by Juniper Bell
Get You Back
Part Two: Reunion
Juniper Bell
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Also by Juniper Bell
About the Author
The Get You Back Serial
Part Two: Reunion
She slipped through my fingers. Again. For six months, I’ve been searching the world for Lauren Blakewell. I know she’s not here in Morocco, but this is still my best chance of finding her. Bliss, her con woman mother, is here, and if I have to make a deal with the devil to find Lauren, I will. I need to know if what Lauren said is true or just more lies. I have to know if she loves me. Because I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop dreaming of the taste of her. And I won’t stop looking until I get her back.
If any place is safe from Bliss, it has to be this faraway corner of a remote island in Thailand. I know Rye McAllister wants to find me, and I miss him. So much. I miss his silver eyes and magic hands. I miss him in bed. If I could have him with me, all to myself, with no risk of Bliss showing up, no mention of the past, that would be paradise. Can I do that? Can Rye and I steal some time in a tropical hideaway before the real world crashes in with all its betrayals, secrets and lies?
1
Rye
The Café des Roules sat in a dark corner in a dark alleyway in Rabat, Morocco—the perfect setting for my dark mood. I signaled the waiter for another café creme and stretched my legs under the little round marble-topped table. It had a sugar packet crammed under one leg to keep it stable, but it didn't work. I kept jostling it and sloshing coffee into the little saucer. I wasn't built on a Moroccan scale. I belonged back in Texas, where the streets were wide and the buildings sky-high.
But I was here in Rabat. Again. For the third time in the past six months. Looking for Lauren Blakewell by way of her mother, Bliss.
We McAllisters are nothing if not stubborn bastards.
Six months ago, Lauren Blakewell had disappeared without a trace. The only lead I had was that Bliss had skipped off to Morocco. The need to find Lauren blinded me to everything else—my business, my brother and sister, my friends back in Texas. For anyone else, this might be surprising. For a McAllister, it's par for the course. Family legend says that for us McAllister men, it always comes down to a woman who will either be our savior or our doom.
I was leaning hard toward doom at this point.
I'd first gone to Washington, DC, seeking revenge on Bliss Blakewell, the con woman who had married my father and ruined his life. Instead I’d stumbled on secrets and lies—and I found Lauren. Everything changed when we were together. But then the nude photos came out, and Lauren went on TV to explain—and now she was nowhere to be found.
I would get Lauren back, and when I did, I'd find out if she'd told the truth in her national TV interview. I'd find out if she loved me.
The waiter, a dapper sixtyish man wearing a black bar apron, briskly delivered a tray containing my coffee and a slip of paper with the total scrawled on it in elaborate handwriting. "C'est tout, monsieur?"
"Oui, merci." Good thing some Moroccans speak French and that I pulled a C in it in high school.
I sipped the scalding liquid as a text flashed on the screen of my phone. Doug Berkowitz, my investigator.
Got a lead on Bliss. It's not far from you.
I shook my head, unnerved by the thought that Doug, back in New Jersey, had a bead on my location. How was it that he knew exactly where I was at all times, but in six months of investigating, still hadn't found a trace of Lauren Blakewell?
In the last half a year, life for most people had returned to normal. Senator Clayton survived the recall effort. Brian Clayton soldiered on, returning to his regular life as an investment banker and man-about-town. No one mentioned the girl everyone used to compare to Kate Middleton.
I was such an asshole. My goal had been to ruin Bliss's life, but instead I'd ruined Lauren's. I'd done it so thoroughly she had to vanish from civilization.
It served me right that I couldn't stop thinking of her, that I'd spent a small fortune trying to find her. Why was it so important to me? She didn't want to be found, obviously. But I couldn't let it rest. No matter how many times I told myself to forget about her, I couldn't. Images of her haunted me, especially in my dreams. Every night I woke up with a raging hard-on and the taste of her on my tongue.
I texted Doug back. Thanks man. Any word on the girl with the kitten?
Yes. It's been tough because she's a hacker who knows how to cover her tracks. Name is Courtney Jewell. Still working on a location for her.
A hacker? Why would Lauren be such close friends with a hacker? Then again, it shouldn't be too surprising, considering both operated in an ethical gray zone. If Courtney was a hacker, maybe she was helping Lauren maintain her online invisibility. It was incredible just how completely she'd disappeared.
As soon as the address from Doug came through, I checked for it on a map. Not far at all. Probably a short taxi ride away. Maybe this would be the house where I would finally find Bliss. I'd checked out at least twenty locations so far, and none of them had panned out.
But I'd find her. Sooner or later.
I rose to my feet and dug in my pocket for some dirham. After calculating a generous tip, I paid and stowed my phone, ready for the hunt to begin again.
In the doorway, I paused. A dark sedan with tinted windows idled in the alleyway, where the stench of centuries saturated the stones underfoot. I waited for it to pass, but instead, the door opened and someone gave me a sharp push from behind.
Fighting back, I swung my elbow into hard flesh. Someone growled, "Get in the car, asshole."
I was hustled head-first into the sedan, which took off before my kidnapper had even closed the door. I swung my fist at the big guy next to me, who wore a business suit and didn't look like a local. He looked more like a thug from the Bronx.
