contents
epigraph
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
Chapter Ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
chapter twenty-eight
chapter twenty-nine
chapter thirty
epilogue
about the author
Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.
—THEODORE ROETHKE
chapter one
Max
I HATE BABYSITTING JOBS, though I don’t know if I’d categorize this particular job as babysitting. I rarely take them on because they suck and they’re boring, but the money was too good to resist. If I took every fucking job that came my way because of how much they offer to pay me, I’d be a very rich man working the absolute bottom-of-the-barrel shit jobs. Busting cheating spouses. Catching them in compromising positions. Following them, taking photos, feeling sordid and dirty as I reveal said pictures and watch my client either rage angrily or fall apart in tears.
Those types of jobs are a dime a dozen.
No thanks. I’m lucky enough that I can pick and choose. Though I felt like with this one, I didn’t necessarily pick it. The job chose me.
It also intrigued me. She intrigued me. Not that I’d ever confess that to a living soul. I have integrity. An image to fulfill and maintain, especially when it comes to my business. I’m not one to let my dick make business decisions for me, but this girl … is unlike any girl I’ve ever seen before.
The moment I looked at her photo, I knew.
I watch her now, from my aisle seat on the plane, sitting five rows behind her. She’s in the opposite aisle seat and I can get a good look at her profile if I lean forward slightly, which is exactly what I’m doing. It’s wild, how she appears completely different from the photos I saw of her on the web last night while I did my research.
Whereas the endless images in my Google search featured a sexy-as-hell, scantily dressed woman doing whatever the fuck she wants all over Manhattan, this woman I’m watching now is quiet. Subdued. Wearing one of those matching sweat outfits in black with white trim, the word PINK scrawled across her very fine ass in glittery sequins. She blends right in on the plane, looks like every other woman her age. Not like the rich-as-fuck heiress she really is.
When she first boarded her hood was up and she had sunglasses on, as if she were trying to conceal her identity, though really she looked obvious as hell, at least to me. The media is always after her, always on her tail, so her incognito mode shouldn’t be a surprise.
But considering she’s dressed nothing like her usual self, I figure she became comfortable and eventually tugged the hood down, revealing her long, golden-brown hair streaked with bright blond highlights pulled into a high ponytail.
Offering me a tantalizing view of her perfect profile.
Dainty nose, plump lips. Long eyelashes, high cheekbones, slightly pointed chin. Every time someone passes her by she lifts her head, then immediately looks down. Almost as if she’s afraid someone is going to approach her.
Like she’s worried someone will realize who she is.
But no one would. She’s unrecognizable. I’d bet top dollar the only one on this plane who knows she’s Lily Fowler is …
Me.
The moment the plane touches down I whip out my phone and switch it out of airplane mode, watching as a text message appears.
Did you find her?
I answer my client with a quick yes.
Are you watching her now?
I answer again in the affirmative, my gaze fixed on Lily as she, too, grabs her phone and starts to scroll through it.
Try and grab her laptop now.
Frowning at my phone, I contemplate how to reply. I can’t just make a grab while we’re still on the freaking plane and run. I have to be subtle about this. I warned my overeager, over-insistent client. I don’t make rash decisions. I’m not impulsive, at least when it comes to work. There’s a method to my madness, and acting like a goddamn thief isn’t part of it.
I finally decide to answer.
I already informed you I’m not going to move too fast.
We don’t have much time.
Slowly I shake my head, glancing up to study Lily before I start typing.
We have enough. I’ll get the job done. Don’t worry.
The plane starts to slow as we make our way to the gate and the passengers are getting restless, including myself. My legs are cramped up. Sitting in coach sucks ass and is almost too much for my six-foot-two frame. My knees fucking ache. Even Lily shifts and moves in her seat, her head turning to glance behind her, straight at me. Our gazes meet briefly and she looks away, pretending that she never saw me.
Anger burns in my gut. Anger and lust. An interesting combo, one I’ve never suffered through before while working. I pride myself on keeping my distance. Work is work. My personal life is just that … personal. Not that I have much of one. Not that I have anyone in my fucking life, which is just the way I like it.
But this girl’s rejection, as brief as it was, digs at me. Pisses me off.
My phone dings and I check it.
She’s fast. Tricky. You need to take your chances when you can.
A snort escapes me. Trying to tell me how to do my job. I wish I could reply with a big “fuck you,” but I don’t. I have more class than that.
I’m faster. Trickier. Trust me. I’ll make it happen. You’ll get what you want.
As I slip my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, the flight attendant starts talking over the intercom, telling us to remain seated until the seat belt fastened lights turn off. We’re at the gate; all the passengers are poised and ready to grab their shit and disembark. I don’t bother. My carry-on is sitting in the compartment directly above me. I can tell that the lady next to me is dying to leap out of her seat, but I’ll make her wait. Her irritation is already a palpable thing. Like I give a damn.
