolled over me, and it took all my strength to freeze in place. The world seemed to careen around me as the vertigo struck, but over the last four months, I'd trained myself to withstand the onslaught and not let it force me to my knees.
It was so frustrating, the trade-off I’d made to save Ian’s life. While I hadn’t died saving him, a part of me was gone. The tiniest of tears had ripped my world apart, shredded it into something unrecognizable. I just hoped that this job would prove that the doctors were wrong. Or maybe it would give me the time to fully heal so I could go back to active duty.
A few minutes passed and, finally, the disorienting feeling passed, and I opened my eyes. Still stiff and sore, I picked up a pair of jeans, then froze. A sound, so slight that I almost dismissed it. My gut said not to though.
Had someone come in while I was fighting off the BPPV?
For the thousandth time, I cursed my injury and moved soundlessly down the stairs. I refused to believe that my injuries could disqualify me from active duty, but someone had managed to enter the guesthouse without my immediate awareness. I darted a look around the corner, and found Leighton helping herself to a generous drink from the fully-stocked bar in the arched-ceiling dining room.
“Want one?” she asked without looking at me. “Oh, wait. We should probably have these removed. Grandfather doesn't approve of the help drinking alcohol unless they're on vacation.”
The help. I gritted my teeth.
She swirled the vodka and grenadine around and sipped it. I waited for her to say something, but she said nothing and took her time finishing her drink.
“Can I help you, Ms. Machus?” I asked. I kept my face blank and hoped she couldn't hear or see or feel how much it was killing me that she showed absolutely no recognition.
“No,” she said, finally turning toward me. “But Grandfather insisted on hiring you.”
I didn't take the bait. I knew exactly what she was trying to do. She really didn't remember me. If she did, she would've told her grandfather. It was clear she didn't want me anywhere near her and pointing a finger would've been a surefire way to ensure it. She batted her red curls away from her face and rolled her eyes.
“I'm going out. Now,” she said.
I opened the front door and held it for her.
She started toward the door, but stopped when she was directly in front of me. She looked me up and down, stopping just short of eye contact. “Is that what you're wearing?”
15
Leighton
I answered my phone as soon as I saw the name on the caller ID. “Hey, Paris. Are you back in town?”
“Got back a couple hours ago. Where are you? We need to go out and have some fun!” Her familiar voice was bubbly and light, exactly what I needed to hear.
I could tell she was in her car, probably trying to shake off the long plane ride with her parents. Having a private jet sounded like a luxury, but it was also a way for her parents to contain her long enough to have serious conversations. At least that was one method Grandfather hadn't tried yet.
“What was it this time?” I asked, smiling.
“Oh, you know, the usual. I drink too much, go out too much, and don't do anything but shop and spend money,” Paris said breezily. “Where are you? I'm coming to pick you up.”
“I'm out shopping,” I said. “Maybe later.”
Paris hung up the phone, and I bit my lip. She was probably mad at me, but that was too bad. I didn't want to share right now.
I looked up at the dressing room doorway. Haze scowled at me. Thanks to the tight charcoal t-shirt he was wearing, I could now see at least two new tattoos on his arms. On his right bicep was a sniper rifle, army helmet, and boots with a banner over them that said 'to the fallen' in elegant script. There were a couple other things written that I assumed were names, but I couldn't read them from where I was standing. On his left forearm was a green beret with a knife through it. I assumed it had some sort of military significance.
I handed him an expensive black leather belt and tried to pretend I wasn't ogling his muscles. “It'll do, I guess.”
Haze handed the belt back to me. “I'm not wearing a belt with flowers etched on the buckle.” There was a moment of hesitation before he added, “Ms. Machus.”
“It's ivy,” I said, but turned to select another belt.
Haze came over to the rack and reached around me to pick up a simple black leather belt with a small rectangular buckle. I pretended to consider it and not pay attention to the tall, muscular body towering over me. The new clothes or the colognes for sale in the store didn’t disguise his natural scent of bergamot and cedar. I strained not to lean back against his chest, to not show just how much I wanted to feel him against me one more time.
