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“Well, I’ve been fielding calls all day.”
“From the press?” The thought of them hounding her dad made her swallow hard—not easy to do when she was finding it tougher and tougher to breathe.
“My number’s unlisted. You know that. The calls are from your friends at school, even that high-school principal you went out with a couple of times.”
“I didn’t go out with him.” She glanced at Malcolm quickly as the enormity of this washed over her. Being with Malcolm now had changed her life in ways she could never undo. Her ordered existence was falling apart. She was losing control—but for once, that didn’t seem to be such a bad thing. “We just happened to sit together at events we both attended for work.”
“Who drove?”
“Stop it, Dad,” she snapped, then backtracked, guilt pinching her. She started pacing restlessly in the small cabin. “I love you, and I appreciate your concern, but I’m an adult.”
“Malcolm’s standing there with you, isn’t he?”
“Why does that matter?” And why couldn’t she bring herself to just end the call? God, she hated being caught between them again.
Her father sighed through the phone lines. “Just protect yourself, Celia. You’ll always be my baby girl.”
His voice stirred more guilt as she thought of his pain over losing his oldest daughter. She pressed a hand to her head, dizzy from lack of breakfast and, yes, pangs of guilt. She thought of her own ache for the baby she’d given up, but at least she knew her child was alive somewhere, growing up loved. Worrying for her father heaped on top of her nerves, which were already stretched to the max by trying to sort through her feelings for Malcolm.
“Dad, I promise I’m being very careful.” She measured her words carefully, trying not to let her perceptive father hear the quaver in her voice. “And you? Are you okay? Have you gotten any threatening messages?”
“I’m fine. Blood pressure is in the good zone, and there hasn’t been so much as a peep of a threat.”
“Thank God,” she said, praying that wouldn’t change. “I really do appreciate the call. Love you, Dad.”
Her heartbeat sped up, new worries crowding her head and making her chest feel tight. Oh, no. She knew the old symptoms. Knew what might happen next if she didn’t pull it together.
She thumbed the off button and dropped her phone back into her Vera Bradley bag with shaky hands. “Well, your plan is working. The whole world—even my father—thinks we’re having an affair.” She gasped for air, trying to fight down the encroaching panic and not succeeding all that well. “Do you think we could just go back to the hotel?”
“Are you okay?” Malcolm asked, just before she could have sworn the boat began listing to the side.
Ah, hell. She reached for Malcolm’s hand just before she blacked out.
Nine (#u497e4491-fd13-55cd-85ad-050ac00d1c5b)
Disoriented, Celia pushed through the fog back to consciousness, confusion wrapping around her. Was it morning? Was she at home? No … She was in a car.
With each deep breath she inhaled, she drew in the essence of Malcolm. She knew he was beside her.
The past merged with the present, bringing memories of another time she’d fainted. When she was sixteen, she’d snuck out of her room at midnight to meet Malcolm when he finished at the burger joint where he worked after school. She’d been skipping meals because of nausea, and it had been all she could do to stay awake to meet him as promised. But talking to him had been so important. She’d needed to tell him before her parents saw the signs. Before she started to show. But before she could finish telling him, she’d passed out.
Malcolm had rushed her to the emergency room, where of course the doctor called her parents. She squeezed her eyes closed tighter even now over the explosion of anger that had erupted in that E.R. over her pregnancy. Malcolm had insisted they get married. Her father had lunged at Malcolm. Her mother had sobbed.
Celia had wanted to die….
Well, at least she knew for damn sure she wasn’t pregnant now. She’d blacked out for an entirely different reason.
Slowly, she took in the feel of the leather seat of the limousine. She must have been carried and put inside. The sounds of the voices around her steadied and the cause of this fainting spell gelled in her mind. She’d been freaking out and gasping for air until she passed out on the boat. Her eyes snapped open. She was inside a limousine with Malcolm and his entire entourage of alumni pals.
He leaned over her, stroking back her hair. His buddy Dr. Rowan Boothe had her wrist in his hand, taking her pulse. The rest of their friends loomed behind them, her world narrowing to this stretch limo with tinted windows and a lot of curious, concerned faces.
