Unravel Me Page 2

  Noah was through his door and across the flagstone deck before the intruder could take another step.

  “Hey!” he yelled, grabbing the stranger by his shirt collar to yank him around. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The lights from the pool glowed greenly on the other man’s face. Like Noah, he was close to thirty, and dressed in jeans, the cotton shirt that was crumpled in Noah’s fist, and lightweight hiking boots. Two cameras hung around his neck. Noah twisted the shirt collar tighter and the guy stumbled closer.

  “What are you up to?” he demanded again.

  “Easy, easy,” the stranger said, not attempting to fight Noah’s grasp. “I’m a friend of the lady’s.” He gestured toward the kitchen windows. “She invited me over.”

  “You and your cameras?”

  “She . . . she asked me to take some pictures.” The stranger’s voice was low, his smirk suggestive. “You know.”

  Noah didn’t want to know, but hell, he had to find out, didn’t he? “Juliet?” He pitched his voice louder. “Juliet!”

  The fixture over the back door flipped on and then she stepped out, hesitating there as the light turned her wealth of fine, straight hair from its usual caramel color to a brighter gold. When Noah had blasted into the kitchen earlier, it had been down around her shoulders, but now it was pulled away from her face by a thin band. It looked damp around the edges as if she’d just splashed water on her skin. The lashes surrounding her amazing eyes—one green, one blue—were spiky with wetness.

  She blinked as she gazed at the two men. “Noah?”

  “Is this a friend of yours?” he demanded, not easing his grip on the other dude’s shirt. “Did you invite him over?”

  Juliet blinked again.

  Shit, Noah thought. Maybe she had. For God’s sake, she’d been a widow for eleven months and her husband had been dying for many, many before that. It would be natural to want someone to spend time with, and there was no reason to be pissed that if she wanted a man she hadn’t turned to him. She was the quintessential uptown girl and officer’s wife, while he, after all, was the hired help, the enlisted guy, the piece of furniture from across the pool. But did she have to torture his imagination by wanting pictures, too?

  Because, God, imagined freeze-frames were overtaking his gray matter. Juliet out of her pants and sweater and into a black teddy, lace playing peek-a-boo with his gaze so he glimpsed a shell-pink nipple here, the crease that separated her long legs from her hips there. Now a backside shot, Juliet peering over the creamy, elegant blade of her shoulder, the sweep of her delicate spine leading to the taut hump of her ass. One set of ruby-tipped toes in the air.

  Trying to banish the thoughts, his eyes closed and his hand tightened on the photographer’s collar. He barely recognized the grating sound of his own voice. “Well?”

  “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

  Juliet and the stranger spoke together. Noah’s eyes popped back open. “What?” Loosening his grip a little, he shook the man he held. “I thought you said she invited you over.”

  “I thought she was somebody else!”

  Noah’s eyes narrowed. “You forgot your friend’s address?”

  “She used to live here, anyway. I know this used to be her house.”

  Puzzled, Noah stared at the guy for a long minute.

  “Oomfaa,” Juliet put in quietly. “Remember, Noah? She owned it before me.”

  Oh, Christ. The realtor had revealed that “One of the Most Famous Actresses in America,” nicknamed Oomfaa by the Malibu community, had lived here before Juliet had moved in. Which meant that the guy with the cameras was likely one of the—

  “Paparazzi,” he said with disgust, letting go of the man’s shirt and shoving him away at the same time. “I hear they guarantee celebrity sightings at the Malibu Starbucks. Get out of here.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders and pulled on the placket of his wrinkled shirt. “Wrong. Now the best spot is The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. But I’m looking for Oomfaa in particular. Do you know where she moved? I heard she’s for sure in Malibu.”

  Noah rolled his eyes. “As if I would tell you.”

  The guy slid his hand in his front pocket. “There’d be money in it for you. I sell my stuff to that website—I’m sure you know it—Celeb!.com. I pay for tips that pan out.”

  “I don’t want your money,” he said, shooting a glance at Juliet. They both knew that the actress had moved just across the canyon.

