Crazy for Love (17 page)

Silence hissed through the phone.

“Captain?”

“I've never heard you speak a cross word about anyone, Sullivan. Consider him banned from the ship.”

His shoulders slumped in relief. “Good. Thank you.”

“Is everything all right, Max? You sound a bit grim.”

“I'm good,” he lied, purposefully adding some reckless good humor to his tone. “Just overdoing it, I'm sure.”

“Okay, then. I'll see you in a few weeks. Let's see if we can get that site finished up. My researchers have turned up some great leads on that Macedonian wreck I was telling you about.”

Max hung up and leaned against the wall, letting his eyes close and his head fall back. Maybe this island trip hadn't been a complete disaster. If he could learn to throw a little truth around with his bullshit, maybe his life would be easier. But the idea didn't stop the hot pressure that settled on his chest when he thought of returning to the ship. He didn't want to go back. He never did. But he'd known some of those divers for more than ten years and their lives
were his responsibility. How was he ever supposed to set himself free of that?

In the end, it would probably make no difference. He picked up lead weights of responsibility everywhere he went, even when he made every effort to keep a distance.

Chloe Turner was just one stop in a long line of trouble, and Max could see the endless string of his life stretching on forever, punctuated in even intervals by anchors. He wouldn't be able to move past this one without adding it to his load. Damn.

Pushing off the wall, he walked to the doorway to find Elliott still sprawled out on the couch, his forearm covering his eyes.

Max set his shoulders. Going after Chloe would be a huge mistake, the kind he'd determined not to keep making in his life. He couldn't keep picking up burdens, but the problem was he'd already walked right up to hers. Now it was sitting in his path, blocking his way at every turn.

Max raised his chin and pasted a smile on his face. “Hey, Elliott, what do you say we go get drunk?”

“I say yes.”

“Then let's get to it.”

T
WO NIGHTS LATER
,
Max couldn't deny that they'd successfully carried out their plan for drunkenness. In fact, he'd been nursing a hangover for twenty-four hours straight, but he couldn't talk himself out of bellying up to the bar again, regardless. So here they sat, morose and silent and staring at the largest television in the bar.

The place was packed now, loud with the chatter of locals excited about their brush with fame. Max and Elliott had managed to maintain their anonymity for the most part, but occasionally, someone put two and two together, and figured one of these guys from the resort must be the man sleeping with the infamous Bridezilla.

Like tonight's bartender, for example. “So,” he said with a suspiciously casual air. “Which one of you is Elliott?”

Max and Elliott exchanged a glance of tired impatience. “Who wants to know?” Max asked.

“Just curious,” the guy said.

“Right.”

“That Chloe girl…I heard she's totally nuts. Is that true?”

Max picked up his glass of Scotch and knocked back the contents like a college guy doing shots.

The bartender leaned closer. “I've heard those psycho girls are real awesome in the sack. If—”

Max dropped the tumbler to the bar and grabbed the front of the guy's shirt. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

Too late, he registered the flash of a camera out of the corner of his eye. He whipped his head around and found a smug-faced man lowering a very expensive-looking camera. The entire herd of paparazzi had followed Chloe back to Richmond, but apparently this guy had wised up and come back to the island to follow up on the “Bridezilla's lover” angle.

Max shoved the bartender back with a muttered warning, then tacked on an order for another Scotch. But fuck if he was going to leave a tip. Resolutely ignoring the reporter, he tipped his face back up to watch the coverage of Chloe. It was the same video that had been playing all day. First, her holding up a hand as she got into the passenger seat of a car and sped away from the docking area of the ferry. Then a shot of the back of that car, driven by Jenn. Then pictures of her ex-fiancé heading into a courthouse. Charges Expected To Be Filed Against Runaway Groom On Monday, the crawl said.

Fascinated and furious at the same time, Max squinted at the shaky video of the guy. He looked…normal, Max supposed. Objectively decent-looking. But surely the thin line of his mouth hinted at smarminess. Surely his jaw was a little weak. And Max knew full well that the guy's healthy tan was a result of the week he'd spent on the beach in hiding, but it was unseemly for him to look like he'd just gotten back from vacation.

