chapter two
Lily
I FELT HIM before I saw him. his gaze on me. assessing. Watching. I let him look his fill, keeping my head bent, my eyes firmly locked on the magazine lying open on my propped thighs. It’s ruining my chance to get an even tan, so I’ll need to ditch the magazine soon, but for now, it’s the perfect ruse.
Pretending to read while I look to my left to catch him staring. He doesn’t realize I know yet. And he’s good. No one would be wise to his covert spying.
But I am. I’ve been spied upon my entire life. The media has trailed after my sisters and me, my father, and my grandmother since I can remember. We’re public figures, given accolades when we do something good and torn to shreds when we do something awful.
Well. Most everyone in my family does good. I’m the something-awful one. I do stupid things on a regular basis. I should know better by now but then again, why give up my reputation? I’ve worked hard putting it together since I was in my early teens. Besides, it’s the perfect front.
After all these years of being such a publicly mocked figure, I know when someone’s got his eyes on me. It’s like a sixth sense or something. And when I know people are watching, sometimes I put on a show. On rare occasions, I confront them and send ’em running—or snapping away with their cameras so they can capture me enraged with headlines like “Lily Fowler’s Lost It Again!”
Bastards.
Most of the time, I pretend I don’t know they exist. I act like I’m blissfully unaware some shitty photographer is ready to snap a picture of me sunbathing topless (yep, that’s happened more than once) or about to kiss and grope a guy at a nightclub (that’s happened, too).
This guy, though … he’s not giving me the paparazzi vibe. He’s probably older than me, but not beyond thirty. His hair is dark. Cropped fairly close on the sides though a little longish on top, with a slight wave. An alluring wave that softens all those hard, harsh lines. His jaw is firm, his expression like stone, and his lips … they look like they might be soft as well, but he’s too far away to get a good look. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but I don’t need to see them.
I can still feel them on me.
He’s wearing black swim trunks with a subtle white tropical print and nothing else, sitting on a large white towel from the hotel on the scorching-hot sand, his knees bent, his looped arms resting on them, acting like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His shoulders are broad, his body trim and fit. A young couple go running by him, chasing each other like they’re little kids and kicking up sand as they pass and he makes a tiny grimace every time, but otherwise, no reaction. He’s alone. There’s no other towel beside the one he’s sitting on. No woman asking him to put more sunscreen on her shoulders, no friends hanging out with him.
Weird.
Could he be a photographer? Part of the paparazzi? I recognize a lot of them by now, so I doubt it. Unless he was sent as a ruse to trick me, but damn it, I’m pretty untrickable by now. Besides, I look nothing like my usual self, so I doubt I’m being followed. The Lily Fowler party-girl persona is back in New York where I left her a few days ago. I of course had to book my flight under my real name, but the airlines don’t release that information to freaking reporters, so ha ha on them.
The minute I stepped off the plane yesterday and felt the warm air caress my skin, I took a deep, cleansing breath and felt like I’d shed my armor. Here on Maui, I am nothing but a simple girl on vacation. No makeup, no flashy jewelry, no expensive clothing, no guys trying to get in my panties, no girls trying to be my friend in the hopes I’ll make them popular. I left the trappings behind, like a snake shedding its skin.
Reborn. Fresh and unsoiled.
My thoughts almost make me laugh. In fact, a giggle escapes me and I press my fingers to my lips, suppressing it. “Unsoiled,” that’s a joke. I gave up the goods long, long ago in the hopes that I’d find someone to love me. My beautiful mother loved me with all her heart, or so she claimed.
But she didn’t love me or my sisters enough to keep herself alive. She’d chosen to be dead rather than raise her children. And that hurt. Daddy didn’t love me anymore, if he ever did. I became a burden. All three of his daughters did. We were just reminders that he had a wife and she left him in the cruelest way possible.
Instead of seeking love and approval from my family, I sought it in other ways. Boys. Partying. Alcohol. Drugs. By the time I got my shit together and was ready to do right by the world? No one cared. They still saw me as Lily the party girl. So I decided to give them what they wanted and kept it up. Why disappoint them?
Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I see he’s still watching me, though he averts his head quickly when I look his way. Hmm. Interesting. Could he be just a regular guy on vacation who thinks I’m pretty? He’s alone, I’m alone; it would make sense that maybe we could get together. The resort we’re at does cater to singles and young couples …
Huh. I doubt it. He’s too good-looking to be out trolling for a woman, unless he’s a complete creeper, which he might be. Is he the type who goes on vacation by himself to pick up a woman? That seems like a lot of extra effort. And I’m not here on vacation. I’m on the run. In hiding. Just for a little bit. I pissed off the wrong people—or person; I’m not sure who all knows what I did. So rather than face my problems head on, I got the hell out of Manhattan, stat.