How incredibly embarrassing.
She pushed up onto her elbow, sitting. “What time is it? How long have I been—”
“Whoa, whoa, hold on …” Malcolm touched her shoulders and glanced at Rowan. “Doc?”
“Her pulse is normal.” Rowan set her hand aside and tucked himself back onto a seat. “I don’t see any reason to go to the E.R. I can check her over more thoroughly once we’re on the plane to Germany.”
Malcolm moved closer again, looking unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re okay? What happened back there?”
“I’m fine.” She sat up straighter, blinking fast as she tried to regain equilibrium. “Probably just low blood sugar from skipping breakfast.”
The lie tasted bad on her tongue. But admitting the truth? Explaining her lingering battle with panic attacks? She wasn’t ready to share that.
Malcolm seemed to accept her explanation, though. His shoulders relaxed a little as he opened the mini-fridge. He passed her a bottle of orange juice and a protein bar. “No offense, beautiful, but you don’t look okay.”
She twisted off the cap and sipped, just to appease him and make her story more believable. What she really needed were some breathing exercises or her emergency meds. Or a way to distance herself from all the feelings Malcolm was stirring up.
She looked out the window as they drove along the shore of the Seine River.
He eyed her for five long heartbeats. “We used to understand each other well, from the second on the playground when you threw sand at that kid for making fun of my asthma attack. Now, though, I want the chance to fight back for you.”
Without another word, he gave her the space she’d requested and took a seat at the far end of the stretch limo. Quite a long way. Especially with all of his friends, plus Hillary and Jayne, sitting between them and trying to pretend there wasn’t a thick, awkward silence all the way to the airport.
Once the Learjet was airborne to fly them to Berlin, Malcolm continued to honor her request for space, which was actually the best way to get closer to her again. Did he remember that from their past? She fished in her floral bag for her eReader to pass the time and calm her nerves, still jangled from the incident on the boat. She had to steady herself before she ran the gauntlet for the next concert. She pulled the reader case out, her fingers fumbling with the zipper.
Dr. Boothe knelt in front of her, taking the case from her hand and opening it before setting the eReader beside her. “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”
She glanced around the plane. Everyone else seemed occupied with the business station or talking in the next cabin. Hillary, an event planner, was in deep conversation with Jayne about a fundraiser in the works for Dr. Boothe’s clinic—where apparently Jayne worked, as well. Even the steward was busy readying lunch in the galley.
Turning back to the fair-haired doctor, she said carefully, “I already told Malcolm. I forgot to eat breakfast, but I’m feeling better now,” but he still didn’t move away. “I’m just going to read until lunch. Thank you.”
He picked up her wrist. “Your pulse is still racing and you’re struggling for breath.”
“You said back at the limo that my pulse rate was fine.” She tugged her hand away.
“It wasn’t Malcolm’s business unless you chose to tell him.”
“Thank you.” She picked up her eReader pointedly. “I’ll let you know if I have a heart attack. I promise.”
He shifted to sit beside her. “I don’t think that’s what’s going on here, medically speaking.”
Of course it wasn’t, but she didn’t particularly want to trot out the details of how she’d screwed up and left her medicine at home. She didn’t need it all the time, and it had been so long since she’d reached for an antianxiety pill, she’d hoped …
Dr. Boothe stretched out his legs, as if in the middle of some casual conversation. “We can make this a patient/doctor thing, and then I can’t say a word to anyone else. The whole confidentiality issue.”
She shot a quick look at him, and he seemed … non-judgmental.
Weighing her options, she decided it was better to trust him and hope he could help her rather than risk another embarrassing incident. “I’m fighting down a panic attack. I left home so quickly I didn’t have a chance to get my, uh, medicine. I don’t have to take anything regularly anymore, but I do have a prescription for antianxiety medication. The bottle just happens to be sitting in my bathroom cabinet.”
A big oversight given that she had a stalker on her tail. But oddly, the thought of being in danger like that wasn’t half as scary as the resurrection of her old feelings for Malcolm. The memories of what they’d given up. She hadn’t realized how deeply this time with him might affect her.
