Chapter 8
EIGHT
She probably shouldn’t be enjoying this so much. But how could they keep their cover if they turned down a complimentary couple’s massage?
The fragrance of the warm oil mixed with the salt-tinged sea breeze that drifted through the open spa room.
Sunlight filtered through bamboo screens, casting shifting patterns across polished teak floors.
The distant crash of waves provided a rhythmic backdrop to the soft Thai instrumental music floating from hidden speakers.
And most important, the spa room gave them a view of the meeting room across the complex, where Volkov was meeting with his other bioterrorist henchmen.
Coco had hacked into the resort’s computer to get a list of names. Probably aliases.
But for now, maybe they could both just . . . relax.
Chloe forced her breathing to stay steady as Dara’s expert hands worked knots from her shoulders. The massage therapist hummed something melodic under her breath, her movements fluid across muscles that had been coiled tight since yesterday’s near disaster.
Since watching Skeet almost get captured. Since realizing she cared way too much about what happened to him.
Yeah, she desperately needed a massage.
“Breathe deeper, khun,” Dara murmured, pressing into a stubborn knot. “You carry much tension here.”
Right. Tension. Not terror or the fact that she’d nearly lost her mind when those guards had appeared. That her heart had stopped completely until she’d seen Skeet escape from the villa.
Don’t do that again.
Don’t leave her behind—yes, she wasn’t a fan—but really . . .
Don’t scare me like that. And especially, Don’t make me fall in love with you.
On the table beside her, Skeet let out a low moan of appreciation as the masseuse named Narat worked his shoulders. The sound did things to her pulse that had nothing to do with the spa’s relaxation benefits.
“Your husband, he has strong shoulders,” Narat commented to Chloe in accented English. “Very good muscle tone. You are lucky woman.”
Heat crept up her neck. “We’re not—”
“Thank you,” Skeet interrupted, shooting her a sideways glance that suggested she remember their cover. “I try to stay in shape for my wife.”
The casual way he said “my wife” sent a ripple through her.
Calm. Down. It’s just an act.
Except her traitorous heart didn’t seem to have gotten that memo.
“You have been together long time, yes?” Dara asked, her hands never pausing in their work. “I can feel the energy between you. Very connected. Very . . . how you say . . . in tune.”
Chloe kept her eyes closed. Tried for a casual tone. “Energy?”
“Oh yes,” Dara said. “The body, it tells stories. Your tensions, they match. When he relaxes, you relax. When you tense, he tenses. This is sign of deep bond.”
Great. Even the massage therapist could read what she was trying to hide.
“We’ve been through a lot together recently,” Skeet said, his voice careful.
“Mmm,” Narat said. “Stress, it brings people closer or pushes apart. You two, closer. This is good thing.”
Chloe willed herself to think about anything else. The mission. The investigation. The fact that they’d be heading to Bangkok soon and this weird vacation would be over.
The fact that she had no idea what would happen to them after that.
We’re going to hear about this when we get home.
“Relax,” Dara said softly. “You think too much. Feel the moment.”
Feel the moment. Right. The moment where she was lying half naked next to a disturbingly attractive man, being told by strangers that they had some mystical connection while trying to pretend her world hadn’t shifted when she’d thought she might lose him.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
The massage continued in silence, broken only by the soft sounds of the therapists moving around the tables and the distant crash of waves. A warm breeze drifted through the space, carrying the salty sea air.
Paradise. This was supposed to be paradise.
It could be, if this were real.
“All done,” Dara announced, her hands lifting away. “You take time to rest. Water is very important after massage. And maybe—” She glanced between them. “Maybe you talk. Sometimes the body releases what the heart needs to say.”
Oh, wonderful. Relationship advice from the spa staff.
“Thank you,” Chloe managed, accepting the warm towel Dara offered. “That was wonderful.”
Both therapists gathered their supplies, bowing before departing. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Chloe and Skeet alone in the treatment room with nothing but fluffy robes and a sudden weirdness.
Even Skeet seemed to feel it.
He sat up, his body glistening with the massage oil. “Well,” he said, reaching for his robe. “That was . . . informative.”
Chloe turned her back to him. “They were just being nice.” She slid off the table, dragging the sheet with her, and reached for her robe. A little terrycloth armor. “Reading into things that aren’t there.”
“Right.” His tone suggested what she felt.
When had Thailand gotten so hot?
She headed to the changing room. Ran, really.
When she emerged, he was dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and his bamboo flip-flops.