  The paparazzo followed his gaze. After a heartbeat, his pose went from casual to alert. He pivoted to face Juliet. “Wait a minute. I do know you.”

  When his hands moved toward his cameras, Noah wrapped his fingers around the straps hanging from the guy’s neck. “No pictures. Don’t even think about it.”

  The photographer pointed his forefinger at Juliet instead. “You married America’s Hero.”

  That’s what the media had dubbed General Wayne Weston—America’s Hero. With his Hollywood looks, his West Point education, and his well-documented bravery, he’d been a military man that the populace—and more important, maybe, the politicians on both the right and the left—could be proud of. When he’d retired, the world assumed he was going to run for public office. The highest office.

  And win.

  “They called you the Deal—”

  Noah’s hand jerked to the other man’s throat. “That’s—”

  “Okay,” Juliet interjected. “Let him say it. And let him go.”

  Shit. He gentled his stranglehold, but didn’t completely ease off. “Juliet . . .”

  “Then I’ll say it for him,” she put in, her voice matter-of-fact. “They called me the Deal Breaker.”

  Shaking his head, Noah dropped his hand. It was true that when the general had married his very much younger wife, both of the parties had dropped him like a hot political potato. Where before they’d been courting him to run on their tickets, now they couldn’t back away fast enough. Rumor had it that when he’d mentioned his plans to wed a woman thirty years his junior the national committees had said the bride was out or their support was gone.

  Wayne Weston had chosen marriage.

  The media and the people hadn’t taken very well to losing their favorite presidential contender. But had they blamed the hierarchies of the parties or even their hero himself? Hell, no. They’d blamed Juliet.

  “Then they called me the Happy Widow.”

  Every muscle in Noah’s body clenched. He hated that part of the story most of all. He’d been there in the last months of the general’s life and in all the months since. Not once had Juliet been happy.

  Not goddamn once.

  But because she hadn’t been at Wayne Weston’s side in his last hours, unfounded, anonymously sourced rumors had been swallowed by the hungry-for-content twenty-four-hour media machine, to be regurgitated into cruel sound bites like the Happy Widow. And here, right beside Noah, was a representative of that slanderous, libelous, salacious fourth estate.

  Hey, he thought, cheering a little. And I’ve been trained to kill.

  “You’d better leave,” he told the man in a low voice, deciding even a dolt like this one deserved a warning. “Now.”

  The guy was smart enough to shuffle back.

  But Juliet intervened once again. “Celeb!.com, you said? Don’t they have a companion TV show in the new fall lineup?”

  “Well, yeah,” the photographer replied, shooting Noah a wary look. “CC! on TV. Celeb!.com on television. You a fan?”

  “We happy widows have to fill our hours somehow,” she answered, without a hint of irony in her voice. “Maybe they’d like to do a piece on the general’s book.”

  Noah rocked back on his heels. It all made sense to him now. General Wayne Weston’s autobiography was hitting the shelves next month. Apparently Juliet wasn’t above chatting up a slimy paparazzo if she thought it might gain attention for her
late husband’s book. Noah knew she counted on the publication of the general’s life story repairing the damage to his reputation that had been the result of their marriage.

  Christ. Noah rubbed his chest. He really wished he hadn’t left the guesthouse now. He hated seeing her like this—because it made him worry that what she wanted so badly wouldn’t come to pass.

  “How about if I take a couple of shots of you?” the photographer asked.

  “Now?” Her hand went to her hair.

  “Sure. Why not? I’ll bet people would like to know what you’re up to.” He jerked his chin in Noah’s direction. “And who you’re with.”

  The overhead light clearly illuminated the flush shooting up Juliet’s slender neck. “That’s not . . . we’re not . . .”

  Yeah, Noah thought. I’m the furniture. The enlisted guy. The hired help. Not good enough for her, and I know it.

  Her gaze flicked to his face, then jumped away. “Noah is . . . Noah was my husband’s assistant. He helped Wayne as . . . as my husband declined. He helped him dress, helped him with his meals, helped him with the book he was writing.”