She hadn’t wanted to admit it.
Rowan nodded slowly. “That’s problematic. But not insurmountable. Your doctor can call in the prescription.”
She had already thought of that. “Malcolm is so worried about the stalker back home that I can’t make a move without him noticing. It’s not that I’m ashamed or anything. I’m just not ready to tell him yet.”
“Understood,” he said simply, the window behind him revealing a small and distant Paris below. “If you’ll give your doctor permission to speak with me, I can take care of a prescription.”
“Thank you.” The tightness in her chest began to ease at the notion of help on the horizon.
“If you don’t mind my asking, when did these attacks begin?”
She recognized his question for what it was, an attempt to help talk her down. “After I broke up with Malcolm. I’ve had some trouble with depression and anxiety. It’s not a constant, but under times of extreme stress …”
She blew out a slow breath, searching for level ground and some control over her racing pulse.
“This sure qualifies as a time of stress, with the threats back home and all the insanity of Malcolm’s life.”
As the engine hummed through the sky, she thought about the patients he saw on a regular basis in Africa, of their problems, and felt so darn small right now. “You treat people with such huge problems. I probably seem whiny to you, the poor little rich girl who can’t handle her emotions.”
“Hold on.” He raised a hand. “This isn’t a competition. And as I’m sure your own doctor has told you, depression and anxiety disorders are medical conditions like diabetes. Serotonin or insulin, all chemicals your body needs. And you’re wise to keep watch over your health.”
“But your patients—” She stopped short as Malcolm stepped away from the business center. She picked up her eReader. “Thanks, Dr. Boothe, for checking on me. I appreciate your help.”
She powered up her book and pretended to read the most recent download from her book club. If only she could act her way through the rest of her problems.
But when it came to Malcolm, she’d never been all that adept at hiding her feelings—feelings that were escalating with him in such close proximity. No question, the man disrupted her well-ordered world, and she feared where that could lead.
Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to say goodbye.
His suite in downtown Berlin looked much the same as their digs in Paris, except with less gild to the antiques. But then his tours usually became a blur of hotel rooms and concert halls. God knew his attempt at a bit of sightseeing for Celia in Paris hadn’t played out that well. He needed to step back and rethink how to win her over.
Starting with clearing out his well-meaning, advice-peddling pals. They interfered with his plans to get Celia alone. He’d thanked them for gathering around him when he’d called them to help build a wall of protection around Celia as the concert tour started, and he appreciated their ready turnout. But the need for their help had passed. Once they left Germany, his friends would be peeling off, returning to their lives.
At least his concert in Berlin tonight had gone off without a hitch since he’d left “Playing for Keeps” off the playlist. He scanned the living room full of his friends until his eyes landed on Celia curled in a chair, her head resting on her arm as she listened to Troy turn storyteller about their school days, sharing a tale about Elliot Starc since the race-car driver had left earlier.
Not much longer and Malcolm would have Celia all to himself. Finally, they would be alone, aside from his manager. Logan knew how to make himself scarce, though, probably keeping busy working the next angle for his client. Malcolm felt like a jerk for wishing they would all hit the road now.
Part of his impatience could have something to do with what great buddies Celia and Rowan had become. More than once today, they’d sat in a corner, their heads tucked close in conversation. The good doc had even brought her a bag of pastries to make sure she ate enough.
Hell, yes, Malcolm was jealous. The guy had pastries, and Malcolm didn’t even have a hint of a plan for what to do next as far as Celia was concerned. His other plans had backfired—kissing for the press, singing “Playing for Keeps.” So he did what he did best. He lost himself in music, while staring at Celia’s beautiful face. He hitched his guitar more securely on his knee and plucked strings softly while Troy continued his story.
“My senior year—” Troy twirled his fedora on one finger as he talked “—Elliot was new to the school and wanted to impress us, so he hot-wired one of the laundry trucks and smuggled us all out for the night. We snuck into a strip club.”
Hillary snagged her husband’s spinning hat from his finger. “Strip club? Seriously? This is the story you choose to tell?”
