Chapter Seven #2
“She did you a solid at the wedding. Another publicist might have let you marry the asshole and plan to sell your sob story and divorce details to the highest bidder.” Then again, he wouldn’t put it past Sloane for maybe considering the option. “Abigail wouldn’t lie to you either.”
“Abigail thinks I should’ve let Sloane off her leash.” Jules swiped her hand in front of her as though gesturing to a sea of paparazzi instead of the crashing waves. “Actress mends broken heart with hunky bodyguard.”
Mends broken heart? Sloane and Rhys were observing two different Juleses, if her publicist really believed Jules was devastated. “You need to lay off those mai tais.”
“Probably. But I’m not gonna.”
A bird swept into the water and snagged its lunch. Its large wings beat as it sailed along the waves. “Don’t yell at me for saying this—”
“This is what I’ve been waiting for. Time for the truth bomb. What is it, Rhys?”
He really needed to keep his mouth shut.
“Don’t clam up.” She twisted her fingers in front of her lips as though turning the key in a lock. “I won’t say a word. I’m listening. I want to hear what you think.” Jules pouted. “Tell me. Please?”
Nowhere were the sobbing tears he would have expected after the cheating fiancé and pregnant bridesmaid had been revealed.
I was supposed to be done doing this alone.
What did Jules mean by that? That she was lonely? How could someone surrounded by so many people be lonely?
“Come on, tough guy,” she prodded. “Tell me.”
“You don’t seem brokenhearted. I don’t know if that’s the angle Sloane should be selling.”
“I don’t, do I?” She sighed. A small smile curved her lips, not like she was happy but as if she were letting go of a burden. “What do I seem?”
“A little drunk, Jules. You seem like the mai tais are winning.”
She tipped her head back and laughed. “They are.” A minute later, her laughter died. She swung her legs to the side of the chaise. “I’m going to catch Abigail before she falls asleep and make her suffer through a couples massage with me.”
Rhys jumped up, had the butler send their food order to her room, and kept pace with Jules. He allowed four strides between them—close enough that he could intercept a problem but far enough that Jules could feel like she’d stormed away from him.
“You don’t have to follow me,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m going to stay inside.”
He gave her five strides and wondered what had her upset. She’d confirmed the lack of a broken heart. But she was definitely… something.
“I doubt my stalker finagled himself into this resort,” she added with a toss of her hand.
“Probably right.” Titan monitored her threats and worked with the FBI on her issues with stalkers. Scarlett Wu, a maverick of social media and the dark web, and Dean Whitlow had had zero concerns about this location. It’d been kept quiet; the resort policy came with a solid NDA.
“And what are the chances that two hotel staffers try to take pictures of me two days in a row? One in ten thousand. Or a million.”
“Hard disagree.”
Jules climbed the stairs to her bungalow and spun around, hands on her hips. “Do you ever get tired of me?”
“No.”
“That’s a lie. You and I both know it.”
He raised his palms. “I get tired of the world you live in, but at the end of the assignment, I go home. And you’re left with all this.
” Luxury villas. Masseuses who showed up at beachside bedrooms. A sister-moon with a bodyguard while a celebrity PR team swept an ugly breakup under the rug.
He didn’t envy her, even if Jules had everything people dreamed of.
“I think I’m a little drunk.”
“Yup. Think you are, sweetheart.” He laughed. “Chug some water. The sugar in those mai tais is going to pack a hell of a hangover.”
Sun-kissed and wrapped in a tiny bikini, her image burned in his brain as her head tipped back, laughter flowing like music. “Always with a plan.”
“Always.” Whether he liked it or not, Rhys knew every part of her.
That photographic memory of his wanted to work overtime as she stared at him, gloriously beautiful, waiting, as if there was more to say, just inside her bungalow.
He stepped back, turning away and scanning the empty trail of sidewalks that led to their bungalows.
“Let me know if you make plans to leave. Otherwise, I’ll check in with the masseuse and be next door. ”
“It was an arranged marriage.”
He faltered and turned toward her again. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He was never lost for words, but he was now. He didn’t examine why that felt significant. He wouldn’t like the answer.
“Did you hear what I said?” Gone was the laughter. Gone was the tipsy mai-tai-fueled smile.
“You don’t need to tell me, Jules.”
She waited as though he would say something brilliant.
Rhys had nothing. Though he’d stake his life that a Hollywood-arranged marriage had an iron-clad NDA. “You probably shouldn’t tell me that.”