“Fine,” I said as I
ducked under his arm. “You can pick the belt because it'll go with everything else. I get to choose the rest to be your uniform. You're going to need shoes and a jacket as well. Do you have a suit?” I knew my voice sounded brisk, but it was the only way I could keep it from shaking with desire.
“I can buy my own shoes.” His voice was flat, but I could sense an undercurrent of annoyance. He reached into the waistline of the pants and yanked off the tag. The shop girl watched in horror as he reached up to the collar of his shirt and did the same thing.
“What are you doing?” I asked, exasperated. I glanced at the still gaping sales girl and flicked my fingers at her. She nodded and scurried off. I'd shopped here enough with Ricky that they knew I was good for whatever I wanted.
“You're going out, so I'm on duty. Might as well wear my new uniform,” he said matter-of-factly.
“How do you know I'm going out?” I flipped through a rack of jackets.
“Aren't you always?” He grabbed his old clothes, rolled them up, and tucked them under his arm. Even with the bundle under his arm, he looked like he was standing at attention.
I frowned and handed him a black sports coat. I wasn't sure if I was frowning at him or at the fact that we'd been together for nearly two hours now and he still didn't recognize me.
I chose my usual defense mechanism. Bitch. “If only I could buy you better manners.”
“I overheard you on your phone, Ms. Machus. Everyone did.” He looked at the jacket for a moment and then handed it back. “I'm not wearing this.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I'm not an undertaker, and I was never a fan of Johnny Cash.” His tone was mild, but firm.
“Who?”
He shook his head and put the coat back on the rack. This time, I stepped back as he flipped through the selection. I wanted to watch him. I wanted to remind him we had met before. The temptation of jogging his memory with a kiss ran through my head, and I was glad I was far enough away from him to resist.
He picked a dark gunmetal gray sports coat. “How about this one?”
“And the black one,” I said, heading to the counter before he could see that I was paying more attention to him than I should.
I needed to remember all of what happened that night. He'd been the one who walked out and left me alone. I'd been at his mercy, depending on him to take care of me, and I'd tried to make part of that being about making me forget. Four years later, I was still paying the price. His scent alone was enough to make me weak.
“I'm surprised you're picking out coats,” he said as he joined me at the counter. “I wouldn't have thought your fashion sense ran that way.”
“What?” I asked absently. “You don't want to cover up your new tattoos?”
He stiffened next to me.
“New?” he asked softly.
Shit.
I sucked in a breath and held it. I could tell the tattoos on his arms were new because they weren’t there four years ago. I could still see him in my mind's eye. Beautiful golden skin over chiseled muscles. And only two tattoos.
I handed the girl my credit card and weighed my choices. I could confront Haze here in public and hope his desire for professionalism was enough to keep him from taking it any further. Or I could play off the comment, pretending it had only been some off-hand remark, continue the ruse that I didn't remember him.
Except I was afraid that as soon as I admitted knowing him, he'd be able to see the hurt in my eyes that came with remembering that night. Or worse, what if he still didn't recognize me because I really meant nothing to him?
“Oh holy hunk.”
Paris's voice came from behind me, keeping me from having to make the choice. I turned toward her and saw that she was wearing one of her favorite outfits. A halter top that barely contained the breasts she'd convinced her parents to give her for her twenty-first birthday and a skirt that ended just below her ass.
“I didn't know they sold boy toys here. Hell, I need to sign up for the catalog.”
“Paris,” I spoke from between clenched teeth. “You found me.”
“I tracked your phone.” She grinned at me. “I love that app.” She slid between Haze and me, a predatory light in her ice green eyes. “And who is this?”
“I'm Ms. Machus' personal security.” Haze took a step back, automatically going into military stance.
“I thought you said Gramps was hiring some ex-military guy. I was expecting some scowling coot with his silver hair still in a buzz cut.” Paris was practically salivating. “But this is a tasty slice of prime rib.”
I finished paying, waved a hand for Haze to carry the bags, and looped my arm through Paris's, dragging her away from the counter...and Haze.
“It doesn't matter what he looks like,” I said, making sure I was speaking loud enough for Haze to hear. “He's still a major drag. You should have seen what he was wearing this morning.”
“I'd be willing to see him in anything,” Paris said, licking her lips. “Or out of everything.”