Jayne laughed softly, snuggling into the crook of her husband’s arm. “Someone’s sleeping alone tonight.”
Troy spread his hands wide. “Let me finish. We quickly figured out the club wasn’t anything like we’d seen in the movies. The women looked … weary. A couple of the guys wanted to stay but most of us left and went to a pancake house that stayed open all night.”
Malcolm remembered the night well. He’d opted to stay in the truck, in a crummy mood because it was Celia’s birthday and he resented like hell that he remembered. He’d been aching for her.
Not much had changed.
Hillary dropped her husband’s hat onto her head. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
Troy kissed his wife’s head. “I would never lie to you, babe.”
Hillary rolled her eyes. “I’m assuming Elliot went with them to the pancake house since otherwise how would you have gotten the truck started?”
Conrad raised his hand. “Me, too, for the record. I did not stay at the strip club, just so we’re clear. I had pancakes with blueberry syrup, extra bacon on the side. Waitresses fully clothed.”
Jayne thunked him in the stomach. “Enough already.”
Their ease with each other reminded Malcolm of what he and Celia once had—and lost.
Celia hugged a throw pillow. “Why did Elliot end up at the school?” She glanced at Malcolm. “Is that okay to ask?”
“It’s in his public bio, so it’s no secret.” Malcolm sat in the wingback chair beside her—before Rowan could claim the seat—and continued to strum the guitar idly, playing improvised riffs and breathing in the pralinesweet scent of her. “His Wikipedia page states that Elliot was sent to the school for stealing cars. In reality, he took his stepfather’s caddy out for a spin and smashed it into a guardrail.”
The calm seeped from Celia’s face. “Seems like a rather extreme punishment for a joyride.”
Malcolm slowed his song, searching for a way to steer the conversation in another direction so she would smile again.
Troy answered, “Multiple joyrides. Multiple wrecks. His stepfather was beating the crap out of him. He wanted to get caught or die. Either way, he was out of his house.”
Celia leaned forward. “Why wasn’t his stepfather stopped and prosecuted?”
“Connections, a family member on the police force. Lots of warnings, but nothing happened.”
Her lips went tight, and she shook her head. “His mother should have protected him.”
“Damn straight,” Troy agreed. “But I’m sliding off my path here. Let’s get back to more entertaining brotherhood tales, like the time a few of us were stuck staying at school over Christmas break. So we broke into Salvatore’s office, spread dirt on the floor and tossed quick-grow grass seed. He had a lawn when he returned. He knew we did it, but the look on his face was priceless….”
Malcolm started strumming again, adding his own impromptu score to Troy’s tales, but his brain was still stuck on the moment Celia asked why Elliot’s mother hadn’t protected him. Her reaction was so swift, so instinctive he couldn’t avoid the image blaring in his brain. An image of Celia as the mother of his child, fiercely doing everything in her power to protect their baby. He’d been so frustrated—hell, angry—for so long over losing the chance to see his kid that he hadn’t fully appreciated how much she’d been hurt.
And damn it all, that touched him deep in his gut in a way that had nothing to do with sex. Right now, he had less of a clue about what to do with this woman than he had eighteen years ago.
The next night, after Malcolm’s concert in the Netherlands, Celia put together a late-night snack in their suite. Foraging through the mini-fridge, she found bottles of juice, water and soda, along with four kinds of cheese. She snagged the Gouda and Frisian clove to go with the crackers and grapes on the counter.
Yes, she was full of nervous energy since Malcolm’s friends had all gone home. Now she was finally alone with him. How strange that she’d resented their presence at first and now she felt antsy without the buffer they’d provided. Malcolm’s manager had stood backstage with her at the concert tonight in Amsterdam. But Logan had his own room here on another floor.
Not that Malcolm had pressured her since they’d checked into the posh hotel. In fact, since her panic attack during the Seine River tour, he’d backed off. On the one hand, she’d wanted him to quit tempting her, but on the other it hurt to think he was turned off by her anxiety.
They had a two-bedroom suite with a connecting sitting room. He was showering, the lights having been particularly powerful—and hot—tonight at yet another sold-out show.
