“I know. I’ll be waiting for you at six.”
Calling up every ounce of his willpower, he forced himself to walk away, plunged into the fray behind the counter—and for the next twenty minutes barely had a moment to breathe.
In fact, they were so busy and the milling crowd in the shop so dense he didn’t see Katherine leave.
Not a problem.
In seven hours, she’d be all his.
And from the instant he closed up shop for the day until six o’clock, he was going to put all his efforts into creating a beach picnic worthy of a big-screen chick flick.
What in the world?
Katherine jolted to a stop as she entered the great room and spotted a man on her deck.
He was off to the side, his back toward her, and she had only a partial view—but it wasn’t Zach.
Their beach picnic wasn’t scheduled to start for another forty-five minutes, even if she was ready to go and counting the minutes.
She detoured into the kitchen and unplugged her phone from the charger. Peeked around the corner of the wall toward the deck again.
The man was gone.
Nevertheless, a tiny quiver of fear rippled through her.
But that was silly. This was Hope Harbor, not LA. The police chief here no doubt had the easiest law enforcement job in the state. Her unexpected visitor was probably a tourist who’d wandered off a trail somewhere and—
Ding-dong.
She froze.
Maybe that guy was looking for her.
But why hadn’t he rung the bell to begin with?
Phone at the ready in case she had to call 911, she walked to the door.
Though the peephole distorted his features, the man appeared to be normal. And from the glimpse she’d gotten of him while he’d been on the deck, he hadn’t come across as a vagrant or someone with nefarious intent.
It was possible he had a legitimate purpose for being here. A friend of the owner, perhaps, who didn’t know the house was currently occupied by a vacation renter.
To be on the safe side, however, she left the chain on as she cracked the door—and she positioned her thumb to tap in 911.
“May I help you?”
The man smiled at her, but his eyes were assessing. “You aren’t one of the owners of this house.”
Her assumption must have been correct. “No. I rented it for a few weeks.”
“Then my information was correct—but I wouldn’t have recognized you. Kudos on the disguise.” He swung up the arm that had been concealed behind his back and began snapping photos with the camera in his hand before she could process what was happening. “I understand congratulations are in order. Any comments on your movie deal?” All the while he kept clicking.
She finally found her voice. “You’re on private property. If you’re not gone in thirty seconds, I’m calling the police.” She slammed the door. Sucked in a lungful of air. Tried to rein in her stampeding heart.
There was only one explanation for this.
Simon.
Punching in his number, she stalked into the living room and began to pace as the phone rang.
He took his sweet time answering.
Four rings in, on the cusp of rolling to voicemail, he picked up and greeted her.
She dispensed with any pretense of politeness. “What have you done?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t give me that, Simon. Someone from one of those gossip rags just rang my bell.”
“Goes with the territory if you’re starring in a major motion picture—as you are, my dear, now that you’ve signed on the dotted line. I snapped a photo of the contract and sent it to the studio as soon as we finished lunch. Tomorrow I’ll deliver the hard copies in person and gear up for a major publicity blitz.” He could hardly contain his glee.
“The blitz has already started.”
“What can I say? Leaking a few crumbs to the press stirs up interest.”
“My location is not a crumb.” She forced the sentence through gritted teeth.
He didn’t try to deny he’d sicced the media on her. “I’m surprised someone’s already shown up. They must have contacted stringers in Portland or happened to have people in the vicinity. I guess they pulled out all the stops to try and get a juicy exclusive.”
Her stomach began to churn.
Once again, she’d lost control of her life.
This was what she hated most about Hollywood.
“I don’t want these people on my doorstep, Simon.”
“Call the police if anyone else trespasses—or fly back with me to LA tomorrow. You have to be there Monday morning anyway for a meeting at the studio.”
Leave tomorrow and give up two more days with Zach?
Not happening.
Besides, she still had two dozen truffles to make for the Hope House benefit. The finished ones on the island, boxed and ready to go, weren’t sufficient for the sold-out event.
“I’m not leaving until Sunday.”
“Suit yourself. I’m out of here at the crack of dawn tomorrow.”
“Good-bye, Simon.” She jabbed the end button, already wrestling with second thoughts about her decision.
But she’d signed the contract. She’d have to see this through.
However—she wasn’t going to let Simon’s zeal for publicity ruin these next two days with Zach.
Phone in hand, she opened the sliding door in the great room . . . peeked both directions . . . and stepped out. She needed to calm down, and the view from the deck would help her chill. If that guy—or anyone else—ventured onto the property, she was dialing 911 without bothering to issue a warning.
She walked over to the railing and gave the sea a sweep.
Frowned.
A sleek white cabin cruiser had dropped anchor very close to shore.
Strange.
In all her weeks here, no boat had ever ventured near the beach.
A twinge of suspicion began to niggle at her.
Pivoting, she reentered the house, picked up the binoculars from the coffee table, and returned to the deck. After lifting them into position, she adjusted the focus.
One person was on the deck of the boat—but the camera with the long lens in his hands wasn’t pointed at Trixie, who was prancing about in the water, giving a fine aquatic show.
It was aimed her direction.
“Crud.” As she muttered the word, she swung around and stomped back into the house. Slammed the slider closed. Locked it.
Her private Hope Harbor haven was ruined.
And her beach picnic with Zach was a bust.
Heck, they couldn’t even eat on either of their decks, not with that guy in the boat watching her every move.
Crud, crud, crud, crud, crud.
She set the binoculars down, rubbed at the ache beginning to throb in her forehead, and resumed pacing.
Knowing Zach, he’d insist they have their picnic and modify the setting to accommodate this new development—but any rendezvous was dangerous. What if a camera caught them together?
She cringed as a series of melodramatic headlines strobed across her mind, all of them scandalous, shocking, lurid, sensational—and false.
But true or not, they’d be hurtful and upsetting.
Having been down that road already, she could handle the overblown hype—but subjecting someone she cared about to such nastiness would be wrong. Especially a decent man like Zach, who lived an exemplary life and ran a business that depended on the respect and goodwill of his regular customers in town.