Chapter Two
MAX ARMSTRONG DONNED her most comfortable jeans and her usual festival T-shirt on opening day. Chaz Crew, her boss and founder of the Indie Film Festival, had created so much buzz over the past few years that they were expecting more than forty thousand attendees. The festival grounds covered one hundred acres a few blocks from Main Street and boasted five new theaters. Also on the grounds were restaurants, gift shops, and a high-class hotel. Hotels in neighboring towns were booked a full year in advance of the festival.
Whether there were twenty thousand or fifty thousand attendees, Max was ready. She was nothing if not supremely organized. She’d been handling the festival sponsors and logistics for almost eight years, and there was nothing that could throw her off her game.
The afternoon films ran without a hitch, and so far, the celebrity speakers had made their appearances without any wardrobe malfunctions—a trick of the trade for gaining media exposure. Max ran a tight ship, and she was quick to nix any wayward thoughts celebs might conjure up.
Max spoke into her earpiece as she drove across the festival grounds. “Heading to the rear gate now. I’ll check on Dean.”
The ruckus between the celeb’s entourage and the media was creating a tornado of confusion. Photographers surrounded Connor Dean’s limousine and the two accompanying SUVs. She should have known this might happen. Dean was a local actor turned millionaire whose reputation had exploded since they’d booked him ten months earlier. She’d been wrong to think the Hulk-like security guards could manage a little drama. As she neared the scene, she rolled down her window and surveyed the ensuing chaos. Shouts and threats were tossed around like candy to children, and no one was making any headway. What on earth is that woman doing with her body halfway out of the sunroof on that limo? And what is she shouting? Legal jargon?
Max parked right in front of the first SUV, threw open her door, and stepped from the car, hoping to create a long enough pause to get the crowd’s attention. When that didn’t work, she moved to Plan B, and climbed onto the roof of her car. She raised her hands in the air, and with a quick flip of a switch on the control panel on her belt, she turned on the intercom mounted above the gate.
TREAT PULLED UP to the rear gate behind a mass of media surrounding a number of cars. He rolled down his window and was met with too many shouts to decipher. It was obvious no one was going anywhere anytime soon. He pulled into the parking lot outside the fence and decided he’d run in, say hello to Savannah, and tell her he’d catch up with her later at their father’s ranch. The last thing he needed was to deal with this type of headache.
He heard his sister’s voice and swiftly scanned the crowd. If anyone was giving her a hard time, he’d set them straight. Savannah was standing with her body out of the limousine’s sunroof, shouting who knew what as the media hollered questions at Connor through the slightly open tinted limousine window.
Treat leaned against the entrance to the gate, crossed one foot over the other, and watched his little sister in action. Her long auburn hair looked like fire against her serious more-green-than-hazel eyes. She’d inherited their mother’s spitfire personality and was the only one to have their mother’s coloring, while he and his brothers took after their dark-haired father.
Savannah’s gaze shifted in his direction, and her scowl morphed into an excited smile as she hoisted herself through the sunroof like she climbed mountains for a living.
Treat pushed away from the fence and headed toward his sister in full protective mode. She might be tough, but those media animals pushing their way forward could easily injure her. He plowed through the crowd. His six-foot-six frame naturally commanded more space, and the sea of paparazzi parted for him. He gently persuaded the few that remained in his path with a domineering stare—a stare he hadn’t needed to rely upon since Savannah was a teenager, when he and his brothers had spent countless hours keeping horny boys away from their precious sister.
He reached up and caught Savannah as she jumped down from the roof of the limo. He spun her around and, as he lowered her to the ground, his eyes landed on a woman standing on top of a car. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her red-framed glasses perched on her perky nose. She looked fierce and beautiful, and Treat’s breath caught in his throat. Max.
“OKAY, THE SHOW is over.” Max’s voice boomed from the loudspeakers. “Let’s give Mr. Dean some space to continue driving through. He’ll be signing autographs and answering questions after his appearance.” She scanned the area, her gaze landing on a man towering above the crowd with a gorgeous woman in his arms. He spun the woman to the side and his face came into view.
Max froze.
Treat?
Her pulse soared, and the butterflies in her stomach she thought she’d annihilated weeks ago swarmed to life with a vengeance. She had worked with Treat’s assistant, Scarlet, for months coordinating logistics for Chaz’s double wedding, which had taken place at Treat’s Nassau resort. The other groom in the wedding was Treat’s cousin, Blake Carter. She’d dealt with Treat so many times over the phone that he’d become the object of her late-night fantasies. But even her fantasies hadn’t prepared her for meeting the impossibly tall, darkly handsome god that was Treat Braden, with his seductive voice and the way every inch of him screamed of adrenaline-pumping, heart-fluttering masculinity. She’d thought herself unflappable, but Treat had proved her wrong.
Her stomach clenched just thinking about the magical evening they’d spent in each other’s arms. She could still feel his warm, sensuous lips on hers and see him gazing at her as though she were the only woman on earth. He hadn’t even pushed when, after hours of dancing and walking on the beach, kissing like they’d been lovers forever, she’d turned down his offer to return to his suite and extend their evening into morning. Seeing him now, she had a hard time reconciling that incredibly romantic, thoughtful man with the arrogant one who had blown her off the next morning. Sure, she’d been in the same clothes she’d worn the night before, and yes, she’d been out for the remainder of that evening with a man named Justin, but Treat’s assumption about what they’d done pissed her off. And the look he’d given her was too reminiscent of the painful relationship she’d escaped years earlier to chase him down and explain. She had every right to do whatever she wanted to do with whomever she wanted, without judgment. Even if she hadn’t done anything at all.
She shouldn’t care what he thought.
But she did, and that hurt because that awful look he’d given her was in such stark contrast to the impeccable manners he’d otherwise exuded, holding doors, thinking of the needs of her and his other guests before himself, taking extra steps to ensure that every little detail of his cousin’s wedding had been taken care of. The truth was, she’d fallen hard for Treat within a few hours of being with him. But Max knew she shouldn’t let those feelings sway her resolve. She’d been mistreated, demeaned, and judged by a previous boyfriend, and she swore she’d never go down that road again—not even for too-sexy-for-his-own-good Treat Braden.
She stumbled backward. One of the security guards reached for her across the roof of the car, and she grabbed his arm, finding her footing.
“Max! You okay?”
The security guard’s voice wrenched her back to the ensuing chaos. She tore her eyes from Treat and whoever the woman was that he was holding as if she meant everything in the world to him and tried to blink away the unexpected sting of hurt slicing through her.
“Clear a path or you’ll be removed from the premises for the rest of the festival.” Even she could hear the difference in her voice, the weakness. Her gaze darted back to Treat, who was staring at her with an incredulous expression. Suddenly painfully aware of her jeans and T-shirt, the ponytail in her hair—and how she must look like a crazy woman standing on top of the car—she clambered down to the ground as the crowd surprisingly obeyed her orders and began to dissipate. Threats of eviction usually worked.
She turned off the intercom and fumbled for her keys. Treat was heading her way, but she didn’t want to speak to him, couldn’t speak to him, after the way he’d looked at her.
“Max,” he called.
His smooth, deep voice was enough to make her body ache. She cursed under her breath as she started the car and navigated around the crowd. She glanced in her rearview mirror. Treat stood alone in his dark suit, watching her car, while his beautiful companion looked on with a confused expression on her face. Max’s hands trembled as she grasped the steering wheel tighter and drove away. Damn him for having this effect on her.