Chapter Fourteen
Rhys scanned the bleached-blond hardwood veranda draped with white linen that hung from pergolas covered in flowers.
Tourists and waitstaff milled around. The restaurant’s outdoor seating, which wrapped around the open-air building, was flanked by flickering gas lamps and flowers.
He memorized every angle, every person. No apparent dangers.
He and Jules approached the hostess. Instant recognition flared on her face. With wide eyes and a humming energy, she greeted them.
Jules handled those encounters with practiced ease. He pivoted, searching for anyone surreptitiously watching Jules. He understood the impulse completely. But no one did.
And where the hell was Abigail? He inspected as far as he could see inside. “We’re expecting another person. Has anyone else in our party arrived?”
“No,” the hostess squeaked.
Suddenly, Abigail hustled up to meet them. “Sorry. The hibiscus stole more of my attention than I expected.”
They were seated. Draped white linens and flowering vines flanked their table. Rhys tucked himself in the corner, watching everyone who approached. Jules and Abigail glanced at the menus and gazed at the purplish sky and water.
“Anything noteworthy on your walk over?” he asked Abigail.
“Do you know how red a red hibiscus is? I thought I did, but I was wrong.”
Nothing of note from Abigail. Good. “Super red, I’m sure.”
He thought over the situation. The stalker’s timing didn’t make sense.
That her stalker was on this island at all was…
unexpected. Then again, it significantly narrowed the pool of people who were messing with Jules.
Dean could access a list of Americans who’d traveled outside the US.
They could check airline records. Titan could also look into who knew where Jules had planned to honeymoon.
Probably a lot of people. Definitely the paparazzi. If not before, then they would today. Sloane had to be working her contact list to make sure the pictures she wanted were taken.
Had investigators considered her stalker might be a photog?
Rhys could name most of them. Most were normal Joe Schmoes who enjoyed the chase of celebrity money shots.
They weren’t stalkers, even if they were always there, always snapping pictures.
Many cultivated relationships with publicists, PR teams, and, sometimes, even celebrities themselves.
The paparazzi were predictable in their relentlessness.
Both Jules’s and Mason’s people could have invited their preferred gossip hunters to St. Barts.
Even if they hadn’t, gossip outlets would have sent photographers for a peek at the honeymoon.
They could have finagled their itinerary.
Jules had kept her dinner plans, simply inserting Abigail in place of Mason and adding another person to her table.
Photographers weren’t the problem. The paparazzi didn’t want Jules to quit. She was their bread and butter. Pictures of her, gossip about her, anything having to do with her, paid well.
They wanted her to come home and be visible. They wanted her working—making movies, walking red carpets, living her life for them to make money off of.
Unless one of them had a screw loose.
“I said there’s yellow ones too.” Abigail drummed her fingers on the table. “Are you listening to me? You’re not asking about the yellow and purple hibiscus.”
“Oh, sorry. Um, very yellow?” Jules tried.
Two lines etched into Abigail’s forehead. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, just that my crazy stalker came here to ruin my honeymoon and take pictures of me holding hands with Rhys.”
Abigail arched an eyebrow. “Wait. You were holding hands?”
“Focus, Abs,” Jules snapped. “He took a picture from behind us, then told me to stay here.”
“How does anyone know where you are?”
“Lots of ways,” Rhys grumbled. “The easiest being the dinner reservation has likely been on the books since your travel was arranged. Anyone who knows the name under which your reservation was booked could find out when and where you planned to eat.”
He’d have their itinerary rebooked. New restaurants. New plans. They didn’t even need to stick to a specific schedule if all Jules and Abigail wanted to do was lie out on the beach with fruity drinks.
The waiter arrived, reciting specials and drinks and adding island joy to the conversation again. The ladies relaxed. They ordered. Rhys studied their surroundings, hoping to pinpoint an obsessed fan on a tropical vacation, but their table was hidden from view.
“I need to make a phone call.” Rhys stood, using his vantage point to check all the angles again. No one could see them. None of this made sense. “Excuse me.”
He positioned himself nearby to see Jules, Abigail, and the area around the private seating, and dialed Vivian.
His boss picked up on the first ring. “Paradise treating you well?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Her stalker with a hard-on for her retirement also made the trip.”
“What the hell? Seriously?”
“Yup. Took a picture of her and told her to stay on the island.”
“Is she okay?”
“Unnerved at first, but she’s moved on to pissed.”
“You and me both,” Viv muttered. “What kind of picture? This isn’t Sloane’s doing?”