“Dickhead,” Max bit out as he grabbed the new glass of Scotch and made himself sip slowly.

The last video clip was a new one. Chloe, head down, the hood of a sweatshirt pulled over her hair, walked through a parking lot somewhere. Something caught her attention and she glanced toward the camera for a split second. Max's heart lurched, throwing itself against his ribs. Her sweet hazel eyes didn't look warm anymore. They were sad and…wild. As if she were about to curl into a ball and scream.

Pulse thumping hard through his entire body, Max stared at the television long after the anchor had moved on to another story, as if Chloe were trapped in that rectangle on the wall.

“She looks okay,” Elliott said, the tone more a question than a statement.

“No, she doesn't.”

His brother cleared his throat. “I guess. Whatever
these bastards are saying, she didn't seem crazy to me.”

She hadn't seemed crazy to Max, either, not until the paparazzi had shown up. Guilt gnawed at him like a Rottweiler with a bone.

Max nudged him with his elbow. “Ready to go?”

He was probably asking about tonight, about the bar, but Max's muscles tightened with the need to leave, to get to Chloe and protect her from the hordes of paparazzi.

He knew it was ridiculous to want to save her. What the hell was he supposed to do? Magically make it all disappear? The hearing was coming up on Monday, for God's sake.

He couldn't do it. Getting involved with Chloe was exactly the kind of entanglement he could no longer handle.

Celibacy. He should've stuck with the celibacy.

“Yeah,” he finally answered, pushing up from the bar stool.

“You must be Elliott,” a man said from behind him. Max swung around to find the photographer holding out a hand.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm Chaz Sorenson.”

“Chaz, huh?” Max sneered. “Well, have a nice night, Chaz.”

“I wondered if you'd be interested in answering a few questions.”

“No.” He pushed past him and followed Elliott toward the door.

“Did you know she was engaged when you slept with her?”

“She's not engaged.”

“So you did sleep with her?”

Max's feet froze to the ground as his hands folded into fists. The faint white light above the door turned a hazy red in his vision.

“Sullivan,” his brother said carefully. “Nobody needs that kind of trouble.”

True. Breaking this guy's nose would do nothing to help Chloe, and it probably wouldn't be great for Max, either. Plus there was always the danger that the guy would fall over and crack his head open on a table. Not worth the risk of manslaughter charges. Max managed to move one foot closer to the door, and then the other.

“Let me give you my card,” the guy was saying, but Elliott opened the door and Max forced himself to walk through it.

When he glanced back at the closing door, Max caught another glimpse of Chloe's face glowing from one of the television sets. Another channel. Another
gossip reporter with a gleeful smile. He stepped out of the bar and rolled his shoulders, trying to pull in a tight breath of salty air. Not that salty air ever did anything good for his nerves. “You sure you don't mind your name mixed up in all this?”

Elliott huffed a laugh. “Nah. It'll do wonders for my reputation. And they don't deserve the truth.”

Once they were a dozen feet out on the sand, Max looked back at the bar. For once, the parking lot was full of cars. “Listen. How would you feel about ditching this place tomorrow?”

“Sure. I've got all the boating skills down now, thanks to you. Let's get the hell out of Dodge. It's lost its charm anyway.”

“By charm, I assume you mean Jenn?”

“Whatever.” Elliott threw a glance in Max's direction. “Are you coming back to my place in D.C.?”

It suddenly felt like the inside of Max's skull was lined with sandpaper. His brain hurt. He couldn't think. Chloe's wild eyes kept interfering with his vision. Monday was going to be an awful day for her, especially if the rumors about her ex-fiancé were true.

Max steeled himself. It wasn't his concern. He wasn't responsible for Chloe. She'd told him so herself. She had her family. She had Jenn.

Don't. Do. It.

But if she had her friends and family, that meant
she didn't really
need
Max. That meant he could offer moral support the way any normal person would do. She didn't need rescuing, she just needed a friend. The justification proved irresistible.

Max tried to lock his jaw, but the words pushed themselves out like gleeful ghosts. “You know what? Why don't you drop me in Richmond.”

