He raised his eyebrows. “Do I? I know your work history. I know things that anyone could discover if they did some research. Other than that, all I know are things you accidentally let slip in a moment of weakness, or things you had to tell me because I asked direct questions. Even then you can be evasive.”
“I’m evasive?” I could feel my cheeks flushing and it had nothing to do with the sun. He couldn’t be serious. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not the one in danger,” he said. “And because there are some things I can’t tell you.”
I put my hands on my hips. “That’s very convenient, don’t you think? I know you speak Russian and own a six-thousand-dollar custom tailored tux, but I have no idea how or why.”
“It cost four.”
“That’s a good deal, it’s beautiful. And also beside the point. I think your number one skill is question evasion.”
“I told you, I can’t always answer questions.”
“Of course—murky past. Top secret. Things you can’t reveal to anyone or you’d have to kill them.”
“Look, Cameron, you’re my client. And as my client, I thought we had an understanding.”
I knew he was right. I was his client, and I should have told him. But I was at the tail end of a day that had included scary people following me, a trashed office, a high-tech spy gadget, and the continuation of a PR fiasco. And he’d just poked at one of my deepest private insecurities.
Other than my three friends, the only people around me were employees. I was alone.
“Right, your client.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why you’re here. To do a job.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. He probably sensed danger. And I could have stopped there, but instead, I snapped.
“You didn’t even want this job. You’re supposed to be retired, not shadowing a bitchy CEO in and out of meetings all day.”
“Cameron—”
“And because some psycho broke in to my house, suddenly we’re sleeping together. I’m in the middle of a PR nightmare, my office is trashed, and someone’s trying to either get rid of me or hurt me, or both. And here we are, playing house, watching Food Network in my bedroom and fucking in a hotel closet. We still don’t know who’s behind all this shit, and now the whole thing is fucking complicated.”
“Well, maybe we should have kept it professional.”
His words stung, but I refused to let it show. Fought back those traitorous tears threatening to form in the corners of my eyes. “Apparently so.”
A flash of emotion crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. “I still have a job to do.”
“Fine. Do your job. I’ll sit here on house arrest so the big bad wolf doesn’t eat me. And I’m not hiding anything from you, so you can drop the interrogation.”
I turned and walked back inside. I didn’t stomp. I didn’t try to slam the door. I didn’t clench my hands into fists or whip my hair around in a show of anger.
I stayed cool and collected. The consummate professional. If he wanted to be a brick wall bodyguard, I’d be the unflappable CEO.
It didn’t matter that I was crumbling on the inside. I didn’t have time to crumble. There were too many people who depended on me. Too many responsibilities for me to see to. I’d hold myself together, like I always did. Keep a tight grip on my feelings and face each problem as it came. As the saying went, I’d put my hair up, put on some gangsta rap—or maybe some eighties pop—and handle it.
I couldn’t afford to be more vulnerable right now.
30
Jude
Cameron walked away like she’d just left an R&D debriefing. I could imagine her strolling calmly to her office to catch up on emails. Maybe taking her laptop out to the upper balcony so she could sit in the shade of an umbrella and get some work done.
Like she didn’t care.
Like I was just another employee.
An employee who’d been dismissed.
Fuck this.
For the first time in five years, I was quitting a job. I didn’t need this shit. She was the one who’d kept information from me. And she had the audacity to get defensive? I was trying to keep her safe—keep someone from screwing up her life, or worse. So much worse.
And she wanted to argue about who was keeping secrets. Who was being guarded.
Yeah, I was fucking guarded. I kept secrets. A fuck ton of them. But that was the nature of my life. I didn’t say the actual words very often because it tended to freak people out, but I’d been a spy. A spook. People thought they knew what that meant because of movies and spy dramas. But they didn’t know. They had no fucking idea.
I went inside, ignoring the prickly sensation that crawled across my skin. Grabbed my motorcycle helmet from where I’d stashed it in a closet. Walked out the front door.
I still stopped and made sure it locked and the alarm set.
But that was it. I was done.
My bike was out front. I jammed my helmet down—why did it feel hard to put on?—gripped the handlebars, and swung my leg over. Turned it on and the engine roared to life.
The muscles in my back knotted and my chest ached. I felt hollow and raw. But I pushed it all aside and tore down her driveway.
Because fuck this.
I skidded to a stop at the first golf cart crossing. It was empty, but I didn’t want to hit anyone on my way out. I paused, checking right, then left. Making sure it was clear.
There wasn’t anyone there. No group of seniors in bright tracksuits doing their walking jazzercise routine, complete with a peppy trainer carrying a boombox on his shoulder. No Mrs. Montecito swerving in her golf cart after too many margaritas down at Bluewater’s beach bar.
I accelerated again, driving by the canal, but slowed, wondering if anyone had fed Steve recently. With all the chaos, Cameron might have missed her turn.
Why the hell did I care if a three-legged alligator missed a meal?
