 
# Worth the Risk

Book 1 in the "Rock Star Husbands" series

A sweet, clean romance novel

by

Emily Josephine

Copyright 2019 by Emily Josephine.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

Also, for the record I had _no idea_ the singer Enrique Iglesias even _existed_ until I was almost a third of the way into writing this novel. Julio Estrella is not supposed to be a copy of him; as a matter of fact, my character happens to be considerably cuter and his songs a lot more family-friendly. ;)

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DEDICATION

*To the guy who was demonstrating a high-powered blender at the Whole Foods Market in Overland Park, Kansas in early June of 2017. He inspired the beginning of this novel.*

## Table of contents

Prologue

Last chapter

Note to the reader

Other books by Emily Josephine

About the author

# Prologue.

I stand at the back of the room, watching her watch the screen. Tears streaming down her face.

She hasn't been crying the whole time. Until the video part of the presentation, her expression was neutral to cheerful. When she laughed at the corny jokes the presenter made, her smile tugged at my heart. Made me want to walk over to her, sit down next to her.

I couldn't, for two reasons. First, she is flanked on all sides by other festival goers. Second, I can't risk being recognized. Even with my disguise on, I have had to make sure not to talk to any one person more than a couple of minutes at this event. That's the main reason I didn't want to come in the first place. It was enough that my work schedule was interrupted by a trip to the United States to talk to some filmmakers. But when my sister found out this vegan festival was going on not too far from Chicago, she insisted that we come.

Ironic, since she is usually the first to warn me against going to large events where I am not the main event. I was mobbed once during my pre-bodyguard days, and nearly had to be hospitalized because of it. But she thought if I kept my bodyguards near, and we both made ourselves unrecognizable to the general public, I would be fine here.

It's her not-so-subtle way of trying to convince me to give up cheese and fish, and to convince me I should cry like that woman is crying over the plight of animals being cruelly treated by human beings.

While I do care for animals, I don't think I'll ever get to that point. But, that woman. The instant I laid eyes on her a half hour ago, something stirred in me. Something that reminded me of the prayer I prayed about a year ago.

And the longer I've watched her, the stronger that stirring has become, especially now as I see the evidence of a tender heart inside her. As my sister, also in disguise, shifts her feet beside me in the shadowy corner, I make a decision.

I'm going to act on that prayer.

And in a few hours, meet that woman, and have my answer.

# Chapter One: Rachel Polowsky.

## Early June.

I stifle a yawn as I reply to Marilyn's text. Yes, beautiful day here, 2. Sun, blue skies. But storms kept me up last night. Gotta go. Work.

I tuck my phone back into my purse under the counter and begin to bend over to retrieve a small bag of frozen fruit from the mini-freezer next to me when my phone dings yet another incoming text. I shake my head with a small smile. I'll check her text this one last time.

LOL I want ur job. Festival = work??

Two years older than me at age twenty-six, Marilyn texts like a fifteen-year-old. Since she's my best friend, I usually don't mind, and as long as I don't respond to this text she'll know to stop for a while. She's respectful of my time that way. That's one of a handful of reasons I've been able to figure out that she and I are besties. She's sweet and kind, but also the polar opposite of my rebellious natural living self who refuses to put on makeup, paint nails, shave body hair, or wear the latest fashion.

I'm also a vegan. While I've gotten her and my cousin Joe, her husband, to tone down their consumption of animal products, I can't get them to go all the way.

Oh, well. I'll take the wins where I can get them.

Anyway, probably the biggest reason we're best friends is that we both love Joe. He grew up six blocks away from me and my now-deceased brother in Cleveland, so has always been more like a brother to me than a cousin. And when he introduced me to Marilyn two years ago, it was like at first sight.

Marilyn's festival reference is the annual Midwest VegFest in a town just north of Indianapolis. Though I'm working a booth here to sell ProVitaBlend high-power blenders, I'm enjoying myself. I don't think I'll enjoy myself today as much as I did yesterday, though, because thunderstorms blew through this part of Indiana last night and kept me up for probably two hours. I didn't have the luxury of sleeping in this morning, and even though I've only been here for an hour, I'm already desperate for a nap.

I have to admit, it wasn't as bad as a home and garden show I worked at last year. I'd agreed to share a motel room with another attendee, and she invited new friends over to our motel room every one of the three nights of the show. I guess I should be glad that nothing more happened than a lot of talking and laughing into the wee smalls of the next morning, but being kept up that late had been enough to make me miserable.

This is one reason I've never had a roommate, not in my dorm at college, and not in the apartment in Toledo, Ohio, where I now live. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever get married. I like my early-to-bed, early-to-rise routine, like not having to arrange her life around someone else's. I like my freedom.

And knowing my luck, I'd marry a guy who acted all sweet and kind before our nuptials, but who'd turn into a jerk afterwards.

My stomach tightens at the memory of one jerk in particular. At least I hadn't been married to him.

I push the thoughts back with a deep breath as I dump the fruit into the blender and turn it on. Sinking into negativity will do nothing to help me make sales. I know that from previous experience. What's past, is past. I need to leave it behind.

Problem is, my past still haunts me. I don't feel it most of the time, but I have my bad days, same as everybody else. The best way to keep the monster at bay, I've found, is to lead as quiet a life as possible and to let few people into my heart. Anyone who wants my trust has to work long and hard for it.

And I'm not sure I'll ever trust a man enough to accept a marriage proposal from one.

I'm pouring the last bit of smoothie into the last sample-size paper cup on a tray full of them, when three college-aged women saunter toward my booth. Two are snickering, one is rolling her eyes, her spine rigid as though strengthening her resolve amidst an onslaught of teasing.

Marching up to me, she flicks an errant strand of long, blond hair out of her face and glares at me. "Tell my friends you don't get sent to hell for eating meat." At my raised eyebrow, she cracks a grin, adding. "I'll buy one of your blenders if you do."

"You don't have enough money," her short, brunette friend declares as she picks up one of the samples. The other lady, whose straight hair falling to just below her earlobes is dyed a variety of neon colors, does the same.

Ignoring her friend, I return the grin. "You won't get sent to hell for eating meat." Experience tells me that chances are slim she has the money to buy even the cheapest of the blenders, which costs $299 before tax. Still, I'm happy to oblige her. While I'd like to see the entire world go vegan, I'm not one of those who screams in meat-eating people's faces about how uncompassionate and violent they are because of their diet. And as far as I know, Jesus ate fish and occasional red meat. I kinda sorta doubt He's burning for eternity.

To my surprise, the woman slides her purse down her arm, reaches inside, and a few seconds later, has handed me a credit card. I laugh, not taking it. "We have seven different blenders." I do a Vanna White toward the display on either side of the sample tray. "Do you know which one you want, or would you like to hear about the features of each one?"

By the time the three young ladies leave, I've learned that the two who didn't make a purchase are vegan evangelists. One was raised vegan, the other joined the movement only last year. I also know that the one who does make a purchase, Violet, is majoring in nutrition and doesn't believe that a diet completely void of animal food is _the_ key to good health.

I didn't argue with her. She apparently gets enough of that from her friends – though, from my side of the booth, their flak appeared to be in good fun. My hunch is that when they're not at vegan events, Violet doesn't have to put up with nearly as much teasing.

I couldn't deal with friends who felt free to tease me about a lifestyle choice. It would equate to bad-mouthing somebody's religion. Really, if you define religion as a set of rules you need to follow in order to find happiness, and believing in the rules to the extent that you feel guilty when you break even the smallest one, then natural health is _my_ religion.

I'm not talking about faith. Faith and religion are two different things, my grandmother explained to me once when I was a junior in high school. She told me that she spent most of her adult life losing her religion so she could find true faith.

She would be dismayed if I told her that a few years ago, I purposely lost my faith, that I cling instead to my religion. Choosing what to eat and what not to eat, using natural remedies to help my physical maladies, keeping my body pure of the artificial standards that mainstream culture unfairly and, I believe, unethically refers to as "beauty"...all of those things hover within my realm of control.

And I know that as long as I'm in control I won't let myself down. Not on purpose. And never with some fuzzy idea that screwing up my own life will somehow make me a better person one day.

That's not to say I don't believe in God. I do. I just don't trust. How can I, after the way God's silence messed me over several years ago?

The morning passes, and around noon the warehouse gets relatively quiet as many of the festival-goers wander outside to get their hands on one of several vegan burgers, which are all being grilled on the spacious, grassy area surrounding the warehouse.

I wish I dared go outside to eat my lunch, but alas, I don't have a partner who can watch my three thousand dollars worth of blenders that I have under and on top of my booth. I content myself with the fact that the warehouse isn't echoing with a million voices at once as I eat the salad with steamed potatoes that I bought last night. When I finish, I get back to work.

Like yesterday at this time, my feet are already sore and my jaw aches for forcing myself to smile so much, but the show must go on. Especially since people are beginning to trickle back in from outside.

Though the crowd is still sparse, I really should replenish my nearly empty tray. My goal is to make a profit from this trip, not just break even, as Violet's purchase allowed me to do. I have at least enough faith to mumble an automatic "thank You" into the air for that small blessing. Selling the blenders at this festival was my idea, not the company's, and if it's not a company assignment I have to pay my own way. And sometimes when I do that, I don't come close to breaking even.

I bend over to gather the ingredients to refill the blender so I can refill the tray.

Not ten seconds later: "May I try a sample?" The smooth, baritone voice fringed with an obvious European accent is music to my ears. Though the voice is no doubt attached to yet another untrustworthy male, I have to admit it's probably the most pleasant sound I've heard in the past thirty-six hours.

"That's what they're there for." I force brightness into my tone. I want nothing more than to return to my motel room and take a nap. And unless I miss my guess, the voice sounds a mite friendlier than I want a male voice to sound. Because a friendly male voice often has a prowling male attached to it.

I have no intention to be anybody's prey.

I turn around to set the fruit-filled blender container onto its base, sighing as I lift my eyes to the man who has just picked up one of the tiny paper cups of strawberry-banana-pineapple-orange smoothie. He meets my gaze with a wink and toast-like lift of the cup.

I stifle a gasp. The guy is drop-dead gorgeous. Moreover, his perfectly sculpted nose and lips that curve upward into a gentle smile niggle at my memory as if I've seen them before.

Wait, what? What am I doing, noticing a man's nose? Three seconds ago, I'd all but mentally thrown all men aboard a sinking ship. I must really need a nap.

Except...wow. My pounding heart is sending energy like streaks of lightning through every vein in my body. I couldn't sleep right now if you offered me a million dollars to do so.

"Rough day?" the handsome stranger asks, then dips his head back to down the bit of smoothie in the cup.

His exposed neck, like his face, is a light copper color, contrasting nicely with hair so dark I can't tell if it's a very dark brown or black. My gaze travels down his body a bit farther. By the well-toned muscles revealed by the navy blue tank top he's wearing, the guy works out regularly. Sheer curiosity drives a glance down to his blue jeans.

And sheer embarrassment snaps the glance back up. _What am I doing_? My face begins to burn as I hope beyond hope that the man hasn't noticed me checking him out. Then I scramble to remember the question he just asked.

Oh, rough day. He must have heard my sigh. My unprofessional, too-loud sigh that I would never have released if I'd seen him first.

I return his smile, knowing it's not nearly as warm or as sexy as his. "Not rough. Just long."

He lowers the emptied cup and gives me a slow nod. "I understand long days."

I almost ask him what he does for a living, but then I'd seem interested. I am, but not in a please-ask-me-out kind of way. In a fantasy, hope-to-dream-about-you-tonight kind of way.

Even if I was interested in dating, I'm too busy to do so. When I'm not working my sales rep job for ProVitaBlend, I'm building my online business, a blog and a YouTube channel about living naturally, smoothies and healthy eating being my areas of expertise. My goal is for my business to be making more money than my job in two years, at which point I'll quit my job. For that to happen, I have to spend every waking minute doing something productive.

Anyway, even if I could find a guy I could trust, I'm no longer willing to play the dating game. My cousin's wife, Marilyn, believes in soul mates, that when you find "the one," you both know it. I'm pretty sure finding a true love that will last "till death do us part" has to be harder than that. But the idea holds appeal. Especially if my one-and-only looked like this guy.

"Did I drip smoothie onto my chin?" The not-so-tall, but definitely dark and handsome, man widens his smile.

My face flushes again. Good grief, have I been staring at him? Yes, I've been staring. If he didn't know I was checking him out a minute ago, he suspects something now.

"Uh, no. Your chin is perfect. I mean –" I let my gaze drop to the counter separating us, then look over his shoulder at a small group of people that have just walked into the warehouse. None of them are headed my way, probably because I'm out of samples.

I snatch the realization like a drowning person grabbing at a life preserver. "I mean, I need to make some more smoothies. Samples. I need to smooth...fruit the..."

Giving up, I turn toward the blender, wishing the guy would just leave. I've seen a lot of cute guys during the past couple of days, and plenty of them buff. But none of them have knocked me off-kilter like this one.

He lets out a throaty chuckle. I should be irritated that he's laughing at me. But I'm not, first because I deserve it since I've suddenly forgotten how to speak English, and second because the sound is delicious, sending a tingle of pleasure down my spine.

Which is weird. To my memory, I've never been turned on by somebody's laugh before.

"Oh, no problem."

Did I notice the sexy in his voice the first time, or does it just sound sexy now that I've seen him?

_Woman, you have GOT to get a grip_! I push the power button on the blender, run it for thirty seconds, then take a step back from the counter to retrieve another stack of paper cups from underneath it. I expect the man to leave in the meantime, but he is still there as I begin to arrange the cups on the tray.

I should begin my spiel, which is to ask if he drinks smoothies, then go on to sing the praises of the health benefits of consuming smoothies, especially green ones. Then I should convince him to take a sales brochure with my sales rep number on it. Or, better yet, take an order from him right then and there.

But for some reason, my mind goes completely and utterly blank.

While I scramble for something to say, the man saves me. "You work for ProVitaBlend?" He lifts his chin toward the blender as he picks up one of my business cards and slides it into a jeans pocket.

"Sales rep." Why are my hands suddenly shaking? And should I be worried he's taken one of my business cards?

"So?"

I force myself to look at him, my eyebrows turning down in confusion. "So, what?"

His smile grows wider and he puts a hand on the booth and leans forward. "So, sell me a ProVitaBlend."

His face can't be more than six inches from mine, and his warm, minty breath slams into my lips like fire. Is he coming onto me? He's coming onto me! I need to get mad. Back up. Tell him that he's in my personal space.

But, for some strange reason, I don't mind. His presence doesn't feel intrusive, but safe. Protective.

Trustworthy?

No. Uh, uh. I am not going to make another huge mistake just because a good-looking guy gives me attention.

I take a step back, the muscles in my upper back suddenly taut. "If you don't have one, you need one." This is totally not true, of course. Billions of people around the world survive every day without any kind of blender. But the words just kind of spurt out of my mouth before I have a chance to think.

"Why?"

"Because I said so." My lips stretch upward at my answer, then we both laugh together, the tension in my shoulders easing.

"You sound like a mother or a teacher." The man waves the cup around as he speaks.

"Oh, can I throw that away for you?" I don't know why I ask the question, since there's a trash can on the floor just to the right of him.

His smile never wavering, he hands me the cup. Our fingers touch as I accept it, and electricity shoots up my arm. I do my best to ignore the odd sensation as I drop the cup on the floor next to me, missing the small trash can behind the booth by a mile.

"So, are you?"

I raise my brows.

"A mother or a teacher?" The man leans in again, and this time I catch the fragrance of cinnamon and vanilla.

For one split second, I stare at his lips. I yank my gaze back to his eyes before my brain has a chance to go places it shouldn't go.

"Neither."

The man tilts his head. "But you are a vegan, yes?"

Could a guy look any cuter? I nod, almost pointing out that I'm at a vegan festival. But then I remember that not everybody at a vegan festival is vegan. Like Violet.

And then I do something completely out of character. I ask a complete stranger a personal question. "What are you wearing?" His sudden look of confusion is like a sixty-mile-per-hour bowling ball hitting my brain. "I mean, your cologne." Despite the comfortable air conditioning, my face begins to burn. "Obviously, I can see what _clothes_ you are wearing."

The smile comes back as his brow smoothes out. No, no. I did _not_ just say that.

"I mean, it doesn't smell like chemicals or anything. The fragrance. That you're wearing. I think." Anytime it wants to, the floor can open up beneath me. Anytime. I'm ready. "Or, I'm sorry, maybe it was just somebody walking by."

The smile grows. "Essential oils." Now he puts both elbows on the booth, clasps his hands together, and raises his eyebrows. "You like?"

Is he flirting with me? Yes, this guy is officially flirting with me. I'm such a dork. Here I am, supposed to be acting uninterested, and I ask a question about his cologne. And now, he thinks I'm interested.

And I am, but again, not in a real-life kind of way. Real life men put on the charm so they can get what they want.

I take a step back and pick up the blender container, breaking eye contact with him. "I just appreciate people who don't put toxins on their body."

As soon as the words are out, I realize how they must sound. Unfortunately, at the same time the realization comes, I am pouring smoothie into the first tiny cup, which requires complete concentration and a steady hand. Neither of which I will ever have again, as long as this guy is standing here, provoking me to say stupid things that make me sound like a slut.

A second later, there is a small puddle of smoothie on the tray.

"You are really tired." The compassionate voice that has been making butterflies dance in my belly for the past few minutes does nothing to calm me. The scintillating accent that I now know is either Italian or Spanish is just as invigorating. "Here, let me."

Before I know what's happening, the man reaches across the booth, takes the blender container in both hands, and begins pouring smoothie into the cups.

I must be breaking some sort of company regulation by letting him do that, but I don't care. Cup after cup, the man pours slowly and carefully, not spilling a single drop. I watch his steady hands. As far as I can tell, he doesn't breathe into the cups or shed any hair into them. That's good enough for me.

Mr. Gorgeous completes the task, sets the blender on top of its base, and winks at me. "Now you are all set."

The butterflies begin doing acrobatics. I open my mouth to say, "Thanks," but as I do, he interrupts me with, "When are you finished for the day?"

His question catches me off guard. There's only one reason he would be asking it, and suddenly all my determination to remain single for the foreseeable future sinks down to the concrete under my feet. I snatch it back up again before it has a chance to seep away. I won't trust a man based on one encounter with him. And I have goals to achieve.

Besides, I don't do flings. I doubt he's from around here anymore than I am – farther away, much farther, I'd guess – so the only thing he can be after is a fling.

Or, worse, a one-night stand.

In a heartbeat, I re-erect the walls around my soul that I've let crumble during the past few minutes. "I'll be finished as soon as I get through." My smile at him is tight.

His smile wavers. Is that pain flashing through his eyes? Guilt pricks at me. Which is so wrong. I have every right to put off a man's advances, however subtle they might be.

Except, it's not like I haven't been giving off my own subtle hints, have I? Genius.

Still, why on earth should he be feeling wounded by my rejection? It's not like we know each other. We've just been –

"Julio Estrella?" The high-pitched squeal, sounding only a few feet from my ear, is deafening. Flinching, I yank my gaze toward the ear-splitting sound to see the woman from the booth next to me gawking at the man who's been talking to me. She's been away from her stand since the lunch hour began, and I assume has just returned.

It takes a few seconds for me to register what she's said. Julio...? No. Nuh-uh. No way.

My gaze snaps back to the man I've been talking to, but he is being dragged away by a woman as beautiful as he is handsome, who seems to have appeared out of nowhere. In five seconds, he is out of sight, having been escorted from the building by the woman and two large men.

Bodyguards, no doubt. Assuming that I have, indeed, been speaking to Julio Estrella.

One of the most famous, and wealthiest, musicians in the world.

Who has just spent the past ten minutes talking to me.

# Chapter Two: Tony Ramirez.

"I _told_ you that was a bad idea."

I ignore my sister Danita's words, spoken in our native Spanish tongue, as we both flop down onto our respective van seats, trying to catch our breaths. Whatever she thinks, I succeeded. I wanted to find out if that beautiful American girl would recognize Julio Estrella when he approached her without disguise, and I did. I found out she had no idea that Julio Estrella was talking to her. Instead, she had a real conversation with the real me, Antonio Ramirez. And unless I read the signs all wrong, she was as attracted to me as I was to her.

A slap to my arm as the van jerks into gear forces me to face my sister, the elder sibling by four years, and both my talent and tour manager. I sigh, pulling the seat belt over my shoulder. "One more minute, and she would have agreed to go out with Tony Ramirez."

Danita rolls her eyes. "Aren't we the cocky one?" Folding her arms over her chest, she narrows her gaze at me. "And how do you know she didn't suspect who you were? Or wouldn't have figured it out after you left?"

I lift a shoulder. "I guess I can't know that." Pulling the lovely vision's business card out of my pocket, I finger it, my smile growing. "But I can call her and find out."

The bodyguard riding shotgun, Deshawn, glances back at me with a scowl on his face. "I sho' do wish y'all would speak English."

"I was telling him what an idiot he is," Danita replies in English, giving me a look.

Deshawn, the large, middle-aged black man I employ as bodyguard every time I make a trip to the States, shakes his head. "I tried to tell him, Miss Danita, but yo' brother is one stubborn man."

"Deshawn. Buckle up, man." The other bodyguard on this trip, Randy, who is driving the van, makes the demand because Deshawn nearly fell into him a second ago when Randy tore out of the parking lot a little too fast.

"Persistent," I correct as Deshawn turns to face front and reaches up for his seatbelt. When I saw the blender girl this morning at the presentation on animal experimentation, standing near the back with silent tears running down her face as she watched the screen projecting heartbreaking image after heartbreaking image, I was instantly attracted to her. I've seen plenty of lovely women during the past day and a half as I've been walking around under cover, but not had any inclination to have a conversation with any of them. Something was different about her.

"You should have at least worn a disguise," Danita mutters.

I turn to her, my smile fading as I consider telling her the whole truth about the situation, admitting to her exactly what I'd been hoping to find out. She'll think I'm crazy. Tell me I shouldn't test God. Or that the incident was merely a coincidence.

" _Qué_? What?" she demands.

I take in a strengthening breath. "Last year," I say in Spanish, "I began praying that I would know the woman God has for me because she wouldn't recognize me. Without a disguise."

Danita stares at me, her eyes growing wider with each passing second. "You don't really think – you can't believe –" She shakes her head. " _Loquísimo_."

I grin. "You may be right. I may be very crazy." I sing in English, earning me a sharp backward glance from Deshawn. I wink at him. "I told you before, you could take a Spanish class online."

He snorts. "Too busy keeping you from getting mobbed and mauled."

I laugh out loud. "What do you do when I'm in Spain?"

"Pray for you to get some sense into that _loco_ head of yours."

I laugh even louder. Danita just sits there, arms crossed and pinching the bridge of her nose. Remorse pangs my chest even as I laugh, knowing how hard Danita's life is because of me. Every so often, I give her permission to leave my crazy world, to go and do something else, telling her that I won't hold it against her, but she always reassures me that if she wasn't driving herself crazy working for me, she'd be driving herself crazy working for somebody else. And probably not liking them nearly as much as she likes me.

At least so far, she doesn't need a bodyguard. So far, she still has her personal freedom.

Unlike me. People who say they want to be famous have no idea what the price is for it.

Randy has us at the back entrance of the hotel after a couple more minutes, and we all spend the next few hours, as Deshawn likes to say, "chillin' out." I spend most of the time staring at the business card I snagged, burning the image of the girl behind the blender with the name on the card. And studying her blog. Learning everything I can about her.

Rachel. Rachel Polowsky. I should get a burner phone and call her, but that would be too predictable. And it might make it too easy for her to blow me off.

At about four-thirty, I get an idea. Make a decision. Both of my bodyguards and Danita protest against it. I remind Randy and Deshawn that I'm paying them to protect me wherever I go, not to dictate where I can and cannot go. I hate to play the boss card, but I need some freedom, fame or not. Ironic that the same fame that strips me of much of the freedom that normal people have, gives me power over the freedom of others.

It's a power I neither take lightly nor abuse, not only because of my beliefs, but because too often I wish I could exchange it for the freedom that I left behind when I signed my first recording contract.

My sister, I ignore. She already thinks, as Americans say, that I've lost my marbles. Nevertheless, just before five o'clock we all pile into the van and drive back to the fairgrounds where the vegan festival is being held. Randy parks the van in the lot closest to the warehouse where I found Rachel, and Deshawn goes out to see if he can catch her leaving the building.

I want Danita to go, too, thinking that Rachel would be more comfortable with returning to the van with another woman of around her stature than with my hulk of a bodyguard. But my sister told me, "I'm not going to be party to your stupidity."

I love her as much as a brother can love a sister, but at times like these, when she's as hard on me as she is on herself, I don't like her much.

My hunch was right. Almost as soon as Deshawn exits the van, people begin streaming from the warehouse. There must have been some announcement that the indoor booths are closing down for the day. I put on my large-framed, mirrored sunglasses and slouch down in the seat, head bent over my phone.