  Noah refused to let any feeling show in his expression. He’d helped the general in ways that Juliet would never know about. In ways that she would never thank him for if she ever found out.

  Which she never would.

  The paparazzo shrugged. “None of that means you two aren’t an item.”

  Juliet was shaking her head, her cheeks bright pink. She glanced over at Noah again, and licked her lips.

  God, he thought, staring at her mouth. She was so effing beautiful, sometimes it hurt to look at her. And maybe it hurt a little more to see her total rejection of him as a romantic interest.

  Of course, they were miles apart and he accepted that. And he also knew her well enough to realize it would be difficult for her to verbalize this to some dumbass from Celeb!.com. With a sigh, he stepped closer to the photographer.

  “Listen, bud, the lady said we’re not . . . intimate or whatever the hell you’re getting at, and that’s a fact. She’s . . .” He ran out of steam, and just lifted his hand to where she stood under the light, her pretty hair, her delicate build, her slender limbs all glowing golden. “She’s . . .”

  “Too old for him,” Juliet said.

  Noah froze. He was hearing things, right? There was water in his ears from his swim. Because he knew Juliet Weston. Of the many things to keep them apart, the very last thing that would ever stand in the way was . . . was . . .

  He moved his head to stare at her. She couldn’t have possibly said . . .

  But then she said it again. “Noah’s younger than me.” All right. He hadn’t left the guesthouse and come back to her after all. Instead, he’d fallen across his bed and then into a deep sleep, dreaming.

  A really odd, odd dream.

  Two

  You can no more win a war than you can win an earthquake.

  —JEANNETTE RANKIN

  Noah was back in her kitchen. He’d ushered from the premises the Celeb!.com photographer who’d left after trying to wheedle her phone number out of her. With disapproval blasting from Noah’s parade-rest position a few feet away, she’d reconsidered her impulsive proposal of a tabloid TV segment on Wayne’s book—she must have been really rattled to suggest it in the first place—but the paparazzo had persisted in trying to set something up.

  She’d held firm to her refusal though, and while the stranger with the cameras was finally gone, Noah’s dark mood hadn’t dissipated. Trying to ignore it, she moved about the room, making up little tasks for herself like refolding the dish towels and straightening the salt-and-pepper shakers. Normal activities. Normal activities that she hoped would put their relationship back to normal.

  There’d never been tension between herself and Noah, and now the air seemed thick with it. From the corner of her eye she stole a look at him and—bam!—another jolt of sexual heat rocked through her. Oh, boy. Her response to him wasn’t anywhere near normal either.

  But was that her fault? Who could ignore all that uncovered skin?

  “Aren’t you cold?” she blurted out.

  He glanced down at his bare chest. “No. Do I look cold?”

  From the shield of her lashes she glanced at him again. Leaning against a countertop, he wore only jeans and shoes. The denim was nothing special, worn almost white in places, and slung low across his hips to reveal yards of healthy male abdominal muscles, curved pectorals, and heavy shoulders. Those sinewy arms. There were his dark nipples that had caught her attention earlier in the evening. The centers were gathered into tiny, hard-looking buttons. Her nipples only tightened like that when she was chilled, or . . . or aroused.

  Her right arm clamped over her breasts and she clutched her upper left with tight fingers, a little noise sounding from her throat. She tried to disguise it by faking a cough.

  Noah wasn’t so easy to fool. “Juliet?” His voice sounded puzzled. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” Everything.

  “Juliet.”

  She looked up at him. He was still propped against her counter, but he’d folded his arms over his chest in a no-nonsense attitude that went along with the no-nonsense narrowing of his blue eyes. Noah was handsome—she’d always known that on some faraway, objective level—thanks to his chiseled cheekbones and square jaw. Wayne had been a good-looking man, too, her lean silver fox. But Noah was made of more rugged material and there was nothing subtle about the testosterone that seemed to ooze from his pores.

