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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T his all felt too real.

Alyssa had taken as much time in the bathroom as she could without raising suspicions, then studied every knickknack and painting she and Benson had passed on their way back to the sunroom, praying like crazy that, whatever Callan had done, he was finished.

When she stepped into the sunroom, he stood from the loveseat as if he hadn’t moved.

Only when she sat beside him did she feel the heat and tension wafting off his body.

“You all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m great.” He lowered his voice. “This place is super weird. I went back to our room for like thirty seconds, and I thought these goons were gonna beat the tar out of me. What does this guy do, anyway?”

Oh, boy. He’d been up to something, and he’d nearly gotten caught. And now he was playing the part of clueless fiancé, telling her what had happened.

“He owns multiple companies," she said. "I assume they’ve dealt with their share of corporate espionage.”

“Like I care about…whatever it is your English friend does. Give me a break.”

She gripped his wrist. His pulse raced beneath her fingertips. “I appreciate you for coming with me. I’d hate to be here alone.”

He shifted to face her. “Weird as your Sanders guy is, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Though she knew Callan’s words were for the sake of the cameras and microphones, he sounded so sincere that she almost believed him.

A few minutes later, Molly brought their meals—steak, salmon, potatoes, asparagus, and a crisp salad. Based on the lack of scents coming from the kitchen when she’d walked through the house, the food had been delivered from a restaurant.

They sat across from each other and ate the delicious meal and talked about nothing. They laughed, they joked, they flirted.

Both playing their parts.

But the more time Alyssa spent with Callan, the harder it was to remember he was pretending. She’d spent four years in college scowling at Callan as if she felt nothing but scorn for him, all the while tamping down her attraction and denying her crush. Megan had never bought it. She’d questioned Alyssa more than once about her feelings for Callan, but Alyssa had never admitted anything.

She’d barely wanted to admit it to herself.

It was impossible to deny now, though, as the man who’d barged into both her dreams and her nightmares since she was eighteen years old held a spoon filled with tiramisu over the candlelit table, eyes twinkling.

“You know you want to.”

This might be all pretend, but he knew her too well. “I’m so full already.”

“One little bite. That’s all I’m asking.”

In pretty much any other situation, she’d clamp her lips shut. If she wanted to taste the tiramisu, she could use her own spoon, thank you very much. But he was going for maximum romance here, a little tiramisu-version of Lady and the Tramp sharing spaghetti scene.

Ridiculous.

Were they laying it on too thick? Was this how people in love behaved? She didn’t have a clue.

She opened her mouth, and he slid the spoon inside. She took the creamy, mocha confection onto her tongue.

Oh, my.

She couldn’t help a little moan of pleasure.

“Right?” Though he was smiling, his Adam’s apple bobbed like he’d swallowed what he’d really wanted to say—or maybe whatever thought had come into his head. Since she’d refused dessert, he pushed his plate closer to her on the café table. “Have some more.”

But he didn’t offer to feed her again, and by the way his skin reddened, that was a good idea.

She took a tiny portion into her own spoon. Somehow, it didn’t taste nearly as good as when he’d fed her. Then she sipped her decaf coffee. They’d both been served wine, but neither had finished a single glass. She’d barely touched hers, preferring the water they refilled from a carafe on the beverage cart.

They needed to stay alert tonight.

“We should ask who delivered the food.” They needed a new topic of conversation. “We could take dessert to dinner tomorrow.”

“Mom loves to bake.”

“We have to take something. It would be rude to show up empty-handed.”

To a fake dinner, Alyssa? Really?

She was getting far too deep into her role.

Callan smiled as if he’d read her mind. “Trust me.”

Yeah. He kept saying that. And it wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. But she wasn’t sure she trusted herself tonight, not with this man, not in these circumstances. She needed space between them, a lot more space than this tiny round table.

He finished the layered confection, then stood and held out his hand for her. “Join me?”

She did, and he pulled her away from the table and into an embrace. “I’ve missed you.” He leaned down and whispered in her ear. “We have to argue.”