He couldn't help but think that anxiety had a way of making everything sound like a bad omen. Surely this would turn out fine.

C
HLOE'S APARTMENT WAS STIFLING
. Sweat tickled her hairline and made her scalp itch. She tossed an evil glare toward the window air conditioner. Oh, it was pretending to do a good job, blasting cool air out in gales, but the room stayed thick with heat. Or was it just her?

Pacing, she swiped a shaky hand over her forehead. She couldn't breathe. The air pressed in on her, squeezing her throat like two strong hands. “Oh, God.”

She tried to make herself breathe, but there was something wrong. She needed to get out of her tiny place. Rushing for the window, she edged up one blind and pressed her nose close to the pane, hoping some miracle had scattered the group of paparazzi like a flock of startled birds. But no, they were still there. If only an unwed actress would get knocked up. If only some starlet would lock herself in her house and start smashing windows. Then they'd all go away, lured by bloodier meat.

Her heart twisted and pounded in her chest.

“It's a panic attack,” she told herself. “You're not dying.” It had only happened once before, and it hadn't been so bad. She'd hyperventilated until she'd passed out, and then everything had been fine when she'd finally woken up.

Chloe sprinted to the door and opened it, ducking down as soon as she did. The cameras could see her from one little corner, but the solid wood railing protected her if she crouched down. Chloe edged out and sat down on the first step. The sun made it hotter here, but there was a breeze and her throat opened enough to calm her down.

She'd managed to get through this month with anger and denial, but both of those emotions were starting to peel away. There was something worse ahead; she could feel it coming like a bad storm. And since she'd lived with the fake death of her fiancé, followed by his brutally public betrayal, something worse had to be pretty bad. And Chloe was very, very afraid it had something to do with Jenn.

Her best friend's behavior had grown increasingly erratic since they'd left the island. Jenn had become more than stressed…she'd become furtive. Secretive. Jumpy.

Chloe slipped her cell phone out of her pocket. It had quieted down since she'd started blocking all the unfamiliar numbers that popped up. Jenn had stopped calling, too. She'd only sent a few text
messages about how slammed she was at work. Chloe had called her twice, but Jenn hadn't called her back.

Even as she told herself to let it go, she pressed in the first few numbers of Anna's cell. A pause and a few deep breaths later, she hit the last number and held her breath. If Chloe didn't know what was going on with Jenn, maybe Anna did.

“Chloe!” Anna's voice sounded low and rushed.

“Hey, what's wrong?”

“Nothing. I've been trying to call you for a couple of days.”

“Really?” She pressed the phone closer to her ear as if it could solve the mystery. “I didn't notice any recent calls from you. Were you using your cell phone?”

“Yes! Listen, I…” A murmur of distant voices floated in the background and Anna's words got softer. “This isn't a good time. Can I call you back?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to catch up. And I wanted to know if you think—”

“I've got to go!”

Anna hung up without saying goodbye, but not before a man's unfriendly voice came through loud and clear. “All right, Ms. Fenton,” he said, just before
the sound of a heavy door clapping shut was cut off by the line going dead.

It probably had something to do with work. Of course it did. So why did that voice send shivery fingers of dread down Chloe's spine?

All right, Ms. Fenton.
Chloe stared at the dead face of the phone. Hadn't she heard that voice just a week before?
You're free to go, Ms. Turner.

The man's name was Detective Jackson. He was the lead investigator in the case against Thomas. He'd questioned all of them. Chloe and Jenn and even Chloe's mom and dad.

Why was Anna there now? She must know something. Something about Thomas or Chloe. Or Jenn. What could she possibly know?

Chloe knew the answer was just below the surface, waiting to be teased out, but she kept her fingers tightly curled. She'd find out on Monday. Monday would be soon enough.

Monday would be the day her life would start over. Or at least that was what she kept telling herself at night when she couldn't sleep.

When her stomach growled, Chloe realized that the panic had passed for the moment. She could sneak back into her house and stick a frozen meal in the microwave and get a little work done.

