“You mean a risk like dating a reporter?” Mitch asked.
Zoey’s head whipped around. “What?”
“Looks like your boyfriend’s followed us to France.”
There was no freakin’ way Alan had followed Zoey to Paris. That would be creepy. Weird. Unacceptable.
She searched the crowd on top of the monument for someone in a business suit and tie, but only Mitch matched that description. Her eyes roved the crowd again, this time looking for Alan’s silver-streaked hair.
Mitch grabbed her arm. “Don’t look. We need to figure out a plan, and I’m not sure letting him know we’re aware he’s here is the best course of action.”
“I’m not sure he is here.” He couldn’t be.
Mitch sighed, the sound filled with exasperation. “At least be casual about it. He’s standing near the corner, a few yards behind you. Jeans, a gray T-shirt and baseball cap, camera around his neck.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t just look like Alan?” She craned her neck, searching.
If Alan was here, that meant he’d followed them. He might know they’d been to Versailles. Might realize they were planning a wedding. So how could she convince him it wasn’t Brooke’s?
“Geez, could you be any more obvious? He’s going to notice us.”
“So?”
“So if he knows we’re on to him, he’ll be more aggressive and harder to lose.”
She glared, knowing her smoky eyeshadow would make it that much more intimidating. “I am being casual.” His faith in her was insulting. With exaggerated slowness, Zoey turned around, pretending to admire the architecture of the monument. “How’s this?” she asked, adding an extra bite to her tone.
“You look like someone trying to look casual.”
“There’s no pleasing you.” She scanned the crowd, passing right over Alan before zeroing back in. Dark hair tinged with unnatural gray peeked out from under a UCLA ball cap, and well-worn jeans hung low on his hips. He raised the camera to his eye, instantly transporting Zoey back to when she’d doused it in sticky soda. Had he bought a new camera or managed to fix the one she’d tried to ruin? Is that how he’d gotten the pictures off of it?
Alan. In Paris. Why did Mitch have to be right?
Zoey turned away, careful to keep the motion natural. Her heart jumped in her chest with each painful thump. “It’s him,” she said.
“Yeah, I thought so.” Was it her imagination, or was there a hint of accusation in Mitch’s voice? “How did he know we were here?”
Her mind rapidly filed through a thousand possibilities, from the plausible to the absurd. Surely he hadn’t bugged her purse in the five minutes they’d had an actual conversation at the charity event. That was a little too 007 for real life. Besides, she hadn’t even brought that purse with her to Paris, although she’d dumped all the contents of it into the one she carried now.
“Maybe we’re jumping to conclusions,” Zoey said. “It could be a crazy coincidence.”
“Come on, you don’t really believe that.”
The odds of she and Alan both coincidentally showing up at the exact same monument in Paris were about the same as him bugging her purse, and she liked the outcome of the former much better. “How could he have possibly figured out where we are?”
Mitch was silent for a moment, his strong jaw working back and forth. “Are you sure you didn’t let anything slip?”
“You mean in all those hours and hours we spent together, spilling our life stories? I didn’t even know about Paris the last time we spoke.”
“Maybe he has a GPS locater on your phone.”
Her skin prickled at the possibility. But no, she hadn’t left her phone unattended at the gala or at Disneyland. It had been safely tucked away in her bra both times. “Not possible.”
“How can you be sure? There’s no way this is a coincidence.”
Zoey glanced behind her. Alan still stood alone in the exact same spot. Who came to Paris alone, unless they were on business? Business like scoring clandestine photos of the top-secret wedding of the year. Zoey turned back to Mitch, letting out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. Probably not.”
“Let’s go before he realizes we’ve seen him.”
Zoey nodded, glancing at Alan again. He’d shifted, his body angled more toward them than it had been before. Was it her imagination, or was he watching them out of his peripheral vision?
Mitch walked toward the stairs, his steps unhurried, and Zoey followed. Just before they disappeared through the doorway, Zoey looked over her shoulder one last time.
Alan’s eyes locked with hers as he made his way through the crowd.