A few minutes after that, Danita announces, "Okay, I just saw two people leave carrying boxes, and another pulling a large suitcase on wheels."

It's all I can do not to raise my head and peer out the van, watching for Rachel. From a distance, no one would be able to make out my face thanks to the tinted windows, but I can't take the chance. As Danita has told me more than once this afternoon, I took enough of a chance, going into the warehouse without any disguise. She's certain that everyone at the entire festival has heard that Julio Estrella left the building earlier, and many of the attendees will be looking for me.

Another five minutes passes without word from Deshawn. I start to jiggle my leg. If I knew I could actually concentrate on a book or website article, I would read something. But all I've been able to think about this afternoon is seeing Rachel again, and now that the opportunity seems imminent, I can concentrate on nothing else.

"Oh, no. No!"

I jerk my gaze up at Danita's cry of dismay, my sunglasses tumbling to the floor. A second later, I hear the sound I've come to despise.

Muffled shouting and screaming.

"Randy, start the –"

A banging on the side door interrupts my sister's command at the same time my gaze focuses outside. A small crowd, mostly female, has gathered. By the noise, at least a dozen of them are pounding on the vehicle.

I groan and shrink back, but a thud from the front of the van grabs my attention. My brow flies up when I see that a teenage girl has jumped onto the hood. Her gaze meets mine, her eyes pop open, and she screams, "Julio Estrella! It's him! It's him!" Then she begins pounding on the windshield with what appears and sounds to be all the strength she can muster.

Usually, when I'm caught by a crowd, I have at least two bodyguards to keep them under control enough that I can give some high-fives and sign a few autographs. But Deshawn is nowhere within sight, and this crowd is not under control. Especially not Windshield Girl, who resumes screaming as she pounds.

"Didn't I _tell_ you? Didn't I tell you this was a bad idea?" Danita spits the Spanish words like nails even as she moves to try to block my body from the view outside the side door.

"I'm sorry," I mutter, and I really am. Her life is stressful enough. I don't need to be adding to it. Of course, I didn't think a simple reconnaissance job could end up so badly.

_You're problem is you act first, and think later_. The scolding words my mother must have told me a hundred times while I was growing up pierce me with even more guilt. While I'm not nearly as impulsive as I used to be, probably due to my sister's proactive thinking and nagging more than anything, I obviously have a way to go before I learn to get my heart in sync with my head.

"Gracias a Dios, here comes Deshawn."

I peer around her to see, but before my bodyguard comes into view, I hear a sound that would probably be shrill if it weren't so muffled, loud enough that I can hear it over Windshield Girl's noise. Yes, by the way many of the girls have either cringed or put their hands over their ears, the noise was definitely shrill. And close by.

The pounding on the metal sides of the van stops. A female voice roars at the crowd, and I wonder if it's a female security guard, or police officer. Whoever it is, I would like to reward her with lifetime tickets and backstage passes to Julio Estrella concerts, because most of the girls begin tromping away from the van. Some walk backwards, phones in their hands that they point toward the van. Others cast wistful backward glances as they walk away.

A few seconds later, I gasp. The crowd having thinned, I can see her clearly now. My princess in shining armor. She stands within a couple meters of the van, one hand on her hip, the other holding a whistle near her scowling mouth. Even angry, she's beautiful.

Rachel. The blender girl.

No, not girl. Rachel Polowsky is a woman, in every way. But...why should the teenagers see her as any kind of authority figure?

Most of them, anyway. The girl on the hood of the van doesn't. Or hasn't been able to hear her. Rachel apparently isn't happy about Windshield Girl's disobedience, because she begins marching toward the front of the van, yelling. She blows her whistle again, to no avail.

When she's within four feet of the van's hood, Danita says, "What does she think she's doing?", then, "Where in heaven's name is Deshawn?"

Before I can blink, Rachel has reached up to try to grab Windshield Girl. With a primal scream, the teenager turns, lashes out her leg, and kicks Rachel in the side of the head. Rachel falls backward, her head hitting the pavement.

I don't remember getting out of the van. I don't remember if Danita or Randy yelled at me for trying. I don't even remember going over to Rachel. All I know is that in the next moment, I am crouched down at her side, fear ripping through my chest.

I brush her hair away from her forehead. "Rachel! Rachel! Can you speak?"

Her eyes flutter open as she moans. I barely have time to feel relieved when her eyes widen and she begins to raise an arm to point behind me. A split second later, someone screams my stage name and jumps on top of me, tackling me to the ground.

"Julio! Julio! I love you, Julio!"

I recognize the voice of Windshield Girl. She pushes her head into my chest, crying hysterically as one of her hands turns into a vice grip on my arms.

I'm normally a nice guy. And, despite my occasional impulsiveness, patient. But this is absurd. And Rachel's hurt. Not unconscious, but she may have sustained a concussion.

With my free arm, I pull the teenager's hand from my arm that she's gripping, roll her off me gently enough so that I won't have another unconscious female on my conscience, and stand up before she can grab me again.

In a flash, she is on her feet, as well, but a commanding, loud voice keeps her grounded where she stands.

"Taser. Taser. Taser." Only a meter or so away, Randy has his taser pointed at her.

I don't see what happens next. Windshield Girl's sobs grow more distant, and I hear a man shouting at someone – the crowd of girls, I guess – to stay back. Deshawn? Randy? I'm not sure. But I can't bother with knowing exactly what's happening with everyone else. I'm back at Rachel's side, unsure if I should touch her, afraid I might hurt her more. Her eyes have closed and her body has stilled. Has she fainted?

Relief floods through me when she lets out another moan and opens her eyes again. They flash recognition. "You..." She tries to roll onto her side, her hair streaming into a small puddle leftover from last night's storms. "Ouch. Help?"

"Julio! Inside the van! Stat!" Deshawn's voice comes from right behind me.

In the split second that follows, I glance up to see four uniformed men struggling to keep distant the mob that Rachel somehow made to stand down. And I know that there's a good chance Rachel will be ignored, perhaps even trampled, if I leave her where she lies.

And I make my third impulsive decision of the day. With one fluid motion, I scoop her into my arms and push up into a standing position, grateful beyond measure that my personal trainer convinced me to start doing squats last year. As I rush with her to the van, I keep her head pressed against my chest. I don't know why, except it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out by all the phones pointing my way that this little incident will be all over the Internet in about fifteen minutes. And something tells me that Rachel doesn't want her face to be part of it.

I don't know how I know it, I just know.

At the door, I can see on Danita's face that she doesn't approve of my decision to bring Rachel back to the hotel with us. But she says nothing when I lay her on the floorboard and jump inside.

Deshawn gets into his seat through the passenger side door, and Randy starts the engine.

"Make sure nobody's following," Danita barks to Randy.

I should be amazed there's even room for the van to go anywhere, but right now all I can think about is that Rachel is hurt, and it's mostly my fault.

# Chapter Three: Rachel.

I must be dreaming. That's all there is to it. I'm going to wake up at any moment to find that the entire day has been a dream. At least, the part about Julio Estrella talking to me at my booth, and then taking me in his arms after that crazy girl kicked me off the van.

Except, to my memory I haven't dreamed about any celebrity since I was seventeen, and I've never had any feelings for Julio Estrella. Never even knew what he looked like until after he left my booth. Sure, I've seen pictures of him out of the corner of my eye on magazine covers, which is undoubtedly why he looked familiar when we first met. Still, I never studied the pictures, never gave them more than a cursory glance. Never looked up his music videos online. I like his songs well enough, but unlike most of the Western female world, I've never been infatuated with him.

That's the first clue that I'm probably not dreaming. I wouldn't dream about a guy I haven't taken some sort of fancy to over the long haul. The second clue comes when my head bounces slightly against the thin carpet on the floor of the van, sending a throbbing pain through my brain. I've never felt pain that real in a dream before.

I moan again.

A shuffling sound, and a pair of hands gently cradles my head and shoulders, lifting them, then settling them onto something soft. A rolled up jacket, by the feel of it.

"Is that better?"

I open my eyes to see Mr. Gorgeous peering into my face, concern etching his features.

It can't be true. What my booth neighbor told me. What she started telling everybody else. Even after looking up his picture on my phone...

"Are you really – ow." This last syllable puffs out on a whisper. I can't even talk without feeling like someone's piercing my skull with a chef's knife.

"She needs to go to the hospital," the woman says in Spanish in a stern voice.

"No, no hospital." I squeeze my eyes shut. Not only do I not want any medical bills to pay, but I'm also pretty sure I don't have any injuries which time, a little rest and some essential oils won't fix.

"You speak Spanish?" Mr. Sexy's voice sounds happily surprised.

I open my eyes again to see him beaming down at me. I want to tell him that I took four years of the language in high school, and have been listening to Spanish radio podcasts several times a week for the past couple of years so as not to lose what I learned. But right now, I don't dare talk beyond what is absolutely necessary. I just dip my head slightly.

Julio – I don't know who else it would be; he looks exactly like the picture of Julio Estrella I brought up on my phone a few hours ago – twists his neck to look up at the woman on the seat. " _Ves_? You see?"

"I don't see anything," she replies in English, her tone hard.

It sounds like the continuation of an earlier conversation. I have to wonder what about, since I get the strong feeling that it has something to do with me.

I also wonder who the woman is. Julio's girlfriend? Personal assistant? And where are they –

"My car." For a second, I forget I have a pounding headache and try to get up. But a stabbing pain behind my right temple forces me back down. I moan yet again and close my eyes.

"Give her an Advil." This from the black man in the front.

"Rachel, you want one?"

I crack one eye open. Julio is dangling a plastic bag with several small, red pills inside.

"No...drugs," I manage, then realize that the words didn't send a sword through the middle of my brain. I take a deep breath. If it's not going to make my brain feel like exploding, I need to make my concerns known. "My car...all the merchandise...I can't just...leave it." I'm not one to panic easily, but my heart rate kicks up a couple of notches as I envision a dark figure smashing a crowbar through one of the windows of my Honda in the middle of the night.

Julio puts a hand on my shoulder, sending a welcome wave of warmth through my cooling body. "When we get to the hotel, Danita and Randy can go back for your car."

"Danita?"

Julio glances back up at the woman in the seat above us. "My sister. And talent manager."

I don't have time to process that interesting bit of information before the driver announces that we've arrived and Julio excuses himself and moves away from me, getting up on the seat next to Danita. Slowly and carefully, I push myself up into a sitting position, stifling another "ow." The pain isn't as bad as it was when we left the fairgrounds, giving me hope that I didn't sustain a concussion.

Blinking my eyes, I tell myself not to look up at Julio. I already like him way more than I want to. I haven't been able to feel much emotion since my fall, but now that I'm starting to feel better, I'm also starting to feel the same current between us that I did when he was at my booth. I could lie to myself that my wayward emotions are only because he's Julio Estrella, and what female wouldn't be feeling what I'm feeling if she were in my position?

Except I know better. I know the attraction happened before I had a clue about who this man was.

This man, whose leg is mere inches away from my body.

Oh, this is _so_ not good. "Can he just take me back to my motel?" My voice comes out weak, but Danita apparently hears me, because she leans down to me with a frown. For the first time, I get a good look at her face and can see the family resemblance between her and Julio. A striking family resemblance. No wonder she's beautiful. Probably would be even more so, if she stripped the makeup from her face.

She shakes her head. "As much as I would like for that to happen, I think you should rest a while before you get bounced around any further."

"Dani," Julio says in a warning tone as I pull my brow down at his sister's cold implication.

"Well, I love you, too." I fold my arms over my chest, nailing her with a glare. In the next moment, a strange sensation comes over me, a feeling that I'm having a fight with my sister.

It's strange because I don't have a sister, never had one, and my deceased brother and I never had any cat fights, him having been a boy and all. So how would I know what it feels like to fight with a sister?

But, somehow, I know that it does. This revelation freezes me in place, and Danita and I engage in a glaring match for several seconds. She breaks it when she throws her head back and laughs. "You know," she says to me in Spanish, "I think I like you."

I smile, and immediately feel the difference in my head. Okay, no more glaring or frowning until this headache is gone.

"I'm glad to see y'all getting along," the black man says, "but we got to get moving. She comin' with us, or not?"

I open my mouth to respond, but Julio beats me to it. "She's coming."

I turn to look at him. When I do, my mouth twitches. He's placed a baseball cap with a punk-style wig sticking out of it on top of his head, and sunglasses over his eyes. I wouldn't recognize him as Julio Estrella, even if I were his biggest fan.

Smiling, he extends his hand to me, and without hesitation, I take it. Pinpricks of electricity sparkle all the way down my arm, and my breath hitches.

This is _so_ not good.

At least I talk him out of carrying me into the hotel, which I'm astonished to find is one of those mid-priced chains that you see advertised on T.V. Sure, it's one of the nicer chains, but it's not the luxury hotel with an elitist-sounding name that I was expecting.

Then again, I'm not sure this mid-size, Midwestern town has a luxury hotel.

Once we're out of the van, Danita takes my arm and commands Julio to go on up to their room with Deshawn and Randy. Good to finally put names with the bodyguard faces.

Julio looks crestfallen, but does his sister's bidding. I'm relieved and disappointed by the turn of events. The way I keep reacting to Julio's nearness, let alone his touch, I don't need him supporting me all the way to their room. On the other hand, I realize with irritation, I sense a void when he disappears around the corner. As if we are long-term lovers, and he's leaving on a long trip without me.

Boy, maybe I _do_ have a concussion.

I turn rigid. "Danita, I appreciate you guys trying to help me, but, really. I just want to go back to..." A wave of dizziness, accompanied by a stab of pain behind my right eyeball, sends me off balance.

Danita tightens her grip on my arm. "Believe me. This is as awkward for me as it is for you. But I think you should lie down for an hour or two, perhaps eat some dinner, before we leave you alone."

Finding that I can't put two sentences together without practically fainting, I have to agree with her. And so I allow her to lead me down the hall, to the bank of elevators, up one of the elevators, and to what I suppose to be her room. However, upon entering, Julio is there, seated on a sofa at the far side of the room, Randy sitting with him on the opposite end. Deshawn is sitting at the desk, doing something on his phone. When we come in, he looks up and nods a greeting. Julio turns toward us with an upraised brow.

I stop short just inside the door, my gaze jerking toward Danita. "Um, I thought we were going to your room?"

Danita glances at her brother, then smiles. "We usually share a room." She gestures toward the partial wall that separates two queen-sized beds. "If we can have a bit of space between us."

"Oh." What else can I say? Not two minutes ago, I was thinking that Julio must be used to bringing strange women to his hotel rooms. But if Danita stayed with him? Of course, she could always spend an hour or two down in the lobby while Julio was having his fun.

Guilt pinches my gut. I'm making assumptions based on stereotypes. And based on the one bad experience I've had with a man.

Then again, I've heard multiple stories to validate the stereotypes, and I know that my one experience has been repeated many thousands of times throughout history.

I want to, once again, insist that someone help me back to my motel. Or pull my phone out of the fanny pack that's been around my waist since I left my car to see what all the calamity was about on the vegan festival parking lot, and tell them that I'm calling a cab.

Danita begins tugging me gently toward the bed just to our right. "Don't worry. The bodyguards sleep in the room next door."

I guess my discomfort has started to show on my face, and she misunderstood it. But when Julio stands up and steps over to us, gifting me with a soft smile, I have to smile back.

Darn traitorous lips.

"Will you trust my sister with your car keys?"

Trust. He had to go and use my trigger word. My smile tightens. "I don't trust easily."

His smile falters. Easing down onto the edge of the bed, I unclip the strap keeping my fanny pack tucked tightly against me. Then I unzip the compartment with my car keys and hold them out to Danita. "But Julio Estrella's talent manager has to be responsible and trustworthy, right?"

Danita gives her brother a sideways glance, her smile turning mischievous. She holds out her hand toward him, ignoring my keys. "Your wallet," she demands in Spanish.

Julio raises his brow.

Danita huffs out a breath. "Give. Me. Your. Wallet."

Frowning, her brother complies. She turns to me, a grin stretching her mouth as she tosses the wallet onto my lap. "Collateral. You get to keep it until you see your car again."

I grin back as she takes my keys. "Maybe I'll do some online shopping while you're gone."

Danita winks at me as Julio groans. "Now, you lie down and get comfortable. If you need anything, just ask Deshawn."

She waits until I'm nestled into the pillows before she heads for the door. As soon as it closes behind her, I say, "Julio."

"Yes?"

Grasping his wallet in my left hand, I raise it toward him. "I don't need collateral."

For some reason, he doesn't take it.

I close my eyes, suddenly feeling sleepy. "My arm is getting tired." The wallet pulls out of my hand, which I then let drop to my side.

" _Gracias_ , Julio." Warm darkness hovers around the edge of my consciousness, drawing me toward it with a soft but steady force. Only as I drift into it do I realize that I am now alone in a hotel room with the most handsome man on earth and his very large, very muscular bodyguard.

But there's nothing I can do about it now. Not that I want to do anything about it now. Because as the darkness engulfs me, it pushes out the pain.

Words float around me then, whispering, soothing, comforting: "Tony. My friends all call me Tony."

And I relax into slumber, with two final thoughts: _To tell Marilyn, or not to tell Marilyn_?, then, _Who's Tony?_

# Chapter Four: Tony.

"I can't believe she just left." I am staring at the door of the hotel room, as though the action will pull Rachel back through it.

"Why not?" Danita is standing at the desk and removing take-out cartons from a large paper bag. "She felt better, and we're perfect strangers. Why would she want to stay?"

"Because I'm Julio Estrella!" The words explode out of my mouth before I can stop them.

My sister lets out an exasperated sigh. "You told me you wanted her to get to know Tony Ramirez."

I turn to see her raising an eyebrow at me, her lips pursed. "You know what I mean."

Danita puts down the container in her hand and fists her hands over her hips. "No, I don't know what you mean."

She knows perfectly well what I mean. She understands that there are very few single women – or, unfortunately, married ones – who have heard of Julio Estrella who would turn down a chance to spend some time in a hotel room with him. Even if with a chaperone. Not that I am in the habit of bringing fans into the hotel rooms where I stay. That hasn't happened since very early in my career, and when it did it was because they were attending an after-concert party, not sharing a bed with me.

Glowering at my sister, I walk over to the sofa and plop down onto it with a sigh. I rub my forehead with the tips of my fingers, trying to figure out what went wrong. Of course, bringing Rachel to the hotel room was never part of the agenda, but it seemed like the only thing to do after Windshield Girl attacked her. And once she was here...

"All I wanted was to share a meal with her."

Danita spins around and pins me with a glare. "You wanted a lot more than that earlier."

I roll my eyes. "To start with, I want to get to know her better."

She smirks. "Maybe her turning down your invitation is a _sign_ that your little prayer isn't working like you'd hoped it would." She turns back to the Chinese food, mumbling something else that I can't hear.

I drop my hand to my lap in frustration. "Gideon asked God for a sign, and God gave it to him. Twice."

"Gideon wasn't desperate for a soul mate." She grinds out the last two words as if chewing on bitter greens, not holding to the belief in soul mates as I do. "He didn't want to obey God. God gave him signs because he was too much of a coward to make the right decision all by himself."

With a groan, I flop my head back against the sofa. "You don't understand. I felt something with her I've never felt before."

Danita glances over her shoulder. "And if you met a thousand other women, how do you know you wouldn't feel the exact same thing with someone else?"

I bring my hands up to my head, grab two fistfuls of hair, and growl. She's jaded by her own bad experience. And even if she wasn't, I don't think I'd be able to convince her of how I can be so sure that Rachel Polowsky is "the one." Danita is practical, level-headed, and careful where I am creative and risky.

Danita turns around, holding out two containers to me. "Your dinner, Tarzan."

I let my hands fall to my side, then get up, take the cartons, and set them on the side of the desk. "Maybe later."

I wander over to the other side of the half-wall, gazing down at the bed where Rachel slept peacefully for almost an hour. It had taken all my willpower to stay on the other side of the room and not sit next to her and stroke her hair, kiss her cheek, whisper sweet nothings to her. When she woke up, I'd expected her to accept my invitation to dine with us, if not eagerly, then at least willingly. I'd expected the evening to be enchanting. I'd hoped that, when I suggested I pay for a room for her at this hotel so that she would have help nearby if she began to feel poorly again, she would see reason and agree.

I didn't expect her to wake up in a half-panicked state, a state which she never bothered to explain. I didn't expect her to demand her car keys and flatly and coldly refuse both my dinner invitation and my offer to pay for a hotel room. I didn't expect her to shuffle out the door with Randy five minutes after she woke up.

But all of that, she did. And with barely a glance at me, not even when I handed her my phone number and told her that I trusted her with it.

She did pause at the word trust. Cringed, actually. As though feeling guilty about her earlier scathing reply to my question about her trusting us with her car. However, cringing was all she did. She didn't reply, didn't look up, didn't apologize. I was ready for her to throw the slip of paper with my phone number on it back in my face, and considered it a small victory when she, instead, shoved it into her shorts pocket.

As soon as she left, Danita had said wryly that I might have to get a new phone number by tomorrow. She may be right. I may have misplaced my trust. I may have been acting on impulse again.

But something deep within me tells me that I did not, that Rachel is as worthy of my trust as she seemed reluctant to give me her own.

I sit down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, then let myself fall backward. The awareness that I'm lying on the same space where Rachel was not ten minutes ago tingles every nerve ending in my body. But the exhilarating sensation fades after a few minutes, and I roll over onto my side and sigh once more, this time with surrender. I can't hurry love, or manipulate someone into reciprocating my feelings.

I jolt awake seemingly a minute later, but a glance at the bedside clock shows me that I've been napping for forty minutes. I figure out what awakened me as the door to the room pushes open. Deshawn or Randy has unlocked the door, and the clicking or buzzing startled me into consciousness. Randy steps in and gives me a nod. "We followed her to her motel. She seemed fine."

"You traded in the van?" This from Danita, who is still on the other side of the room.

"Yes, ma'am." Randy glances her way. "Got an SUV instead."

While Rachel was sleeping, Danita and I decided to not return to the third and final day of the vegan festival tomorrow, to play it safe. That's fine with me; I was only there to placate my sister.

Or, so it seemed at the time. On the other hand, did God lead us here, so that I could meet Rachel?

That aside, even though we're not returning to that place, someone somewhere has the license plates number of the rental van, as well as its make and model. This one thing I was able to get from Rachel before she left. In the middle of this afternoon, Rachel overheard someone talking about how they'd followed my entourage and me out, and taken pictures of the van that we boarded.

Which explains why I got mobbed when we returned to the festival.

Randy looks back at me. "Do you need anything right now?"

A slight rumble in my stomach tells me that I need some nourishment, but I already have the means to take care of that. "No, thank you." I force a small smile.

He nods, turns, and exits the room. I push myself off the bed and turn in the other direction, walking over to the desk where I deposited my food a little while ago. Danita is seated on the sofa, doing something on her phone. I pick up one of the cartons. Good. Still warm. Though I would eat the contents even if they'd grown cold. As much money as I have, people would be shocked to discover how much I dislike any kind of waste.

"Are you sure you want to go back to Chicago tomorrow?"

I'd rather go back to the small airport south of the city, hire a Cessna, and fly back to Spain. Danita knows as well as I that I'm going to turn the movie deal down, no matter how hard the producers try to twist my arm. But I agreed to two meetings with them, and I'm a man of my word.

Still, I wonder at my sister's question. I turn toward her and frown. "If there's something else you want to do at the festival –"

She cuts me off with a wave of her hand, not looking up at me. "You're the one who's always telling me the less you travel, the less you have to deal with stark-raving mad fans." She types something on her phone, then glances up at me. "After today, I thought you might want to rest up a bit since your other meeting isn't for three days."

I've been opening the container as she speaks; now, I pick up the plastic fork that was lying next to it and thrust it inside. "A lot of people know that Julio Estrella was in town today, and probably suspect that he's still in town, hiding somewhere." I can usually make such a statement matter-of-factly. However much my fame inconveniences me, I have grown used to it.

This evening, though, a mix of remorse, helplessness, and frustration nibbles at me as the words come out, reminding me of what I'll be leaving behind when we leave this town.

Danita looks up now, her expression as soft as I've seen it so far today. "I like Rachel."

I raise my eyebrows. I'm not surprised that she's reading my mind. Her intuitive ability to read my moods, as well as her sisterly insight of the way I think, have served me well during the past few years. What surprises me is her admission for fondness for the woman that, up until now, she seemed so eager for me to forget.

She lifts a shoulder, the left side of her mouth curving up ever so slightly. "You could do worse."

I _have_ done worse, but I don't think she means to remind me of the two gold-diggers from my past, one of whom I almost asked to marry me. Danita's comments make me wonder what I'm missing. Perhaps when she escorted Rachel up to our room, they had one of those female bonding moments that turned them into instant friends-for-life. It's one of the many mysteries of women that men will never understand.