Her boss was letting her work from home for a while, mostly because he'd been supremely irritated
by the photographers outside the front door of the office. After this all died down, Chloe was pretty sure she'd be let go. Her work had gotten sloppy. Her boss was an old-school, no-nonsense accountant. He didn't find this little media frenzy at all exciting.

Chloe crawled back through her door and slammed it behind her. For one heartbeat, she thought she'd broken the pane of glass in the door, but the sharp, musical sound went on too long and she realized that her phone was ringing. It was the landline, which hadn't been tracked down by the press yet, because it was under her landlady's name. Only a few people had that number…

She raced for the receiver and answered with a breathless hello.

“May I please speak with Chloe?”

Max's phone voice was a little different from his regular voice, softened with a touch more Virginia twang.

“It's me. Hi, Max.”

“Hey, there, Chloe. How are you doing?”

“Great,” she answered, only a little irony peeking through.

“I don't want to be weird…”

“Okay.” A smile tugging at her face, she raised a curious eyebrow.

“I was worried about you.”

“That's okay, too.”

“So I thought I'd come by and see how you're doing. But maybe this is a bad time?”

A bad time? Her pulse surged into overdrive, heart beating so hard it should've hurt. But it didn't hurt at all. “Right now?”

“I just checked into a hotel downtown. Is that near you?”

“It's not far. But it's hard for me to get away before dark. The, uh, cameras…” Wow, could she be a worse date?

“Would it be better if I came over there?”

She glanced at the clock. It was only three, and she didn't want to wait, but she had more worries than the paparazzi. Her place was a mess and her legs needed shaving in a very bad way. Bouncing on her toes with anticipation, Chloe squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. He wanted normal, and she'd do her best to give it to him. She wasn't a panic-attacked sideshow freak. She was cool as a cucumber. “If you're willing to bring dinner, I could fit you in around eight.”

There was a soft sound on the other side of the line. It sounded very much like a relieved sigh. “Is Chinese okay?”

In answer, she gave him the address, her voice steady and cheerful and normal as hell. Then she hung up and threw the phone hard at her couch before
dancing around her small room. Oh, yes, she could make it until Monday. She could make it real good.

 

M
AX WAS NERVOUS
. Like, going-out-on-a-first-date nervous. It made no sense, of course. He and Chloe had already gone out several times, not to mention all that mind-blowing sex they'd had. Funny that you could lose count of that sort of thing when it was spread out over only three days, but several of those encounters had run together into one long night.

He rubbed his palms against his jeans and craned his neck to see where the taxi driver was taking him.

Her address was 410½, so he'd envisioned her living in one of the refurbished town houses that made up the residential area west of downtown Richmond. They were charming and beautiful and quirky, all jammed in together on tree-lined streets. She probably lived on the top floor, and he could see her curled up in a little window seat, reading in the shade of an ancient oak.

She and Jenn would walk to dinner on their girls' nights out. On Sundays, Chloe probably went to her parents' house for a barbecue. Yeah, there was nothing insane or alarming about these little streets.

But the cab rolled past that neighborhood and entered an area of well-kept antebellum mansions. Every house was large and stately, though each stood
out as different from its neighbor. Some were white stone with pillars, hemmed in by rock walls. Some were aging brick, the darkness relieved by whitewashed balustrades and balconies.

Max frowned at them all, confused by the transition.

The cab slowed with an ear-piercing squeal of worn brakes. “Here's 410. The ½ must be in the back. Want me to try to find an alley?”

Max cast a doubtful eye around. The house was only one lot from the corner. If there were an alley, Max could find it. The lampposts along the street were lit and the sun hadn't quite finished setting. He paid the driver, grabbed the bag of Chinese food and found himself standing in front of a mansion that had seen better days. In fact, those better days may have been in the mid-nineteenth century.

This house was… Max squinted through the overgrown vegetation—red brick. Or maybe it was brownstone. He couldn't see much past the ivy and moss. The front yard had reverted to old Richmond. Really old Richmond. Like back when only native Americans had lived on this land.

Was this some ancestral family home? Max looked up the street, then down. He found no clue waiting for him, but he didn't see any photographers, either.

