The Decoy Bride

by Lizzie Shane

  Dominique thought she’d been hired as the wedding coordinator for an A-list actress. Something like that on her resume could completely change her life. She hadn’t said as much, but it was there behind the stars in her eyes.

  The owners of the resort had flown in to meet with Maggie personally, to assure her that everything would be flawless on her big day. They’d already started recruiting extra staff for the event—each hire carefully vetted by their in-house security team. And every reassurance about every measure that was being taken to ensure her happiness and safety only made her feel worse—because the wedding wasn’t happening. Not here, at least.

  It had taken her all day—through discussions of flowers and catering options and the logistics of bringing in top recording artists to perform at the reception—before she’d realized that the resort wasn’t even getting paid. They were “sponsoring” the wedding for the privilege and publicity associated with being the resort where Maggie Tate got married.

  That was when Bree had really started to feel sick.

  At four, she’d pleaded jet lag and retreated upstairs while Mel cleared the villa of the cast-of-thousands the wedding plans seemed to require.

  She was wasting their time. Using them. And she hated users. Hated liars. Hated seeing one in the mirror while she tried to outrun her guilt.

  She’d been on the other side of it, been hurt by deception, and now she was just as bad as Zander had been. Just as manipulative.

  “There you are.” Mel appeared in the doorway, her focus half on the tablet that was never far from her hand—right on schedule to get Bree back on schedule. “Your dinner has arrived.”

  Bree sighed and hit the button to stop the treadmill, riding the conveyor belt to the back and hopping off as it slowed. She knew Mel was trying to help, but Bree had never done particularly well with schedules. She always felt restless inside them. Confined.

  At home she would pour her excess energy into her work and completely forget about the time. She’d lost more day jobs than she could count because she lost track of the days, let alone the hours. Schedules were not her friend. Time was a flowing, flexible thing. When she was creating something, life would fade away into that perfect, sharp focus of absolute purpose and a feeling would fill her like she was doing the one thing she’d been put on earth to do…

  Except no one wanted her art.

  How could it be her reason for existence if she was boring and pedestrian? If she’d never had talent and was only fooling herself that she might actually be able to make a meager living as an artist at some point?

  Maybe it was time for her to grow up and learn how to live inside a schedule. Past time.

  Realizing she’d been silent too long again, she forced a smile. “Thank you,” she said as she fell obediently into step with the woman currently managing her life.

  “Kaydee’s out walking Cecil and the resort staff have left for the night.” Mel kept her voice carefully low, even though they were alone in theory, adding softly, “You did well today.”

  The words brought back that sick feeling. “Do you feel bad at all? About lying to all these people?”

  Mel’s smile was lightly patronizing, as if her naiveté was adorable. “They’ll be fine.”

  Would they? Bree wanted to demand. Would Dominique, who thought they’d just made her entire life? Or the resort’s owners who were going to who knew how much expense to make this wedding perfect?

  What was the plan for the end of the three weeks? Bree was here, planning an entire wedding, but the real Maggie was off getting married somewhere else. Would the truth come out? Would Maggie admit she had a decoy? It seemed unlikely, because then they’d never be able to use the ruse again, but then what story were they going to sell? How were they going to explain it? Bree should have asked more questions at the beginning, but all she’d been thinking of was how sixty thousand dollars could change her entire life.

  Seeming to sense her unease, Mel stopped at the hallway leading to the main part of the house. “You don’t need to worry about anything but your part and you’re doing that beautifully. Look. We already have some buzz.”

  She tapped something on her tablet, showing Bree an article from the Fame Game website from that morning.

  Wedding Bells for Alien Adventuress?

  Are Maggie Tate and Demarco Whitten really tying the knot? After the Alien Adventuress star Insta-flashed her stunning nine-karat blush diamond yesterday, the celebrity wedding watchers all salivated at the thought of the spectacular bash these two are bound to throw—and rumor has it we may not have to wait long. A source close to the actress says Maggie can’t wait to marry her baller honey and is already scoping out tropical venues for the big day.

  Bree frowned. “How do we know they mean this tropical island and not the other one?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Trust me. There will be paparazzi in the bushes any day now. Just keep doing what you’re doing.” Then Mel paused, adding, “Though maybe be careful of the way you look at Cross.”

  Bree snapped her mouth shut on the words she’d been about to say. “Cross?”

  “I don’t need to remind you that we aren’t trying to start rumors about Maggie and her bodyguard.”

  “I didn’t—I don’t look at him.” But she’d been aware of him. All day. Her shadow, his presence a weight against her spine—somehow comforting and agitating her at the same time.

  Mel’s eyes were entirely too knowing. “He’s an attractive man, I can see the appeal, but even if no one notices you sneaking off to the fitness studio together in the middle of the night, the way you act around him could give the wrong impression.”

  Bree blushed, feeling like she’d been caught necking on the couch by her parents. “Nothing happened.”

  “Good.” Mel patted her arm. “Why don’t I have your dinner brought to the master suite and run you a bath? Something nice and soothing.”

  Bree wasn’t sure how much more soothing she could take. Mel’s attempts to calm her did nothing but rub against her nerves, making her agitated. Making her want to push against the restrictions and do something crazy. Something real.