I set the container down, fold my arms over my chest, and lean against the desk. "So?"

Her smile grows. "Randy and Deshawn know where she's staying tonight."

My heart leaps at the implication, which isn't that I should go to her motel and try to seduce her. Danita would be the last person on earth to approve of the mere thought of such a thing. No, she thinks I should try to make one more personal contact before we go.

Then I remember my thoughts about the whole situation a few minutes ago. About letting God take control. I shake my head. "No. I'm not going to –"

The ringing of my phone interrupts me. It's an old-fashioned ring, the default sound for when someone outside of my tight circle of friends and family is calling me. I pick up the phone to check the caller I. D., my heart starting to pound with anticipation.

In the next second, I read "Unknown." My stomach swoops. Was I wrong? Is Rachel not the trustworthy woman I thought she was? Because I programmed the phone number from her business card into my phone earlier today, so if Rachel was calling from that number, her name would show up.

Could she be calling from a different phone? Maybe. I decide to let the call go to voice mail. If it's Rachel, she'll leave a message.

Muting the call, I set the phone down until it tells me I have a new voice message. Instead, it intones that I missed a call. A missed call? No message? I pick the phone up and double check.

No, no message. So it probably wasn't Rachel.

I blow out a heavy sigh, earning me a " _Qué pasa_?" from my sister. "I think I need to change my phone number," I admit as my heart turns to lead.

Danita looks at me and frowns. "No. Wait a day and see what happens."

I shrug and toss the phone onto the bed. Might as well wait. If I'm going to get a new number, it doesn't matter how many people call my old one.

"And, _mi amor_?"

I glance at Danita. Her mouth is twitching, as if she knows something that I don't. "Next time, don't analyze. Just answer."

# Chapter Five: Rachel.

I can't believe he wanted me to stay.

This refrain circles around my head in a continuous loop as I pass green field after green field, glimpse farmhouse after farmhouse, steadily increasing the distance between myself and the surreal weekend.

And the superstar who rescued me.

So much for making a profit. I couldn't attend the final day of the festival, not after Julio Estrella swept me into his arms and took me back to his hotel. Who knows how many people took pictures or videos of us? Who knows who might have recognized me, and created all sorts of chaos at my booth today?

That's why I went into a panic a minute after waking up from my nap in his hotel room. I realized that my face might have been pasted all over the Internet by that time, with speculative headlines such as, "Julio Estrella chooses vegan saleswoman for his next one-night stand."

I wouldn't have stayed for dinner, regardless. I couldn't trust his motives for asking me. But if people suspected he'd taken me to his hotel room, could there have been people staking out the hotel and noticing that I didn't come back out for hours?

Last night I did find some photos and videos online of me with him, but my face, thank goodness, was never visible. My own mother wouldn't be able to make out the figure who was on the ground, or in Julio's arms.

Still, the incident was too close for comfort. When I saw the crowd of girls running in the parking lot, screaming, I should have just gotten into my car and driven away. I already had everything packed, and was exhausted. Ready for a quiet, peaceful night in my motel room. But I remembered the rumors that were flying about the festival by three o'clock, knew that someone was circulating a photo of the vehicle Julio was supposedly using, and when I saw the mini-mob, I knew what was happening.

And, for some bizarre reason, I got defensive. On Julio's behalf.

Or, I should say, _Tony's_ behalf. When he gave me his phone number, he told me he trusted me with it, just as he was trusting me not to reveal his real name to anyone, the name which he shares only with people he knows he can trust not to tell it to the media. It's why, after spending an agonizing hour trying to talk myself out of it, I finally broke down and called his number.

He didn't actually tell me his real name when I left the hotel, as though he thought he'd already done so, so I was going to call him just that one time to ask him if his real name was Tony. I couldn't convince myself that if I was never going to see him again, the answer didn't matter.

My call went straight to voice mail. Which is all well and good, because his message began, "Hello, this is Tony...." The voice was unmistakably his. My question answered, I hung up without leaving a message.

And found that my hands were shaking, my heart beating triple-time, and a voice in my head was telling me I was a coward. I told my body sternly to calm down, and the voice to shut up. I've already risked my heart once over a good-looking, charismatic guy. I've no doubt in my mind it'll be a long time before I do so again, if ever.

And I certainly won't risk it with a man who will make me famous by proxy. Not even one who, for some inexplicable reason, trusts me with his true identity even though he doesn't know me. There's a reason my blog, YouTube videos, and social media accounts are void of any picture of my face.

Yet, the glint of interest in Tony's eyes when he spoke to me at my booth, the heat that spread through me when he smiled at me, the tenderness of his touch when he lifted me off the ground, and the safety that I felt as he held me close...all these memories refuse to be shaken. They flash into my head at random moments, adding to my mental confusion that began with that irrational compulsion to try to help Tony when I realized he was about to get mobbed. I don't need to be confused. It's not making my headache any better.

It's much better than it was yesterday, and per my research I didn't sustain a concussion, but in the ideal world, I would have rested an extra day before tackling a three and a half-hour drive. I've actually been tempted twice to pull into a convenience store and buy some ibuprofen. But for this natural girl, regular applications of anti-headache essential oils will have to do. I'd rather hurt for a couple of days than toxify my liver. At least it's partly cloudy today. Even with sunglasses on, if the sun were constantly shining, my head would probably begin throbbing again.

By the time I get to my apartment in Toledo a little before noon, all I want to do is sleep. So after I empty out the trunk of my car, that's what I do. Normally, if I sleep for longer than twenty minutes in the middle of the day I feel like a zombie for the next two hours after I wake up. Today, I guess because my body really needs the healing rest, I wake up hungry, alert, and in less pain after thirty-five minutes of z's. It's even easier for me to push back the mental images from yesterday's events.

I have a few red potatoes stowed away in a cabinet under the kitchen counter, so I put about an inch of water in a saucepan and get it heating while I cut a couple potatoes into small pieces. Once I get them in the steamer basket and over the boiling water, I decide to take a few minutes to check my e-mail, which I didn't bother to do this morning for two reasons. First, I was afraid Tony might have e-mailed me from my blog. Second, I wanted to get on the highway as quickly as possible. That was half wanting to get home ASAP, and half afraid Tony was going to show up at my motel room door.

His bodyguards followed me back last night to make sure I didn't get into an accident or anything. That in itself was freaky enough. But the thought they might tell Tony where I was...hmm. Not freaky. More like the Great Lake I live next to. Eerie, ha ha. Trust me that I've heard many more Lake Eerie jokes than I've made up.

Anyway, opening my inbox, I hold my breath. And let it out. Nothing from either a Julio Estrella or a Tony. A few blog comments I'll read later, and, a Google voice mail. I set it up last year so that I wouldn't have to give my cell phone number out to potential customers. I open it up, and my heart skips a beat.

The number of the sender is European. Uh, like the one Tony gave me yesterday.

I move to delete it. Then lift my hand. He possibly kept me from being trampled to death – even though it would've been my own stupid fault – then let me recover inside his hotel room. The least I can do after running scared away from him is listen to a voice mail.

What am I worried about, anyway? He lives in Spain. Whatever reason he has for being in the U. S. right now, it's only temporary. It's not like I have to worry about him knocking down my door every day, demanding I go on a date with him, until I relent.

I listen to the voice mail.

And instantly regret the decision. It's Tony, all right, and he hasn't even spoken two words before his voice has me nearly in a puddle on the floor. A much warmer puddle than the one I fell into yesterday, thank you very much.

" _Hola, Raquela_. I hope you're feeling better today. I feel badly about it. If I hadn't gone back to the festival to find you, you would have never gotten hurt."

Whoa. First, he says my name in Spanish, making me want to drive back to Indiana and smash my lips into his. Then...he'd returned to the festival to find me? Really?

More unbelievable, he thinks the whole thing was his fault? I ought to call him back just to straighten him out on that.

He continues, "Even so, I really did enjoy meeting you. I will be in the area for a few more days, and I would love to take you out to dinner if you live close by. Call it an apology meal. No strings attached. You have my number."

He pauses, as if considering saying something else, but then ends with, " _Adios, Raquela_."

I sit back in my chair, flabbergasted. I wasn't expecting him to go after me. Truly, I wasn't. I'm not sure whether to be excited, frustrated, or indifferent.

Might as well pick the last one. I live three and a half hours away from the location of the VegFest, and I can't see any good coming out of being seen in public with Tony. I trash the voice mail. The instant I do, my heart pinches. As though it knows something that I don't. I scoff at the idea. My heart has led me into deep trouble before, and it's capable of doing so again.

The next two days, the lump on my head gradually grows smaller, and the pain inside my head less frequent, enabling me to get back into my work routine. I have to busy myself, because a feeling of loss starts following me around like a forlorn puppy. I've never been depressed, and begin to wonder if this is how it starts. It can't have anything to do with Tony. That's ridiculous. I don't even know the man.

But as long as I'm writing a blog post, or putting together a video, or making sales calls, I can keep the feeling at enough of a distance that I can barely feel its gentle nudges, or hear its pathetic whines. Tony does his part by not calling me back, or e-mailing me.

Until the third day after I've come home. Within the space of eight hours, starting pretty early in the morning, I've received three phone calls to my Google voice mail and four e-mails from my blog contact form, all from Tony. The feeling of loss slams into my gut, hardening into dread. Is he stalking me? Does he think his celebrity status puts him above the law in certain things?

No sooner thought, than dismissed. If he did, he would have taken advantage of me in some way or another when I was in his hotel room. Or, at least tried.

I think about responding after the second call, but when the first e-mail comes an hour later, I think about blocking him. By seven forty-five in the evening, I wonder if calling the police would be more appropriate. And when someone rings my doorbell, I almost lunge for my chef's knife before going to the door.

As it is, I stare at the offending structure for several seconds before deciding to chance a glance through the peephole. After all, what are the chances Julio Estrella would be standing outside my door, demanding to get in?

Maybe those are slim to none, but apparently bets on his sister being there could bring a winning jackpot. I gasp when I see Danita standing on the other side of the peephole. She's wearing sunglasses and a straw hat with a large brim, but it's her. Did Tony send her as his emissary? It's the only thing I can think of. Oddly, I'm not feeling anger or irritation, but fear. Not for myself, but for Tony.

Deciding to follow my gut, I open the door.

Her brow puckers down. "Rachel, why have you not answered our calls or e-mails?" Waving a hand in a rapid gesture as desperate as her voice, she adds, "Never mind. Please, let me come in. It's urgent."

Remembering the sisterly feeling I had toward her a few days ago, how I trusted her with my car, I pull the door open wide. She steps in, and in two minutes has apprised me of the situation.

Tony has had to go to the Indianapolis police station for questioning. That crazy girl who'd gotten up on the hood of the van and practically broken the windshield? She's accused him of assault.

And Tony may go to jail unless a witness comes forward to testify that he did not, in fact, cause her broken finger.

# Chapter Six: Tony.

For an entire twenty-four hours, my emotions have ranged from humiliation to anger to hope, back to humiliation, until I've thought I might explode. That is why, when Rachel Polowsky walks into the hotel suite I have rented for my unexpected and unwanted return to Indianapolis, I meet her at the door in two seconds and pull her into my arms. " _Ay, Raquela, gracias, gracias, gracias_ ," I mumble into her hair.

She stiffens, and for a harrowing moment I wonder if my unexpected display of affection is going to provoke her to turn around and stride out of the room. Then her arms come up and wrap lightly around my back. Hesitant, uncertain. But, she doesn't pull away and run.

Emboldened, I tighten my grip. Just a little. And press my lips against her hair. The simple gesture, however chaste it might usually be, ignites a fire throughout my whole body.

Rachel lets out a nervous giggle.

"Tony, for heaven's sake, let the girl breathe." Danita, who has come back with her from the police station, scolds me in Spanish.

Rachel can breathe just fine, I want to retort. And I certainly am breathing much more easily than I was a few minutes ago, not knowing if she would come. Still, she is obviously uncomfortable with my sudden display of affection, so I slide my arms down her back and step away.

I grasp both her hands in mine, though, as I smile down at her. Her gaze meets mine, her lips curving up into a broad smile, and I wish as I've never wished before that I knew her well enough to give her a sound kiss on the lips.

Right now, though, that would not be good, especially given how I just reacted to kissing the top of her head.

" _De nada_ ," she whispers as Danita brushes past.

The Spanish phrase that translates as "you're welcome" literally means "from nothing" or "of nothing." Americans would say, "It was nothing." My English response to Rachel is a play on that translation.

I squeeze her hands. "But it _is_ something. It is _everything_." I release her hands, then take her by the arm and gently guide her to the table on the other side of the large room. Needing the improved security of a luxury hotel, and hoping Rachel would be here today, I had Randy book us a room at this place, more typical of the hotel I stay in than where we stayed during the vegan festival.

I squeeze her arm. "You traveled over three hours to get here, dropping all of your plans for a couple of days to help someone you hardly know, and saving that someone's reputation in the process."

With my free hand, I wave at the elegant place settings on the table, awaiting a hearty, plant-based meal taken straight from Rachel's blog. "This is the least I can do to thank you." I gently turn her to face me, taking her hand in mine again. "And I am so happy that you are letting me do this for you."

Her face flushes, she looks away, and it takes all my strength not to run my thumb down her smooth cheek.

"Call up the food?" Deshawn asks from his station in the corner of the room.

I glance up, grateful for the reminder the Rachel and I are not alone. It will be all the easier to behave myself. "Yes, please."

During the five-minute wait, I find out that Danita wasted none of the drive back to this city, because Rachel knows even more details about my situation than I would have told her. After a couple of minutes, the base of my neck grows tight as I remember telling Danita, in a fit of dismay, that I would rather leave my career to the dogs than experience this kind of slander ever again. I've seen some interesting headlines associated with me before, but no one ever accused me of hurting another human being. Never.

Because, except to defend myself or a loved one, I would not do so.

Still, it was a private, emotional moment that I didn't intend to be shared. Did Danita, in typical woman fashion, give up every detail about my plight? If she did, Rachel is discreet enough not to bring it up.

Then again, I gave her my personal cell number and my real name before I really knew her. So why should I worry that she knows of my vulnerable moment? Maybe, more than anything, it's that I didn't mean what I said. My music means everything to me, and performing is where I find my greatest fulfillment. Since not being famous ceased to be an option for me a couple of years ago, I am resigned, if not willing, to accept the occasional inconvenience it brings.

"What are you smiling at?"

Rachel has been answering a question Danita asked, and now her own question to me pulls me out of my thoughts. I chuckle. "I was just thinking that if I hadn't been almost arrested, I would not have seen you again so soon."

She gives me a mock frown. "Antonio Ramirez, I better not ever find out –"

A knock on the door interrupts her. Danita gets up to answer it, knowing that it's Randy, delivering the food. As he helps her arrange the steaming dishes and large bowl of salad on the table, Rachel sniffs, then stands up to better inspect each dish.

Her raised brow tilts my way. "This meal is straight off –"

"Your blog." I grin. "And one of your favorites, you said."

She drops down into a chair. "Wow. Thank you." She shakes her head. "How...Who...?" She cuts her eyes to Danita. " _You_ couldn't have made this. You were with me." She's referring to Danita having accompanied Rachel to the police station this morning.

My sister lifts a shoulder, then tosses the implied question back to me with a glance.

Seating myself in the chair to Rachel's right, I say, "For an extra two hundred dollars, the chef in the hotel restaurant was happy to put a special meal together."

"Wow." A slow smile spreads over Rachel's face. "I'm not gonna lie and say you shouldn't have done it, because you don't know what a picky eater I am."

If I had any residual negative emotion left after that marvelous embrace with her a few minutes ago, it slides away with her acceptance of the gift I am giving her. "Actually, I believe I have an excellent idea about how picky you are."

Rachel quirks one side of her mouth. "What, did you read my entire blog or something?"

I smile. "I had to do something while I was being detained."

Her half smile fades, and for several beats she just stares at me. I start to ask why, but then Deshawn interrupts with, "Are we gonna bless the food, or are you two gonna keep making eyes at each other?" He adds an "Ow!" when Danita, who is sitting between him and Rachel, pinches his arm.

A lovely pink tinges Rachel's beautiful cheeks again. I expect her to glance down, or away, and get ready to feel disappointed. Instead, she leans back in her chair, folds her arms across her chest, and opens her eyes as wide as she can. "We're going to keep making eyes at each other."

I grin, returning the stare without the dramatic flair Rachel is putting into hers. "Yes. Exactly, Deshawn. You are not only going to have to eat a meal without meat, but a cold one."

Deshawn sighs. "It's what I deserve, I guess."

"Maybe we can sneak out and get a pizza, then," Randy mutters.

Danita bursts out laughing. "Rachel, your eyes look like they're going to pop out of their sockets. Tony," she gasps, "how are you not laughing?"

Little does she know that I've been holding in my mirth to try to win this contest. At her words, though, a loud guffaw bursts out of my mouth. Rachel's eyes return to normal size as she, too, begins laughing.

As she does, she wipes at her chin. "You... spat...on me!" she accuses as she laughs. Then, she takes a deep breath and seems to swallow her laughter as she quickly and breathlessly adds, "It's a little too early in our relationship for your spit to be getting on my face."

She starts laughing again, but I sober at her words. "Our...relationship?"

Her laughter dies down, then stops. "Uh, did I say that?"

"They makin' eyes again," Deshawn says in a stage whisper.

"Go ahead and pray the blessing, Deshawn." Danita's laughter turns to mild exasperation.

"Oh." When all eyes turn to Rachel, she hunches her shoulders and grimaces as a blush spreads over her face once again. "I mean," she looks between me and Danita, "you guys...are you Christians?"

I give her a dead-pan look. "And why would you think otherwise?"

She stares at me. Blinks. Raises a single eyebrow. "Why would you think that I might think otherwise?"

I tap my fingers on the table, trying to come up with a clever answer and failing. In the meantime, Deshawn chuckles into his napkin and points a finger at me. "She got ya, boss. She got ya."

Danita rolls her eyes and sighs. "Now our food _is_ going to get cold. Rachel, like most Spaniards we were raised Catholic, and we continue to hold to the basic tenets of the faith. Now," turning to my dark-skinned bodyguard, "Deshawn?"

"Why me? Just 'cause my daddy was a preacher." But he bows his head and thanks God for the food and the friendship. I wink at Rachel just before I bow my head, and Deshawn thanks God for Rachel coming to "deliver this crazy singer from the pit of hell, though maybe he needs to spend a few days there just to get his head on straight."

I yank my gaze up and frown at him. "Hey."

Rachel giggles. How could such a commonplace sound make me feel as though I were glowing? But, it does.

Deshawn ignores me, adding, "And, Lord, I ask that you would teach Tony here to listen to his sister and his bodyguards."

Danita and Randy both express a hearty, "Amen," which sends Rachel giggling yet again.

The silence that falls in the room as we all begin to eat turns awkward. I suspect part of it is that Deshawn and Randy aren't used to eating with me or Danita when we are in a private place. I invited them to have lunch with us to help Rachel feel more comfortable. After the way she hurried out of my hotel room a few days ago, I didn't think she'd appreciate having a one-on-one meal with me. Not yet. Also, I believed Deshawn would be good for some animated stories to help break the ice.

But he seems intent on eating, and Rachel hasn't looked at me since the prayer ended. And though I've spent the last twenty-four hours wondering all sorts of things about her, such as her background, her family, her dreams, now I can't think of a single question to ask her. The day before yesterday, Danita brought up the possibility that Rachel might be involved with someone else. Could that be it? Could it be she only accepted my invitation out of politeness, or, worse, because she just wanted to be able to say she had a date with Julio Estrella?

No, she's not that kind of person. I know that. Still, could she be feeling uncomfortable with my forwardness because she already has another man in her life? I made assumptions about her I shouldn't have, out of pure selfishness. Guilt claws at my insides. I need to apologize.

I open my mouth to do just that, but at the same moment Rachel jerks her head up, slamming her gaze into mine. "Tony, we can't keep ignoring the elephant in the room."

My thoughts exactly. Danita glances at me with a raised brow, then at Rachel.

"Has this ever happened to you before? The police questioning you because some girl made a false accusation?"

All right, apparently we're not on the same wavelength here. But, it's a fair question. Again, I open my mouth to speak, but this time my sister beats me to it.

"Never." Danita's voice is hard. "And if I could get my hands on that –"

" _Cálmate, hermana_. Calm down." I raise a placating hand toward my sister, then turn back to Rachel. "This is the first time. And it should be the last."

"'Specially if you'll start listening to the folk you pay to protect you," Deshawn grumbles around a mouthful of potato.

Rachel darts a glare at him. "Didn't yo' mama never teach you no manners?"

Her perfectly executed Southern black accent earns her stares from everyone at the table. Deshawn's mouth, closed now, comes to a standstill. Then, it slowly forms into a smile, his lips undulating as he finishes chewing. He swallows. I've never seen Deshawn grin before, hardly ever seen him smile. But now he shows all his teeth. Points his beefy index finger at Rachel. Starts chuckling. Then laughing. A deep, belly laugh that proves contagious, as everyone except the ever-serious Randy joins in.

Deshawn points at Rachel. "You know, girl, I like you. I like you a lot."

She points back. "And I'll like you better if you call me _woman_ , not girl."

"Done and done." He reaches an open palm across the table for her. Before I can wonder what he's doing, Rachel grins, reaches her own palm across, and slaps his.

Oh. The American high-five. The nuances of which I'm not sure I'll ever understand fully. The quirked eyebrow Danita sends my way tells me she's having similar thoughts.

She cuts her eyes back to Rachel and asks, "Where did you learn to act?"

She lifts a shoulder. "Middle and high school plays. No big deal." She looks back at me. "What about tabloids? Haven't they invented all sorts of sordid stories about you?"

It takes my male brain a minute to catch up with her female one and realize she's returned to the topic she introduced a couple of minutes ago. "In Europe, no." I pierce some lettuce leaves with my fork. "An American one tried once."

I do my best to avoid Danita's gaze. The incident in question had as much to do with her as it did with me, and I know it still pains her to relive the nightmare that preceded the article. "We threatened a lawsuit if they didn't print a first-page retraction that was boldly announced on the front cover."

"You don't got to worry none." Deshawn gives Rachel a pointed look. "Me and Tony, we done figgered out how to trick the paparazzi. What we don't want them to know, they don't find out."

Rachel stares at him for a few beats, then drops her gaze to her plate. "It wasn't the paparazzi that plastered pictures and videos of me all over the Internet the other day."

This time, I do look at my sister. Her brow turns down in frustration. "We already had this discussion on the drive here." She's speaking in Spanish. That, combined with her impatient tone, means that she's upset. Most likely, she thought that whatever was said about it between her and Rachel had smoothed things over, and she thought there'd been some implicit agreement to let the issue go.

I lift my brow to her, a silent communication for her to drop it. At the same time, I wonder at Rachel's harping on the theme of public exposure. Combined with her use of the phrase _our relationship_ earlier, I'm tempted to conclude that she's mentally testing the idea, and the possible ramifications, of becoming my friend. Or, I hope, more.

At the same time, I remember how, when in the detention room at the police station, I wondered why Rachel had no pictures of her face on her blog, nor in any of her videos. Not the ones I watched, anyway. Even the one social media account of hers that I visited showed a cartoon moniker rather than her photograph. Now I wonder if she fears for her reputation, if there's a reason she chooses to remain anonymous online, despite the prevailing knowledge that people connect much more readily to faces.

If there is, then will it be a dealbreaker as far as where I wish our relationship to go?

_Our relationship_. That she used this phrase is the only hope I can grab onto, and I cling to it as a starving man to the only crumb in sight. She's smart. She knows that I'm interested in her, that this lunch is a thinly veiled first date. And she didn't back out of it. Perhaps her use of the phrase indicates a mutual feeling? Even if less intense on her part, it could be enough for her to consider me – my fame, really – to be worth the risk.

Deshawn clears his throat. "So, tell us about them plays you was in. Didja hafta play a black girl in one of 'em?"

I cast my friend a grateful smile. He acts like he doesn't notice, but I see the twinkle in his eye before he digs his fork into his plate again.

Rachel looks up, her brow smoothing out. "No," she begins, and goes on to regale us with several humorous teenage drama club adventures.

The tension in the room dissolves away as Rachel, Deshawn, and I take turns sharing childhood stories, with Danita intervening every once in a while to disagree with something I said or to put in her big sister point of view. Randy remains, for the most part, characteristically silent. Rachel ends up asking little about my career, for which I'm grateful. I want her to get to know Tony Ramirez, not Julio Estrella.

Before I know it, two hours have passed, and I don't think anyone can deny that several new friendships have been forged during the long meal. When the conversation hits a lull, I turn to Rachel. "Would you be comfortable if the others left us alone to talk for a few minutes?"

The way her body freezes all motion for three seconds makes me think she's going to say no. So I'm relieved beyond measure when she nods, saying, "I think that would be helpful."