I gotta move slow. The last thing I need is to catch my subject’s attention. Not this early in the game.
Lily jumps to her feet the second the seat belt light shuts off, popping open the overhead compartment and pulling out a bag. A laptop bag, from the size of it.
With the coveted laptop most likely lying inside.
I curl my fingers into my palms, resting them on my knees. I want that bag. No. Scratch that. My client wants that bag—more like what’s inside of it. So I want it, too.
And I will do anything to get it.
Anything.
chapter two
Lily
I FELT HIM before I saw him. his gaze on me. assessing. Watching. I let him look his fill, keeping my head bent, my eyes firmly locked on the magazine lying open on my propped thighs. It’s ruining my chance to get an even tan, so I’ll need to ditch the magazine soon, but for now, it’s the perfect ruse.
Pretending to read while I look to my left to catch him staring. He doesn’t realize I know yet. And he’s good. No one would be wise to his covert spying.
But I am. I’ve been sp
ied upon my entire life. The media has trailed after my sisters and me, my father, and my grandmother since I can remember. We’re public figures, given accolades when we do something good and torn to shreds when we do something awful.
Well. Most everyone in my family does good. I’m the something-awful one. I do stupid things on a regular basis. I should know better by now but then again, why give up my reputation? I’ve worked hard putting it together since I was in my early teens. Besides, it’s the perfect front.
After all these years of being such a publicly mocked figure, I know when someone’s got his eyes on me. It’s like a sixth sense or something. And when I know people are watching, sometimes I put on a show. On rare occasions, I confront them and send ’em running—or snapping away with their cameras so they can capture me enraged with headlines like “Lily Fowler’s Lost It Again!”
Bastards.
Most of the time, I pretend I don’t know they exist. I act like I’m blissfully unaware some shitty photographer is ready to snap a picture of me sunbathing topless (yep, that’s happened more than once) or about to kiss and grope a guy at a nightclub (that’s happened, too).
This guy, though … he’s not giving me the paparazzi vibe. He’s probably older than me, but not beyond thirty. His hair is dark. Cropped fairly close on the sides though a little longish on top, with a slight wave. An alluring wave that softens all those hard, harsh lines. His jaw is firm, his expression like stone, and his lips … they look like they might be soft as well, but he’s too far away to get a good look. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but I don’t need to see them.
I can still feel them on me.
He’s wearing black swim trunks with a subtle white tropical print and nothing else, sitting on a large white towel from the hotel on the scorching-hot sand, his knees bent, his looped arms resting on them, acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His shoulders are broad, his body trim and fit. A young couple go running by him, chasing each other like they’re little kids and kicking up sand as they pass and he makes a tiny grimace every time, but otherwise, no reaction. He’s alone. There’s no other towel beside the one he’s sitting on. No woman asking him to put more sunscreen on her shoulders, no friends hanging out with him.
Weird.
Could he be a photographer? Part of the paparazzi? I recognize a lot of them by now, so I doubt it. Unless he was sent as a ruse to trick me, but damn it, I’m pretty untrickable by now. Besides, I look nothing like my usual self, so I doubt I’m being followed. The Lily Fowler party-girl persona is back in New York where I left her a few days ago. I of course had to book my flight under my real name, but the airlines don’t release that information to freaking reporters, so ha ha on them.
The minute I stepped off the plane yesterday and felt the warm air caress my skin, I took a deep, cleansing breath and felt like I’d shed my armor. Here on Maui, I am nothing but a simple girl on vacation. No makeup, no flashy jewelry, no expensive clothing, no guys trying to get in my panties, no girls trying to be my friend in the hopes I’ll make them popular. I left the trappings behind, like a snake shedding its skin.
Reborn. Fresh and unsoiled.
My thoughts almost make me laugh. In fact, a giggle escapes me and I press my fingers to my lips, suppressing it. “Unsoiled,” that’s a joke. I gave up the goods long, long ago in the hopes that I’d find someone to love me. My beautiful mother loved me with all her heart, or so she claimed.
But she didn’t love me or my sisters enough to keep herself alive. She’d chosen to be dead rather than raise her children. And that hurt. Daddy didn’t love me anymore, if he ever did. I became a burden. All three of his daughters did. We were just reminders that he had a wife and she left him in the cruelest way possible.
Instead of seeking love and approval from my family, I sought it in other ways. Boys. Partying. Alcohol. Drugs. By the time I got my shit together and was ready to do right by the world? No one cared. They still saw me as Lily the party girl. So I decided to give them what they wanted and kept it up. Why disappoint them?
Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I see he’s still watching me, though he averts his head quickly when I look his way. Hmm. Interesting. Could he be just a regular guy on vacation who thinks I’m pretty? He’s alone, I’m alone; it would make sense that maybe we could get together. The resort we’re at does cater to singles and young couples …
Huh. I doubt it. He’s too good-looking to be out trolling for a woman, unless he’s a complete creeper, which he might be. Is he the type who goes on vacation by himself to pick up a woman? That seems like a lot of extra effort. And I’m not here on vacation. I’m on the run. In hiding. Just for a little bit. I pissed off the wrong people—or person; I’m not sure who all knows what I did. So rather than face my problems head on, I got the hell out of Manhattan, stat.
Grabbing my cell, I go online and check that stupid fashion-and-beauty blog that seems so fascinated with my life as well as my sisters’. I want to make sure they’re not talking about me. The last mention of Lily Fowler was two days ago, a photo of me with hot-pink lips, heavily mascaraed eyes, and a black lace dress, supposedly representing Fleur at a stupid party for … something. I’d forgotten exactly what. When I’d entered my apartment late that night and found it ransacked, I freaked. Nothing was stolen. No jewelry, no money, and I had both on hand, stashed away in my closet but not under lock and key.
The one thing I had hidden, though, was my laptop, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I found it, stashed among a stack of folded bath towels in my hall closet. Then I threw a bunch of clothes into a small suitcase, booked a flight from my phone on the cab ride to the airport, and got the hell out of there.
My phone vibrates in my hands, startling me, and I check my texts, see that it’s a message from my little sister, Rose.
Call me right now!
Yikes. Can’t do that. I trust no one at this moment. Not even Rose, and I adore her, but what if she can’t keep her mouth shut? She could slip up and tell our father she spoke to me. The wrong person finds out where I am and it’s toast time.
I can’t take any chances.
So I ignore her text, shoving my phone into my beach bag before I sink back into the overstuffed lounger I’m sitting on. I rented a cabana first thing this morning and it’s freaking perfect. I get endless service, someone is always checking on me to make sure I have enough to drink or eat, and the view is spectacular. The sun is blazing, there are white, puffy clouds in the startling blue sky, and a breeze brushes over me every few minutes, cooling my heated skin.
Paradise.
My gaze slides toward my watcher, who’s also a part of the spectacular view. The more I stare, the sexier I find him. His shoulders and chest are so wide. There’s the lightest smattering of dark hair between his pecs and while I usually go for the smooth look, there’s something about the hair on his chest that appeals. Makes him look so manly. And for whatever reason, makes him appear a little dangerous.
Or maybe that’s the air around him. There’s an edge to him that I can’t explain. He looks completely unapproachable, his expression like granite; his position is casual, but I can see all that energy contained within his posture. Like he’s poised and ready to spring into action at any given moment.
I avert my head, my thoughts filled with … him. I’m not usually attracted to dangerous. I like easy. Fun. Good-looking and confident, even a hint of arrogance. The men I’ve been with are similar to me. Or the me I want everyone to see. Looking for a good time, always ready to party, to shop, wanting everyone’s eyes on me.
My phone buzzes again and I check my messages, see that it’s another text from Rose.
You can’t avoid me forever! At least tell me where you are.
I study her message, my fingers poised above the keyboard. I want to tell her but I can’t. No way. She’s bound and determined to get me to respond to her and I’m just as bound and determined to ignore her.
It’s not that I want to.
My heart, my entire body, aches to call her, hear her voice, ask if she’s okay. She’s pregnant. My baby sister, the one who I resented when she was born because she took up even more of our mom’s attention, is now going to have a baby herself. With a guy I went to high school with. A guy I might’ve kissed—and doesn’t that make me feel like a complete slut—but if it doesn’t bother Rose then it doesn’t bother me. She’s so blissfully in love with Caden, it’s almost disgusting.
Just about as disgusting as when my sister Violet and her fiancé, Ryder, are together. Those two are just … ugh. I blame it all on him. Ryder exudes confidence. Sex appeal. I can see why my sister was so attracted to him, though it surprises me that the two of them are together. He seems more my speed, but then she spilled a couple of secrets one night after having a few too many glasses of wine. How dominant Ryder is in the bedroom.
Yeah. That sort of thing doesn’t do it for me. I like to be in charge. Everything else in my life has felt so out of control, ever since I was a little kid and I lost my mom. As I grew older, I realized the only thing I can control is myself. My body. My mind. My choices.
So I’m in control, especially sexually. Forget all that growly I will make you mine dom shit. That sort of thing makes me roll my eyes. I mean really, who gets off on that? Maybe I haven’t met the right guy, but come on.
Grabbing my boozy tropical drink, I wrap my lips around the straw and drain it, casting my gaze along the beach, watching the waves splash gently onto the shore. I want to swim. I want to feel the water swirl around my legs as I slowly walk into the ocean. I can leave my stuff here. I know it’s safe. The hotel employees keep a close eye on everything, but what if my watcher is fast? What if he really is part of the paparazzi and he’s just waiting for the chance to go rifling through my bag? Not that there’s much in there beyond my phone …