  But she wouldn’t.

  Sixty thousand dollars. A new lease on life. That was what this was. So she would take her freaking bath and stop looking at Cross and keep lying to the people who had been nothing but kind to her. Because apparently that was who she was now.

  The girl who lied.

  *

  Cross moved rapidly through the darkened villa. It was late and he’d already done his last security sweep, but after the call with Max he’d just ended he needed something to do. The rapid click of doggie toenails against the tile let him know he had a canine shadow and he paused with his hand on the patio door, looking down as Cecil B. DeMille sat at his feet, his tail sweeping the floor eagerly, his little furry face hopeful.

  “You wanna come too? Inspect the perimeter and guard your mistress?”

  He knew the dog was spoiled rotten, pampered endlessly and walked four times a day, but Cecil B. DeMille held himself perfectly still, as if by turning into a small, furry statue he could impress upon Cross the epic importance of one more walk. His dark eyes were liquid—and it would take a harder man than Cross to resist that pleading gaze.

  “Come on,” he murmured, making a quick detour to grab Cecil’s leash from the table where Kaydee had left it after their last walk and clip it to his collar. “And don’t say I never did anything for you.” Cross opened the patio doors then and Cecil burst through in a rush, wriggling in excitement.

  The warm, humid air hit him as soon as he stepped out of the air conditioning, a weight against his skin even after the sun had set. Exterior lights illuminated the paths and Cross stepped onto the one that circled the house, Cecil cavorting euphorically at the end of the leash.

  Happiness was so simple for him. Walks, food, chew toys, new things to sniff, and life was complete. If only they could all take such pleasure in the simple thing
s. If only life weren’t so freaking complicated.

  Cross had done his best to simplify—but in spite of his best efforts, life seemed to keep throwing him curve balls.

  Like this freaking partner position.

  Candy had apparently put his name in for it behind his back. And when Max called to talk to him about his application just now—the application that Candy had apparently forged for him—for some reason Cross hadn’t explained the mix-up and retracted it. He’d let it ride. Put his name in for something he knew he wasn’t going to get. Set himself up for failure. Which was something he never did.

  Candy was, predictably, ignoring his texts on the subject—which was annoying in itself, but then there was also the strange voicemail message he’d gotten from his mother saying she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to make it to the dedication. After twenty-five years of her cultivating his father’s legend in the town of Harris, he couldn’t wrap his brain around it.

  Then, of course, there was Mayor Mike. Calling repeatedly now because apparently he felt the students of the Harris County High School desperately needed a victory flag to fly after each win like the Chicago cubs.

  The idea of pitching his phone into one of the luxurious swimming pools was surprisingly tempting.

  At least things were going well on the job. Smooth. Simple. Bree had done a good job today, and Cross had managed not to stare at her like he was trying to see the woman beneath the Maggie act.

  He rounded the house to the beach-facing side, greeted by the shushing sound of the waves and a cool breeze off the moonlit water. The setting was gorgeous, everything about it designed to encourage the release of cares from the outside world—but Cross was still wound tight. He’d never been good at relaxing.

  A high school guidance counselor had once called him a super achiever, using her two semesters of psychology to diagnose why he had two modes—push and push harder. It had always been hard for him to turn off. Lauren had accused him of being a workaholic more times than he could count. She’d bitched that work-hard-play-hard was one thing, but work-hard-work-harder wasn’t nearly as much fun—but she hadn’t bitched too hard. That had been when he was still playing football and she hadn’t minded his single-minded focus so much when it included the promise of being an NFL wife. She’d only complained to guilt him into giving her what she wanted—and it had usually worked. Easier to say yes than to fight it out. One of the few places in his life where he hadn’t cared if he got the win.

  He was competitive, not masochistic—and Lauren could be vicious when thwarted.

  The end of the leash tugged and Cross paused, turning back to where Cecil had stopped to investigate something in the sand, his tiny muzzle burrowing a hole with single-minded focus. Cross could respect that focus.

  Days like this he missed the NFL. Missed having his entire life have one purpose—a win on Sunday. And that win…it was like a fix for a junkie. The thrill he had lived for. Nothing felt like that.

  He didn’t miss the way some part of his body had always hurt. Or the constant comparisons to his father’s legend and always coming up short. He didn’t even miss the team so much anymore—not since he’d started working at Elite Protection. But he missed the feel of the win. You didn’t get that in everyday life. That fight. That rush. That high.

  Maybe that was why he sparred with Candy. Going for that feeling any way he could.

  Cecil abandoned whatever he’d found in the sand and bounded over, ears flapping.

  There would be no wins here. No clear cut sense of victory. At least not until it was over and Maggie was home from her honeymoon, safely undiscovered.

  No sense of purpose or satisfaction.

  A light came on inside the second story above him, casting a swath of yellow light over the beach and Cross looked up, identifying the source as a lamp in the master suite—right as the balcony door opened and a figure stepped out into the night, backlit by the golden light.