Crap. Crap crap crap crap crap.
“He’s coming,” Zoey said, pushing Mitch to urge him along. Alan couldn’t take pictures if he didn’t know where they were.
“Shoot.” Mitch picked up his pace.
A jolt of pain shot up Zoey’s leg every time her thin spiky heel connected with the smooth stone steps. Part of her mind demanded to know why they were running. If Alan caught up to them, he might ask some pointed questions or make nasty accusations, but he wouldn’t hurt them.
But she or Mitch might let something slip. Or Alan might get a picture. And one viral photo was all it took to bring the press swooping.
Zoey and Mitch rounded the first corner in the stairwell. Zoey looked up. Alan stood at the top of the stairs.
“Hurry,” Zoey hissed. They picked up the pace, muttering apologizes to tourists as they squeezed their way past them. Zoey’s only consolation was that Alan couldn’t move much faster than them.
Zoey and Mitch burst onto ground level and hurried into the tunnel. Just before they disappeared inside, Alan arrived outside the entrance to the monument.
“I don’t understand,” Zoey said. “How did he find us?”
“Someone must’ve let it slip.” Mitch raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t look at me.” Her heel caught on a crack in the concrete. She let out a yelp, her arms pinwheeling as her ankle turned. Mitch reached out, steadying her just in time.
They exited the tunnel just as Alan entered it. Zoey grabbed Mitch by the arm, yanking him around a corner so the building hid them. She dashed across the narrow street, dodging two motorcyclists. Then she turned down another corner.
A metro station. Perfect.
“I’ve never met a pap that sucks so bad at hiding,” Zoey said.
“I don’t think he cares about hiding. For some reason, he’s desperate.”
“Great. That’s exactly what we need right now.” If Alan was desperate, he wouldn’t give up easily. So what story would make him believe his assumptions about the wedding were wrong?
Zoey’s ankle throbbed and her feet ached, but she sprinted toward the stairwell leading down to the station and took the stairs two at a time. She gripped the handrail, praying she didn’t twist an ankle for real. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should’ve worn the strappy, flat gladiator sandals. But then she would’ve had to change her dress, and pull her hair up in a high pony. Obviously she’d have had to use different shades of eyeshadow. Really, guys acted like picking a pair of shoes was so simple, but they never considered how it impacted the rest of a look. Changing shoes created a domino effect that she hadn’t wanted to mess with on the plane.
“He’s got to be a reporter,” Mitch said. “Nothing else makes sense. Somehow his camera survived the soda spray. Who else could’ve taken the Disneyland photos? There’s no way most of those were taken by a cell.”
“My aim was excellent. I pretty much drenched that thing.”
“The memory card might’ve survived.”
“Or he had the camera insta-synced with a cloud service.” A ball of nerves fluttered in Zoey’s stomach as she said the words.
“Maybe there’s a second reporter we aren’t aware of working with him. We wouldn’t have noticed Alan if it weren’t for the charity gala.”
“Paparazzi usually work alone.”
Mitch and
Zoey swiped their metro cards and pushed through the turnstiles. Zoey slowed to a walk, trying to calm her labored breathing. No sign of Alan.
A metro pulled to the platform, and Zoey tugged Mitch forward. “Let’s get on this one, in case he figured out where we went.”
Mitch nodded, and they followed the crowd onto the train car. The doors slid shut, and the metro raced down the tracks. Zoey clutched at a strap hanging from the bar overhead, swaying with the movement. Her nose nearly brushed Mitch’s cheek as the train careened around a curve, forcing them even closer in the confined space.
Zoey swallowed, inching back. She scratched her nose, avoiding his eyes. “I think we lost him,” she said.
“Maybe for now. But he knows we’re here. I bet he tracks us down again.”
“How did he track us down to begin with?” Zoey asked.
“I don’t know, but we’re going to figure it out. I didn’t tell anyone we were going to the Arc de Triomphe. Did you?”
“Just that text to Brooke, and we know she’s not the one telling Alan.”