“Not one of Sloane’s people.” Rhys stalled. Vivian was one hundred percent behind the publicity stunt, but discussing his holding Jules’s hand with anyone in his office made him want to crawl out of his skin. “I had her hand in mine. Part of Sloane’s whole shit show that she’s orchestrating.”
Dead air hung on the phone for eternity. “Uh-huh. Okay. Right.” Vivian paused. “What exactly did the guy say?”
His molars clenched. “You work fast. Stay here in paradise. No one wants you to come home.”
“That’s a different twist on it, isn’t it? You work fast . Huh.”
“Yeah. There’s never been a reference to her personal life before.”
“I wonder why?”
“Hell if I know, Viv. But the asshole is down here. The place is small enough that it has to be like shooting a fish in a barrel, right?”
“Yeah.” She let out a long breath. “Screenshot the pic and text. Make sure I can see the phone number. Send it to me, and we’ll kick it to the profilers.
Let me know your location, and Dean will see if he can find security footage or trace the phone number.
It sucks, but it’s a bold move and, maybe, a stupid mistake. ”
He nodded. “Amateur hour.”
“If we can end this entire headache because we can pinpoint his location on a tiny island, then the vacation will be worth all the heartache she’s dealing with. How’s she holding up anyway?”
Jules hadn’t shed a single tear. “She’s resilient.”
“Guess she has to be. Screw Mason Marlow.”
Vivian wasn’t a hearts-and-flowers kind of woman. She’d probably understand the arranged marriage more than Jules would have guessed, but it wasn’t Rhys’s secret to share. “Screw him,” he agreed.
“You ready for Operation Money Shot?” Vivian asked.
He choked. “Give me a break.”
“It was either that or Operation Kissy Face. Scar likes Kissy Face so long as she gets to make kissy faces when she says it.”
“Viv,” Rhys growled. “Don’t make me fly up there and strangle you all.”
“I’d like to see you try. Scarlett hasn’t had this much fun in… hell, ever. It’s actually worrying me how much our favorite gothy emo hacker girl is into celebrity gossip. If she loses her edge because of you and Jules, I’m going to hold you responsible.”
“Anyone named Scar can’t lose their edge.”
“She and Sloane scoped romantic moonlit photo spots. Don’t be too sure, brother.”
He groaned—even as anticipation skipped down his spine. “You tell everyone to keep their eyes to themselves.”
Vivian snorted. “You’re about to be on every celebrity gossip site in the world. I’d check on that thick skin of yours and toughen up.”
“Let me know if the profiler or Dean finds anything worth a damn.”
He ended the call, shook off the tension tying knots in his shoulders, and returned to the table.
Drinks and appetizers had arrived. Jules and Abigail had bent their heads in conversation.
Laughter bubbled between the sisters. The creepy text message wasn’t a distant memory, but Jules had moved it to the back burner.
This wasn’t the first time a stalker had shown up unexpectedly.
It came with the job, and as creepy, aggravating, and invasive as that picture and text message had been, it would be forgotten by the end of the vacation.
She didn’t worry about her safety. That was his job.
“Who’d you talk to?” Jules dipped a shrimp into cocktail sauce.
“Vivian.”
Abigail rubbed her hands together. “Super-duper boss lady. I love when she gets into the action.”
Vivian’s reputation preceded her. Neither Jules nor Abigail had met her, and both had loved hearing stories about her over the years.
“What’d she say?” Jules plucked another shrimp from the dish. “Abs, eat some before I finish all of them.”
“I don’t want any, actually. The smell’s bothering me.” Abigail wrinkled her nose. “Did Viv get all loud and bossy or quiet and deadly?”
“Neither.”
Both of their faces fell.
“We’ll pass along the text message and change up the itinerary. Dean will look into the phone number and check the security footage.”
“Wait a minute.” Abigail paused with her drink in hand. “I want to see the picture.”
“No.” Jules blushed. “It’s a stupid picture taken without my knowing.”
“Almost all your pictures are. I want to see.”
Jules shoved another shrimp into her mouth. “No.”
Her brow knitted. “Where were you? What were you doing? Is Operation Kiss and Cuddle in effect already?”
His cheeks warmed. What was with everyone trying to name Sloane’s public relations stunt?
Jules’s mouth hung open. “We’re not naming—”
“Operation Smooch and Smile? Kisses and—” Abigail dissolved into giggles. “What’s another K word? Karma. Klingon. Kismet? Kismet .”
Jules erupted into laughter. “Stop.”
His lips twitched.
“Rhys laughed.” Abigail pointed at him. “I saw it. Mr. Serious cracked a smile.”