“Abs doesn’t even know,” she admitted, “and if my parents found out…” She made explosion motions with her hands. “Upset would be an understatement.”
The mystery as to why she wasn’t heartbroken had been solved. The reason was fucked. It encapsulated everything wrong with Hollywood. He hadn’t expected a stunt like that from Jules. Then again, he wasn’t surprised. So maybe he had.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she admitted, hanging on the door, swinging it back and forth nervously.
“It’s the booze talking.” He pointed behind her. “Go find Abigail. Down a bottle of water. Take a vitamin and a couple ibuprofen, and we’ll pretend you never said a word.”
“Actually, I do know why—”
“Find Abigail. Drink water. Down a vitamin—”
“You’re the only person outside my family I’ve ever met who doesn’t care who I am. Did you know that?” She released the door and leaned against the jamb. “Sorry about your luck.”
“Woman, you’re going to have a hell of a hangover before dinner if you don’t listen to me.”
A uniformed butler with a silver-domed tray walked toward the bungalow. After a quick inspection, Rhys nodded to him then gestured to the fish tacos. “Eat something too.”
She shook her head like good advice wasn’t welcome in her bungalow but disappeared inside with the butler and the tacos.
He stared at the door. An arranged marriage. What had possessed her to do something so ridiculous? Rhys blew out a deep breath then hurried up the stairs to follow up on the delivery. Everything was as it should be.
“Is that who I think it is?” he asked Rhys, shuffling down the stairs.
“No.”
The other guy whistled long and low. “I’m not going to say a word.”
No, he probably wouldn’t. The resort offered a level of anonymity for people like Jules Lowry. The operational risk assessment dropped significantly when they were on the resort’s property.
Two women wearing white approached, each with a large bag draped over their shoulders.
Their gear was emblazoned with the resort’s logo, and their smiles were pleasant and professional.
Rhys still gave them a careful onceover, walked them in, made sure all was the way it should be for the couples massage, then headed for his place.
His bungalow was situated slightly behind Jules and Abigail’s, set up like housing for bodyguards, nannies, or whoever else traveled with the rich and famous. His chest ached like he needed to take a deep breath, and rubbing his sternum didn’t alleviate the pressure.
She almost married Mason Marlow because…
Because why?
Why on Earth would Jules Lowry need to arrange for a husband? She could have her pick of men, and she didn’t need anyone. Not a soul. She had money. Clout. Power. She had everything. Yet apparently, she needed to marry that man. She’d picked him when she could have picked… someone else.
Rhys rubbed the back of his neck. First, it was his chest. Now, his head. He couldn’t place the discomfort. The ache. Nothing felt right. Everything was off. Like the axis of the world had tilted too far and wobbled. What the hell was going on?
Mason Marlow. That was his problem.
Then again, Jules had arranged for a goddamn marriage. How did that happen in this day and age? Why had it happened? What was Jules Lowry missing in life that she had to marry a guy for business?
Rhys guessed Mason Marlow was a solid pick. The cheating asshole had his own fans and money. He wasn’t at Jules’s level, but he certainly was in the same stratosphere.
His phone buzzed as he unlocked his bungalow and slipped inside. Air conditioning rolled over him. He still couldn’t take a deep-enough breath as he glanced at the screen and answered Scarlett’s call. “Hey—”
“ Rhys Callaghan . Do you know how proud I am of you?”
He rolled his eyes. “Scar—”
“Do you know how much work you saved me?”
This time, he laughed. “You’ve trained me well.”
“I can’t believe I had to hear about this thirdhand from Sloane when you know it would have made my day if you’d told me yourself.”
“I had a lot going on yesterday, and today…” He couldn’t wrap his head around Jules’s admission. “Almost as busy.”
“Yeah. Let me find my tiny violin. Because I saw what your bungalow looks like, and I’m so far beyond jealous I could scream. I want you to get me something from the gift shop. I’m sending you the link now.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and crossed the living room. “Is that why you’re calling?”
“No. I drew the short stick and have to convince you of the impossible, so pull up your big-boy panties and say yes so I don’t have to beg.”
“ Scar …”
“You already know what I’m going to ask, and you know you want to. It’s just pretend, Rhys. Just a game. You’ve had dozens of cover stories over the years—”
“Scarlett—”
“Viv’s going to call, but she’s the backup plan. You don’t want her to call you.”