An intriguing comment. When the others have left, I shift my chair around to face Rachel, my hands clasped over the table. What they really want to do is reach out and take her hands, but I want to make this moment as void of emotion as possible, so she won't feel the least bit manipulated.

I take a deep breath. "Rachel, I want to go back to –"

At the exact same time, she begins, "I suppose you're wondering about –"

We laugh nervously, and she leans back, waving for me to continue.

I smile and nod. "Before we started eating, you used the phrase 'our relationship.'" I raise my brow at her, knowing that I don't need to spell out my meaning.

Biting her upper lip, she glances down at the table, then back at me. "That's actually what I was going to mention." She takes a deep breath. Lets it out. All the while, her gaze remains locked on mine, and that same current I felt running between us when we first met, I feel again. At a higher voltage.

"I don't think I'm making an assumption when I think you're interested in me?"

I lean toward her, my palms flattening on the table. "I'm _very_ interested in you."

She rubs her hands up and down the sleeves of her cream-colored blouse. "Why?" The word comes out like a squeak. Whether because she's nervous, or because she feels the energy running between us, I don't know.

I smile. "Why not? You're one of the most beautiful and intelligent women I've ever met. By what you've written on your blog, we share a lot of the same values. And besides all that, when we first met, I felt a special connection with you. One that I don't think I've ever felt with anyone else." My smile feels shaky. As if what I say could change my life forever.

It will, one way or the other. I just want it to change the right way. I can only pray I won't mess this up.

# Chapter Seven: Rachel.

I stare at Tony. Not because I think he's crazy, but because I know I felt the same connection. I've tried to deny it, to rationalize it away, all the way from my place in Toledo back to Indianapolis, and while waiting to talk to the police this morning, and all during this fantastic, incredible, unbelievable meal.

However, that he's never felt it with anyone else? I find that hard to believe.

So hard, my brain-to-mouth filter that usually works well suddenly goes on the fritz. "With none of the hundreds of women you've –" I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. My cheeks flame. Of all the times I've blushed today, this time must be the reddest of them all.

Guilt pierces through the mortification as Tony sits back, pain filling his eyes. "I'm so sorry. That was totally uncalled for."

"It was." His gentle tone makes me feel even worse, and my gaze falls to the floor.

I may not be able to deny the burgeoning feelings I have for this man, but apparently my mouth is plenty ready to sabotage their growth. I half expect him to tell me to leave. I'd feel better if he did, than suffer through the heavy quiet that follows.

Instead, he does the last thing I expect him to do. "Rachel, in my entire twenty-six years I've been intimate with three women. One of them, only one time. Another, I lived with for a year."

I take my courage in both hands and force myself to look at him. "You don't need –"

He raises his hand. "I think I do. I know that for whatever reason, millions of females around the world find me desirable. And because of what I do for a living, the natural assumption is that I regularly entertain groupies." He inhales, looks away, exhales as he returns his gaze to me. "After I extricated myself out of the clutches of the last woman, more than a year ago now, I promised myself, and God, I wouldn't touch another woman unless she was my wife."

By now, I've lowered my hands to the table. I pick up the cloth napkin by my empty plate and begin rubbing it between my thumb and fingers, needing some outlet for the surge of emotion suddenly running through me. Admiration, humiliation, sympathy. Self-disgust that's burning a hole in the middle of my chest. "I'm an idiot."

"You're scared."

His spot-on assessment yanks my gaze up. He gives me a small smile. "When you fell, and I picked you up, something told me to keep your face hidden from the onlookers." He shrugs. "I think perhaps you are as afraid of fame as I am?"

I can't help it; I laugh. "You?"

His smile fades. "It might keep me away from the one person I want to get to know, more than I've ever wanted to know anybody."

Whoa. Wait. I'm pretty good at math, and the two-and-two I'm putting together comes out to him wanting to...marry me?

I shake my head in three quick movements. Maybe I need a remedial math course. Guys don't jump to that kind of commitment with women they barely know. That's totally a woman thing. He only thinks maybe we might be good together. And wants me to give us a shot.

Right?

He makes a face. "And, my fame proved to be quite inconvenient this week."

I barely hear the remark. The fear that he sensed, the emotion that I wanted to deny was there because I'm not used to dealing with it? It refuses to be hidden any longer, snaking out of the dark place where I've worked so hard to keep it, and threatening to constrict my throat.

No. No! I won't let it seize me. But it's hard to fight off with Tony's intense brown gaze reminding me so much of someone else's intense blue gaze.

A blue gaze that nearly ruined my life. And this brown gaze? It belongs to a man with much greater potential to ruin my life. Whether he means to or not.

Can't. Get. Involved. With. A. Celebrity.

Pushing back the chair, I get to my feet. "This was a bad idea." The words come out hoarse. I swallow hard, take two deep breaths. The fear will _not_ take control.

Tony stands up, as well, his movement slower, more deliberate. "Too much, too soon." He takes a step toward me, lightly touching my arm. "I'm sorry. I was...I just..."

I move back, out of his reach, wrapping my arms around my waist. I consider asking him not to lie by saying he didn't mean what he said. I consider making a wide girth around him and walking out of the suite, finding Danita, and demanding to be driven back home.

But despite the fear, despite the several dozen moments during the past three days when I told myself that what I'd felt for Tony had been nothing more than lust, despite the horror at finding my image plastered all over the Internet, a small part of myself wonders if maybe, just maybe, the connection he's just referred to goes much deeper than physical attraction. And if pulling myself out of the connection might be a bigger risk than exploring it.

Then there's the utter despair tightening Tony's beautiful face. The fact that I can't get myself to look away from it contradicts my "I can't" from a minute ago. My head and my heart are in a tug of war, and my heart is winning.

Another two deep breaths, and the racing speed of said internal organ begins to slow, the grip of my hands on my forearms to loosen.

Tony slumps back down into his chair. With a moan, he rubs both hands down his face, muttering something in Spanish. I catch the words for God and time and help. Is he... _praying_? The idea that he's so upset with himself that he would pray in front of me reminds me of something I prayed myself a couple of years ago, maybe the last prayer I prayed.

I told the Lord that if for some crazy reason He had a man for me, that man had better be a true believer, care about eating healthy, and have a soft heart.

I don't know about the middle one, but Tony sure seems to be displaying the other two right now. At least, he's a better believer than me. He actually still talks to God.

I step back to my chair and slide into it. I've never been one for believing in signs, but this situation is too coincidental to be just, well, coincidental.

Tony raises his head. Then, his eyebrows. "You're not running away."

I stare at him for a few beats, pick up the napkin again, drop my eyes to study it. "You live in Spain, right? That...I don't see how that could work."

Did I just concede to the idea that I might want to get involved with a celebrity? Please tell me I didn't.

"Raquela."

Then again, I would almost _have_ to marry a man who can make my name sound as sexy and romantic as he does. I release the napkin and look back at him.

He's smiling now, a small, hesitant smile. "There are these marvelous technologies these days. Texting, phone calls, e-mails." He winks. "Blogs."

"Skype."

His smile widens. "You _are_ interested."

I sigh. "And your home is thousands of miles away on the other side of an ocean."

"I'll be touring the States in six months." Crossing his arms on the table, he leans forward, his gaze growing intense again. This time, it doesn't scare me. "I can hire a private jet at will. _And_ ," he winks as his mouth curves upward, "I can live anywhere in the world."

I sit back in my chair, trying not to feel overwhelmed. At least the choking panic has gone. I'm more or less back to how I felt after finding out that Julio Estrella had taken the time to flirt with me: as if I'm in a crazy dream. But I know it's real. I know the man before me, international superstar though he may be, has a tender heart. I know that deep down, I want to want what he wants, this chance to get to know each other. But I also know that one reason, and one reason only, keeps me from taking the risk of letting my desire have free rein.

The smile slides off Tony's face. "You are still uncertain."

I shift my weight in the chair, but force myself to maintain eye contact. "You said it yourself."

His brow knits in question.

"Fame?"

Understanding erases the question. "If neither one of us tells anyone except those we trust about us," Tony says, "then you won't have to worry about public exposure." His warm smile melts my last bit of reticence. For the first time since the others left the room, I relax.

Tony reaches his hand, palm upturned, across the table, his gaze not leaving mine. "All I want is a chance to explore what might be."

That sounds fair. Reasonable. Unscary. Besides, chances are good that after a few weeks of a long-distance thing, he'll forget why he ever felt so strongly about me in the first place.

_What if he doesn't_? a voice in the back of my head whispers.

What if? I think, for the time being, I'm willing to take the risk. So I reach my own hand to meet his, and set my palm in his. His smile widens. His fingers squeeze mine.

And I smile, too.

# Chapter Eight: Tony.

## Early August.

I reread Rachel's text and smile, warmth spreading through my chest. _Oh, to be on a Mediterranean beach with you today_. _It's raining and sixty-eight degrees_. _How is that summer_??!!

I decide to ignore the complaint. _Let me hire a jet to fly you over here_.

I'm almost serious. The first three weeks of our long-distance relationship, Rachel met my e-mails and blog comments as "T.R." with a coolness that surprised me after the way we parted in Indianapolis, a warm embrace that she returned with equal fervor. Gradually, she began to look at and talk to me with affection. We began Skyping, once a week at first, now, several times. She started flirting more in texts and e-mails, began initiating e-mails. The last few times we've Skyped, I've seen a tender look in her eyes that wasn't there before.

And when we Skyped last night, I asked her point blank how she felt about me. She admitted that she was developing feelings for me. That she's begun to miss me in the quiet moments of her day, begun to wish we were talking face to face, rather than thousands of miles apart.

She confessed that she's beginning to understand how people fall in love via digital communication.

I almost got online to reserve a jet right then.

I put the phone in my pocket and tilt my face up to the sky, letting the warm, dappled rays of the sun splash onto my skin. I live with my great-aunt Carmen and my cousin Marcos on a property about twenty miles outside of Murcia, the city where my band and I jam, rehearse, and record. Though I purchased the eleven-acre property two years ago and had the modestly-sized house built, it's in my cousin's name to keep my name out of the public record as much as possible. My _tía_ , though in her eighties, is in good health and willingly keeps the house for the two of us. In return, Marcos looks after her, and I, of course, allow her free room and board.

Most of the property is wooded, a tall, iron-wrought fence with a locked gate cutting off the front of the property from nosy passersby and barbed wire fencing closing off the two sides of the property that adjoin farms. Also, an entire acre behind the house is surrounded by a privacy fence. So no one knows that I live here except for those I want to know. And trust.

Unfortunately, those qualifications don't always meet in the same person.

I let my gaze drift over the sparkling green treetops, interrupted with patches of brilliantly blue sky. The day would be lovely enough in any case, but everything appears more beautiful since Rachel entered my life.

I wonder when the day will come when she will have a similar realization. I say "when", not "if", because I know it will come.

Just not nearly as soon as I want it to.

With some reluctance, I make my preparations to make the drive to Murcia. Since I returned to Spain, my band and I have been busy working on songs for the next album. None of them know about Rachel yet, a fact which frustrates Danita to no end. She claims she feels the secret is a weight that drags her down. She has to watch every word and make sure she doesn't so much as hint at her brother having a relationship with an American woman.

I told her wryly a couple of weeks ago that being my talent and tour manager doesn't require her to have any conversations about my private life. I also reminded her that in the past, she hasn't had problems keeping my private life private. I think the real issue is that, though she and Rachel haven't been in contact much since the fiasco in Indianapolis, she's frustrated that she can't tell anyone about her new friend.

I share her frustration. While I understand Rachel not wanting to receive any limelight, especially anything negative as the paparazzi like to focus on, I want to tell my friends – my band members – about her. My parents know. My great-aunt Carmen and my cousin Marcos know.

But that's all. Until Rachel is ready to get serious with me.

Thirty minutes later, I am at the studio setting up along with my keyboardist, Edgar. My bass player, another Antonio, along with my drummer, Guillermo, drift in a little later, and we do our thing.

"I really like this song," Edgar comments an hour later.

We've been working on the one I wrote last week. In typical Julio Estrella style, it's a rocking, upbeat love song. It just might have been inspired by a certain American blender salesperson.

And here, I hit one of those moments where I wish I could tell my friends about her. I keep a straight face while I ask, "What? You don't like my other songs?"

Fingering a harmony to the song, Edgar smirks. "This one sounds...different. Like you wrote it for a real person."

I've written three songs for real people before, but since I would just as soon forget those people ever existed, I don't mention it. "Maybe I had a really nice dream last week," I say instead.

The band members take turns teasing me, then we go on with our work. I feel like floating, and it reflects in the ease with which my fingers strum out the rifts on my guitar, and the way my voice hits every note without strain. I keep thinking back to Rachel's text about coming to join me on the coast, how I might reply to it when I call her tomorrow. I don't think her reply was flippant or careless. She's never made a statement like that before. Not even close.

Has life ever been this good? I'm getting somewhere with the woman I'm sure is destined to be my wife someday. My band and I already have three songs for my next album polished enough to record. Even dealing with my fame, such as having to sneak in and out of the studio from its back exit while wearing a disguise, and having to frequently switch out the car I drive to keep the paparazzi confused, isn't weighing me down as it has been for the past year and a half.

In short, a child at Christmas has nothing on the joy buoying my spirits.

We're on the brink of wrapping up our work for the evening when Danita charges into the studio, her eyes flashing fury and every muscle in her face tight with emotion. Dread twists my stomach. She rarely comes to the studio, because although she doesn't have the same kind of fame that I do, due to her being my talent manager her face is well-known. And for her to come to the studio is like posting to my professional social media accounts that Julio Estrella is in the building.

If she's here, she has important news. About me. And it's obvious that the news is bad.

The fingers of my right hand, in the middle of plucking out an arpeggio on my guitar strings, cease all movement. One by one, the rest of the band stops playing. Danita's gaze slams into mine. Then, she flicks it around the room with a raised brow, returning it to me, more intense than ever.

I understand the silent message. Whatever she has to say, she doesn't want the others to hear.

I lift my guitar strap over my head, saying, "Great session, everyone. Let's call it a night."

"Tony, _qué_ –"

I wave my free hand backwards with a cutting motion to break off Edgar's inquiry. Having been with me since my first album, he knows me well. Per my own silent message, he falls silent, says nothing more to me except a " _Buenas noches_ " on the way out.

All the guys are out of the little room in record time. Only then does Danita finally step toward me, her phone in her hand. I meet her halfway, put an arm on her shoulder. And notice that the phone is shaking in her hand. At thirty years old, she has become an expert at hiding her emotions, and for her to be physically manifesting a symptom of strong emotion alarms me. The dread inside my stomach forms a concrete ball.

"Look what is trending on all the social media sites." She speaks in a low, harsh voice, almost a growl, as she thrusts her phone out to me.

The instant my eyes land on the photo, I groan. Then, I read the headline. The dread triples in size, ballooning up to press against my lungs. I scroll down and read a few comments, then go back up and click the link in the first post. Read the first paragraph of the article.

"No," I whisper. I'm finding it hard to breathe. "No, no, no." I glance back for a chair. Spotting one near, I stumble to it, drop into it, and stare at the words on the screen some more.

More than I even hope that Rachel will one day be mine, I hope that what I'm seeing right now is a nightmare. I hope that any second, I will wake up and none of what I've been reading will be real.

But I know it is.

And I've never despised my fame more than I do at this moment.

The headline? "We will sue Julio Estrella for everything he's worth!" The article? The Kratkys, the family who failed to get me arrested for assault on their crazy, windshield-pounding daughter, have announced that they have filed a lawsuit against me.

# Chapter Nine: Rachel.

## Late August.

"To tell her," _pluck_ , "to not tell her." _Pluck_. With that, the last dandelion leaf floats down to the ground.

I drop the remainder of the plant, which I'd picked out of the ground in front of my apartment building a minute ago. It drifts down to the sidewalk as I puff out a breath. Marilyn and Joe will be here in an hour, and I haven't been able to decide whether to tell them about Tony.

Julio, I mean. Tony made it clear that should I choose to tell anyone about our relationship, I must use his stage name unless and until we've reached some level of commitment, _and_ the "anyone" in question can be trusted not to reveal his real name to the public at large.

I give my head a slight shake as I walk to the apartment building entrance. Right now, it doesn't look like there _is_ an "our relationship," let alone a chance it'll reach any level of commitment. I'm not sure how I feel about it. In the beginning, I was hoping that Tony would eventually lose interest in me. Three weeks into it, though, I began to change my mind, started Skyping more often with him, started being more flirtatious in e-mails, letting myself feel that he was a good friend whom I hoped one day might become more.

A dream I had a couple of weeks ago, an _adult_ dream, starring Tony Ramirez, spurred that hope into an intense longing that hounds me to this day.

But starting right around the day I woke up from that incredible dream, his e-mail and text replies started becoming fewer and farther between. _Much_ fewer and farther. He canceled one Skype call on me, and on the one we made, he seemed agitated underneath a façade of cheerfulness.

Like he was trying to work up the nerve to break things off with me?

Now, here it's Saturday, and I haven't heard from him since Wednesday. For the past couple of days, I've been telling myself he's just being a typical jerk of a man, and that my new feelings were purely a product of that dream and not authentic, but every time I do, I feel this odd gloomy sensation in my gut. As if what I'm telling myself is wrong. Even, as if Tony's in some kind of trouble and doesn't want to tell me.

I was hoping that extending my morning jog from twenty to thirty minutes would clear my head as well as my emotions, but all it's done is turn my armpits into stink machines and my forehead and middle back into salty faucets. Once inside my apartment, I strip off my jogging shorts and T-shirt and take a shower. As I scrub myself, a bizarre thought strikes out of nowhere, as bizarre thoughts tend to do: I wonder if Tony sings in the shower.

Then, my naughty brain conjures up an image of Tony in the shower.

"Aargh!" I force the image back. Not. Helping.

By the time I've drunk my breakfast smoothie, dressed in my brown hemp shorts and a scoop-neck pink short-sleeved top, I've decided not to tell Marilyn or Joe about my brief foray into a relationship with a superstar. What would be the point, if he's about to dump me?

Again, that swooping feeling under my belly, like I'm totally misreading things. A part of me hopes I am, a part of me hopes I'm not. And I'm not sure which is the bigger part.

My relative-friends arrive at my apartment door from the Chicago suburbs around ten o'clock. Joe, tall with trimly cut, light brown hair, gives me a grin and a bear hug as if we haven't seen each other for months.

Hmm. Maybe because we haven't. He's been working hard to establish a small, private law practice, and in that area of the country, lawyers aren't exactly hard to come by.

Marilyn's embrace is gentler, and after she pulls away, the three of us sit down to do some catching up. A three-hundred pound gorilla comes and sits down next to me. Invisible as it is, I feel every single ounce of its weight threatening to get me off balance.

I have to keep reminding myself of my decision not to tell. Usually one of the most self-disciplined people on the planet, I almost give into temptation when Marilyn asks me if I've made any new friends lately.

She doesn't mean "friends." It's her subtle way of trying to be curious about my love life without coming off as pressuring me. She knows what happened with Devon my junior year in college, and knows that he's the primary reason that I've sworn off men, regardless of any other justification I've made.

Marilyn breaks many blonde stereotypes, the relevant one at hand being that she's smart. If I could only get her to ditch her makeup and perfect hair, she might break all of the stereotypes.

Anyway, I answer her question by telling her about a new vegan I befriended on a vegan forum I visit about three times a week. Miraculously, my face doesn't turn three shades of red as a large-as-life image of Tony appears in my mind while I talk.

At eleven-thirty, Marilyn and I make the pre-planned trip to the grocery store. She and Joe know that when they visit me, I don't serve animals in any way, shape, form or fashion. But I do try to serve them the tastiest plant-rich meals possible, hoping to persuade them to save a few more animal lives when they're eating at home.

Joe drops us off at the store, promising to be back in thirty minutes. His plan is to drool over some of the contents of the athletic store on the other side of the street. Twenty minutes later, Marilyn and I are waiting with a basket full of fresh vegetables behind an elderly man at the check-out line.

Every time I've gone grocery shopping for the past month, I've perused the tabloids for a picture of me. None has ever appeared, but I keep looking because you never know. Today, however, I force myself to look in the opposite direction. I once told Marilyn that only people with below-average IQs read tabloids, so it wouldn't do for her to witness me skimming over the headlines.

But not a minute into our wait, a stylishly- dressed woman with long, dangling, beaded earrings that shout "look at me!" steers an overflowing cart into our lane. Marilyn goes from politely nodding over my remark that grapes from Chile are poison, to gushing over the woman's earrings.

"Oh, those earrings are beautiful! Where did you find them?"

I listen for about twenty seconds, but it only takes that long for the women to move on from earrings to perfume. I've never had any use for either. This is why I was shocked when Tony told me he'd perused my blog when he was at the police station. If he'd read even a fraction of my posts, he would have learned that I believe in all kinds of unconventional ideas. Controversial, even.

But still, he was interested in me. And yes, in the meantime I've learned that he did, indeed, read probably at least a third of my blog posts that day.

Gulp. Talk about feeling vulnerable and exposed.

Shaking the memory away, I turn around and begin setting items on the conveyer belt. Once I've put everything on it that I can, I check to see how things are going with the senior ahead of me, then allow my eyes to make a quick scan of the rag mag headlines.

No pictures of me, but a photo of a certain rock singer snags my attention. He actually looks angry, and pasted with his portrait is the profile of a teenage girl who looks like she's been crying. And who I would have recognized, even if not for the headline claiming that Julio Estrella broke her hand.

It's that crazy girl who'd been pounding on Tony's rental's windshield at the VegFest.

I twist my neck to glance back at Marilyn. She is still facing Earring Woman, seeming to be riveted to her new friend's every word. Slowly, I reach for the magazine, then pull it from the rack. I hunch over it as I turn to the page where the article begins, my heart pounding against my rib cage. According to the reporter, "Julio" yanked on the girl's hand when she refused his advances, so hard that he broke a finger.

Anger singes my intestines. "That's not what happened!" Too late, I realize that the words didn't stay in my head, where I'd meant them to be.

"What are you talking about?"

I yank my gaze up to see both Marilyn and the other lady staring at me. The burn transfers from my gut to my face. I close the magazine and slide it onto the rack as casually as I can. "Oh, you know. Stupid tabloids making up infuriating garbage."

Marilyn quirks her right eyebrow at me. Without a doubt, she's remembering my searing remark about tabloids and intelligence.

I wait for her to say something, but she's too kind to do so in front of strangers. Neither does she mention my deviation in behavior after Joe picks us up. While we chop vegetables together back at my apartment, anxiety makes my palm sweat and my stomach harden so that I fear not being able to digest the meal. But Marilyn just chatters on about Joe's work, her part-time job as a receptionist at a Realty company, and her and Joe's recent discussions about their dream home.

At lunch, I'm relaxed enough to be able to choke down half of what I usually eat, and then, it all comes down. Joe begs for my bed for just thirty minutes, and Marilyn suggests we go for a walk while he naps.

I know something's up, because it's ninety degrees outside and Marilyn does not enjoy going out in weather that might melt her makeup off her face. We walk in silence for a couple of minutes. After one block, my palms are damp and my forehead starting to drip, and it has little to do with the sun burning down.

After two blocks, Marilyn stops walking, gently grabs my arm, and turns to face me. "Are you crushing on Julio Estrella?"

My forehead hikes up a couple inches. She noticed which article I was reading?

Her smile contains no trace of teasing or judgment. "I know you've told me that you're not into pop culture, but I'd get it if you've developed a thing for him." She lets go of my arm. "I mean, half the women in the world have, right?"

The easy thing would be to feel relieved and to go with what she thinks. Except, I'm a terrible liar.

"I'm not crushing on him." That's not a lie, number one because I'm pretty ticked at him at the moment, and number two because when I'm not ticked at him, what I feel goes much deeper than a crush.

Wait. What? The revelation brings my feet to a screeching halt, such that I almost lose my balance.

Marilyn grasps my arm again, tighter this time, apparently afraid I might fall. "Rachel, what on earth? You look like you've seen a ghost."

My lungs pull in a sharp breath with another realization: I have to tell her. Them. Her and Joe. But, her first. Though Joe and I are still close, there are some things a woman doesn't want to tell a man, and things that a man would rather not hear. Every single last detail of any given story, for example.

I gently shake her arm off, gesturing ahead and to the right. "There's a park a couple of blocks that way." I glance at her. "I have something to tell you, and we need to sit down."

Once settled on one of the metal benches facing into the nearly empty playground, I spill everything, from when Tony walked up to my booth at the vegan festival, to my fall off the hood of the van, to our building up a long-distance relationship. The only thing I don't reveal is his real name, being careful to use his stage name whenever I need to use a name at all. She believes me, because, like I just said, I'm a terrible liar. She knows that better than anybody. She also knows about the fiasco with Devon, and why, therefore, I'm gun-shy about any kind of public exposure. So she knows I would never make up a story about getting involved with a celebrity.