She wanted to ask why but figured he’d explain as he tightened his arm around her back and took her other hand in his. He started swaying gently to the music.

Fake.

All fake.

But being in his arms was even better than she’d dreamed.

And then he trailed kisses on her neck, and all coherent thoughts fled.

His breath was warm, fanning her hair, and tingles fluttered over her skin.

“I assume there are microphones.” The words were so low, she almost missed them. “If not cameras. In our bedroom.”

Our bedroom? Wait.

Our bedroom?

They’d be sharing?

She hadn’t thought about what the night would look like, too focused on getting through the day.

Of course Charles assumed they’d share a bedroom.

Callan led their gentle dance, staying close as he turned them in the small space.

“I thought about asking for separate rooms,” he whispered, “but I didn’t want to raise suspicions. And I didn’t want us to be apart.”

“Okay.” She tried to match his volume.

“Which is why we have to argue. It’ll be a reason as to why they won’t see or hear more…interesting activity in our room tonight, considering the story that we’ve been apart for months.”

Would Charles really bug their bedroom? How creepy.

Not Charles , though. Ghazi. Why would she expect a liar, terrorist, and murderer to respect her privacy?

“Argue with me.” Callan’s whisper was barely audible. He stopped dancing and straightened. “Let’s get an Uber to my apartment.” Now his words were low but loud enough to be picked up by anybody listening. “I’ll drive you back here tomorrow so you can finish”—he waved toward the house—“whatever it is you’re doing.”

“I wish we could, but Charles?—”

“Who cares what Charles thinks?” The name dripped with scorn. “He’s not even your boss. He’s just a client. You’ve indulged his paranoia enough. We both have.”

“I can’t, Caleb. I have to stay.”

He dropped her hand and stepped back “Seriously? You really want to stay here?”

“It’s not that I want to, but it’s important to him. This isn’t bad, right?” She waved toward the table. “Dinner and dessert. It’s romantic.”

“Because we’re together, but…” He lowered his voice. “I don’t think that housekeeper chick actually cleans. And it’s weird, right? I mean, why have a place this big for just a couple of people? And that Benson guy searching my laptop? And two of the guys got all threatening when I went to the room. This whole situation is creeping me out.”

“Charles is security-conscious, no question. But he’s also doing his best to make us comfortable.”

“Don’t defend him. What is he, some kind of gangster or something?”

“He’s a businessman.”

“Sure he is. Because renting a place like this is good business.”

“Don’t you start getting paranoid on me.”

“Me? He’s the paranoid one.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

Callan crossed his arms and glared at her. “ You didn’t have to come, Alyssa. You should have just turned him down. You don’t need his money.”

“Actually, I do need his money. I’m trying to get a business off the ground.”

“Oh, come on. I can support us both. And anyway, you can always run home to Daddy.”

“That’s not fair!”

People always assumed that since her parents were wealthy, she didn’t have money problems. Sure, she could ask her father for money, but she didn’t. Ever. Because Dad’s money always came with strings. And lectures. And that disapproving look of his.

“Life isn’t fair, Paris. Never has been. I’m sorry you feel like you need to work for creepy British guys in order to prove to Daddy you’re not a failure, but some of us have real problems.”

Fury clawed its way up her throat. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Callan’s eyes widened. He’d been putting on a show, but those last barbs had hit too close to home. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just my?—”

“Jealousy,” she snapped, getting back into character. “And I’m sick of it.”

“I know. You’re right. I’m…” He ran a hand over his short hair. “I don’t want to fight with you.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t like it here. I don’t like that guy. And I want to go home. I haven’t been at my apartment in weeks. And we’re going to Mom and Dad’s tomorrow. It’s not too much to ask that I get to spend one night in my own bed.”

Now it was her turn to cross her arms. “Go ahead. I’ll call you tomorrow when I’m ready to go.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I made a commitment, and I’m keeping it. Just like you keep yours. We both know your work is more important to you than I am. More important than your family is.”

He flinched as if she’d slapped him.

Whoops. Apparently, her words had hit a nerve.

This fake argument had turned painful, fast.

He clamped his lips shut.