Grabbing my cell, I go online and check that stupid fashion-and-beauty blog that seems so fascinated with my life as well as my sisters’. I want to make sure they’re not talking about me. The last mention of Lily Fowler was two days ago, a photo of me with hot-pink lips, heavily mascaraed eyes, and a black lace dress, supposedly representing Fleur at a stupid party for … something. I’d forgotten exactly what. When I’d entered my apartment late that night and found it ransacked, I freaked. Nothing was stolen. No jewelry, no money, and I had both on hand, stashed away in my closet but not under lock and key.
The one thing I had hidden, though, was my laptop, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I found it, stashed among a stack of folded bath towels in my hall closet. Then I threw a bunch of clothes into a small suitcase, booked a flight from my phone on the cab ride to the airport, and got the hell out of there.
My phone vibrates in my hands, startling me, and I check my texts, see that it’s a message from my little sister, Rose.
Call me right now!
Yikes. Can’t do that. I trust no one at this moment. Not even Rose, and I adore her, but what if she can’t keep her mouth shut? She could slip up and tell our father she spoke to me. The wrong person finds out where I am and it’s toast time.
I can’t take any chances.
So I ignore her text, shoving my phone into my beach bag before I sink back into the overstuffed lounger I’m sitting on. I rented a cabana first thing this morning and it’s freaking perfect. I get endless service, someone is always checking on me to make sure I have enough to drink or eat, and the view is spectacular. The sun is blazing, there are white, puffy clouds in the startling blue sky, and a breeze brushes over me every few minutes, cooling my heated skin.
Paradise.
My gaze slides toward my watcher, who’s also a part of the spectacular view. The more I stare, the sexier I find him. His shoulders and chest are so wide. There’s the lightest smattering of dark hair between his pecs and while I usually go for the smooth look, there’s something about the hair on his chest that appeals. Makes him look so manly. And for whatever reason, makes him appear a little dangerous.
Or maybe that’s the air around him. There’s an edge to him that I can’t explain. He looks completely unapproachable, his expression like granite; his position is casual, but I can see all that energy contained within his posture. Like he’s poised and ready to spring into action at any given moment.
I avert my head, my thoughts filled with … him. I’m not usually attracted to dangerous. I like easy. Fun. Good-looking and confident, even a hint of arrogance. The men I’ve been with are similar to me. Or the me I want everyone to see. Looking for a good time, always ready to party, to shop, wanting everyone’s eyes on me.
My phone buzzes again and I check my messages, see that it’s another text from Rose.
You can’t avoid me forever! At least tell me where you are.
I study her message, my fingers poised above the keyboard. I want to tell her but I can’t. No way. She’s bound and determined to get me to respond to her and I’m just as bound and determined to ignore her.
It’s not that I want to. My heart, my entire body, aches to call her, hear her voice, ask if she’s okay. She’s pregnant. My baby sister, the one who I resented when she was born because she took up even more of our mom’s attention, is now going to have a baby herself. With a guy I went to high school with. A guy I might’ve kissed—and doesn’t that make me feel like a complete slut—but if it doesn’t bother Rose then it doesn’t bother me. She’s so blissfully in love with Caden, it’s almost disgusting.
Just about as disgusting as when my sister Violet and her fiancé, Ryder, are together. Those two are just … ugh. I blame it all on him. Ryder exudes confidence. Sex appeal. I can see why my sister was so attracted to him, though it surprises me that the two of them are together. He seems more my speed, but then she spilled a couple of secrets one night after having a few too many glasses of wine. How dominant Ryder is in the bedroom.
Yeah. That sort of thing doesn’t do it for me. I like to be in charge. Everything else in my life has felt so out of control, ever since I was a little kid and I lost my mom. As I grew older, I realized the only thing I can control is myself. My body. My mind. My choices.
So I’m in control, especially sexually. Forget all that growly I will make you mine dom shit. That sort of thing makes me roll my eyes. I mean really, who gets off on that? Maybe I haven’t met the right guy, but come on.
Grabbing my boozy tropical drink, I wrap my lips around the straw and drain it, casting my gaze along the beach, watching the waves splash gently onto the shore. I want to swim. I want to feel the water swirl around my legs as I slowly walk into the ocean. I can leave my stuff here. I know it’s safe. The hotel employees keep a close eye on everything, but what if my watcher is fast? What if he really is part of the paparazzi and he’s just waiting for the chance to go rifling through my bag? Not that there’s much in there beyond my phone …
And my phone is everything to me. It’s password protected but if someone is determined, he could probably figure it out. I can’t risk it. At least my laptop is safe, hidden in the bungalow I’m staying in at the resort, in the deep, dark recesses of my closet, sitting on the top shelf. No one would find it there.
I set my drink on the table next to me and rest my index finger against my lips, tapping them as I contemplate my next move. I don’t feel my watcher’s eyes on me and when I glance in his direction, I see that he’s gone. Even his towel isn’t there any longer, which means he’s moved on.