“Her phone or office might be bugged. I’ll tell Luke to have his security team check.”
“Brooke is pretty careful.” Zoey ran a hand through her hair, then quickly grabbed the strap again, trying to steady herself on the bumpy metro.
“Then maybe he followed us from Versailles.”
“And how did he know we were there? You only confirmed the appointment change a few hours before we landed. Maybe he hacked your email?”
“No way—he’d have to be a government agent or something. My computer has top-of-the-line security, since I have so many sensitive company documents on it.”
“Okay, so maybe Juliette’s the one who tipped him off.” Zoey frowned as she remembered the way Perfect Juliette had leaned into Mitch as they discussed wedding details. What kind of wedding planner wasn’t married? That should’ve been their first red flag.
“Juliette signed a nondisclosure. She’s on the hook for ten million if she talks to anyone about the wedding.”
Zoey frowned. Okay, so probably not Juliette.
“You said the flight plans were well protected?” Zoey said.
“Yes. I don’t think he followed us from the airport.”
“Then Alan can’t know why we’re here or what we’re doing. Not for certain.”
“But he’s making an educated—and very accurate—guess. The wedding is the only reason he would be here. And if he keeps following us, his hunch will be proven correct. It’s going to be hard to convince him there’s no wedding when we’re meeting with a wedding planner.”
They didn’t have to pretend there wasn’t a wedding—just that it wasn’t Brooke’s. Zoey chewed on her lip, her mind churning. “We’ll make him think his guess is wrong.”
“How?”
“I can get creative.” Maybe not throw-him-off-the-Arc-de-Triomphe creative but surely pretend-he-was-stalking-her-and-call-the-police creative.
Maybe fake-wedding creative.
“Yeah, that worked out great last time,” Mitch said, the sarcasm thick in his voice. “Tell me again how the soda stopped any photos from showing up in the tabloids?”
Zoey glared. The train bumped over a seam in the tracks, nearly tossing her into Mitch. His free hand reached out to steady her, and she yanked back. “Why do you always have to be so negative? I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry I dared to flirt with someone who turned out to be a creep. I’m sorry I didn’t do a background check on Alan and ask for references before giving him my number. There was no way I could’ve known who he was, but I’m sorry, and I’m trying to figure out how to fix this. You could give me a little credit.” She felt awful enough without Mitch adding to it. If Alan ruined Brooke’s wedding …
Mitch blew out a breath, running his free hand over his shortly cropped curls—a sure sign of agitation. “I didn’t mean to be so hard on you. I’m just frustrated with the situation.”
Zoey took a deep breath, trying to force her anger back. “Me too, but the situation isn’t going away. So how are we going to make it work in our favor?” There had to be a simple, easy solution to all of this.
“I don’t know,” Mitch said. “I need to think.”
“Well, we’d better figure it out quick.”
The chatter of French mixed with a smattering of other languages, creating a dull background roar. Zoey swayed with the train car as they raced down the rails toward the next stop. If Alan stuck around, he would know about the wedding. They had to convince him it wasn’t happening.
Or that it was happening for someone else.
The train slowed, and a feminine voice announced the station over the loud speaker.
“We should get off here,” Zoey said, recognizing the name. “I think the Louvre is close.”
Mitch nodded. When the doors opened, they followed the crowd out of the smelly car and onto the platform. Once they were out of the station and on the street, Zoey pulled out her phone, examining the map for a few moments before pointing in one direction. “That way.”
Mitch nodded, falling into step beside her. “The question isn’t will he find us again, but when. We should decide now what to do when that happens.”
“The way I see it, we have two options—we can either confront him or pretend like we’re confused by his presence and it’s some weird coincidence.”
“He saw us running. He’s not going to buy bewilderment.”
But would he buy a fake wedding? Zoey bit her lip. What would Mitch think of that idea? “Maybe the best thing to do is wait for the moment, then go with what feels right.”
Mitch let out a growl. “We need a plan.”
“If we can avoid him, then it’s a non-issue.”