Should she try to make it right? Or stick to her guns?

She wasn’t sure what her next line should be.

“I’m not leaving you here with him,” Callan said.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

They stared each other down another few seconds, and then Alyssa swiveled and headed for the door.

The housekeeper was sitting in the dim living room. She stood when Alyssa stepped in. She must’ve heard everything, but she plastered on a smile. “Do you need something?”

“We’re going up.”

“I’ll escort you, then.”

Of course she would. Because they wouldn’t actually get a moment of privacy in this house.

Not even in the bedroom they were about to share.

* * *

“Alyssa.”

Her name on Callan’s lips was a whisper against her hair, a breath in her ear.

A dream. No more than a dream. And this one was vivid. Dinner by candlelight. Dancing.

His warmth against her felt more real than the sheets beneath her.

She snuggled in, wanting more than anything to go back to sleep and pick up where she and dream-Callan had left off. His presence was more delicious than the dream tiramisu lingering on her tongue.

“Alyssa.”

This whisper was vehement, as if he were just on the other side of consciousness, drawing her back to him.

“Don’t move.” Pressure on her arm had her tensing.

What was happening?

“Don’t react.”

This wasn’t a dream. She was in a guest room at Charles Sanders’s house somewhere in Brookline.

In a bed. With Callan.

A bed they shared. She’d climbed beneath the sheets, and he’d slept between the top sheet and the comforter, so there was never any contact between them. Even so, she’d have preferred a king-sized bed. Because of his overlarge and over-warm presence, and the strange circumstances, she’d struggled to fall asleep.

And now he was pressed against her back, and the thin sheet between them was not nearly thick enough to keep her body from reacting as he wrapped his arm around her middle and gripped her hand. “If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

His words were barely audible, but she heard and squeezed.

“We’re just a couple in love, snuggling in our sleep. Okay?”

What was she supposed to say to that? There was nothing okay about this.

“I don’t know about this room, but I’ve searched the bathroom and found no cameras or microphones. So we’re going out the window.”

“No.” Was he kidding? They were on the second floor.

“It’s going to be okay. Here’s what we’re going to do.” He outlined the plan, then slipped out of bed in the darkness and into the bathroom. He gave her no opportunity to argue.

The vent fan went on.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened.

She counted to a thousand, just like he’d told her to do, then climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Callan stood beside the window, tall and broad and somehow perfectly confident.

He’d changed from his pajamas into black pants and sweatshirt.

He nodded to the counter, where he’d left a piece of paper and a pen beside a stack of folded clothes.

While she’d slept, he’d gone through her things and found a dark pair of jeans, a navy-blue sweatshirt, and black socks. On top of it all were her white sneakers, except they weren’t white anymore.

“What did you do?”

“Shoe polish. I keep it in my Dopp kit.”

Of course he did.

They’d left their jackets downstairs, so there’d be no getting those back. And Charles had taken their phones.

Callan already had the window open, and cold air spilled into the small space. “Go ahead and change.”

Even though he looked out into the dark night, she stepped into the claw-foot tub and pulled the shower curtain between them before changing out of her pajamas.

When she emerged, he said, “You decent?”

“As ever.”

Turning her way, he smiled, though the expression didn’t hold.

She didn’t like this. Not at all.

“Write Charles a note.” Callan indicated the paper and pen. “Apologize for sneaking out. Tell him you’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t try to explain. Just keep it simple.”

“But we aren’t coming back?”

Callan gave her a what do you think? look. Which she deserved. One didn’t sneak out of places in the middle of the night to pick up donuts.

But then, why bother?

Rather than argue or question him, she wrote the note and left it beside the sink as if she really planned to go through with this.

She wasn’t exactly a jump out the window kind of girl.

But Callan hadn’t asked her opinion.

Now, he held out a black piece of clothing. “Tie this around your head.”

“What is it?” She took it and shook it out. “A T-shirt? You want me to put a T-shirt over my head?”

“Not over it like you’re a prisoner on camera. Just, you know”—he twirled his finger over the top of his head—“wrap it around there like a kerchief or whatever. To hide your hair.”