I groaned and pulled to a stop. I shouldn’t care. But if Dr. Whittaker let Schnitzel, her miniature dachshund, too close to the water, and Steve hadn’t been properly fed…
I flipped to my calendar—I’d synced the Bluewater events calendar to mine—but Cameron’s turn wasn’t for another few weeks. Steve probably had a belly full of rotisserie chicken. Schnitzel the wiener dog was safe.
My neck prickled uncomfortably, and I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin. A delivery van drove by, reminding me that I was sitting in the middle of the road. What the fuck was wrong with me?
Cameron was what was wrong with me. I never should have taken this job.
I kept going, well aware of how slow I was driving. Took a right I didn’t need to take. Cruised toward the marina, not the Bluewater gate. Because if I left, then what?
She’d be alone.
My stomach was doing uncomfortable things, and it wasn’t like that time I’d gotten some questionable tacos down at the beach. The ache in my chest grew with every inch of ground my motorcycle ate up beneath me.
Maybe we should have kept it professional.
I’d said that. Thrown it in her face when she’d said things had gotten complicated. I still wanted to know why she hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me about the sex tape. But saying that had been a dick move on my part. No wonder she’d walked away.
And that cool businesswoman thing she’d done? I knew that act. It was as fake as her friend Daisy’s turquoise wig had been the other night. She hadn’t walked away from me all calm and collected because she felt that way. She’d done it because she was trying to convince me—and maybe herself—that she was fine. But I knew her. I didn’t need to know why she turned her blender into a jet engine or where she’d grown up or whether she had any family to know her.
She’d been hiding. Trying not to let me see that she was hurt.
Hell, I’d been doing the same thing dur
ing that entire stupid fight on the terrace.
Somehow I’d circled around and the Bluewater entrance was up ahead. I could keep going. Drive right on out of here. Abandon my mission. I could leave Cameron to her own devices. She could hire any private security team she wanted. It wasn’t like she didn’t have the money.
I stopped again, staring at the entrance gate. At the road beyond and where it led.
God, I was being an idiot. Of course I wasn’t going to leave her. I couldn’t. And it wasn’t about the job. It wasn’t because I knew she was in danger. There were other people who could protect her.
But there wasn’t anyone else who was going to love her.
Not like I did. Because holy shit, I loved her like fucking crazy.
I turned my bike around and cruised back toward her house. She did owe me an apology, but this time I’d stop acting like a jackass and give her a chance to explain. And I’d apologize for what I’d said to her. I hadn’t meant it.
And she’d had one hell of a day. I really should have cut her some slack.
One hell of a day. She’d said something like that back at the office earlier and now it tickled my brain like a feather. Something about Bobby. She’d said he always texted or showed up right after she was dealing with one of the incidents. Like the universe was adding insult to injury.
She was right.
I didn’t know about the parking garage attack. I hadn’t been there. But after the hit and run, he’d tried to call her. I remembered her ignoring his call when we were drinking bourbon in her kitchen.
He’d texted her the day after the break-in at her house. Something about inviting her to a party on his stripper plane. And he’d shown up at her office right when the media shit storm had started. He’d claimed that was how he knew.
I drove up Cameron’s driveway and stopped in front of her house. Both she and Brandy had dismissed Bobby as a suspect. They didn’t think he had a motive. He had a trust fund that would enable him to keep living his best life without ever having to work.
But what if he didn’t?
Cameron had sarcastically referred to his stripper plane as another brilliant business idea that had wasted a bunch of his trust fund. Another. That meant there’d been more than one. And she’d said it casually, like it was a regular occurrence.
Maybe Bobby didn’t have an endless supply of money like Cameron thought. Maybe he’d spent too much on so-called businesses that were really just excuses for him to show off in front of his friends and Instagram followers.
And now Cameron was poised to buy a majority share in the company his father had founded. A company he might have always assumed he’d inherit. After all, it had his last name.
But if he’d discovered he wouldn’t—that Cameron Whitbury was gradually buying out the Spencer family…
I yanked my helmet off and ran up the front porch. Jammed in the code to unlock the door. I needed to see the security footage from the night of the break-in here.
If Bobby was behind everything, he could have hired someone to break in to Cameron’s house. But my instincts were screaming at me; it felt like my brain was on fire. I had a feeling it was him. That he’d want to do it himself, just to get into Cameron’s private space.
Ignoring Nicholas, busy starting dinner in the kitchen, I went to my temporary desk in the breakfast nook.
Still standing, I powered on my laptop. Opened the video. The intruder walked up to the front door, head down, hood up. Dark clothing, down to the shoes. Unlike Bobby, no designer labels.
But even Bobby Spencer had to be smart enough to know Cameron had security cameras. And if he wore something recognizable, he’d get caught.
I clicked through the frames, pausing, looking for the right angle. There had to be a moment when I could see the intruder from head to toe.
Finally, I found it. I isolated a spot and zoomed in.
There it was. The embossed Fendi logo on the toe of his black leather sneakers. The same sneakers he’d been wearing when he’d come into the office after the break-in. The ones that had seemed subdued compared to the rest of his clothes.
