Chapter 2
As the wind blustered outside, Liberta Jones sank onto the huge, king-sized bed, exhausted. Pulling the cool, soft cotton sheets up to her chin, she watched the palm trees through the window bend horizontally in the wind.
Mr. Hehu, the hostel owner, had dismissed this storm as just a breeze, saying it would pass by morning. Nothing to worry about, he’d said, so Libby slipped deeper into the silky haven of the gorgeous bed and thanked her lucky stars.
After getting through that awful flight to Rarotonga, she deserved this bed. A bed in a private bungalow! There was even a little path in the yard that led down to the beach, through a little gate.
Libby snuggled farther into bed. Beside her, Karim slept like an angel.
Poor baby. She reached out and gently touched his forehead.
He didn’t have a fever, and the bug was most probably out of his system by now—he’d still be unsettled and puking if it wasn’t—but even so, a tsunami of guilt engulfed her.
Karim hadn’t seemed right all afternoon, but she’d been busy shooting her Goodbye to Auckland video and hadn’t banked on the bus to the airport running late.
There hadn’t even been time to take off her makeup, not that she’d been thinking about that when she’d been sprinting to the departures lounge, pushing Karim in his stroller and fearing they’d miss their flight.
Another wave of guilt consumed her.
Was she doing the right thing, living this transient lifestyle?
It wouldn’t be forever—just another six months, maybe a year—and then she’d be back in the States…somewhere. Maybe back in LA… Maybe working for Juliana Cortez again?
Yeah, right. That old witch would want a pound of flesh on a silver plate for that to happen.
For seven years, Libby had worked under Juliana at Hot Gossip, reporting some of Beverly Hill’s top stories—dirty politicians, corrupt cops, sordid affairs between high-profile celebrities who really should’ve known better.
They were all in a day’s work for Liberta Jones as she worked her ass off trying to prove that she could be somebody people listened to when she came calling. Somebody who made a difference.
Until she’d gotten pregnant.
“A baby?” Juliana had spat out the word. “You’re not seriously thinking about going through with it? You’ll be giving up everything.”
With hormones running wild, Libby had burst into tears.
She’d never planned to have a baby—ever—and she hadn’t wanted to give up anything.
But Elliot had said the same thing the night before, and still emotional from that confrontation, her temper had spiked.
She’d told Juliana where to stick her stupid job.
“You’ll be begging me to come back!” Libby had said and then stormed out of Hot Gossip one last time.
Yep.
She’d need a massive scoop to ever get that job back—or any other reporting gig in Beverly Hills for that matter. And how could she work those sporadic and erratic hours with a small child, anyway?
For now, she had to focus on the content she planned to create, as well as the more pressing articles she’d finally persuaded Parent and Child to publish.
After weeks of waiting, the magazine had finally agreed to partly fund her and Karim’s travel to the Cook Islands.
The tight, two-week deadline for the articles was already making her stomach clench with the fear of failure, but even if it meant staying up all night, every night, Libby would get those articles written.
She had no choice. Once published, they’d shine a much-needed light on her fledging Travels with My Child channel and brand.
Travel writing? Parenting articles? Is that what you’ve resorted to?
Libby could almost hear Juliana’s sneering tone. It hissed and whipped in the wind outside, along with the rain spitting against her window with a tap-tap-tap.
Closing her eyes, Libby pushed Juliana out of her mind, thinking instead about all the sun-drenched beach videos she’d shoot that would, eventually, earn her a load of hits and new subscribers.
Tap-tap-tap.
She’d show Juliana. And she’d show Elliot, too.
Tap-tap-tap.
“Mrs. Jones.”
The hushed voice on the other side of the door had Libby opening one eye.
“Mrs. Jones.” Tap-tap-tap.
Not the rain at all, but Mr. Hehu—but why was he knocking on her door at this time of night? Libby scooted out of bed and pressed her face against the door.
“Are you okay, Mr. Hehu? What do you want?”
“Your husband is here.”
My what?
“I told you, we’re not married!”
At the sound of that deep, gruff, British voice, Libby cracked open the door.
A pair of large male hands planted firmly on narrow hips filled her vision.
Her gaze shifted up to a broad chest, the wind-pressed fabric of his top defining the curves of his pecs, and then that tightly clenched jaw and familiar scowl.
Daniel Jones.