Understandably, she's hurt that I've kept all this from her for so long. I apologize profusely, we embrace, then I tell her that I wasn't going to tell her and Joe because of how Tony has pulled back the past couple of weeks.

"And," I add with a sigh, "I think that would be best, anyway."

Marilyn stares at me.

"What?"

Now, it's her turn to sigh. She gets to her feet. "Joe's had his thirty minutes." Her tone is clipped. "Let's go back before my mascara starts streaking down my face."

I stand up and grab her arm. "Marilyn, _what_?"

She yanks her arm away. Whoa. "Marilyn, I said I was –"

She whirls around to face me. "It's not about my feelings being hurt. It's about..." Another sigh. "You need to talk to Joe."

I was going to tell him, anyway. But I'm upset that Marilyn's upset, and I don't want to make a scene in public. So I trail behind her in silence until we get back to my apartment. There, the three of us sit down in my small living room again, them on the loveseat, me in the rocking chair. I give Joe the summarized, to-the-point version of my strange life for the past two months. It should be easier the second time around. I've known Joe all my life. I trust him. But as I give my second recounting of the story, my heart crawls out of my chest and lays itself on the floor. I've never felt so vulnerable.

It's not because of Joe's reactions. They range from a raised eyebrow, to, "What? You're kidding me!" Most of the time, however, he just listens.

I think what's happening is when I told the story to Marilyn, I was unburdening myself. While I felt guilty that she was going to be unhappy that I'd kept a critical part of my life from her, I felt more relieved that I was no longer going to have to carry the gorilla around with me. But now as I talk, the story becomes...well, not a story. Reality. I can almost sense Tony's presence, like I haven't been able to fully do since that meal in that posh hotel suite, not even during our Skype calls.

The truth that I've been trying to ignore for the past several weeks is seeping out of my exposed heart, filling the space around me like the aroma from freshly-baked bread: Julio Estrella is pursuing me. Might be falling in love with me.

And Tony's invisible presence is daring me – _willing_ me – to reciprocate.

The room suddenly seems short of oxygen.

Also, Marilyn starts shifting her weight on the cushion and twisting her hands together in a restless manner I've never seen her display. Maybe picking up on my own agitation?

I find out differently when I finish with, "...but he hasn't hardly talked to me in the past two weeks, so I don't think it's going anywhere." She starts shaking her head so hard a strand of her perfectly coiffed hair jumps out of place.

She turns to Joe, putting a hand on his arm. "You need to tell her that not all men are like Devon." Her otherwise calm voice has an unusual strain to it.

At the mention of my ex's name, a tsunami of emotions slams up against my soul. Anger that she brought him up, humiliation over what he did, fear about what he almost did. And, frustration that she thinks her relationship with Joe is or could ever remotely be like my relationship with Tony. Because when she says "all men," she's talking about my cousin.

I start to open my mouth to speak to that point, but Joe raises his hand to me, then lays it on Marilyn's thigh. "Honey, I'm not famous." He slants a glance toward me before turning back to his wife. "She knows there are plenty of nice guys like me in the world, but that's not the point here, is it, Rachel?"

Wow. He knows me better than I thought he did. I push myself up out of the rocking chair I'm sitting in, lean over his face, and give him a sound kiss on the cheek. "I love you, you know that, right?"

He chuckles. "You might not love me so much when I'm finished."

I twist my lips. Okay, so he's maybe not going to side with me. But, I'm the one who opened this can of worms, so I'm going to practice my adulting skills and hear what my two-years-wiser cousin has to say. I sit back down on the rocking chair, perching on its edge.

Joe folds his hands behind his head, keeping his gaze on me. "You said you were attracted to him before you knew who he was."

I nod.

"And that he said he not only returned the attraction, but also felt a special connection to you."

Leave it to a lawyer to lay out all the facts. I nod again.

"You didn't say if your feelings have grown during the past few weeks?" He glances at Marilyn, as if she might know something that he doesn't.

Which, of course, she does. Without so much as a glance my way, she answers, "She told me in the park that she was starting to feel closer to him."

Joe raises an eyebrow at me. "In a romantic way?"

I roll my lips together. Take a long inhale through my nose. Nod.

His expression remains serious, but his eyes twinkle amusement. Like, he knows his lawyerly questioning is getting on my last nerve. Which it is.

"Do you have evidence to substantiate your belief that he's lost interest in you? And," he adds quickly, straightening up, "I'm not counting his recent lack of communication. He's a busy man. And even if he weren't a celebrity, life happens."

I lean back in the chair, folding my arms across my torso. "I thought only judges asked for evidence."

Marilyn elbows him and giggles. Joe gives me a mock frown. "Pretend it's forty years in the future."

I raise my brow and almost ask him if he really has designs to be a judge one day, but I want to finish this soul-searing conversation. So I just answer the question. "No. If you're not going to count that, which any woman, for your information, would – right, Marilyn? – no, I have no other evidence."

"Have you asked him why he's been _incommunicado_?"

Pressing my arms closer to myself, I squeeze my eyes shut. "I haven't wanted to." My voice comes out small.

"Because you're afraid."

This from Marilyn. Her tone is back to its usual gentleness. I open my eyes with a sigh, let my hands slide into my lap. My gaze follows them and stays there.

"Rachel," Joe says. "Is there something we should know about Julio Estrella? Why being associated with him would be scary?"

The question jars me, and I look up at him. "That...that's a good question." Probably the worst that could happen is that one of those fake reporters would try to tell the world that we're sleeping together. In that case, Danita could simply tell the world via social media the truth.

Still, the idea of the entire world knowing about my existence incites a strange feeling in my belly. I've always wanted to live a quiet life. But what if Tony has – or is going to have, one day – the kind of love for me to sustain a relationship long-term? Mightn't it be worth the risk to accept it? Unlike Marilyn, I don't believe in soul mates, or that God has chosen one specific man for me. But I have heard stories of people who missed out on love because of fear, or bitterness, or laser-focus on a career, and lived to regret it.

I don't want to be one of those people.

And with that, I make a decision. I'm going to call Tony and ask him right up front what's going on. And, if he's not in the process of ditching me, I'm going to open my heart to him. See where it goes.

I tell Joe and Marilyn as much. They leave late that evening, when it will be very early morning in Spain, so I decide to hold off on calling Tony until the next morning.

The time arrives, I eat breakfast, and I've just started working up the nerve to call him when someone knocks on my door.

"You have been served," the someone says after handing me a large envelope. Then he turns around and leaves.

My stomach falls to the floor. I open the envelope to find a court-ordered command for me to appear in court at a civil proceeding, Estrella vs. Kratky, as a witness. For what feels like a long time, I'm glued to the spot where I stand. My entire body has gone numb.

When Tony almost got charged with assault, did he suspect this lawsuit might happen? And, knowing I would be a key witness, did he create this whole charade of interest in me so that I would do his lawyer's bidding in court?

Have I been played?

Images from the vegan festival, from the drive with Danita from here to Indianapolis, from the lunch at Tony's hotel suite, images that implore me to believe the best of him, of that family, surge into my mind. Just as forcefully, I push them down, and the numbness sloughs off like a snake shedding its skin.

My gut churns with anger. I've been duped before by a charming, good-looking man. Trusted when I shouldn't have. It's not out of the realm of possibility, even probability, that it's happened again.

Ten minutes, and several decisions later, my phone rings.

Tony.

I let it go to voice mail. Listen to his message.

His lawyer is going to have me subpoenaed to appear at his trial. He's sorry I got dragged into it. Please call him so we can talk about it.

Too little, too late.

My heart tucked safely back inside my chest, I proceed to rebuild the walls around it that I never should have allowed to dissolve. I'll talk to Tony's lawyer. Do what I need to do so I won't be thrown in jail for contempt.

But I've learned my lesson. An owner of a lonely heart is better than an owner of a broken heart. Too bad I didn't learn it the first time.

I'll talk to the lawyers, I'll talk to the judge and jury. I'll do the right thing.

But, Tony? He can talk to the hand.

# Chapter Ten: Tony.

## A few days later.

If my bed were a tile floor, my phone would have cracked from the force with which I throw it onto the mattress. For the past five days, I have called Rachel several times a day at times when the United States would have been in daylight. For the past two, when I've called I've heard a message telling me that she hasn't set up her voice mail.

A brief Internet search confirmed my fear: she has blocked my number.

My e-mail messages to her have been returned to me since three days ago, she's ignored the few times I've tried to contact her from her blog, and my comments on her blog posts no longer show up.

I undress and get into bed, slamming the phone unnecessarily hard onto the top of the nightstand, but sleep is a long time in coming. I meant to warn her of the impending subpoena well in advance of her receiving it, but my American lawyer, Richard Denton, had it delivered to her a week earlier than he'd originally told me he was going to have it delivered.

I want to explain the mix-up to Rachel, tell her I'm sorry, tell her that we can even withdraw her from the trial if she doesn't want to participate, but how can I when she's cut off all communication with me?

I lift my head up slightly, fluff the pillow, turn onto my side. As if changing positions is going to stop the constant stream of thoughts and images flooding my mind. Images such as Rachel on my computer screen during our last Skype call, smiling and laughing when I told her the story of when I was playing outside a café in my early, pre-fame days and someone's Irish Setter came up to me and began howling along when I sang. When I stopped and was only playing my guitar, she would stop howling, but when I began singing again, she would start howling.

Ironically, that evening I'd made the most money I ever had from a café gig. Most of the audience had found it hilarious.

The next image of Rachel is a face full of sorrow. On that same call she'd told me about how her older brother, Nick, had died from alcohol poisoning as a freshman in college. He'd only ever drunk small amounts of alcohol before, but as part of an initiation into a fraternity he was challenged to drink an entire bottle of wine as quickly as he could.

She told me the story to explain why she doesn't touch alcohol, hinting that she wouldn't shudder so much at the thought of the European custom of drinking wine with meals if only it were the low-alcohol kind. Though I drink only one glass per day, the next day I had Danita buy a few bottles of non-alcoholic wine, and have only drunk it since.

Whatever her mood, whatever the expression on her face, each picture of Rachel that forms in my head makes my heart swell. My mother told me I need to slow down, that she doesn't want to see my heart broken again. I'd assured her that this time, it was real, and would all work out.

Now, I'm not so sure.

I understand that Rachel would be angry, receiving a subpoena out of nowhere. I understand that she doesn't want to end up on the cover of a magazine as Julio Estrella's latest mistress. But I've already told her that the tabloids have learned not to mess with my private life. And being associated with me only as a witness in the lawsuit will probably bring her a bit more than fifteen minutes of fame, but a couple weeks afterward the world will have forgotten her name and her face.

She's far from being the only anti-spotlight person in the world who has had to deal with the brightness of temporary fame. She must know that. So her behavior, her shutting me out, frustrates me. More, distresses me. Because I really believed she was the one. And if she is, and she eventually lets me back into her life, how will her fear impact our relationship going forward? Will it lead to more and more tension between us? Lead to her giving me an ultimatum?

I finally doze off around two a.m., feeling like I didn't get a single wink of sleep when I wake up at eight.

I must look it, too, because when I walk into the studio later that day Edgar greets me with, " _Hombre_ , you look terrible."

" _Gracias_ ," is my dry reply as I start opening my guitar case.

He puts an arm around my shoulder. "You know, the guys and I were talking, and, well, we could all afford to take a week off if you need some time." He winks at me. "This lawsuit isn't doing anything for your good looks."

The offer is tempting. Normally, when I'm under the amount of stress this situation is causing, I'll take all the alone time I can get. But I need a distraction from Rachel. And though every love song I play and sing puts her into my mind, when I'm with my band I'm forced to concentrate on them, to "talk shop" with them, as Americans say. As it is, the few hours I'm spending at home every day are driving me crazy.

I stretch my lips into a small smile. "Thank you, but no. Jamming with my friends helps me keep my mind off the whole fiasco."

Of course, none of them know about Rachel. Yet. So I can't tell them the real reason for my sleeplessness.

Back when I first got a recording contract, I considered buying a house with enough space to have a recording studio. And figuring out and recording the guitar and keyboard parts myself, only bringing in a drummer, and using a band only for live performances. A lot of solo artists have done that, and still do it. But at times like these, I'm glad I decided not to produce music that way. I don't make quite as much money as I could, but having to write music and record with other musicians gives me just the right amount of human contact I need to not feel alone and isolated.

All that, plus the fact that I have no idea how many days the lawsuit is going to force me away from my work. I have deadlines and commitments. So I want to do what I can before I'm forced to return to the U. S.

Our session goes well considering my lack of sleep, but as we come to a stopping point I start to wonder whether I should bother trying to contact Rachel one more time. I might have debated with myself about it all the way home, except a few minutes into my drive I receive a text from Danita. _This is not good_ , it says, followed by a link to some website.

My stomach drops. It has to be some kind of gossip. If it was related to the business, Danita would come right out and tell me what was going on, who I had to call and by when. And if it was the regular kind of gossip, such as Julio Estrella being seen having an intimate conversation in a restaurant with so-and-so celebrity, Danita wouldn't even give it a second look. So it must be serious.

My first thought is that the family who is suing me have conjured up more crazy accusations and decided to tell the media about them. If they have, they are in for a counter-suit.

My next idea crashes into that one, sending it flying. My chest squeezes as my heart starts pounding. I hope like I've never hoped before that I'm wrong.

I want to pull over and click on the link right now, but if I do someone could get close enough to my car to look through my window and recognize me. So I wait until I'm out of the city limits before finding an unpopulated place to pull over. By then, the not knowing is pushing down on me like a two-ton weight.

I pick up my phone and tap the link. A web page loads. I groan. My stomach clenches as my fear manifests itself in front of my eyes.

It's a photo that, by the look of the page, is the latest front cover of an American gossip magazine. The photo is actually two pictures pasted into one. The first is of me with Rachel in my arms, her face turned against my chest. The second is of the back of Rachel, walking inside what looks to be the hotel where I stayed when Danita took me to that vegan festival.

That photo sends a chill down my spine. Whoever took the picture had followed us from the festival and into the hotel where I took Rachel after she fell. Randy had assured me that no one had followed us. And no one had appeared to see us enter the back of the hotel.

For all my caution, I failed to keep my location a secret.

But that's not the worst of it. While probably no one Rachel knows would recognize her in either photo, she will see it. And she will see the headline.

_Is Julio Estrella sleeping with the key witness for his upcoming trial_?

And she won't want anything more to do with me, ever.

Tossing the phone back onto the seat, I bow my face into both hands to muffle the cry that begins in my gut, wrenches up into my throat, and bursts out of my mouth. Because if I'm right about how she will react to this, I will be miserable for the rest of my life.

Because in that moment, I know. I _know_.

The intense protectiveness I felt for her as I'd carried her into the rental van that day, the joy and warmth that spread through me when she agreed to give us a try a few days later, the ache in both my arms and my heart every time I've called her, the connection between us that has felt stronger with every communication...all the feelings and memories swell inside me until there is room for no other thought but one.

I love Rachel Polowsky. And there will never be another woman for me.

# Chapter Eleven: Rachel.

"Girl, you feelin' all right? You don't look so good." Jackie, one of the assistant managers of the health food store where I'm setting up for a demonstration, leans her mocha-toned face down to me with a frown.

I give her a weary smile. "I'll be fine," is all I'm willing to say.

Though I'm well-acquainted with Jackie after having done several demonstrations in this store in Cleveland during the past couple of years, I'm not about to tell her why I'm so upset. _I'm_ not even sure why I'm upset. I mean, in the beginning, I'd hoped Tony's interest in me would just fade away and I could return to real life. My single life. My single, _simple_ life. And now I've found a perfect reason to ditch him, a reason he should understand.

So, I shouldn't be upset. My heart shouldn't feel like it's slowly tearing in two. My lungs shouldn't contract every time I think of him. It makes no sense. We've only known each other a couple of months, and for those two months we've only seen each other live and in person twice, at the beginning. A few phone calls during the week and some e-mail exchanges shouldn't result in growing feelings or an ever-strengthening bond.

Or so I keep telling myself. And every time, a voice at the back of my head reminds my inner skeptic of all the people who have fallen in love simply by exchanging e-mails for a few months.

Jackie straightens, but her frown deepens. "You got man troubles?" she whispers.

Good thing I have blenders to unpack. It gives me a reason to suddenly bend over to hide my tell-tale blush. I forage around in my brain for a response that wouldn't be a lie. Because remember, I can't lie.

I grab a personal-sized blender at the same time my mind snags onto a truthful response that could vaguely represent the whole surprise subpoena debacle. "A friend kind of betrayed me." I stand up and set the blender down, slanting a swift glance toward Jackie before reaching down for another appliance.

"Girl." She stretches out the word, giving a sympathetic click at the end of it. "I hear ya there. I get it."

For a few seconds I'm afraid she's going to hang around and dig for details. But then a store associate approaches her with a question, and Jackie excuses herself and walks off with the other woman.

I breathe a sigh of relief. And when she doesn't broach the topic again the few times she comes by in the next couple of hours to see if I need anything, I breathe a prayer of thanks. It's the one prayer I manage these days. Occasionally.

Still, by lunchtime I feel like I've swallowed a boulder. I can't pour my smoothie samples into those tiny cups without remembering the day I met Tony. Recalling the feel of his skin brushing mine. Which immediately reminds me of the wonderful feeling of his arms around me after my fall, and the tender embrace we shared when we last parted ways.

And when I relive all those wonderful sensations, I remember the subpoena. And the anger over it stirs up all over again. The conflicting emotions tangle into a hard knot in my gut, until I not only don't want to look at another smoothie, but also can't bear the thought of putting a single bite of food into my mouth.

But I'm supposed to take an hour for lunch, per company regulations, so at one o'clock I alert Jackie. She finds an associate to keep an eye on my merchandise, and I head into the back of the store where the employee break room is.

Some days, I'll use the time to exercise. But it's chilly out today and I don't feel like driving to the mall. I have my Kindle in the same canvas bag that contains romaine lettuce leaves, almond butter, and cucumber slices. The way I'm feeling, I'll probably just nibble at a cucumber slice spread with a little bit of the nut butter while I read. If the boulder in my belly dissolves later, I can always sneak some smoothie or a few extra cucumber "sandwiches" while I hock my wares.

The saving grace of the cluttered break room is that it's warmer than the rest of the store. So before sitting down, I shed the blazer I've been wearing over my sweater all morning, hanging it on the back of the chair.

Two store associates are seated at the other end of the six-foot long table. The middle-aged man and younger woman give me polite smiles when I walk in, but return to a rather animated conversation about the upcoming football season as I sit down. There's one place where Tony and I part ways. Like a proper Spaniard, he's an avid soccer fan. I couldn't care less about sports, not even the all-American baseball. Then I realize I never asked him if he follows American sports at all. Which is odd, because after two months, shouldn't that question have come up? I knew about Devon's obsession with basketball by our second date.

I give my head a quick shake. What am I doing, thinking about Devon? For that matter, why am I continuing to think about Tony? At this rate, I won't eat for the next three days.

In fact, in that moment I decide to ignore my lunch as fully as the health food store employees are ignoring me, and just try to immerse myself in a good book. I read plenty of fiction, but this one is a motivational book about how to make money with your passion without losing your passion for your passion. I heard an Internet business podcaster recommend it, and thought I should give it a try. I don't want to end up burned out from teaching others about healthy and natural living just because I'm trying to turn it into a full-time income.

But no matter how hard I try to concentrate, the words on the screen refuse to penetrate my brain. I've been sitting there for about ten minutes, struggling against errant thoughts about Tony, when the two employees leave. No one else has come in, so my gaze idly strays to a magazine somebody left at the other end of the table.

I do a double take. No. The magazine is too far away for me to clearly make out the face. I'm only seeing what I think I'm seeing because I can't get Tony off my mind.

Nevertheless, my heart starts to beat against my ribs and my mouth turns dry. I get up and move to where the magazine lies. It is. It is what I thought. That same photo of Tony holding me after I fell that circulated the Internet right after it happened.

I could handle that, except for the other picture. And the headline. My stomach turns over. Someone took a picture of me at the hotel? Who...? How...?

Tony lied. He can't keep me safe. He can't. And the headline. I drop into the nearest chair, my breath coming in short gasps. According to Tony's lawyer, subpoenaed witnesses are on public record. I asked. So anyone who wants to, can find out who Julio Estrella's "key witness" is.

The key witness who might be, according to the headline, sharing Julio's bed.

Does Tony know about this? Will he do anything to squash the rumor? Would it matter? Because millions of people are going to see this headline, and many of them wouldn't see a retraction. Or whatever Danita might put out on social media.

People like Jackie. Like the employees who just left this room.

My parents.

The room starts spinning, and I drop my head into my crossed arms on the table. I force deep, slow breaths to quell the nausea. In, out. In, out.

I want to call Tony and scream at him. Tell him this is all his fault. In a weird twist of psychological phenomenon, the idea of hearing his voice sends waves of longing and sorrow through me.

Meaning that I'm weakening. I can't. Can't cave. Can't let myself think that getting back together with him is a good thing. Can't let him think that I'm thinking about him. That I'm wanting him to help me. To do something.

To hold me.

Can't.

No.

Nuh, uh.

If I ever so much as send Tony a text ever again, it will be a miracle.

# Chapter Twelve: Tony.

## Mid-October. Day 1 of the trial.

"Mr. Estrella, would you have settled out of court if you weren't famous?"

"Mr. Estrella, is it true that Pamela Kratky offered to drop the suit in exchange for a night in your bed?"

"Mr. Estrella, is it true that you've been having an affair with that key witness?"

_No_ , _no_ , and _don't I wish_ are the answers that fly into my head as quickly as the rapidfire questions attack me from all sides.

With Danita on my heels, I hurry up the courthouse steps flanked by four bodyguards and six police officers. It takes that many people to protect me from the reporters pressing in as close to our group as they dare, as well as the mob of several hundred fans being barely held back by a flimsy barricade monitored by another half dozen or so police officers.

Apparently, the press conference I held here in Indianapolis yesterday morning wasn't sufficient to satisfy everyone's curiosity. The question about Pamela Kratky, the mother of Crazy Windshield Girl, as Danita and I have come to not-so-affectionately refer to her, comes from a statement Ms. Kratky made on social media. She as much admitted that if she dared extort me in that way, she would.

As is my habit, I refused to answer any questions regarding my love life, other than to provide the answer I always give, regardless of the circumstances: my private life is private, and I do my best to keep it that way. Even if my love life has gone into hibernation.

My chest squeezes. Of course, my being involved with my key witness wouldn't look good to any judge or jury, so I suppose it's just as well that Rachel cut off all communication with me back in August when she was served her subpoena.

And then when that tabloid came out with that article, that photo on the cover...Danita did the best she could to crush the rumor, and I even made a video with my lawyer where I denied the rumor and he announced that the magazine would be in for a lawsuit unless they wrote a retraction. Since Rachel wasn't accepting any communication from me, I asked Richard to call her on my behalf and tell her that I desperately wanted to talk to her about the situation, that I was doing what I could to make things right.

He told me that she'd told him that there was nothing to talk about, and hung up.

And my heart had shattered.

The only glimmer of hope I have for our relationship is that she has taken every single call from Richard Denton and showed up on time for his meeting with her last month. "Cold but cooperative" was how he described her after that meeting. And when he asked her, reluctantly but per my request, if she wanted him to withdraw her from the trial, she stated that she was willing to do her part to see justice served, as long as she could get as much protection from the paparazzi as possible at the trial.

That last bit had been directed toward me, and the day she's scheduled to show up at court, I'll make sure she arrives and leaves the courthouse as _incognito_ as possible. Danita has it all arranged already. I may even have a chance to explain the mix-up, to apologize for everything, to beg for another chance.

Because as urgently as I need her testimony for this trial, I more urgently want her back in my life. The past six weeks have been the most miserable I've ever experienced. We've had to postpone tour dates, cancel band rehearsals, deal with a never-ending flood of legal meetings and media phone calls.

But none of those things have compared to the hollow ache in the middle of my chest. Six weeks without so much as a one-word text from the woman I know, without a doubt, is my soul mate.

**********

"Ladies and gentlemen, this courtroom will remain peaceful and in order. If it does not, I will clear it and keep it cleared for the remainder of the trial." The gray-haired judge glares around the space packed with a mix of paparazzi and fans, and what few voices were still audible when the bailiff asked everyone to rise have fallen silent. "Young people, Mr. Estrella is not here to sign autographs, provide photo opportunities, or to acquire your Instagram handle. Anyone found harassing the defendant in such a manner will be dismissed from this courtroom and not allowed back in for the endurance of this trial."

I let out a breath. At least the judge has some sympathy for my situation.

She lowers her glasses down her nose, her frown deepening as her glare seems to pinpoint someone in the back. "Neither is he here to give interviews or provide fodder for whatever sensationalist gossip magazine or website you might run." She points a long, manicured finger toward the rows of people seated behind me and my lawyer. "And if at any point in the future, near or far, I am made aware of any website or print articles, or social media posts, that defame me, the plaintiff, the defendant, the bailiff, the recorder, anyone at all involved in this trial, regarding this trial, be advised that this court will consider any such publication as contempt and the initiator of such ill-conceived garbage will pay his or her dues."