He took a few wary steps toward the wrought-
iron gate. Unlike most of the fences on this block, this one rose high. Eight feet high. He reached gingerly for the handle of the gate, but it didn't respond to his first careful nudge. After trying to no avail, Max shrugged and threw his whole weight into it. The latch finally snapped up and the gate slipped open a foot, screaming against the scarred cement beneath.

“Christ,” he muttered, wondering if you could get tetanus if you didn't actually have a cut. He wiped a few of the rust flakes off his hand and stepped back, giving up. He clearly needed to go around to the back. Nobody had used this entrance in years. Just as he reached out to tug the gate back into place, a very distinctive clack broke through the silence. Someone had just dropped a chamber into a shotgun. And that someone was very close.

Max's blood froze in his veins and he was stuck like that, two fingers on the gate and eyes wide as saucers.

“You'd better get the hell out of here if you know what's good for you.”

“Um.” His eyes rolled, but he couldn't see anything past the overgrown bushes. “Damn patterazzi.”

Paparazzi.
Someone thought he was a reporter. “I'm not—” A deep, dark growl interrupted him, and Max looked down to see a vicious black dog
only inches from his legs. A dark rumble of warning bubbled up from its throat while its jowls quivered. “Oh, fuck.” Max dropped the sack of food and slowly raised both his hands as he eased backward. “Ma'am, I'm sorry. I don't know who you are, but I'm here to see Chloe Turner.”

“I'll bet you are!”

“She invited me over, ma'am. I apologize about the mixup. If you can just tell me how to get to 410½, I'll be on my—”

“Mrs. Schlessing!” Chloe shouted from somewhere within the thicket. “Mrs. Schlessing, that's Max! He's my guest.”

A head of gray, curly hair poked out from the bush on the left. “You sure?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Chloe suddenly jogged into view, her cheeks flushed and her hair bouncing from the run. “Brutus,” she ordered in a low voice. “Heel.” The dog spun, its growl morphing into a happy yelp as he trotted back to the old woman.

“I'm sorry,” Chloe panted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I should have told you to come through the back.” She cringed deliberately and tilted her head in Mrs. Schlessing's direction. The woman, apparently satisfied with her work, had already headed back into the jungle, a flash of pink housedress his last glimpse of her.

Chloe slipped through the gate and tugged it shut
behind her. “Come on. I'll show you the way.” She picked up the bag before heading off.

Max took a few steps with her, then stopped and turned to face her. “What the hell was that?”

“That was Mrs. Schlessing. I rent the apartment from her.”

“Okay, but…what the hell
was that?
”

“Oh.” She looked over her shoulder toward the gate, and her face grew even brighter red. “Sorry. It's just that we've had a lot of trouble with people trying to sneak in. She wouldn't have shot you, really.”

This wasn't the reunion he'd been expecting. Not at all. This was…crazy. But then, he'd known he was fooling himself, hadn't he? Oh, he hadn't expected shotgun and mad-dog kind of insanity, but he hadn't truly believed he'd find her snuggled into a cozy window seat, waiting for a homemade apple pie to finish cooling.

He'd warned himself not to come, but here he was. Max faced forward and resumed their walk, taking the food from her like the gentleman his mother had raised him to be.

“So I see you live in a haunted house.”

This time she smiled, and the tightness inside Max loosened by a few degrees. God, she was pretty. And soft. None of that had been affected by her crazy life. “I don't live in the haunted part of it. I have the carriage house.”

“What a relief.”

“Max…thank you for coming.” Chloe took his hand, waking up nerves in it he hadn't ever been aware of before. Like the nerves where her fingers slid in between his, setting off a shivery pleasure. Apparently, that part of his skin was incredibly sensitive. How could he never have noticed?

She smiled up at him again as they ducked around the corner. And God, she looked so happy that even with the dog and the shotgun and the crazy old lady, Max couldn't believe he'd come close to telling his brother to forget the detour and drive straight to D.C. Chloe's happy eyes were everything in that moment, and Max followed her into the dark alley without a whisper of hesitation.