She’d known all along who he was—despite the cap he’d pulled over his dark, tortured eyes as they’d waited to board at Auckland.
She’d been dabbing her sweaty forehead after her run to the gate, standing in line with all the other families and people in need of assistance, when she’d first spotted him.
The Olympic champ, nicknamed Lightning Strike, partly due to his skill of exploding out of the starting blocks, and partly because of his famous victory move.
When he won a race, he’d pop his body in a quick, shockwave move from his toes to his head—as if he’d been struck by lightning—ending with his fist in the air and wild, screaming crowds.
When he’d sat next to her on the flight, she hadn’t believed her luck! Old habits had her gagging to ask for an interview, but he’d looked so sad and alone that all she’d wanted to do was cheer him up with some friendly conversation instead.
So much for that idea.
Libby opened the door wider, her gaze dipping to the shiny, silky orange shorts fluttering in the wind around his waist. “What are you wearing?”
“Never mind that,” he snapped. “You’re in my—hey!” He peered at her through the dim light. “You’re—”
“Yeah.” Libby folded her arms. “You maybe want to apologize to me now?”
“I tried, but you—”
“Ah-ha!” Mr. Hehu cackled. “A lover’s tiff! That’s why you not in the room already.”
“What? No! She’s—”
“You make up with her, you silly boy.” Mr. Hehu slapped him on the back, propelling him into her room. “Life’s too short, and she’s too pretty.”
“No, Mr. Hehu, we’re not—” The loud thud and growl on the floor made Libby turn. Daniel Jones had crash-landed through the open doorway. “Mr. Hehu!”
But Libby’s words were lost in the wind. The old man was already halfway across the garden, and she couldn’t shout in case she woke up Karim. She couldn’t leave the bungalow to chase after him either, not when there was a huge, groaning lump on the floor just a few feet away from her sleeping baby.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“My leg!” He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth.
Libby bent over him. “Can you get up?”
“I’m trying to.” He shifted to his side and crawled like a wounded dog to the couch in the corner of the room. With a grunt, he hauled himself up and then flopped onto it. “Fuck, that hurt.”
“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “You’ll wake up my son.”
“The pukey kid? So it is you! What are the fucking chances?”
“I’d watch that filthy mouth if I were you. You’re in my room.”
“I think you’ll find this is my room.” With another grunt, Daniel Jones rolled onto his back. “That old man must have got you confused with my mother.”
“Well, gee, thanks. I didn’t think I looked that old.” Libby folded her arms.
“She’s the real Mrs. Jones,” he said.
“So where is she?”
“On another island. With my aunt. They’ll be here on Wednesday.
” He rubbed his eyes. “I booked this bungalow for the whole of December for my honeymoon. That all turned to shit, so Mum and Zeezee took our places. Wednesday… They’ll be here on Wednesday,” he said again before giving a huffed curse, and then he flopped his arm over the edge of the couch.
“Tomorrow… First thing, we’ll… As soon as I… as I get…”
“As soon as you get what?” Libby nudged him, but his head lolled to the side, and he let out a deep sigh that sounded a lot like a snore. “Hey, you can’t sleep here!”
He grumbled something and bedded down even more. She gripped his shoulder with both hands and gave him a hard shake. Man, he was solid. She wanted to kick him out, but how? He was too big, too much of a dead weight.
Should she be afraid to have a man crash in her room at midnight?
If it were anyone else, she would be, but this was Daniel Jones, a much-loved public figure in the UK.
Not a serial killer. And judging by the sound of his breathing, he didn’t look capable of anything right now, other than sleeping.
Even old Mr. Hehu had managed to topple him with a mere backslap.
So, no, Libby wasn’t afraid.
She was…intrigued.
Last summer, when she and Karim had started their travels in the UK, she’d read all about Daniel Jones’s accident.
It was hard not seeing the headlines about the British sporting hero who’d practically been on his deathbed.
And, like everyone else at the time, she’d assumed he wouldn’t make it out of his coma.
But here he was. On Raro-freaking-tonga.
In her room.
Or rather… Libby glanced over at Karim, tiny in the middle of the huge bed—a bed that, when she’d first arrived, had been adorned with heart-shaped throw pillows and a gaudy silver blanket patterned with rose petals.
A honeymoon bed?