Tension crackles on all sides as Judge Stoner sweeps her glare around the room. It lands finally on James Snyder, the attorney for the plaintiff. Her long, crooked finger goes out again. "And you, Mr. Snyder. Behave yourself."

I exchange a glance with Richard, biting my cheek to prevent a smile. Richard has informed me that Snyder has a reputation for taking on borderline frivolous cases, as well as making underhanded attempts to improve his chances of winning. I slant my eyes toward Snyder to see if he's squirming. He's sitting perfectly still with a placid smile on his face. He's also blocking my view of Windshield Girl, A.K.A. Patricia Kratky, but I wonder how she feels about having her lawyer admonished before the trial has even begun. Then again, she's only sixteen, and if she inherited her parents' genes for intelligence, she may not have enough brain cells to realize the implication of the judge's warning.

Guilt pricks my conscience. Being only sixteen years old, more likely than not she's a mere pawn for her parents' greed in this case. I shouldn't hold their sins against her.

Richard and Snyder give their opening statements. Here, Snyder already has me struggling to maintain the calm demeanor Richard instructed me to hold no matter what is said, with Snyder's subtle implications that I am no better than a common criminal.

It gets worse when he begins to call witnesses, the first one being a girl in her late teens who allegedly witnessed me getting out of the van to help Rachel. I've heard of people being unable to remember details of a crime, but her story is ridiculous. A complete and utter lie. She claims that I pulled Patricia off the hood of the van and when she grabbed at me, I pulled one of her hands backward until I broke a finger. She stammers as she speaks, keeping her eyes riveted to Snyder's feet and sounding like she's about to burst into tears any second.

But I feel no sympathy. Instead, horror streaks down my spine even as anger burns in my gut. I write on Richard's yellow pad, "She is lying." Richard writes back, "I definitely smell a rat."

On the cross-examination, Richard reminds the girl that she could go to jail if it were discovered that she was lying under oath, but that he was sure the court would be lenient if she were willing to make restitution by telling the absolute truth right now.

The wide-eyed look she throws at Snyder tells me all I need to know. Richard's right; the man is a slimeball.

The girl then goes on to backpedal, saying that now that she thinks about it, Julio Estrella was kneeling next to the girl on the ground when Patricia jumped on top of him from the van, knocking him over. Halfway through, the tears start flowing, but she manages not to break down sobbing.

When the judge releases the witness, Snyder, his face pale, requests a recess.

"Request denied," Judge Stoner said, her expression perfectly matching her name. "Call your next witness."

I stifle a laugh. Nothing like knowing that the judge is predisposed to your side of the story. Or, at least, realizes that the opposing attorney is a jerk and is determined to do everything in her power to reduce the impact of his unethical ways.

Snyder shifts his feet, his pale face turning ghostly white. "Your honor, I –"

The judge's eyes flash fire, growing almost wide enough to meet the rim of her glasses. "According to my notes, you had three witnesses to call today. Call. Your. Next. Witness." She sits back with a smirk, looking over the rim of her glasses at him. "Or are you afraid Mr. Denton is going to have to reprimand your next witness, as well?"

Snyder stares at her as whispers spread through the room. He gulps. Then, states a name. A bailiff brings in a college-aged woman, who looks at me apologetically from the stand. A fan, no doubt, who'd rather not be taking the Kratky's side.

Snyder must not be a complete idiot, because he changes his line of questioning. Still, he manages to make the young lady admit that my brief wrestling match with Patricia could have caused her physical damage.

When Snyder says, "No more questions, your honor," the girl's eyebrows pull together. As if she's confused. Wondering why the lawyer hasn't asked a particular question.

Richard counters the young lady's tenuous memory of what happened on the cross-examination with practiced expertise. Ditto for the third witness.

Throughout the fiasco, my fingers itch to pick up my phone and send a text to Rachel. Then I remember that not only am I not supposed to discuss the case with her until after the trial, but also that she has cut me off. The dismaying realization destroys any good feelings I might otherwise have about the extent to which Snyder is messing up his case.

At the end of the day, I'm emotionally exhausted.

"In the ideal world," Richard tells me after nearly everyone else, including Snyder and the Kratkys, have cleared the courtroom, "tomorrow we'll show up only to find out that Snyder has confessed to paying his witnesses to lie, causing the judge to dismiss the case."

I lift my eyebrows, hope stirring for the first time in days. "How likely is that to happen?" As soon as I ask the question, I realize I don't want it to. Because if it does, I won't see Rachel the day after tomorrow.

Richard reassures me with a scoffing sound. "About as likely as a blizzard on a Pacific beach at the equator."

Per the judge's orders, Danita, Richard, and I are escorted out a side exit along with Deshawn and Randy, and the two other local bodyguards who are helping protect me during the day for the duration of the trial. I shake hands with Richard before getting into the Grand Prix. We're halfway between the courthouse and the hotel when my phone buzzes an incoming text. It can't be Danita. She's sitting right next to me. Richard, perhaps? Of course, it could be one of my parents checking in. Danita will no doubt spend an hour or two on the phone tonight, talking to our mother.

I pull the phone out of my pocket. One glance at the sender, and my heart leaps into my throat. But when I open the text, that fragile organ falls to the floorboard of the car.

"Tony, what's wrong?" Danita leans over to look at the screen. With a gasp, her gaze slams into mine. She is as horrified as I am.

I text back, _How_?

The reply comes back not twenty seconds later, _Contact form on my blog_.

Danita snatches my phone, does a quick series of swipes and taps, then puts the phone to her ear. "No, it's Danita. You have Richard Denton's number, _verdad_?" A pause. "Call him right now. Tell him exactly what the e-mail says." She gives me a sideways glance. "And if you can't get a hold of him, call us right back. Call, don't text. _Entiendes_?"

Ending the call, she hands me back my phone, her face twisted in fury. "It looks like the Kratkys are greedier than we thought."

"What's going on?" Deshawn demands from the front seat, twisting around with a frown.

I look at him, worry twisting my gut and creasing my brow. "Someone has threatened to kill Rachel if she testifies."

# Chapter Thirteen: Rachel.

This is _déjà vu_ all over again. Only this time, a cop is driving me from Toledo to Indianapolis. A Cleveland police officer, Leanne Lawton, is Tony's lawyer's cousin. I guess she owed him a favor, which is why she agreed to be my escort to the city. Mr. Denton didn't want me going alone, and he wanted me to leave my apartment A.S.A.P., in case someone was watching me.

So we're racing down the highway in the dark, aiming to get to Indianapolis by ten-thirty or so. I stare unseeing out the window, my heart thudding dully and my stomach churning even though I haven't eaten a thing since my afternoon snack. I want to be angry at Tony about this, but I know none of this would be happening if I'd just gotten in my car as soon as I'd left the building that second day of the VegFest. At least, my part in it wouldn't be happening.

Besides, I'm too scared to be mad. A hundred times in the past two hours, I've thought about calling Joe or Marilyn, but I don't want them to worry. The threat is probably idle, Mr. Denton told me, a ploy either to keep me from telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, or to keep me from showing up at the trial altogether. If the lawyer is right and it turns into nothing, then I would be worrying everybody for no reason.

And no way am I going to tell my parents. My mom would have the National Guard descending upon Indianapolis. Besides, they don't know about Tony.

Thank goodness. Somehow, the world didn't get wind that I was the "key witness" in this trial when that tabloid article came out. Likely as not, Tony threw some money around to convince certain people to be quiet.

Tony. What will I do when I see him? What will I say? My heart is divided, half of it wanting to just get through these next few days as stoically as possible, then move on with my quiet life. The other half chides me that if I do, it will be a heartbroken life. It keeps bringing back all the phone calls, the Skype conversations, the e-mails. Reminding me that Tony and I have gotten to know each other well enough to develop strong feelings for each other, feelings that could, with a few real-life encounters, turn into love.

Tony sent me another text after my reply that the threat had come via e-mail. _I miss you_. I didn't reply back, and he hasn't tried again. I don't want to hash out over the phone what's better hashed out in person.

"What happens when we get there?" I ask Leanne, by "there" meaning whatever hotel she's taking me to.

She gives me a sideways glance. "I'm supposed to check you in under my name, with my credit card, for two nights."

I wince. "I don't have enough cash to –"

She raises her right hand off the steering wheel to stop me. "Rick's going to reimburse me. Don't worry." Putting her hand back on the steering wheel, she continues, "Then I'm supposed to take you to the elevators to meet one of the bodyguards."

When we finally arrive at the hotel, Leanne walks so close to me that our arms brush together, her head making constant movements around as if reconnoitering the area. Which she probably is. A few inches taller than my five-three frame, and with a much more muscular build, she makes me feel as secure as any bodyguard could.

Once inside, she tells me to text Danita that we've arrived.

Danita. My mouth turns dry. I hadn't thought about her being here. Now I have not one, but two, chunks of awkward to face.

I steel myself. I fully expect a Antarctic reception from Danita, and I expect I'll have to put up my own wall of ice to keep Tony at bay. What I don't expect is the way Deshawn's eyes light up when he sees me. A slow, broad smile spreads over his face as Leanne and I approach the elevators, and he meets us halfway, putting a hand on my shoulder and looking down at me with a twinkling gaze. "It's good to see you again, Miss Polowsky. Sho' is."

The knot in my stomach loosens a little. It's a relief to see a familiar face, and his presence might make things a little more comfortable once we get to Tony's room.

I introduce him to Leanne, and Deshawn escorts us up to what turns out to be the kind of luxury suite I'd expected Tony to be staying in the first time I ended up in his hotel room.

Funny. I'm probably the only woman on earth who has been in a hotel room with Julio Estrella, not once, but twice, and both times didn't want to be there.

The last fifteen minutes of the drive, I spent mentally coaching myself to remain calm and distant. To remember that however Tony feels about me now, he can and will get over it. And however I thought I'd felt about him, it's better to forget about it and try to get back to my single, quiet life as soon as I can.

But as soon as the elevator doors open on the floor where Tony is staying, my body becomes anything but calm. My heart starts pounding, my mouth goes dry, and my legs turn to jelly. My hands start to feel shaky, and I inhale five deep breaths to keep the tremors from spreading.

Why did I not tell Tony's lawyer that I didn't want to be a witness?

No, as long as we're time-traveling, why did I go to that stupid vegan festival? I wasn't going to starve without the extra money. Especially since I ended up barely breaking even.

At least, not at first. I haven't been able to figure out if the large purchase that was credited to my name a few weeks later came from the vegan festival or not. Not for sure. But I have a sneaking suspicion about who might have made it.

I'm not sure why I never asked Tony if he was the culprit. Maybe because at first I was angry, thinking that he'd made the purchases because felt sorry for me being in a below-average tax bracket and wanted to "help" me. Then I considered that maybe he was just being romantic. If he was, I wasn't sure if he wanted me to realize that he'd been my biggest customer of all time.

Now, though, the episode could be further confirmation that Tony is a manipulator.

Deshawn waves the keycard over the sensor, the lock clicks, and he turns the knob. I swallow down an unexpected wave of nausea. I come this close to grabbing Deshawn's arm and demanding he let me and Leanne go down to my room. But I remain silent.

When we step inside the room, I don't notice the size or the opulence of the space. Not like Leanne, who gives a low whistle from behind me. I notice Danita glaring at me from the dining table. I look away, not wanting to engage in a cat fight, toward Mr. Denton who is rising up off the sofa, the creases in his forehead doubling with worry. Then I notice a door opposite the sofa, which I assume goes to the bedroom, start to open. I cross my arms and will my heart to slow down.

It doesn't. In fact, when Tony appears from the room, it not only speeds up, but makes a roller coaster swoop to my feet at the same time. Taking a couple steps toward me, he offers me a tentative smile. "Rachel?"

I yank my gaze away from him, turning my attention instead to the lawyer. I do my best to ignore the sensation of my heart crumbling to pieces as I greet Mr. Denton coolly.

"Come, have a seat." He gestures toward the table.

I shake my head. "If this isn't going to take long, I'd just as soon stand."

Out of the corner of my eyes, I see pain crawl across Tony's face, and for a split second, I want to take an acetelyne torch to my steely resolve, run into his arms, and bawl my head off. But I need to break things off between us. And turning into a needy, emotional wreck won't help.

Denton frowns, but says, "Fine," and goes on to ask me to rehash the details of the death threat, then tells everyone that we'll be meeting with the judge early in the morning. "But, Miss Polowsky," he says to me, "my client and I discussed it, and we don't think we'll need your testimony after all."

My jaw drops to the floor. If I was angry at the situation before, now I feel as if I could run up Mt. Everest, tear a boulder from the top of it, and fling it to the ground hard enough to cause a small earthquake. I snap my jaw shut. Then reply through clenched teeth, "I told you I'd do my part to help. And you told me I was your key witness."

I turn to Deshawn, who has been standing near me this entire time. "We'll be in room 215. Come get us when you're ready to go to the courthouse in the morning."

A few minutes later, Leanne and I have gone into our room. Nice, but much smaller than Tony's suite.

Leanne puts a hand on my shoulder. "I know it's not my business, but I think you're crazy."

"Leave me –"

"How long have you two known each other, anyway? He looked like a man with a broken heart."

I take a deep breath and step away from her touch. "Could you give me ten minutes alone, please?"

She stares at me, then nods, her expression turning empathetic, as if sensing my inner turmoil, suspecting I need a few minutes to have a meltdown and I don't want to do it in front of a relative stranger. "I'll be halfway down the hallway. Open the door and wave at me when you're ready for me to come back."

She leaves. The door clicks shut.

And I throw myself face down onto the nearest bed and burst into gut-wrenching sobs.

# Chapter Fourteen: Tony.

## Day 2 of the trial.

Danita and I say little to each other the next morning as we get ready to return to the courthouse. We said all that needs to be said up to this point last night.

Once everyone had cleared out of our suite, I sank next to Danita on the sofa and leaned my head against her shoulder, something I haven't done since I was around fourteen. "How can a man who's famous for his romantic songs be such a complete failure in love?"

Danita had clucked sympathetically, patting my thigh. "I guess we were both wrong about her." She said this because about a week before Denton subpoenaed Rachel, she told me that answer to prayer or not, she'd started thinking that I may have finally found my true love.

Soon after, we both went to bed, though sleep was a long time coming for me. I prayed, and I thought about Rachel, and I tossed and turned, and prayed some more. If Snyder calls me to the stand today, I can only hope I can clear my foggy brain long enough to provide coherent and accurate answers.

Leanne and Rachel follow us to the courthouse, and park next to us in the parking garage. Since we're here early, I can pretend like I'm a normal person and enter as most people do, rather than being dropped off in the front of the building so my escorts can easily meet me.

Despite the gut-searing stonewalling Rachel gave me last night, I watch the passenger side door of Leanne's car. And when a long-haired redhead comes out, wearing glasses and a thick layer of makeup, I step back in surprise.

"For someone who doesn't wear makeup," Danita says quietly into my ear, "she sure is good at using it to change her appearance."

I glance at Danita, my eyebrows pulling down. "What?" Then understanding dawns, and I look back at the apparent stranger who is now staring back at me from just a meter away. "Rachel?"

Her mouth twists up slightly. "Do I look different?"

I dare to take a step forward. "I wouldn't have recognized you if Danita hadn't said anything."

Relief splashes over her face, and she shifts her gaze to Deshawn. "Good. If you can't recognize me, nobody else will."

Her unwillingness to hold eye contact with me hurts, but I don't say anything. At least she's willing to be civil to my bodyguards.

"I sho' didn't recognize you. No, ma'am." Deshawn chuckles.

Or, maybe I should be jealous the two are getting along so well. Except I don't have the energy, and I know Deshawn is only trying to put her at ease. Heaven knows none of the rest of us can do that right now.

Another couple of minutes and a bailiff is ushering us into the courtroom, then into Judge Stoner's chambers.

"Thank you all for being on time." The judge, seated behind her desk in her chambers, gestures to the three chairs in front of it. "I'm sorry for the limited seating arrangement." Her mouth quirks upward slightly, probably the closest thing she comes to a smile when she's on the job. "I usually don't entertain such a crowd in here."

Richard insists that I sit in the third chair after Rachel and Danita are seated. He stands next to me, with Deshawn and Randy stationing themselves in front of the closed door. I'm not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved when Danita ends up between me and Rachel. Probably relieved. I don't need any distractions right now. Being in the same room with her is distraction enough.

Removing her glasses, the judge nods toward Rachel. "I take it you are the witness for the defense who received the death threat?"

Rachel nods, a long strand from the wig falling into her face.

"Counselor," the judge continues, turning to Richard, "it seems to me there's an easy way to assure this young lady's safety."

I marvel at Richard's ability to meet the hard, narrowed gaze without flinching. He nods. "Withdraw her from the trial."

"No." The word explodes from Rachel's mouth. We all turn to look at her. The judge starts to say something, but Rachel isn't finished. "Mr. Denton gave me an out a month ago, even though he said my testimony would help the case a lot. I didn't quit then, and I'm not about to quit now. Not after all I've gone through."

The silence that follows is thick enough to pluck. Sitting back in her chair, Judge Stoner puts her glasses back on. "I see." Another deafening pause. "Miss Polowsky, allow me to remind you that this is a civil case, not a criminal one. No one is at risk of spending time in prison, or losing his livelihood. Furthermore, I think the defense would readily confirm my belief that based on what happened yesterday in my courtroom, Mr. Estrella has a high chance of walking away without losing a single penny."

Rachel sighs. "I know, but –"

The judge leans forward, thrusting out her finger. "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. You are now officially being withdrawn from this trial. I am not willing to risk your safety for any reason."

Rachel bites her lips and looks down. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry."

"And I apologize, Counselor," the judge says, her expression softening slightly as she looks at Richard, "for going over your head in this."

Richard nods. "Understood, your honor. I appreciate you looking out for those involved in our case."

The judge turns back to Rachel. "Miss Polowsky, is it possible for you to take a few days off your job?"

"I don't really have to," Rachel replies. "Unless my company sends me to an event, all my work is done from home." She frowns. "Why?"

"Unless you live in a gated community, or a secure apartment building," the judge says, "I believe it would be in your best interest to stay here until the trial is over. Since we can't be sure the person who threatened you doesn't know where you live."

Rachel opens her mouth. Then, apparently remembering the dressing-down Judge Stoner just gave her, snaps it shut. The idea that the threat was more than idle, the image of Rachel alone in her apartment, vulnerable to attack, sends a trickle of fear down my spine.

I like the judge more with each passing minute.

When she turns to me, I stiffen even as I try to sit up a little straighter. "Mr. Estrella, I am under the impression that you and your security detail have become quite adroit at avoiding paparazzi and unwanted crowds?" Her mouth twitches, and she waves a hand. "Except, of course, when you park your rental in full daylight at a busy outdoor festival." She raises an eyebrow. "I'm assuming that was a rare exception?"

The tension in my shoulder eases. Who knew this woman had a sense of humor? "Yes, your honor. To both questions."

"And you have a good relationship with your bodyguards?" She flicks her gaze toward the men at the door. "You know them? Trust them?"

"Absolutely."

She cants her head toward Rachel. "Then, keep Miss Polowsky under your guard."

My eyes widen. "I...if I don't have..."

Judge Stoner waves my protest off. "I'll acquire two bailiffs or other police officers to stay with you at all times."

"With all due respect," I glance at Richard, silently pleading for help, "bodyguards have special training. They know –"

The judge scorches me with her gaze. "Mr. Estrella, you will be in the courthouse all day, and you have made special arrangements to enter and exit this place to prevent being seen by the general public, am I not correct?"

Or, maybe I don't like her so much. I sigh. "Yes, that is correct."

The judge looks at Rachel again. "Then have your bodyguards stay at her lodgings with her. They can come back to pick you up in the evening, as long as Miss Polowsky can ensure me that she'll remain locked in a hotel room during those few minutes."

Rachel nods, but she does not look happy.

The judge scans the room. "I don't suppose I need to insist that if any one of you encounters any sort of suspicious behavior related to this trial, you immediately report it to me?"

A wave of agreement rolls through the room.

She nails Richard with her gaze. "Expect to be called back in here with Snaky Snyder before today's session commences."

I can't help it; I chuckle. Even Rachel giggles. I look toward Richard, and his left eyebrow is hiked up to his receding hairline.

"Oops." Judge Stoner puts a hand delicately to her mouth, as though she's at a British tea party. "Did I say that out loud?"

Richard clears his throat. "Excuse me, Judge Stoner? I didn't hear anything."

I wink at Rachel. I think under all that makeup, a blush forms as she smiles at me. I take it as an olive branch. Hope that she'll be willing to talk to me tonight.

"Well, I certainly won't repeat it," the judge says, her lips twitching.

Once she has dismissed us, we shuffle out into the courtroom in silence. I move to stand next to Rachel, and when she glances at me and gifts me with another shy smile, I dare to put an arm around her shoulder while Danita wonders aloud why Randy couldn't stay with me at the courthouse, and Deshawn with Rachel at the hotel. That way, I'd have one trained bodyguard, and he's probably all I need if I'm not going to be moving about outside of the courthouse.

Rachel stiffens. Because of my touch, or because of being reminded that the judge has basically sequestered her, I'm not sure. Just in case, I slide my arm off her shoulders. I have to trust God that she'll come back to me, remind myself that pushing her will only push her away.

A brief discussion later, Deshawn is escorting Rachel out of the courtroom. I wait for her to look back at me. And wait. To no avail. The door closes, and she is gone.

I've never felt so empty.

# Chapter Fifteen: Rachel.

I stand by the window, peering out onto the surrounding tall buildings whose columns of windows reflect the late morning sun, and wishing I dared take a walk in the pleasant autumn day. Marilyn has texted me twice already this morning, telling me to call her if I need a shoulder to scream on before my day on the witness stand. If only she knew. But I don't tell her where I am, what I'm doing. If I did, then I'd have to tell her why.

Well, I can call her without revealing the whole truth to her. With a glance toward Deshawn, who is seated at the table, I slip into the bedroom and close the door.

"Girl, I was starting to worry," is how Marilyn answers my call.

"Don't call me 'girl.' And you're as bad as my mother."

A pause. I know the question that's coming before she asks it. "Have you told your mom yet?"

Easing down onto the bed, I sigh. "I told you I wasn't going to. She doesn't read celebrity magazines or the newspaper. And I seriously doubt my name is going to show up on the headlines in any online news site."

"Why not? If you're _the_ witness the lawyer thinks will clinch his case," Marilyn says.

Closing my eyes, I take in a deep, quiet breath. As we all know, I'm a terrible liar, and keeping a secret like this is a close relative to lying. I will myself not to argue with her.

Change the subject, that's what I need to do. "Speaking of lawsuits, did Joe ever finish the one with that lady and her terrier?"

"They settled out of court, and you're changing the subject."

Busted. "Mom and Dad will know what they need to know when they need to know it."

"Fair enough." Her voice softens. "How are you doing, really, Rachel? You know I'm happy to be your shoulder to cry on."

I can be truthful now. "I'm scared." She's going to misunderstand that confession, think it's about getting up on the witness stand, and that's okay with me.

"I know." Another pause. "I still say you should give Julio the benefit of the doubt."

I roll my eyes. Twice in the past six weeks, Marilyn has gently but firmly told me that I was jumping to conclusions about Tony's motives for showing interest in me. In her opinion, I'm throwing a good thing away.

"I might be rethinking things." This, too, is true. I couldn't be in the same room with him last night, or so close to him this morning, and not feel his care and concern for me. I couldn't hold onto a single shadow of a doubt regarding his integrity.

I've concluded that his interest in me has been pure and genuine, not at all related to the incident in June.

"Oh, you are?" Excitement oozes out of Marilyn's voice. "Oh, I'm so glad to hear it!"

"Marilyn, I just mean I admit he didn't have an ulterior motive for...getting to know me better." I get up off the bed and start pacing. "The fact remains that he's famous. Which means that if I hook up with him, chances are good I will be, too."

"That doesn't mean you'll get hurt."

"It doesn't mean I won't! I'm sorry," I add, instantly guilty for raising my voice.

The ensuing pause goes on so long, I'm afraid she's hung up. But then she says, in her quiet, sweet way, "I wish I could help you with...that."

With the whole Devon thing, she means. Another subject that needs to be changed. "I really don't want to go there right now."

She sighs. "Maybe for Julio's sake, you _need_ to go there."

"Marilyn..." I draw her name out in a warning tone.

"Okay, okay." She abruptly starts telling me about this cute outfit she just bought from Kohl's, I feign enthusiasm, and we end the conversation shortly thereafter with me promising Marilyn that I'll call either her or Joe if I need anything, anything at all.