He blocked my punch with his forearm. "Want to talk to Bliss? Take it easy then."
I froze. "That's why you're kidnapping me? To see Bliss? That makes no fucking sense. I've been looking for her for months."
He handed me a blindfold. "Put this on. She's calling the shots here, cowboy. Don't forget it."
The things I was willing to do for Lauren Bakewell.
I put on the blindfold and let myself be driven through the back alleys of Rabat in a darkened car. If figured if the guy wanted to murder me, a knife in the ribs would have already done the job.
We drove for a while as the sounds outside changed. Fewer cars honking, more birds chirping. It felt as if we were traveling uphill to the outlying neighborhoods where the wealthy lived.
When the car finally stopped and I ripped off my blindfold, it turned out I was right. We were on the terraced grounds of a luxurious villa covered with magenta bougainvillea. The kidnapper manhandled me up the tiled steps and onto a wide patio. I saw ornamental planters with fragrant miniature lemon trees, low lounge chairs protected by beach umbrellas, a servant standing guard in a black dress with a white apron … and Bliss.
"Rye McAllister," she said in a voice like silk. "I hear you've been looking for me."
As my stepmother, she'd been blond. As a Washington operator, she'd worn a short black bob. Now, she wore her hair in shoulder-length r
eddish waves set off by a flowy sort of olive-green tunic.
"Seriously, Bliss? Kidnapping?"
"Oh, don't exaggerate, darling. You got a free ride, that's all." The server came forward with a small tray loaded with drinks the color of fresh blood. "Campari and soda?"
"No." I gave the server a firm shake of my head. Nothing would get me to imbibe anything in this woman's presence. "Merci," I added in my lame-ass French.
Bliss accepted a fizzy drink and took a sip. She leaned against the balustrade of the terrace. Behind her, a riot of fruit trees descended in orderly planes down the hillside. She eyed me carefully over the gilt-edged rim of her glass. "I brought you here to answer a question.”
“What kind of question?”
“A simple one. Do you love Lauren?"
I stayed silent out of pure shock.
"You've been to Morocco three times now. I'm starting to think you're sincere."
"Sincere, huh. I'm surprised you know that word."
She smiled slightly. "I'm expanding my vocabulary lately."
I shoved my hands in the pockets of my linen trousers. "Have you expanded it to include the truth? Say, about my father?"
She took another sip and tilted her head thoughtfully. "Let's say that I had. What if you could choose one thing for me to tell the truth about? What would you pick—Ian or Lauren?"
I ground my teeth together. Was she a sadist? "I'm not playing your games, Bliss. You brought me here. What do you want?"
The buzzing of a Vespa echoed from the road below the terraced orchards. She waited until it passed. "I want you to answer my question. Do you love my daughter? After all, if I'm going to tell you where she is, I need to know your intentions."
Adrenaline coursed through me. Was I finally going to locate Lauren? Or was Bliss just jerking me around?
As for her question … I didn't know the answer. Things between me and Lauren were intense, confusing, obsessive, erotic … and did I mention confusing?
"I care about Lauren. I wouldn't hurt her. I promise you that."
She lifted her eyebrows in amusement. "A promise like that means nothing. Still, it's nice to hear. I wouldn't want her hurt. She isn't tough, like me. She's too soft-hearted. And now she's out there fending for herself, and I'm concerned for her safety. She won't have anything to do with me."
Smart Lauren. Bliss was poison, in my book.
"If you're so worried about her, tell me where she is. I'll protect her."
Her eyes narrowed, sharp and green like the edge of a leaf. "Protect her? After you came to Washington to make us suffer?"
I held her gaze. "Just you. Not her."
For a frozen moment, we stared at each other. Then she shattered it with a laugh. "Honesty is something, I suppose."
"Try it, you might like it." I gave her a one-sided smile, then dropped it immediately. Bliss didn't deserve even a half-assed smile from me.
"As a matter of fact, that's why I invited you here."
Interesting version of an "invitation." But I let that pass with no comment.
"I've been monitoring your rather futile search efforts for six months now. You've finally convinced me that your intentions are on the up-and-up. In the meantime, Lauren has rebuffed every single one of my attempts at reconciliation. She won't talk to me at all. I'm obviously heartbroken over this."
Sure, heartbroken—if that was code for cool and calculating. "Everyone has to leave home sometime," I pointed out. "She's twenty-five. She deserves to have her own life."
For a moment, it looked as if she sneered. "Of course. I hope she's finding herself or centering or grounding or whatever you kids do these days. But I'm worried. Back in DC, she was smoking a lot of pot. She was quite unhappy. Much of that was my fault. I forced her into things she didn't want to do. She was desperate for escape, and I should have understood that."
Several puzzle pieces fell into place then. Lauren's spaciness when I first saw her, her crazy offer of sex, her secrecy. I could imagine her getting high to get through an evening of pretense. I could imagine her wanting to escape. Not once had I seen her looking happy.
No, not true. She'd been happy with me. In bed. And everywhere else we'd fucked each other. She hadn't faked that. Or had she?