A dim recollection of a headline snagged in Libby’s mind…something about Daniel Jones and that British pop singer he was engaged to—Arabella…Annabella…Isabella!—having to postpone their wedding.
Aw, damn.
So, this spacious beach bungalow had been a little too good to be true after all.
It hadn’t exactly matched the description of the “standard” double room she’d actually reserved—and of course, something wasn’t quite right when she’d handed Mr. Hehu her card to pay the deposit, only for him to say it wasn’t necessary.
Confused, she’d just figured he’d made a mistake.
It was late, and with Karim fast asleep and heavy in her arms, all she’d been focused on was settling him into bed.
She’d planned to clarify the payment issue with Mr. Hehu in the morning, but Cranky Jones was right. This was his bungalow.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
It was nearly midnight, there was a storm outside, and she couldn’t wake Karim, not after the day he’d had.
Cranky Jones let out a big, heavy snore. Right. Libby padded back across the room to her bed. There wasn’t anything anyone could do now, so she might as well get some sleep, too.
Sleep?
Who was she kidding?
Cradling Karim on her hip, Libby turned away from the window and continued to pace the small threshold between the bed she’d barely slept in and the small kitchen unit on the other side of the room.
It was five a.m. The storm had petered out, palm trees swayed in the early dawn darkness, and her unexpected roommate continued to snore on the couch.
Okay, it wasn’t exactly snoring—more like heavy breathing—but he hadn’t moved since he’d crashed out over five hours ago.
Unlike her. She must’ve walked fifty freaking miles these past two hours, trying to settle her pesky baby back to sleep.
Karim hadn’t thrown up again, so she assumed—from the way he’d gulped down water—that he’d simply woken up thirsty and then become unsettled in his new surroundings.
She’d been rocking him back and forth ever since, and it was only now, his head heavy on her shoulder, that she dared hope that he’d finally fallen asleep.
Like a bomb-disposal expert, she lowered him onto the bed.
One false move, and—boom! She’d be back to pacing up and down, watching the sun rise.
She hovered over him for a few seconds. His little head had fallen to the side, and his breathing was deep and steady.
Slowly, slowly, she eased away and straightened.
Aw, man, my back! She stretched and yawned. So. Damn. Tired.
What in hell’s name had made her think she could do this? Travel alone with a toddler—and write articles for magazines, and run a vlog and social media channels, and keep herself sane?
No wonder Mom and Dad had looked at her like she’d come from a different planet when she’d told them her plans.
Libby crawled back into bed next to Karim.
Traveling with a toddler wasn’t always this hard—she had to remember that.
She and Karim had had fun in Europe and also in New Zealand.
They’d have fun here in the Cook Islands, too.
She’d shoot her videos for her social platforms, and she’d submit her articles to Parent and Child and…
and…she’d figure out how else she could earn some money while she and Karim traveled.
The savings she’d managed to gather before Karim was born weren’t going to last much longer.
Eyes closed, Libby waited for sleep to claim her. But after the frustrating, exhausting hours she’d just had, her over-tired brain wouldn’t switch off.
On the other side of the room, the Lightning Strike—aka Cranky Jones—let out another of his huff-snores. Even in his sleep, this guy was grumpy.
She sank back under the sheets.
Of course, he had good reason to be. He’d nearly been killed. And his athletic career was over.
But why had he come here? To this bungalow that he’d said he’d given to his mom when “that”—his wedding?
—had all turned to shit. Snippets of an article passed through Libby’s weary mind.
A quote from Isabella, something about “her Dan” being strong and brave, that he’d overcome his injuries one day, and that they’d made the decision to postpone their wedding until he could walk unaided up the aisle.
And yet, he’d traveled out here…alone?
He must’ve done the journey all in one go, too. No leisurely overnight stops for him along the way, not judging by how wrecked he looked. Surely, walking down a church aisle alongside his bride would be small potatoes compared to flying…what? Twenty-five hours, minimum?
It didn’t make sense.
And exactly where was his beautiful bride-to-be?
Libby’s finely tuned story radar bleeped. As soon as she could get on the internet, she’d do some research.
“Everyone’s got a secret,” Juliana always said. “It’s our job to find it.”
So why had Daniel Jones traveled solo in his condition?
Why wasn’t his mom here to meet him? Did she even know he’d be coming?
Would Isabella be joining him?
And how much would Hot Gossip pay to know the answers?