  She wore a silky pearl white bathrobe that stopped halfway to her knees and seemed to catch and capture all the different colors of the night—the moonlight on the sand, the warm glow of the light behind her. Blonde hair curled over her shoulders, moving gently in the breeze.

  If this had been a Maggie Tate movie, the soundtrack would have swelled and every move would have been captured in lush slow motion.

  She looked like a mirage. Or a movie star. Some creature composed as much of fantasy as flesh and bone.

  He frowned at the thought—and at the lurch of attraction in his gut.

  She was a job. Not a fantasy.

  And right now she was standing on the balcony like a freaking bulls-eye.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The bath actually had soothed Bree’s nerves—which was almost annoying in itself. She wasn’t sure she deserved to be soothed tonight, but Mel and the luxury of the villa were conspiring against her stubbornness. The view from the balcony was breathtaking. It was nearly impossible to be anxious with her muscles warm and loose from the bath and the sound of the waves lapping against the sand.

  She’d kept her hair out of the water, piled in a knot on top of her head so she wouldn’t have to worry about flat irons and products, and now it fluttered in the breeze off the water. She breathed in the salt-tinged air—and almost didn’t feel guilty for all the lies she’d told today.

  Almost.

  If only she didn’t know how much this meant to them. How the appearance of the benevolent goddess Maggie Tate could change lives.

  She liked Dominique. Related to her entirely too much. They could have been friends. If she hadn’t been lying to her all day. Tricking her into believing her big break was coming when this was nothing of the sort.

  Just like Zander had done to her, once upon a time. When she was nineteen and too stupid to know any better. Too eager to realize the truth that was staring her in the face. Blinded by the hope that her dreams really were about to come true.

  She cringed internally at the parallel—as she’d been cringing all day.

  Sixty thousand dollars could change her life—but if she was only in it for the money that made her feel like an even worse human being. She’d seen the people who sucked up to Maggie because of her wealth, eager to use her for what they could get—and here she was, letting money persuade her to use people.

  She’d always had the tendency to slip into her own thoughts, losing track of her surroundings and checking out of conversations—but before it had always been an image she saw or the inspiration for a future piece that distracted her. Today it had been guilt. Sinking into the morass of it, until Mel jogged her back into the present.

  “You shouldn’t be out here.”

  Bree jumped, sucking in a breath and spinning at the sound of the voice behind her. Cross stood in the doorway that opened onto the balcony, the light behind him in the bedroom casting his face in shadow and making it impossible to read his expression.

  She pressed a hand to her racing heart—and told herself it was only galloping because he’d startled her, not because he was here. She tugged her bathrobe tighter around herself, though it was already closed, grateful he couldn’t possibly see her blush in the low light.

  Mel would have a fit if she caught them together. The beach below was supposed to be private, but that was no guarantee that someone wouldn’t wander where they weren’t supposed to and see her standing there in nothing but her bathrobe with her bodyguard. It would be a paparazzo’s dream.

  She glanced out over the water, but she saw no tell tale reflections off telephoto lenses. “I’m here to be seen, aren’t I?”

  He stepped deeper onto the balcony. “I still don’t like you out here.”

  She arched a brow at him, at the gruff tone of his voice. “You realize you aren’t actually here to guard me, right?” He was here to sell the story. Just like she was. An accessory like Cecil Two. Though he probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison. And he was a much more attractive accessory than the dog.

&n
bsp; Cross took another step, closing the distance between them until awareness of him pricked over her skin. He lowered his head until his lips almost brushed her hair and she could feel his breath against her neck when he murmured, so low she could barely pick out the words, “As far as the world is concerned, you are Maggie Tate, which means you’re just as much at risk as she is. So I am actually here to guard you.” He stepped back, and she sucked in a breath, realizing belatedly that she’d been holding it. “Now please come inside.”

  She would have obeyed, but her spine had been liquefied under the heat of his proximity and she needed the support of the balcony railing at her back to stay upright. He was gorgeous—all dark eyes and muscles—and smart. Driven. Capable. She didn’t know much about him, but she knew that much. He was the kind of man who could have done anything with his life and the world would have been his oyster. What made a man like that want to step in front of bullets for celebrities?

  “Did you always want to be a bodyguard?” she heard herself asking. “Some secret desire to be Kevin Costner when you grew up?”

  His lips didn’t even twitch at her attempt at a joke. “If I tell you, will you come inside?”

  “Tell me first.” She wasn’t ready to step into the light of the bedroom. He would leave then, and she didn’t want him to go.

  Cross’s jaw tightened, but he answered. “I grew up in a football family in a football town. It was all I knew how to do. Then I tore my ACL and couldn’t play anymore. I needed something to do and one of my old teammates thought I’d be good at this job.” He shrugged. “That’s all there is to it.”

  But she knew that wasn’t true. There was something in him, some instinctively protective core that drew him to this job and made him good at it.

  And also made him sexy as hell.

  Bree flushed, looking out over the beach again so she wouldn’t start openly drooling over him. Off limits. She needed to remember that or she really would be starting a scandal. Not that he would be interested in starting one with her. He was probably taken… “Your girlfriend doesn’t mind you taking off for weeks at a time to get up close and personal with Maggie Tate?”