That little fucker.
“Cameron,” I shouted, saving the image. “Cameron, are you in your office?”
“She’s not here,” Nicholas said without looking up from the vegetables he was slicing.
I straightened, my back going stiff, a hit of adrenaline racing through my veins. “What?”
“I don’t want to make it weird, but we heard you guys fighting. Inda went upstairs to talk to her and a couple minutes later, they left.”
“Where the fuck did they go?”
“Just down to the village to get a drink. They’re in Cameron’s golf cart. They won’t leave Bluewater.”
“Fuck.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked Cameron’s GPS. Her little dot was right on top of mine. That meant she was in the house. “No, she’s here. Maybe they came back.”
“Maybe,” he said, still slicing.
I pocketed my phone and went to check the garage. I glanced in her office on my way, but it was empty. And regardless of where Nicholas had said she’d gone, my instincts were going crazy. Something was wrong.
“Cameron?”
Her Tesla was parked in its spot. But her golf cart was gone.
My heart thumped hard in my chest. She could have parked it outside. I ran around to check, racing down the porch steps, but the only thing in her driveway was my bike.
I darted back inside and pulled out my phone to call her. It rang once.
“Come on, Cameron.”
Twice. I ran halfway up the curved staircase, willing her to answer. To be upstairs in the shower or out on her balcony.
Three times.
“Cameron, where the fuck are you?”
On the fourth ring I stopped, listening. Held my breath. A faint noise came from the second floor.
Her voicemail picked up and I bolted, taking the rest of the stairs two at a time. Rushed down the hallway to her master bedroom.
And found her phone sitting in a depression in the fluffy white comforter on her bed.
31
Cameron
My cool CEO act lasted all the way to the bottom of the stairs.
Then the stomping started.
The fist clenching.
And when I got to my bedroom, a good old-fashioned door slam.
I took my phone out of my pocket and tossed it on the bed, then paced to the window and back. I was considering doing something I almost never did—letting the tears that stung my eyes fall—when Inda knocked gently, opening my door enough to poke her head inside.
“Hey, you.”
I swiped beneath my eyes in case any wetness had already leaked out. “Hi.”
“Sorry to bother you, but I kind of heard everything. I came up to see if you’re okay.”
“Of course I’m okay,” I said, but ruined my attempt at composure by sniffing hard.
“I know you’re not,” she said. “And it’s okay if you’re not.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not.”
She came in and sat down on the edge of my bed. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know.” I wandered toward the huge windows.
She was quiet for a long moment while I stared out at the water, a potent mix of emotions swirling through me.
“Come on,” she said, standing. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Down to the village to get a drink.”
I glanced at her. “Tempting, but I’d have to bring the muscle. You know I can’t go anywhere alone.”
“We won’t leave Bluewater,” she said. “And you won’t be alone. You’ll have me.”
Inda had served in the Israel Defense Forces before she’d met and married Nicholas. She was a legitimate badass.
“Okay, well, that means you’re on bodyguard duty,” I said. “But if we get in a high-speed chase with another golf cart, leave the driving to me.�
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“Sounds like a plan,” she said with a smile.
I glanced down at my feet. I was still wearing the shoes I’d worn to work this morning. They were nice—a classy pair of nude Saint Laurent pumps.
But I was in a mood. I needed sassier shoes.
“Hang on, let me change my shoes.”
I went into my walk-in closet and stepped out of my pumps. I scanned my collection for a second before finding the ones I wanted. Those red suede and crystal Jimmy Choos that I’d bought when I went shopping with Jude.
Hell yes.
I slipped them on my feet. Took a quick look in the full-length mirror. They complemented my beige tailored suit quite well. A pop of red sparkle on the sleek CEO.
A sassy pair of shoes didn’t do anything to help my situation, but they made me feel a bit better. And after the day I’d had, I’d take the tiniest improvement.
Inda said a quick goodbye to Nicholas, and we left out the garage. The lighted tassels on my golf cart glowed happily as I drove us toward the nearest path that led to the village.
Something in my driveway caught my attention—or rather a lack of something. I stopped and twisted in my seat to look behind me.
“Was Jude’s bike in the garage?”
“I don’t know. It might have been. I wasn’t looking for it, so I’m not sure.”
It wasn’t in front of my house, and I’d thought he’d left it there. I didn’t remember seeing it in the garage, but maybe I just hadn’t noticed it.
His things among mine had already become so commonplace, I didn’t think about them anymore.
With a sigh, I kept going. We bumped along the path, meandering our way toward the village. The path arched over a wooden bridge to cross the canal and I stopped at the peak.
The dark water flowed below us. We were surrounded by lush landscaping and the breeze coming off the bay was cool and refreshing.
“I kept something from him,” I said, breaking the silence. “You already heard us, but Aldrich—”
“Has a sex tape.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes. And I didn’t tell Jude.”
The Mogul and the Muscle: A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy Page 21