“Lunch?” Skeet asked, but she didn’t miss the way his gaze skimmed over her sundress.
“Sure.”
“They reserved us a private cabana near the pool. I’ll order lunch service.”
The infinity-pool area sparkled under the midday sun, its edge blending with the azure horizon. Their private cabana sat on the elevated terrace, offering panoramic views of the Andaman Sea while maintaining enough seclusion for whatever conversations honeymooners might need to have.
Or whatever conversations pretend honeymooners might need to avoid.
Ploy, their female concierge, appeared as if summoned. “Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds! How was your massage? Wonderful, yes? I have prepared your lunch table in the cabana as requested. Very private, very romantic.”
“Perfect,” Skeet said, tipping her. “We’d like some time alone, if possible.”
“Of course! Bancha will bring your food, but otherwise, no interruptions. Enjoy your . . . together time.” Ploy’s smile suggested she had very specific ideas about what honeymooners did with together time.
Oh, Chloe felt like a fraud.
The cabana sat under a cloud of sheer white curtains billowing in the sea breeze, their fabric catching the golden light.
Plush cushions surrounded a low table carved from driftwood.
Crystal glasses caught prisms of light, scattering tiny rainbows across the arrangement of bird-of-paradise flowers that spilled from a carved coconut shell.
“This is nice,” Chloe said, settling onto the cushions with what she hoped looked like casual appreciation. Cool. Collected. Not affected by the romantic ambience or the way the filtered sunlight caught the gold flecks in Skeet’s green eyes.
“Very nice.” He poured ice water from the pitcher. “You seem more relaxed.”
“The massage helped.” She accepted the water, using the action to avoid his too-perceptive gaze. “Nothing like professional muscle torture to work out the kinks.”
“Is that what we’re calling yesterday?”
Her hand stilled on the glass. “What do you mean?”
“Kinks.”
She laughed. “Yeah, that’s an understatement.” She took a drink.
He didn’t smile. “You’ve been wound tight since . . . well, last night.”
“I’m fine.” Oops, she didn’t mean her sharp tone. “Just tired. It’s been a long . . . week.” Had it even been a week? Six days, maybe.
How had she fallen for a man in six days?
Bancha appeared with their lunch, saving her from the terrible confessions bubbling inside.
The young man beamed as he arranged plates across the driftwood table—grilled mahi-mahi glazed with tamarind and chili, green-papaya salad studded with cherry tomatoes, mango slices fanned beside chunks of sweet pineapple, and jasmine rice still steaming.
“Very good food,” he announced proudly. “Very fresh fish. Very romantic lunch. You are very lucky to have such beautiful wife, sir.”
“Very lucky,” Skeet agreed, his eyes never leaving Chloe’s face.
Her entire body heated. Oh no, no. “Thank you, Bancha. It looks delicious.”
The man left them with a bow.
“The mango looks amazing,” Chloe said, reaching for safe territory.
“Chloe.”
Something in Skeet’s tone made her look up. His expression had shifted, become more serious. “What are we doing here?”
Oh. Um. The question hung between them, thick, and it only turned her chest tight. “Having lunch?” She cleared her throat from the crazy squeak. “Maintaining our cover. Enjoying the—”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She drew in a breath. Of course it wasn’t. She took a careful bite of som tam, the sweet-and-sour flavors exploding across her tongue. “I . . . don’t know what you mean.”
Oh, liar, liar—
“Yes, you do.”
The quiet certainty in his voice made her stomach flip. She met his eyes, then looked away.
She couldn’t do this.
She wanted to do this, but . . . “We’re partners,” she said. “Working a case.”
He picked up a piece of fruit. Ate it. “Is that all?”
The words were soft, but they landed in her chest. Stones. Because no, it wasn’t all. They hadn’t been just partners for days now, maybe since that first night when he’d given her his blanket, kept watch over her.
And definitely since yesterday, when the thought of losing him had nearly brought her to her knees.
But she’d been here, emotionally, before with a man. Okay, not a man like Skeet who wasn’t afraid to dive into her trouble, could take care of himself—and her, frankly—but . . .
This couldn’t end well.
She simply hadn’t seen this coming. Wasn’t prepared to . . . to uproot her life. To follow him . . . home?
“I don’t know,” she said quietly, her throat suddenly raw.
Skeet leaned back against the cushions, studying her with those too-intelligent eyes. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.”
“Tough.” His smile took the sting out of the word. “Because I think we need to.”