“Since when do you sleep with the help?” I snapped, instantly hating how jealous the question sounded. I turned abruptly. “Oh, is that the new fall line?”
I pulled Paris across the street, hoping to distract her. Haze followed us at a distance, but not out of earshot.
“Seriously, Leighton,” Paris said, not to be dissuaded. “Look at him. How did you convince your grandfather it was safe to send you around town with that hunk of temptation? Doesn't he know you have a weakness for chiseled army guys?”
“I do not,” I said. I had a bad feeling I knew where this was going, and I needed to get her off the subject. “But I do have a weakness for leather skirts. What do you think about that one?”
Instead of looking in the window, she leaned to ogle Haze again. “You do, too, have a weakness for guys like that. I mean he looks exactly like that guy. Your hero, remember?”
Shit.
“I prefer men who look like Ricky. You know, suave, not some set of muscles,” I said. “Brawn but no brains.” I added the last part, hoping she'd take the bait to point out that my boyfriend didn't actually have much in the way of the brains department.
“Come on,” Paris insisted. “You remember. We were talking about it the other day. We were at that party and you whacked your head.”
Dammit, Paris. Shut the fuck up.
I glanced behind me. Haze stood with his back to the shop windows, watching the traffic. I couldn't tell if he was listening or not, but Paris was talking loud enough for people across the street to hear. Jumping into a swimming pool to save someone had to be memorable enough. But did I want him to remember? What if he remembered that part, but had forgotten what had happened afterwards? What if that night had only been unforgettable to me?
“In fact.” Paris frowned. “I was pretty high that night, but I think your new security sort of looks like that guy. Doesn't he?”
“I'm going to go try on that skirt. Come with me. He'll wait out here,” I said.
I squeezed her wrist and gave her a hard look, silently begging her to understand. She needed to stop talking where he could hear her.
Especially since I'd finally told her everything that happened that night.
Instead of doing what I needed her to do, she smirked.
“I think I get why you waited so long to tell me. At first, I thought it was all that tequila you drank that turned you to romantic mush. Going on and on about how amazing the sex was. No, wait, how amazing the connection was with him.”
Fuck.
I let go of her arm and risked a sideways glance at Haze. His jaw was clenched. Shit. He was definitely listening. A glint was in Paris' eyes, and I knew there was no stopping her.
Why the hell had I let myself get so drunk the other night? I barely even remember spilling any of this to her.
“You'd just wanted a distraction, but it ended up being the best sex of your life?” She was clearly enjoying herself. “You said you dreamed about it,
and I was so jealous. Who else has dreams that make them climax?”
“You're exaggerating.” I tried to play it off as nothing, but I knew it was pointless.
“I'm only reminding you of what you said. More like gushed to me.” Paris was doing her innocent voice. “I guess if I'd known it was him, I would've understood. I mean, he is gorgeous.” She smiled at me, but there was nothing friendly in it. “Shall we see if he remembers it the same way?”
She started toward Haze, and I tightened my grasp on her wrist. She giggled and twisted, but I didn't let go.
“What is wrong with you?” I hissed. My heart was thudding in my chest.
“Me? I'm just trying to reignite a long-lost romance,” she said. “That is him, right? The guy who blew your mind and turned you into one of those awful moony girls. Now he's here. Why don't you want to talk to him about it?”
I could barely force myself to look toward him and my eyes were burning with tears. A ruddy color was rising up his neck, but he refused to acknowledge anything that was going on behind him.
“Oh!” Paris said, suddenly. “I get it. He left you.”
I dropped her wrist, unable to believe what she was doing. No, actually, I did believe it. Paris had always enjoyed drama in any form. I'd just never been the target before. My stomach roiled as I thought about all the times I'd helped her pick apart other people.
“That's it, isn't it?” She looked pleased with herself. “He walked out on the best sex of your life and never looked back. Must sting.”
What stung was how wrong I'd been. Not about Haze or my memories of that night, but wrong about Paris. She wasn't my friend, and I didn't know if she ever had been. I'd thought because she'd stuck with me through all of the shit that happened after my parents died, she'd been a true friend. Now, I wondered if she hadn't been in it for herself the entire time, enjoying the attention and the admiring remarks about what a good friend she was to me.