I step out of the bedroom, intending to sit down at the desk and get some work done on my online business, but Deshawn surprises me with, "Miss Rachel, you don't care nothin' about money, do you?"

Lifting my eyebrows, I snap my gaze over to him. "Well," I answer slowly, "I like to eat. And have a roof over my head."

Deshawn has been holding a Kindle in his hands. Now he sets it down and shifts in his chair to face me. "I mean, Tony gave you _carte blanche_ to order room service, or ask me to take you anywhere, and any other girl – sorry, _woman_ – would be lyin' on the bed, sipping champagne and eating...I dunno. Whatever fancy stuff they serve in that restaurant downstairs. Or demanding that I take her to the mall. Use Tony's cash to pay for her purchases."

I sit down at the desk chair and smirk at him. "Are you saying I'm weird?" He opens his mouth, but I point my finger at him and add, "Because I _am_ , and don't you forget it."

He pulls his head back. Frowns at me. Then, chuckles. "If weird means you got good values, then you go on wi' cho' bad self."

I smile at him, then turn to my laptop and open it. If my dad knew I was sitting in a high-class hotel suite with a huge man I barely knew, he'd throw a fit. But in his mid forties, Deshawn almost feels like a father figure. Or a doting uncle. And he has a kind heart. He can look pretty scary when he's being a serious bodyguard, but it doesn't take long being around him to sense that he's a good guy.

"You know, that's one reason Tony likes you. You not after his money."

I yank my gaze back to Deshawn. Does he know about the long-distance thing Tony and I have been doing? I force my voice to stay calm. "What makes you think he likes me?"

He guffaws, slapping his knee. "Girl, any fool can tell both of y'all like each other. From the day he brung ya back to the hotel after you fell and hit your head."

So, maybe he doesn't know about our doomed romance.

He leans forward and squints. "Come on, you gonna admit you like him?"

"No." I turn back to my computer, hoping he can't see my face turn fifty shades of red.

"Not fo' your old friend, Deshawn?"

"You called me 'girl.'" I sniff melodramatically, lifting my chin into the air.

Deshawn's laughter fills the room. "All right, _woman_ , you gonna deny you like him?"

My fingers hovering over the keyboard, I consider how to answer. "He's a very likeable man. Now, _Mr. Bodyguard_ , I have work to do."

He mumbles to himself in a disgruntled tone, but he must take the hint because he doesn't bring up anything like that again for the rest of the day.

The day which drags on, broken up only by a trip to the health food store around lunch time. The hotel restaurant doesn't offer much in the way of vegan food, so I stock up the small refrigerator in Tony's suite with plenty of fruits and salad vegetables. Since Danita and I will be sleeping next door where Randy and Deshawn were going to be sleeping, I'll move some of the fruit into that room later so I'll have something for breakfast.

Only when we get back to the hotel with a deli lunch from the store does it occur to me that I maybe should at least wear the wig and reading glasses when we go out. If someone happens to recognize Deshawn as one of Tony's bodyguards, then sees me, they'll probably connect me and Tony together. But I think this one trip was safe. And the person who threatened me wouldn't know that I'm in Indianapolis a day early.

As five o'clock draws near, I try to immerse myself in a book on my phone. However, when I read the same page five times without comprehending any of it, I give up the task, choosing instead to walk out onto the balcony. I need to think of something, anything but the fact that at any moment, Tony is going to walk into the hotel suite.

However, as I stare out at the darkening cityscape, all I can think is that at any moment, Tony is going to walk into the suite.

Stupid brain.

But the outside air still feels pleasant, despite the lengthening shadows and chilly breeze, so I stand there and let my mind go where it wants to. Eventually, it drifts back to the conversation I had with Marilyn earlier today. How Devon ruined my life. And I wonder where Tony and I might be now in our relationship, if not for what Devon did.

Then again, maybe Devon did me a favor. Maybe the small bit of grief he caused me has given me caution I otherwise wouldn't have had, caution that's going to keep me from much bigger grief in the future.

All thoughts of caution slide out of my head, hit the railing, and tumble to the sidewalk below when I hear the sliding door behind me open, and a voice say my name. In Spanish. Making sparks dance down my spine.

I turn to face Tony. At the sight of his warm smile, it's all I can do not to step over to him and throw my arms around him.

"May I join you?" he asks.

I should say no. I should go to him and around him and tell Danita I'm going to the room next door. Instead, I nod. And, darn traitorous lips, return his smile.

Relief splashes over Tony's face. He closes the door and comes to stand next to me on the balcony, leaving about a foot between us. With a sigh, his smile fading, he says, "The girl is sick."

I frown. "Which girl?"

"The plaintiff."

"Oh." I turn back to look out at the darkening sky. Then I register what he means. "Wait. Wasn't she supposed to give her testimony today?"

"Exactly."

I wait for him to give me more details. When he doesn't, I roll my eyes and huff out my breath. "You gonna make me drag the details out of you?"

Tony laughs, and moves closer. "Is that not how it's supposed to happen? The woman wants details but the man doesn't want to waste time giving them?"

Without thinking, I lightly slap the back of my hand against his chest. As if that weren't enough to send a jolt of awareness through me, Tony snatches my hand in his, brings it to his lips, and kisses it.

My legs go weak. "Tony." I almost choke on his name. Try to pull my hand back. He lets me pull, but instead of releasing it, he grips it more tightly so I end up pulling him closer.

In the shadowy light, his expression grows more serious. "Rachel." He reaches his free hand out to my face. His thumb caresses my cheek, sending a hot current of desire pulsing through my body.

My heart starts racing. I shouldn't let him do what he wants to do, what he's about to do. But my whole body is turning to mush. His dark eyes capture my gaze, won't let go. And I suddenly can't remember why I shouldn't let him, or why I cut him off six weeks ago.

He pulls me a little closer. Starts bowing his face down toward mine –

"Tony, the – oh!"

At the first syllable of his name, we both jump back, Tony finally letting go of my hand. We both slap our gazes on Danita, who is standing at the glass door, eyes narrowed. " _Lo siento_. I didn't mean to interrupt anything."

If the moment hadn't already been ripped to shreds, her cold tone would do the job. All the reasons to stay away from this celebrity jump back into my head with the force of a speeding train hitting a concrete wall.

She turns to go back inside the room. Tony takes a step toward her, reaching out his hand. "You were not interrupting anything."

" _Mentiroso_. Liar," she says without looking back.

Tony gives me a sheepish smile. "I guess we should go back in."

I can't meet his gaze now. "I guess." I follow him in, adding, "But you still haven't explained what happened today."

"It means," Danita says tersely from the table, "we're going to be stuck with each other longer than we want."

# Chapter Sixteen: Tony.

## Day 3 of the trial.

I flop over in my bed for the umpteenth time tonight, stifling a groan of frustration, and look at the clock. Two-fifteen. And I'm wide awake, and probably haven't done more than doze for a total of thirty minutes during the past three hours.

As quietly as I can, I slip out of bed, rustle around inside my open suitcase, and, feeling what I believe to be the right plastic bag, remove it and go into the bathroom. Five minutes later, the mirror in front of me reveals a face sporting a gray mustache and a hat like those from old detective movies, with salt and pepper hair sticking out from under it. A pair of metal-rim glasses completes the look. The tricky thing about this disguise is persuading my nearly shoulder-length hair to stay tucked under the hat, but I don't plan to be out of the room long. Just long enough to convince my body it's tired enough to sleep.

I consider it a minor victory when I make it to the stairway without having awakened either of my bodyguards. They would not approve of me taking this little excursion alone. But it's not the first time I've done something similar, and it won't be the last. It's one of the few ways that I can regain some sense of freedom these days.

I walk down the stairs, lifting my knees high intentionally with each step to induce muscle fatigue. My plan is to walk along the first floor hallway until I'm almost to the lobby, then turn around and make my way back up to the sixth floor. If I'm not tired enough by then, I'll risk one more trip.

But when I get near the lobby, a sound stops me in my tracks. The quiet tinkling of piano keys. A classical piece. By the sound of it, an expert, if not a master, in both the song and the instrument. I should just stand where I am and enjoy it, but something pulls me closer to the music. If nothing else, I'm curious to see who else is having trouble sleeping in such a place where the staff bends over backwards to accommodate your needs, and the mattresses on the beds feel like a bit of heaven.

I reach the end of the hallway, past the elevators, and see the musician. She's a woman with long, red hair seated at the piano that stands in the middle of the lobby. Her back is to me, but something in the way her shoulders move as she plays, something about that hair...

My heart takes a single leap into my throat. Rachel? I glance around the area. Empty. With slow, deliberate movements I walk to the sitting area several meters away from the piano and ease down onto a cushioned chair that faces her side. Yes, it's Rachel. In addition to the wig, she is also wearing the glasses she had on this morning. But no makeup.

I stare at her, mesmerized. If she ever told me she played the piano, I don't remember. And that is something I would have remembered, being a musician myself. For the next few minutes, I watch her and debate about whether to get up and go to her. But the way she gave me the cold shoulder this evening after I almost kissed her, I'm not sure if approaching her would be wise. Especially if the reason she's down here is that she can't sleep because of me.

Because of us.

Out of the corner of my eye I see movement, and the woman I presume by her uniform to be the night hotel clerk crosses the room over to Rachel, leans down close to her ear, and says something.

Rachel lifts her hands off the keys as she stiffens. Then, darts a glance my way. Apparently the clerk has noticed me watching Rachel, and become nervous. I don't lower my head or turn away. It's too late, anyway, and I want Rachel to recognize me. However, the lights are dim where I'm sitting, and while I generally have confidence in my disguises, I'm afraid if I move a little closer to the piano, where the light is brighter, I'll risk the clerk recognizing me.

That challenge resolves itself in the next second, however, as the clerk, her duty of warning Rachel about a potential pervert done, walks back out of sight. Rachel's eyebrows form a V in the middle of her forehead. I smile at her, then blow a kiss. Her eyes widen, then she covers her mouth. But not before I see her lips curve upward.

She recognizes me.

Slowly getting to her feet, she glances behind her, then takes cautious steps toward me. Cautious because she's uncertain about meeting me alone, or cautious because she's not sure of who I am, I can't be sure. What I _am_ sure of is that my heart is now dancing a jig.

I stand up, and when she's near enough to hear me speak her name in a low voice, I do so in Spanish. Now she smiles. A good sign. Removing her glasses, she closes the distance between us.

Most of it, anyway. She's close enough to touch, but far enough away to send the clear message that she's hesitant to be near me.

"You never told me you could play." I cant my head toward the chairs that are on the opposite side of the hotel's main entrance. Rachel follows me to that area, and we sit in chairs across from each other. I want nothing more than to pull her into my arms and kiss her until she melts against me. But for once, I'm going to restrain my impulsiveness. I'm going to be content that she didn't take off running when she recognized me.

But when her gaze falls to her lap, and she covers her face and her shoulders start shaking, I can't help reaching over and putting a hand on her leg. Guilt twists my intestines, though I don't know why. "Rachel, whatever I did, I'm sorry."

Her left hand waves up and down frantically. Then a snort comes from between her hands, a snort to rival any of the ones that escape Danita's mouth when she's found something to be hilarious.

Rachel's laughing. And I know why.

I lean back, letting my hand slide away from her, and cross my arms over my chest. "I'll have you know my mustache and hat were custom-designed by a famous Italian designer."

A muffled shriek pierces the air between us, and she doubles over, rocking back and forth and starting to sound as though she can't breathe. I might burst out laughing, too, except I'm suddenly hyper-aware of the clerk on the other side of the room.

I get on my knees in front of Rachel and grasp both of her arms. "You need to be quiet or you'll blow my cover."

As soon as the words are out, I want to take them back. There's a good reason she's in disguise, too. And it's all my fault. The guilt from the moment before returns with a vengeance, regret and remorse following quickly behind. Together, they turn my innards inside out.

On the other hand, my words produced the desired physical effect. Rachel stops laughing. In the next instant, her gaze snaps up, her eyes flashing fire.

"I'm sorry, _Raquela_. I didn't mean –"

"Don't _Raquela_ me!" Though we're both speaking in low tones, the fierceness of her anger comes through loud and clear. "And don't lie and say you didn't mean it."

My brow puckers down. "When have I ever lied to you before?"

"There's a first time for everything."

Tearing her gaze away from me, she begins to stand, but I take her hand. "Rachel. Please. I was a jerk to say that. If I tell you that I know the world doesn't revolve around me, would you forgive me?" The lyrics from one of my popular songs that hit the Billboard top five last year, whispered into the space between us, stops her. She looks back at me.

Our gazes lock. And I know she's feeling the electricity that's crackling between us.

She sits down with a soft sigh.

"I'm sorry this trial is going to end up a little longer than we thought." After the near-kiss, I explained to Rachel and Deshawn what had happened in court today.

Patricia Kratky was supposed to testify after her parents this morning. But none of the family showed. We waited. And waited. And waited. Snyder made several phone calls. Finally, around noon he spoke with Pamela Kratky. Patricia had come down with a stomach bug, and she and her husband decided they'd better stay away from court in case they were contagious. They were both charging their phones, and were so worried over their daughter they forgot to call their attorney.

Judge Stoner was not happy. She told Snyder that he'd better hope that it was a twenty-four hour bug, because if his witnesses didn't show up tomorrow she would force him to move forward and not allow them to testify. When he tried to argue, she told him that there were more than a dozen people who were giving up time and income to be in court, and she wasn't going to allow him to cause everyone more inconvenience than the plaintiff already has.

Richard told us afterward that in the meeting that morning, she had drilled Snyder into the ground about the death threat on Rachel, but he seemed as shocked as anybody about it and said he would swear on the Bible that he had nothing to do with it. Regardless, if the judge had any patience with "Snaky Snyder" to begin with, she seems to have lost it.

To Rachel's question as to why we didn't return at noon, I told her that I thought she might need some space. So, after I'd donned one of my disguises, we reserved a back room at a restaurant and spent the rest of the day there.

I can only hope the trial will only be delayed a single day. But who knows what tomorrow – actually, that's today now – will bring.

Rachel sighs, pulling her hand out of mine. The gesture stings, but I sit back, not wanting to give her any more reason to feel uncomfortable than she already has. "It's not the trial." Her gaze flits down to her hands on her lap. Interlacing her fingers, she brings her hands to her mouth and lightly bites on a knuckle.

"What, then?"

She lowers her hands. Presses her lips together.

"Rachel, you cut me off without a word." I work to keep my voice level, but I'm getting frustrated. "After you admitted that you were developing feelings for me. I tried to call you and tell you that Richard wanted to subpoena you, but he did it without letting me know." I lift my hands a few inches, palms up. "I know you got blindsided, but if you had started to care...well, your reaction seemed extreme. And it hurt."

Rachel squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them, she gives me a sad smile. "It was extreme. And I know I hurt you," she grimaces, "and I'm sorry for making wrong assumptions."

I pucker my brow. "Assumptions?"

She bites her upper lip and looks down. "That you'd been playing me because you suspected a lawsuit was coming and you wanted to make sure I'd be a good witness for the case."

Her words come out with the speed and force of water through a spillway, hitting me in the chest and shoving me back in my chair. "You... _what_?" I'm not sure whether to be infuriated or sad. Here I was, falling in love, and she thought I'd been manipulating her? "Why?"

She raises her head to look at me. "Because if I believed the worst of you," she says in a small voice, "then I wouldn't have to face...this." She makes a vague gesture with her right hand. Then she sits back in her chair and puffs out another breath. "I'm glad I'm exhausted. Otherwise I'd be bawling my head off right now."

I scoot to the edge of my chair. "You're afraid to get involved with me again?"

"Still." The word comes out barely above a whisper. "I've never stopped being afraid."

"Why? Why does it frighten you so much to be associated with a celebrity?"

Her body ceases all movement for a second, her gaze faltering. Just long enough for me to know that she's having an inner debate about what to say.

Then she straightens, her gaze becoming steady again. "Look at us." She gestures with her hand between me and her. "These stupid disguises. What kind of life is that, when you can't even go out in public without fear of being harassed?"

A sudden twinge in my lower abdomen makes me shift in the chair. "I've told you before, I can protect you from cameras. You know you're only having to do this because of the threat."

She narrows her gaze. "And I'm supposed to be happy living with somebody who has to do it all the time? Who's a prime target for every would-be stalker on the planet?"

I raise an eyebrow. Smile. "You have actually thought of us living together?"

Covering her face with her hands, she makes a low growling sound. I'm glad, because at the same moment my bowels make a weird gurgling noise. When she drops her hands, her mouth is twisted in a scowl. "You know what? I shouldn't have come over to talk to you."

She starts to stand, but I grab her arm, my smile fading. "Rachel, people die every day in car accidents, yet people continue to drive. Women die every day in childbirth, but most still want to have babies and most eventually succeed."

Rachel doesn't sit back down, but she stays still, her expression softening as I continue, "In Europe, we have terrorist attacks much more frequently than in the United States, yet people continue to leave their houses and go out in public. And most of them live long lives. Why do you think being with me would be any greater risk to your well-being than living an average life?"

A long pause, during which the muscles in her face grow tense again. "Because." But she looks away when she says it.

She's hiding something from me. I'd begun to suspect it a few weeks ago, and now I know it.

I'm about to ask why. I want to know why. _Need_ to know why. But that odd feeling below my bellybutton turns into cramping. A kind of cramping I haven't experienced in years, except for the time I performed in Peru a year and a half ago after drinking contaminated water.

With sudden clarity, I realize I need to get back to my room. Now.

I jump up and sprint down the hallway, hoping beyond all hope that the clerk doesn't see me and call the police.

"Tony, wait! Where are you going? What's wrong?"

So much for not attracting any attention. Her shouts seem to echo off every wall in the abandoned lobby.

I barrel through the door to the stairwell, not because I want the exercise now, but because my feet will get me back to the sixth floor a lot faster than the elevator. I take the stairs two at a time. When I'm halfway between the first and second floor, I hear Rachel calling up to me from below.

I don't have time to answer. I need to get to a toilet.

This is my punishment for being amused when I heard about Patricia's illness. For believing she was making it up to avoid showing up in court yesterday.

I get to my room just in time, make no attempt to be quiet. As a result, two seconds after I enter, Randy is out of bed and rushing toward me.

"It's me, Tony!" I shout just before slamming the bathroom door closed behind me.

Patricia Kratky was not only _not_ making up an excuse, but her illness was contagious.

# Chapter Seventeen: Rachel.

I blink several times, my eyelids heavy. What woke me up? What time is it? With the thick curtain obscuring the window, I can't tell if the day has dawned. I turn over to glance at the bedside clock, but a nerve-grating sound from the bathroom yanks me up in bed.

Wretching. Coughing.

Oh, no. Not Danita, too. Then again, if she's sick she won't be yelling at me about breaking her brother's heart like she did last night before we went to bed.

Okay, so she didn't exactly yell, or use those words. But she implied them. Strongly. And told me she didn't know if she could trust me anymore. The guilt from the truth of those words more than anything had kept me awake, driven me downstairs in the middle of the night. I hadn't behaved in a trustworthy way the past six weeks. Not too mature, either.

So after we went to bed angry with each other, my anger turned to remorse. And confusion. Because after Tony almost kissed me last night, I realized that I've been playing mind games with myself the past six weeks. It was easy to do when he was on the other side of the ocean. But now, being so close to him? Sensing that...whatever I felt between us the first day we met?

It all makes lying to myself impossible.

But I don't have time to sort it all out now. I have a sick roommate, and a sick maybe-boyfriend next door. I better amp up my use of oregano oil.

I slide out of bed, turn on the lamp, and stretch my arms to the ceiling. Then, as I hear water running in the sink, I reach for the bottle of oregano oil I placed on the nightstand a few hours ago. I've finished spreading several drops over my entire abdomen when the bathroom door creaks open.

Danita stands there in a thigh-length nightgown, eyes red, her tan complexion paler than usual, and her straight dark hair lying in tangles over her shoulders. "I threw up." She speaks in Spanish, her voice shaky.

I give her a sympathetic smile. "I heard." I step toward her and hand her the bottle of oil. She uses essential oils for medicine, like I do, so I assume she knows what to do with it.

But when she takes it, she frowns down at it, then at me. "This can't help."

"It can. Trust me." Though she's still speaking in Spanish, I answer in English. Then I pat my tummy. "Rub it here about every hour. You might throw up a few more times, but it'll help kill the virus."

Lifting her nose, she sniffs the air. "You've already used some?"

I grimace. "Prevention is the best cure. Tony's sick, too. Diarrhea. Earlier I gave him some of my activated charcoal and had him use some oil, then I took a dose of each."

Danita raises her brow. "You came prepared."

I grin. "I never leave home without my herbal first aid kit."

Without another word, she disappears back into the bathroom with the oil. By the aroma emanating off her when she comes back out, she's used the oil. She's also shaking all over.

Pity overcomes the last of the anger I felt toward her last night, and I close the gap between us, put an arm around her shoulder, and lead her to her bed. She weakly protests that I'll get sick, but I assure her that I'll keep using the charcoal and oregano until I'm sure I'm out of danger.

Danita plops heavily onto her bed, then frowns up at me. "You have seen Tony already this morning?" She's speaking English again, which is probably a sign she's feeling a little better.

I cringe, knowing I'm about to get Tony in trouble. "I couldn't sleep last night, so I went down to the lobby for a little while."

"You wouldn't have bothered me if you had just gone out to the living area," she gestures toward it with her hand, "to hang out."

I press my lips together, then turn away from her. "I just...there's a piano in the lobby, and I needed some sort of catharsis."

"Tony never told me you played." Her voice is laced with surprise.

I lift a shoulder, turning back to her. "That's because he didn't know."

"Why?" Her voice is laced with offense, as if I've withheld a vital secret from her.

I take a deep breath, let it out, then laugh. "I know this sounds weird, but I was afraid if I told him, he'd ask me to perform, and then I'd get nervous and flub it all up, and..." I shake my head. "I mean, he's a pro, I'm not."

Danita looks at me for a few seconds, then nods. "I can understand that." Then she scoots back on the bed and crosses her legs. "What does you going down to the lobby have to do with finding out that Tony was sick?"

I back over to my bed and sit down. "He, uh, sort of came down while I was there." I lift a hand as she opens her mouth. "But he was wearing one of his disguises."

Danita's scowl says everything. Which is just as well, because a second later, her eyes widen, she grabs hold of her lower abdomen, and she jumps off the bed and races into the bathroom.

I make two decisions in that moment. First, I'm going to use the public bathroom off the lobby for the rest of the day. Second, I'm going to fast for at least half a day, until I'm pretty sure my system isn't going to go whacko if I give it food with which to go whacko.

"Why is this happening?" Danita wails from inside the bathroom, in Spanish again. "I never get sick like this."

I step closer to the closed door, making sure to breathe through my mouth. "Windshield Girl was sick, right?"

A pause, and then a torrent of Spanish words I barely understand. I think it's safe to say, though, that Danita is cussing the proverbial blue streak.

A few minutes later, I call Richard to explain our dilemma. I have to leave a voice mail, but he returns my call within the hour and tells me he'll contact the judge. Next, I text Tony: _Danita's sick. Text me when you're awake_.

A minute later: _Who can sleep_? _But I think the charcoal is working, thanks_.

I consider going next door, but since it's only seven-thirty the bodyguards might still be sleeping. I decide to tease Tony instead. _Now I'm really glad you didn't kiss me_.

_You would not say that if you knew how I kissed_. _I am worth the risk_.

My head snaps back, the smile slipping from my face. He could be teasing back, but I think his comment goes much deeper. He's referring to our conversation in the hotel lobby.

I'm not sure, but I think I'm getting charged the international fee for these texts, even though we're right next door to each other. So after telling Danita where I'm going, I walk next door and knock lightly. Randy opens the door. He doesn't look any worse for the wear. Of course, after Tony apparently scared the manure out of him early this morning, it didn't take long for him to go back to sleep.

What an insane life. A judge sequesters me inside a hotel under the care of the most sought-after eligible bachelor on earth, where I absolutely don't want to be. Then I end up in his hotel room at three o'clock in the morning, instructing him how to stop the diarrhea suddenly plaguing him, then arguing with his bodyguards that they should take steps to make sure they don't get sick, too.

Oh, and did I mention that this hot superstar has a serious thing for me, and I'm going nuts trying to figure out how on earth I'm going to make it through the next couple of days being so close to him while believing it might be best to put the Atlantic between us again?

Except, when Tony comes up from behind Randy and smiles at me, the only thing that keeps me from throwing myself into his arms is a nasty virus that's causing people to empty their digestive systems from both ends.

"If you'll come in and keep me from dying of boredom," Tony says, "I promise I won't touch you until I'm done being sick."

"What, me and Randy ain't good enough for you?" Deshawn's voice comes from the other end of the suite.

"You ain't pretty enough," Tony calls back, and winks at me.

My face heats as butterflies take flight underneath my bellybutton. But I barely have time to register the back-door compliment. I have my phone with me in case Richard calls, and in that moment it intones that I've just received an e-mail.