“What about your hair?”

He pulled something from his back pocket. A black knit cap.

“Why don’t I wear that, and you wrap the T-shirt around your head?”

“I don’t want to look stupid, and you’ll make it look good.”

“Ha.” She attempted to do what he said. Wasn’t easy, but after a couple of tries, she managed to tie it tight enough to hold for a little while.

“Perfect,” he said. “You first.”

Good idea. If he went before her, she might not have the courage to follow.

The bathroom window was high on the wall and barely wide enough to fit through. How was she going to manage this? How was Callan?

“I’ll give you a boost when it’s time. Go out feet-first, on your belly, then drop and dangle by your fingertips. Don’t wait. You don't want to be seen. Just let go.”

Easy for him to say. He was inches taller than she was and had those long arms.

But wait. What else had he said? “Seen by whom? Who’s out there?”

“One guard.” Callan didn’t seem overly concerned. “One of the guys I ran into earlier. He patrols the perimeter regularly.” Callan nodded through the trees. “See him there against the fence?”

She looked, but all she saw was fence and trees and bushes everywhere.

“In about thirty seconds,” Callan said, “he’s going to move. When he’s out of sight around the edge of the house, that’s your cue. Okay?”

“If I break my ankle?—”

“You’re not going to break anything. You’re going to land with bent knees, then scramble behind those bushes.” He pointed to a hedge that angled between the house and the sunroom, which jutted out from the back of the first floor. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“I need my laptop.”

He indicated his bulging bag at his feet—a backpack, though she’d never seen him carry it that way. “I’ve got both of ours and your purse.”

“But all my stuff?—”

“Isn’t worth the cost of trying to escape with it. Or staying here.”

Right. Of course he was right. This was all happening so fast, and she felt off-guard and off-kilter.

Like she always felt around this man. And not in a good way.

Callan watched out the window. A few tense minutes passed. “Guard’s on the move. Remember what to do?”

“Climb, fall, and hide.”

“She takes direction well.” Callan laced his fingers together, but she didn’t need his help. She levered up to the window, sat with her feet out, then turned onto her belly.

Don’t think about it. Just do it.

Right.

She slid down to dangle, the rough wood scraping her stomach where her sweatshirt rode up.

Deep breath.

Catch me, Lord. Don’t let me break anything.

She let go?—

And landed on soft ground and scrambled behind the bushes, where she watched as Callan did the same. Despite his taller and broader body, he looked graceful as he climbed, dangled, and dropped.

He landed silently and joined her. “There’s a rock wall at the back of the property.” He pointed to indicate the direction they’d run. “Better quiet than fast, unless we’re seen. In which case, sprint. Don’t wait for me. On the other side of the rock wall, you’ll be in a backyard. Get to the street and turn left. There’ll be a car idling near the corner. Knock on the window. He should know your name.”

“What’s his?—?”

“Doesn’t matter. He’ll know yours. Get in, tell him what happened, and do what he says. Got it?”

“I’m just supposed to leave you?”

“It won’t come to that. That’s a worst-case scenario. Tell me you understand.”

She understood perfectly. If a guard caught them running, Callan was going to slow him down so she could escape.

She didn’t like that one bit.

“Promise me you’ll do as I say. Otherwise, this isn’t going to work. You’re the one they need to accomplish their purpose, not me.”

Right. Which meant they’d have no reason to keep Callan alive.

“Trust me, Paris.” His words were low. “I know what I’m doing, but if I have to worry about you, I won’t do it. Promise me you’ll do what I say.”

“I promise.”

He pressed a kiss to her lips, the movement so quick that she nearly missed it.

Her surprise must’ve shown because he shook his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have…” Something flashed in his eyes, there and gone so fast, she wasn’t sure if it’d been real. More than worry. More than determination.

It was affection, real and true.

He’d kissed her for no good reason except that he wanted to kiss her.

Or maybe the darkness and the situation were playing tricks on her.

“Be safe, Paris. Please.”

“I will. But Callan?”

His eyebrows lowered. “What?”

“Don’t get caught.”