Good. That’s for the best. I don’t need to worry about some weird guy staring at me. I have more important things to concentrate on.
Stretching my legs out, I swing them to the side of the chair and stand, resting my hands on my hips as I first look left, then right. No watcher to be seen. Where could he have gone in that quick amount of time? I didn’t even hear him leave, so what is he? Stealth?
I’m probably worrying for nothing. He’s just some player who liked the way I looked or whatever. I’m too paranoid after what happened. Hacking into someone else’s life and messing with her personal shit has a way of making me feel uneasy, yet that doesn’t seem to stop me. I’m doing something I shouldn’t, so I tend to think everyone else is up to no good as well.
Shaking my head, I start for the water, the sand warm on the soles of my feet. A group of kids are to my right, splashing and playing along the shoreline, their hands full of colorful plastic buckets and shovels. A couple is standing waist deep in the water, the waves crashing against them, pushing them into each other’s arms, and they laugh.
My heart pangs but I ignore it. I don’t believe in love or couples or dating or any of that crap. Love is for fools. Despite my sisters’ blissed-out lives, and their steadfast belief I can find the same, I know that’s not for me.
No way would I allow anyone to get too close. Hand him the power to hurt me. And I refuse to give that up.
I walk straight into the cold water, shivering as it hits my ankles. My calves. My knees. Despite the heat of the sun and the hot sand, the water is freezing, but I don’t care. I’m belly-button deep now and I bend my knees, dunking myself to my shoulders and giving a little yelp when the cold water wraps itself around me.
The rhythmic waves push me out a little farther and I fall backwards into the water until I’m floating, the sun warming my face, the water swirling around my head. I can taste the salty tang of the ocean and I close my eyes, spread my arms out, and splash my fingers in the water. It feels good. Peaceful.
Until a massive wave comes out of nowhere, sending me straight underwater and slamming me into the bottom. I reach out to try and brace my fall, my hands scraping along the rocky shore, and feel a particularly sharp rock slice across my palm. The pain is excruciating and I kick away from the ground, trying to push myself above water, but another wave slams into me, sending me rolling.
Water shoots up my nose and into my mouth and I close my eyes, struggling against the waves. I want to call out. I want to throw my hands above the water and signal to someone, anyone, that I’m probably fucking drowning here, but it’s no use.
I can’t do it.
Another wave hits me, though this one isn’t as powerful, and it sucks me farther out to sea, making me roll and tumble like I’m a ball in the wind. I kick hard, my foot hitting the bottom of the ocean, and it gives me the leverage I need, propelling me forward. I open my eyes, I can see the water above me, the light shining down upon it from the sun, and I kick even harder, determination urging me on.
Strong arms wrap around my middle, dragging me above water, and when my head pops out I take a deep breath, only to immediately start coughing. The arms are like steel bands around my stomach, firm but not too tight, as if my rescuer is aware if he squeezes me too much I’ll start coughing even more. I can feel his warm, hard chest against my back as he drags me back to shore, and I drop my arm against his, clutching onto him, afraid he’s going to let me go.
“You all right, princess?” His voice rasps against my ear, deep and rumbly and with a hint of a Southern accent. Despite my fear, the exhaustion, the sudden and complete pain I feel radiating from the palm of my hand, my entire body tingles at the sound of his voice.
I nod, my teeth chattering, the adrenaline and terror over what I’ve just experienced combining to send me possibly into shock. My rescuer readjusts his arm around my waist, his hand splayed across my bare stomach, and I glance down to study his thick, muscular forearm. His skin is golden, covered with a smattering of dark hair, and his hand … his hand is huge. It practically covers my entire belly, and I’m no skinny little twig.
His fingers seem to caress my skin and the air whooshes out of my lungs, making me dizzy. I let go of his arm, holding my hand out, palm up, and that’s when I see it. The jagged cut open across my palm, the blood flowing freely from it.
Oh crap. That’s bad.
“You’re hurt.” He notices the cut, too, and that seems to spur him into action. He moves faster and I go limp, overwhelmed at the sight of the cut, the blood, the pain that radiates from my palm all the way up my arm. “We need to find you help.”
“I—I thought you were my help.” My voice comes out a breathless rasp and I swallow hard, wincing at the pain that follows. I took in too much salt water and my throat aches, my nose burns.
“Medical help,” he says gruffly as we emerge from the water.
I turn my head to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of my rescuer, but he’s so tall and my neck hurts. He glances down, his eyes going wide when he sees that I’m looking at him. Shock courses through me and I part my lips, the words that follow scratchy, making my throat ache.
“It’s you.” Him. My watcher has turned into my rescuer.
“Hey!” I look away from him to see a hotel employee running toward us, his expression one of pure panic, and my last thought before my body goes weak and my head blanks is that he doesn’t look like much help at all.