  “C’mon, Juliet. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  Her throat tightened. “I thought we were.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. Oh, God. Had she hurt his feelings? This was all her fault, she thought, looking away. This unseemly, inappropriate, unlooked-for reaction was something that was entirely on her shoulders. “Noah . . . It’s not you.”

  He laughed. “I’ve heard that one before.”

  She met his gaze again. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “What?”

  “You forget how long I’ve known you. Remember all those months when you were in the apartment over the garage at the house in Pacific Palisades?” While attending law school, he’d lived with them and aided her husband as his illness progressed. Noah had stayed on with her after the general’s death, taking care of a thousand details, including helping her move to this much smaller place in Malibu.

  She found a smile for him. “Don’t think we didn’t notice the blondes, the brunettes, and those redheads who came and went from your apartment. I think your social life gave Wayne more than a few vicarious thrills.”

  “Now I’m the one doubting. Not only am I not nearly the player you’re making me out to be, we both know the general had the only woman and the only thrills he was looking for.”

  Juliet looked away again. Maybe not. She’d felt an inexplicable distance between herself and Wayne as he neared the end of his life and it still bothered her.

  “Juliet.” Noah had made another of his silent moves. Without her detecting his travel across the terra-cotta tiles, he was beside her, his body radiating warmth. One of his fingers slid under her chin to lift her face. “What’s going on with you tonight?”

  Thoughts of the past evaporated as goose bumps shivered over her flesh from the point of his contact. Her heartbeat throbbed in the cells of her skin as she stared up at him. She’d never, ever, been so aware of her body, but she couldn’t let this man know what he was doing to her. She couldn’t! They were supposed to be getting back to normal.

  His finger curled in what seemed to her overheated self as a short caress. “What are you thinking about?”

  “You.” Oh, God, her brain was set on blurt again. She coughed, then lied to explain herself. “I was, um, thinking that since we moved here I haven’t seen a woman at the guesthouse. You . . . you need to know I don’t expect it to be a monastery.” Maybe if she saw him with some pretty young thing she’d get over this weird react
ion to him—if a night’s sleep wouldn’t do the job on its own.

  He dropped his hand and stepped back. “I don’t need to bring a woman here.”

  “But, Noah—”

  “It’s only temporary, remember?” Turning away, he ran his hand through his dark hair. “I’m only living here for a short while. Until the automatic sprinklers are set right and the gazebo is painted, and we’ve figured out how that damn built-in barbecue works.”

  Then he’d be gone. And she’d be alone. There was Wayne’s daughter, Marlys, of course, but they’d never been close. Even after Juliet had told her she was moving from the Weston family house in Pacific Palisades so that Marlys could have it to herself, the other woman hadn’t warmed up. No doubt she blamed Juliet for everything from her parents’ divorce—that had occurred years before Wayne’s second marriage—to her father’s cancer diagnosis.

  Or maybe Marlys believed all the ugly rumors about Juliet. How she’d been callous over the fact that her husband was dying. How she hadn’t cared enough to stick by him when the very end came.

  Yes, Marlys wasn’t going to provide much friendship. When Noah vacated the guesthouse across the pool, there’d be no one who—

  This time the information she’d learned at the shop that night hit with the weight of a brick and sank straight to her consciousness. “Oh.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.”

  Noah spun. “Now what?”

  “I think I need a glass of wine.” She headed for the refrigerator. “How about you?”

  He caught her arms and drew her to him. “I’m not a wine kind of guy, honey. Surely you know that.”

  Honey. The soft word made her feel all warm again, but she couldn’t be distracted by that, or by the smooth skin of his tanned, muscled chest such a very few inches away. “Noah . . .” She tried pulling free.

  He only drew her closer. “Juliet . . .” he echoed. “I’m done dancing around this. You’re acting very unlike yourself.”

  “That’s the problem.” She looked up into his eyes. “I don’t know who I am anymore. Not really.” That was the truth. And not just because she was smelling Noah now, taking in his scent, and feeling her inner woman instead of her inner widow responding with another wash of heat.