“He found us at the Arc de Triomphe, a place we didn’t even know we would be until a half hour beforehand.”
“Okay, so he trailed our car from the airport or Versailles. He’s paying Phillipe to keep him updated.”
Mitch’s jaw clenched. “I trust Phillipe. It wasn’t him. It’s got to be either your phone or Brooke’s. GPS tracking is the only thing that makes sense. And if he’s tracking us, we won’t be able to avoid him.”
She’d kept that purse close the entire night. There was no way he’d dropped a tracker in it. She would’ve noticed when she swapped everything to her other purse. “Why are we completely discounting the idea that someone tipped him off at Versailles? Maybe the solution is to wear disguises in public.”
Mitch closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. “I’ll arrange for your phone to be checked by a security firm tonight, and Luke will do the same with Brooke’s. If they’re both clear, we’ll start looking for the rat. Someone’s getting fired for this.”
Zoey patted Mitch on the arm. “I’m sure they are, Mitchell. That’ll totally help us right here and now. We can’t change the fact that he knows we’re here. All we can do is avoid him, if possible.”
“Have you listened to a word I’ve said? It won’t be possible! We’re traipsing around the city with one of Paris’s premier wedding planners. We’re visiting florists, bakers, caterers, and other frilly wedding shops. We need a believable explanation that doesn’t lead back to Brooke and Luke.”
He wanted a solution? Fine. She’d give him one.
“Okay, Mitch. We’ll pretend the whole thing is for us.”
Mitch grabbed her arm, yanking her to a stop. His grip was firm, but not painful, and fire spread out from where his skin made contact with hers. “You can’t be serious.” His eyes were wide, his lips clenched into a tight line of panic.
“If you have another solution, I’m all ears.”
He swallowed hard. “You want us” —he motioned back and forth between them— “to pretend we’re getting married?”
He acted like she’d asked him to eat a live scorpion. She forced her tone to be light and nonchalant. “You said yourself that Alan’s going to figure out we’re here for a weddin
g. So let’s convince him it’s for someone else. We’re the obvious candidates.”
Mitch’s fingers trailed along her wrist as he let go. “And you think we can pull it off?”
Ouch. There’d been something between them, once upon a time. The stolen kiss hadn’t been a marriage proposal, but that kind of chemistry didn’t just disappear overnight. At least, not for her.
“I don’t know if you’re capable of pulling off even a pretend serious relationship,” Mitch said.
Zoey blinked back the tears that burned beneath the surface. She’d deserved that. The kiss had freaked her out, and she’d handled the aftermath badly. She never should’ve gone out with what’s-his-face the next day, and she really shouldn’t have made out with him in public, near Ryder Communications, where Mitch would walk by on his lunch break and see them. But however much she was attracted to Mitch, he was the antithesis of her “seize the day” attitude, and the depth of her feelings had freaked her out. She could never be happy with someone so stern and type-A.
Could she?
“Don’t worry about me,” Zoey said. “You’re the one who sucks at acting.”
“And apparently you’re way too good at it.”
“This is for Brooke and Luke, okay? Do it for them.”
Mitch let out a groan, then nodded. “Plan A will be avoiding Alan. Don’t mention this to anyone unless we have to, okay? There’s no need to freak out Brooke and Luke for nothing.”
“Agreed,” Zoey said.
“I don’t know if we can play a believable bride and groom for the camera, so that’s a last resort.”
Zoey swallowed, forcing the hurt behind a door and locking it with a key.
They walked another block in silence, then crossed the street. Zoey laughed, pointing to the glass pyramid up ahead. Her annoyance—and okay, her hurt—evaporated, excitement bubbling up in its place.
“That’s it,” Zoey said. “That’s the Louvre.”
The former palace sprawled out, nearly as impressive as Versailles. It had to stretch on for miles and miles inside.
There was no way Alan would find them here.
Alan was in Paris. Just when Mitch thought this trip couldn’t get any more complicated. At least they’d lost him. For now.
Mix 'N Match (No Match for Love) Page 9