Damn it all, I had to find her. "Where is she?"
"I'll tell you. But I want you to do something for me in exchange."
The sun beat down on my head. A bee buzzed in a lemon tree. I didn't want to make any deals with the devil Bliss. But I had to see Lauren. "What do you want?" I finally managed, even though it went against every bone in my body.
"I want you to give her some information. Information she's wanted for a long time. I withheld it for a good reason, but now things have changed." She reached into a pocket of her tunic and extracted a Gauloises cigarette, which she lit then took a drag from. "It's something she'll want to know, believe me. It's about—well, here's a little honesty for you. It's about her real mother."
Thunderstruck, I stared at her. "Real mother?"
"She never told you?" Smoke curled around her jawline. "Seems she kept a few secrets from you. I'll bet you didn't know she was merely posing as Brian Clayton's fiancée, either. It was a job, but she wasn't after the money. All she wanted was what I'm about to tell you."
I remembered Lauren's desperation when she'd explained that she couldn't let anything interfere with her engagement. I'd figured she wanted the prestige of joining the family of a United States senator. Or maybe his money.
All that time, she'd only wanted to know who her real mother was?
A sick sensation built in my gut. I'd taken advantage of Lauren's desperation. I'd made her feel trapped. She hadn't chosen to come to my bed of her own free will. Not really.
"Fine. Tell me," I rasped. "I'll give her your message if you help me find her."
She put a fingertip to her lips and removed a crumb of tobacco, flicking it over the balustrade. "Then we have a deal."
She signaled to the servant, who silently disappeared inside.
"But when you share this with Lauren, make sure she remembers to schedule her visit ahead of time."
"What are you talking about?"
"Standard procedure, darling." Her eyes glittered. "There are precautions in place to deal with the criminally psychotic."
2
Lauren
My new world was the color of hope. Some might call the jungles of Thailand's island of Koh Pha Ngan "green," but I knew it wasn't that simple. My lush surroundings offered something much more vital—new life, new horizons. Joy. Hope. Freedom.
They also offered me a job and a new identity. For the last month, I'd been working the juice bar at a health resort called the Oasis. People came here from all over the world to cleanse and detoxify.
Maybe I was doing the same thing.
I was here to lose myself, to free myself. Nothing could be more different from the power-hungry atmosphere of Washington, DC, than the peace-and-love-and-cosmic-good-vibrations crowd drawn to this tropical backwater.
"Good morning, Mango-man." I slapped hands with the tall, tattooed German behind the curved bamboo counter at the Oasis. With his taut muscles and bleached tips, I had to say he was sexy. Most of the tourists thought so. But I couldn't drum up a bit of interest. I'd tried. I'd even made out with him one night on the beach. After all, I was on my own, and I could use a warm body to keep me company.
But he hadn't made my blood sing or my nerve endings sizzle, and after everything I'd experienced with Rye, I wanted nothing less.
"Juicy-girl, what's shaky?"
"You mean, what's shaking."
"Shaking? Is correct?"
"Yes. The phrase is 'what's shaking.' Don't ask me why."
"Perhaps an earthquake?"
"Perhaps an earthquake," I agreed, to humor my over-earnest friend. "Or a martini. So how's business today?"
"Busy day. We run out of young coconut already. I send the boy for more."
"Okay, th
anks." I surveyed the customers sitting on the stools at the juice bar. Everyone had a beverage. Out in the restaurant area, things were equally mellow. A family from Australia was doing a puzzle at the central table, and a group of twenty-something Israelis were curled up on the big Turkish pillows in the corner. This was a typical scene at the Oasis, where a constant stream of international enlightenment-seeking dropouts with wanderlust came and went, as if carried by the tide.
I loved this job. I loved the simplicity of blending juices. I loved the fact that I wasn't hurting or deceiving anyone.
Well, no more than necessary. Here, I was known as Julie. And I was a blond.
"If you want to take off, go ahead," I told Gunther.
"But I have one more half of one hour."
"It's fine, I promise." Gunther, or "Mango" as he preferred to be called, had a very strict sense of scheduling. "You can owe me half an hour for tomorrow's shift."
"All right. Done deal."
"Nice use of a colloquialism!" I slapped hands with him again. As one of the very few Americans at the Oasis, I was the go-to expert on current slang. Everyone wanted to talk like the Americans, even when they didn't like the things our government did.
Mango rinsed his hands in the little sink and hung up his apron, revealing his full magnificence. You'd think his perfectly honed physique would hold some appeal for me. But all it did was make me long for someone else. Someone with a rough edge and passionate hands, silver eyes and a hot mouth.
Pushing the thought of Rye out of my brain, I put on my own apron—woven from organic hemp, of course—and took a quick inventory of our supplies. Plenty of bananas, mangoes, pineapple, passionfruit, along with pre-squeezed batches of fresh orange and tangerine juice. I pulled out a bin of lemons and a knife, then faced toward the restaurant as I cut them into slices. The bright, tangy scent of citrus made my nose prickle.
My job was ridiculous, this place was surreal, but I loved every bit of it. It was mine. All mine. Nothing to do with Bliss or pulling cons or playing arm-candy.