"That might be your lawyer," I explain as I bring my phone up and open the e-mail.

My stomach churns, and it has nothing to do with the illness going around. The e-mail has come from the contact form on my blog again. I take a deep breath. It could be anybody. I usually get at least a couple of e-mails a week from that form.

"Raquela, qué tienes? What's wrong?"

Ignoring Tony, I open the e-mail. At my sharp intake of breath, Tony closes the gap between us and puts a protective arm around my shoulders. I move the phone to where he can see the screen.

" _Aye, madre de Dios_ ," is his quiet comment as he pulls me closer. Good thing, because my legs have turned to jelly.

It's from the same person who threatened me before.

_I told you not to come_. _Go home now, and you won't get hurt_.

# Chapter Eighteen: Tony.

## Day 4 of the trial

"You're never going to believe this." I raise my gaze from my phone to my sister as she steps out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head.

She quirks an eyebrow. "The judge got sick."

I stare at her for two beats. "Lucky guess."

"Logical guess," she counters, cinching the belt of her bathrobe around her waist. She sinks onto the bed a few inches away from me with a sigh. A second later, she jerks a wide-eyed gaze to me. "Oh, Tony. Does this mean court is adjourned until Monday?"

I know what she's thinking. She's thinking I have band rehearsals and song recording hanging over my head, so this news must totally frustrate me. In reality, I am thrilled. I have three more days to convince Rachel that I'm her man.

My emotion must show on my face, because Danita scowls. "She's going to break your heart one day."

I set the phone down on the mattress, my smile fading. "You're not still angry with her, are you?"

She sighs again. "No." Standing up, she walks over to the dresser where she's stowed all of her clothes and pulls open the top drawer. "I just have a bad feeling about her. That her skittishness is going to win."

"You underestimate my charm." I waggle my eyebrows at her when she glances at me.

She rolls her eyes. "If Richard or Mr. Snaky gets sick, you will have even more time to practice your charm."

I reach for my phone, stand up, and shove my phone into my jeans pocket. "Rachel told me that Richard reported that he took three doses of charcoal yesterday, and even his wife did so. But under protest, and only after he showed her the video that Rachel sent him about how it cleans out the system."

Danita pulls a navy sweater and a pair of jeans out of the drawer. "If she ever decides to follow her heart, you'll never be sick again."

I stop and stare at my sister. She must notice the sudden silence, because she glances toward me again. "Well, any fool can see that she feels the same way about you that you do about her."

Despite her harsh tone, warmth spreads across my middle. I thought what Danita just admitted is true, but have been afraid I might have just been seeing what I wanted to see.

As my sister moves back to the bathroom, I say, "You can change in here. I'm going to go back to _my_ suite."

Yesterday morning, after getting over the shock of Rachel receiving another threat, we agreed that Danita and I should quarantine ourselves together here for the day, until we both felt that we'd conquered the monster attacking us. Thanks to Rachel's knowledge, it seems that not only have Danita and I claimed victory, but also she, Deshawn, and Randy have managed to keep the monster at bay.

Yesterday lasted forever. Texting and calling Rachel was quite unsatisfactory and maddening, knowing she was right next door. I wanted to be able to hold her in my arms, give her the comfort she needed against whoever this jerk is who keeps threatening her. At least she hasn't been alone, and has been well-protected.

Danita opens the bathroom door. "I need to dry my hair. I'll be over there in a few minutes."

I feel giddy as I step into the hallway after peering into it to make sure it's empty. A few seconds later, Randy has ushered me inside my original suite. The aroma of coffee wafts into my nostrils, making my empty stomach suddenly feel cavernous.

But food isn't my first priority right now. I sweep my gaze around the room, which turns out to be unnecessary because the object of my search is already on her feet, walking toward me with a huge smile on her face. One long stride, and I have her wrapped in a tight embrace. The small bag of essentials that I took with me to Danita's suite yesterday falls to the floor.

Rachel laughs, returning the embrace. "This better mean that you're all cleared up."

"I wouldn't risk making you sick." I release her, stepping back just enough to be able to look into her eyes. "I missed you."

She surprises me by reaching up to my face and placing her palm against it. Fire ignites at that spot and rushes through my entire body. It's the first time she's touched me in such an intimate way, and it makes me want to pick her up, take her to the bedroom, and kiss her until we are both hyperventilating.

Instead, I place my hand over hers.

"I didn't know it until ten seconds ago," she whispers, "but I missed you, too."

My gaze drops to her mouth. She laughs again, moving her hand to cover my lips. "Uh, uh. Too soon. One more day."

"And we don't need any of _that_ kind of entertainment," Deshawn says from behind me.

Stepping out of the embrace, I give him a mock frown. "I don't think I pay you for your opinions."

"No, sir." He winks at Rachel, then passes us by to sit in the desk chair. "You gonna get dressed to go to court?"

Then and only then does it register that Deshawn and Randy have dressed in suits, as I instructed them to do for the courtroom appearances. Usually my bodyguards dress casually so that they won't be conspicuous, but Richard informed me a while back that everyone associated with me should be dressed to the nines when we go to court.

"Actually," I say, taking Rachel's hand in mine and tugging her gently toward the table, "The judge is now ill. She's adjourned the court until Monday, in case anyone else has caught the virus."

"Ya hear that, bro?" Deshawn says to Randy, who is still standing at the door. "Three extra days! My nieces and nephews gonna have a _good_ Christmas this year, yes, suh."

Randy's only response is a grunt.

"Can I be nosy?" Rachel sits down onto the chair I pull out for her.

I spread out my arms. "My life is an open book."

Rachel grins. "First of all, the question isn't exactly about you. Second of all, I'm going to call Richard back and ask him to get that in writing for me."

"Smart woman," Deshawn mumbles.

Rachel twists around to look at him. "How much do you guys get paid?"

Deshawn looks at me, brow raised. I nod. He clears his throat. "Hundred dollars."

Rachel turns back to me, mouth turned down slightly. "That's all?"

"That ain't per day," Deshawn says. "That's per _hour_."

Rachel's eyes fly wide open as she yanks back around to look at Deshawn. When he nods at her, his face solemn, she turns back to me. "That's...wow. I mean, I suppose that means every single hour they're with you. That's like..." Her gaze shifts up as if she's doing a mental calculation, then lands back on me. "Um, a lot of money."

I smile. Shrug. "I'm Julio Estrella." What else is there to say? She's never asked me how much money I make. I assumed that she looked it up online, or made an estimation about how much I make per concert. Something.

But the shock on her face tells me that she's never given my income a second thought. Yet another reason to believe she's my soul mate.

She stares at me for a long moment. The shock fades, and the muscles around her jaw suddenly tense. "It _was_ you." The words come out on a harsh whisper.

My eyebrows lower. "What?"

Crossing her arms, she sits back in her chair. "I've never come close to selling ten of the most expensive ProVitaBlend blenders in one month. Never."

I open my mouth to reply, but she suddenly stands up and whirls around to face Deshawn. "Did Tony give you a high-powered blender a couple of months ago?"

Deshawn's eyes widen. He cuts his eyes toward me, silently begging for help. But I close my own eyes and sigh. At the time I thought I was doing Rachel a favor, but obviously, she thinks differently.

I open my eyes to see her shake her head at Deshawn. "Never mind. Your face says it all." Turning back to me, she puts a hand on her hip and narrows her eyes. "Tell me you didn't do that to impress me."

I give her a sheepish smile. "If I tell you that if I had to do it over again, I wouldn't, could you forgive me?"

Her expression softens, and she slides back into her chair. "I could." Her eyes twinkle. "And I will, if you can honestly tell me that every single person you gave a blender to is actually using it."

I pick up one of her hands, squeezing it as I meet her gaze. "I promise."

"My sister swears it's become her favorite appliance," Deshawn says.

So much for a romantic moment. Rachel pulls her hand away. "Have you eaten yet?"

I shake my head. "I wanted to see you first."

Her mouth pulls into a grin. "Should I feel bad I already ate?"

"Not a bit."

Danita shows up five minutes later, and I have Randy call down a room service order for the two of us. My bodyguards, I find out, went down an hour ago to eat from the breakfast buffet.

"What are we going to do for three days?" Rachel asks, her gaze flitting between me and Danita.

I kick her shin lightly under the table. "We could start by hearing how you came to play the piano."

Rachel lifts a shoulder. "I started taking lessons when I was eight. Been practicing for at least a half hour every day since I started."

I slant a glance at my sister. "She plays beautifully. Like a concert pianist."

Rachel snorts. "Not quite."

"You have talent."

" _You_ have talent." She returns the kick I gave her a few seconds ago. "I worked hard enough to make it _sound_ like I have talent."

My lips quirk upward. "I wasn't born playing the guitar."

"Danita, tell him he has talent."

My sister raises an eyebrow at her. "That is a rather odd request to make of a _talent_ manager, is it not?"

"Y'all are gonna give me a headache," Deshawn complains from the desk. "All y'all got talent. Wouldn't none of ya need me and Randy if ya didn't."

"As much as I would like you to learn to keep your opinions to yourself," Danita replies, giving him a pointed look, "well said."

Rachel frowns. "I'm not here because of my talent."

"Sure, you are." Deshawn winks at her. "You got a talent for attracting wealthy and good-looking men."

She smirks at him, shaking her head. Then she looks back at me. "You hear that, Tony? You've got competition."

Deshawn chuckles as I break out laughing. "Don't you worry, boss," Deshawn says. "I'm married to the Lord and to my career. No competition from this corner."

"I'm not worried," I reply. After a pause, I reach over to Rachel and squeeze her shoulder. "Have you ever performed for an audience?"

"Just recitals." Her gaze drops to the floor for a beat before rising again to meet mine. "And that's as far as I'll ever go with it. It's just a hobby for me, an outlet." She says it with a tone of finality and warning, as though predicting what I'm tempted to suggest: that we perform together.

Ah, well. A man can dream.

"Wait. Tony." Rachel thrusts her hand out and slaps her palm on the table. "What did the judge say about talking to the Kratkys about the threats?" She flits a glance to Danita. "Is she putting that off, too?"

I put my hand over hers. I would relish in the immense pleasure that small contact brings, except for the desperation in her eyes. "I talked to Richard, not to the judge." I look at my sister. "He didn't say anything about it."

Yesterday morning, once the judge had found out about the second threatening e-mail, Richard informed us that she suggested not contacting the police until she could talk to Snyder and the Kratky family. She believed with a few threats of her own, the perpetrator would confess. And if they did, she would strongly recommend that they drop the lawsuit.

We can only hope.

Danita shrugs. "I haven't spoken with anyone this morning." She looks at Rachel. "But I don't think she's going to be talking to anybody for at least a day if she feels as poorly as I did yesterday."

Her clipped tone grates on my nerves. After the way Rachel helped us heal much more quickly than we would have otherwise, this is how my sister is treating her?

Then again, Danita is doing nothing different than what Rachel did to us for several weeks: setting up an emotional wall so that she won't get hurt. She had developed an affinity for Rachel in a short amount of time, and like Rachel, my sister doesn't make friends easily.

Her worry about my heart being broken could very well be a projection of how she's been feeling. Interesting. I've never thought of my big sister as the soft, sensitive type. Perhaps that's because as my older sibling, she's always believed it her duty to be the strong one.

And the talent manager of a major celebrity doesn't dare be the type who wears her heart on her sleeve.

I return my gaze to Rachel. Eyes lowered, she's biting her upper lip. Yes, she felt the sting of Danita's words. I caress my thumb over her hand, trying to comfort her.

Then I realize that she hasn't pulled her hand away. She raises her gaze to meet mine, and smiles.

Yes. This three-day delay might be exactly what we need to get our relationship back on track.

# Chapter Nineteen: Rachel.

When Deshawn and Randy agree that we should be safe walking around the mall for a while, I want to kiss Deshawn almost as much as I wanted to kiss Tony when he started rubbing circles on the back of my hand while we were waiting for his breakfast.

Except, okay, the kind of kiss I wanted to give Tony was completely different from the sister-slash-friendship kiss on the cheek I wanted to give Deshawn.

Tony's simple touch had sent disproportionately hot and large waves of desire throughout my body. And reminded me of how I'd earlier implied that he might be able to kiss me tomorrow. I didn't mean to, that's just how the conversation rolled.

I'm trying to decide if I regret opening myself up like that. Trying to decide while I walk hand in hand with Tony through the biggest mall in this city, both of us wearing our ridiculous disguises and occasionally glancing at each other and grinning over them. Between my amusement with how we look and the wonderful feeling of Tony's fingers interlaced with mine, I'm having a hard time remembering why I don't want him to kiss me.

I glance about six feet ahead to my left and see Deshawn strolling along, his head constantly making small movements back and forth. And without looking, I know Randy's about the same distance behind on the other side, doing his level best to look like a casual shopper and not a bodyguard.

Oh, yeah. That's why I don't want Tony to kiss me. He's a superstar. So famous that he needs bodyguards. And needs to wear a disguise when he's out in public and doesn't want to be recognized.

And I don't want any kind of spotlight being shed on me.

But I can't deny the thrill of walking next to him, his hand in mine. I held hands with Devon back when we were dating, but not like this, with fingers intertwined. This feels different. More intimate. And ever since he took my hand in his, I've had little sparks going off underneath my rib cage.

Then again, I felt that with Devon at the beginning. So these feelings can't be any indication as to whether we're destined for a future together. They're just feelings.

The thought brings a pinch to my gut. Like what happened back when I was assuming the worst of Tony after I got subpoenaed. Besides how to use a range of natural remedies, my mom taught me to listen to my gut. Could it be that this time, my emotional reaction to a man is on target? That this romance is supposed to turn into much more?

In my head, I begin a prayer for help. Then, remembering what happened the last time I asked for guidance about my feelings for a man, cut it off a second later.

A light pressure on my hand and a tug on my arm brings me to a stop. I look up at Tony, and his brow is wrinkled in concern.

"Are you all right?" he asks.

I wrinkle my brow back. "Why?"

"You just let out a really heavy sigh."

"I did?"

"Yes." He raises his brow, a small smile playing at his lips. "If you're bored, we can leave."

I start walking again. "We've only been here ten or fifteen minutes." Which is, by the way, ten to fifteen minutes longer than I've been inside a mall during the last two years.

I flick a glance of amazement toward Deshawn, who stopped when we did, and started walking when we did, without appearing to have given us the slightest glance.

"Then, why did you sigh?" Underneath Tony's gentle tone is a pleading that I won't keep him out of the deeper places of my heart.

I push out another breath, this time aware of the sound, despite the echoing voices and music playing around us from hidden speakers in the ceiling. I squeeze his hand. "Can we sit down for a second?"

He squeezes back, smiles, and my insides melt. "Anything you want."

Oh, this man is dangerous.

There happen to be a couple of benches facing each other about twenty feet ahead, so when we reach them, we sit on one, and Deshawn sits on the other. Randy stays standing, pretending to do something on his phone a few feet away. Tony places his arm over the back of the bench. "Talk to me."

"Why me?"

Whoa! Where did that come from? That is _so_ not what I'd planned to say. But now that I've said it, I feel the need to clarify. "I mean, I remember what you said about feeling a connection with me, but..." Yet again, I sigh. "I don't know what I mean."

He tilts his head, his expression growing serious, and his gaze as intense as it's ever been. "I think I know what you mean." He picks up my hand. "Do you believe in soul mates?"

"No." My answer comes out without hesitation.

I expect him to drop my hand and look disappointed. Instead, he tightens his grip and scoots a couple of inches closer to me. "I do."

The implication of his words slam into my solar plexus. My eyes widen. "And you think I'm..."

He nods, a smile stretching his lips.

I let my gaze fall to the floor in front of me. "Why do you think that?"

"A year ago, I began to pray that the woman God has for me as a life partner would not recognize me without a disguise on."

My gaze snaps back to him so fast that something pops in my neck.

"And would be attracted to me without knowing who I was," he adds, laughing lightly at my reaction.

I don't laugh. "You...prayed."

He nods. "I'd made three mistakes that broke my heart. I didn't want to make another."

I stare at him. "You _prayed_."

Now, he frowns, loosening his grip on my hand. "I think we established that."

I pull my hand away and get to my feet. "Well, isn't that just special." I can't remember where my dad learned it, but it's a catch-all phrase he uses when he wants to be sarcastic. I notice with some relief that Deshawn is no longer on the bench across from us, but standing a few feet away. I guess he got up to give us privacy when the conversation took the turn that it did.

I circle around so that my back faces Tony, and cross my arms over my chest. What I really want to do is march away and put as much distance between us as I can, but if I run off, Deshawn will have to follow me, and I don't want to leave Tony without his normal amount of security.

Tony's hand lands on my shoulder, but I shake it off. Now, Tony sighs. "Rachel, I think it's the normal thing for a Christian to do when they need an answer to something important in their life, to pray, yes?"

Two small groups of people passing on either side of the sitting area reminds me to keep calm. "Prayer doesn't work." I can almost taste the venom on my words as they spew out of my mouth, however quietly.

"What?"

I pivot back around, my jaw tight as I answer. "A few years ago, I prayed that God would take my feelings away for my boyfriend if he wasn't the one."

Tony begins to reach out to stroke my wig, then chuckles, withdrawing his hand. "I don't know if I can give you much comfort by touching something that's not a real part of you."

The compassion in his eyes softens my anger. Giving him a shaky smile, I lift my hand towards him. He takes it, lifts it to his mouth and kisses it, making every nerve ending in my body stand at attention.

"Am I to understand that it was a painful breakup?"

My laugh holds no humor. "Oh, yeah. You could say that."

"You will tell me about it one day soon, when it is just the two of us?"

Will I? The point would be moot, if I was going to break things off with _him._ But every time I think of ending our relationship, I have the sense of dropping into a black hole. And these past couple of days, even right now, I'm seeing that life with a superstar musician could probably, most of the time, be pretty normal. Or, if not normal, then at least not fraught with constant fear of being ridiculed by the mass media, or that my husband would fall prey to some lustful girl.

Husband. Um, did I just think that? In relation to Julio Estrella?

Heat rises into my cheeks, and I lower my head so he won't see the inevitable blush. "One day. Probably."

Tony presses my hand and releases it. Placing his hand on the small of my back, he turns me in the direction we were going before we sat down. We walk without speaking for a minute. Then Tony says, "I once prayed that same prayer that you did."

I raise my brow at him.

He grins. "About three days ago."

I fail in my effort to hide a smile. "So, how did it work for you?"

He slows his steps, pulling me close to his side. "The feelings are growing stronger every day."

Heat spikes through my body. "Lucky woman."

"Luck has nothing to do with it." He pulls me to a stop, then turns me in his arms. His face is frighteningly close to mine. "I believe God is answering my prayer. Again."

I swallow. I half-expect him to forget what I said this morning and lean down and kiss me. I would _want_ him to, if we were all by ourselves. But, sweet man that he is, he just brushes my cheek with the back of his hand. Then he lets it slide down my arm to take my hand again.

And I finally start to believe him. I finally begin to think that, despite all my fears, despite all the future plans I've made for myself as a single person, he might actually be worth the risk.

We haven't walked twenty feet away from the benches when Deshawn is suddenly at our side. He grips Tony's upper arm, stopping him as Randy steps up to my side.

"Looks like we got ourselves a situation," Deshawn says. "Ambercrombie and Fitch, two o'clock." I look toward the store, and realize his concern. A couple is standing still, staring at us with wide eyes. The female half of the couple helped me with the disguise I'm wearing at this very moment.

Dismay balloons inside me. The day of reckoning has arrived.

I turn to Deshawn and Tony. "It's okay." I take a deep breath. "It's my cousin and his wife."

Who are about to give me, no doubt, the biggest what-for in the history of the planet.

# Chapter Twenty: Tony.

"As your lawyer, I advise against you going out in public again until the perpetrator is found."

Rachel's cousin, Joe, is seated in the desk chair. His wife, and, as Rachel told me months earlier, her best friend, sits in a dining chair next to him. The couple are here because Joe has to meet with a client in the city later this afternoon, and they decided to make a day of it.

Rachel, sitting next to me on the sofa in my hotel suite, rolls her eyes at Joe. "You're not my lawyer. And the _perpetrator_ ," she makes air quotes, "knows nothing about my disguise."

Marilyn looks at me. "In case you haven't figured it out by now, let me be the first to warn you that Rachel can be pretty stubborn." Her gaze still holds open admiration for me, the same expression all my fans have when they first meet me, but at least her voice has gone down an octave from when we were first introduced outside the mall.

I grin, squeezing Rachel's thigh. "I have figured that out. But I'm used to it." I raise my voice. "My sister is just as stubborn."

"Shut up," Danita says in Spanish from her seat at the table.

Joe leans forward, placing his hands on his thighs. "You know, I like your music, Tony," he says, "but I'm not sure I appreciate either your or your bodyguards' judgment."

Rachel sighs. "Yes, _mother_." She sits up straighter as Marilyn giggles. "Look, Joe, I'm stuck here probably until Tuesday or Wednesday. I'm not going to sit in a hotel room the entire time. And bodyguards are well-trained. They know what they're doing. I trust their judgment, because they do a darn good job of protecting my boyfriend."

Her declaration hangs in the air in the stunned silence that follows.

Or, maybe I'm the only one who is stunned. Joe appears mildly surprised. The jubilant smile reaching into Marilyn's eyes makes me suspect that she's been waiting for this moment. But she's not surprised by it. If I looked at Deshawn on the other side of the suite, I'm sure I'd see suppressed amusement contracting his facial muscles.

I look at Rachel. She looks at me. And blushes. Our gazes lock. We say nothing, but nothing needs to be said. The silent communication between us, my question and her answer, flows like an Alpine stream in the spring, clear and cleansing and refreshing.

She has accepted that there is an "us." If not for the audience all around us, I would take her onto my lap and kiss her until the world no longer existed. Illness or not. She could always take more activated charcoal, just in case.

"Speaking of mother," Marilyn says in a quiet sing-song voice, "I think you're going to have to talk to her soon."

Rachel leans into me as I put an arm around her, and in a flash I have a slight idea of what heaven will be like. "I know. I will. When all this is over."

"And until then," Marilyn says in a stern voice, "I expect to hear from you at least once a day." She was not happy to find out that Rachel had not told them about the e-mail harassment. Neither was Joe, though, typical guy, he let his wife do the haranguing.

Rachel exhales heavily. "See, now you're going to worry. That's why I didn't tell you."

"Rache," Joe says, "that's what family and friends are for. To walk with you when you're having trouble."

"Amen, brother," comes the disembodied voice of Deshawn.

"And bodyguards," I say with a wink toward Marilyn, raising my voice again, "are to be seen and not heard."

"If you really believed that, you woulda fired me a long time ago," Deshawn retorts.

The four of us have a good laugh at that, and then the conversation turns friendly as Rachel's family and I become better acquainted. Danita puts in her two cents every once in a while for the next half hour or so, then excuses herself to the other suite to get some work done. She'd been in the middle of feverishly trying to catch up with social media posts, e-mails, and phone calls while we were at the mall, and I could tell was less than thrilled when Rachel and I walked in with company. But as a properly trained Spaniard, she felt obligated to extend some hospitality to our unexpected guests when they first arrived. She even air-kissed Marilyn on both cheeks, which earned her a curious glance from Rachel because Danita has never greeted her that way.

It doesn't take much for me to persuade them to stay for lunch. By then, Marilyn is looking at me and talking to me as if I'm a regular new acquaintance, though she and Rachel carry the weight of the conversation. Joe and Marilyn leave after extracting promises from both me and Rachel that we will tell them if anything else suspicious happens, if they can help in any way, and then the suite is suddenly silent.

Rachel lets out a breath. "I'll be next door, napping."

I don't take offense; one of the many things we have in common is that we are introverts, and entertaining people, even dear friends, can be exhausting. Still, I can't let the opportunity to tease her pass by.

I brush my fingers through her soft hair – yes, her real hair now. "May I come with you?"

She smiles mischievously. "When you've put a ring on my finger and said, 'I do.'"

Hope does a high jump on top of my diaphragm as I quirk an eyebrow. "When, not if?"

She narrows her gaze and purses her lip in a mock pout. "If. _If_ that ever happens, that's _when_ you can nap with me."

"Ah-ha." I wrap my arms around her and hold her close, relishing the feel of her soft body against mine, and the fresh scent of her hair.

She returns the embrace. But pulls away much more quickly than I want her to. Smiling at me, she brushes her fingers against my hand and leaves.

"You should pop the question sooner rather than later."

I spin around to face Deshawn sitting at the desk, his expression more serious than I've seen it since Rachel arrived. "Pop the...?"

"Google it," he says, then turns back to his phone.

I search the phrase. Smile. Not a bad idea. Not bad at all.

On the heels of that thought creeps a question. _And if the fear remains_?

It draws me up short. But, why should it remain? Surely it can't hold onto her forever. I of all people know that being in the limelight is something a person can get used to.

Going into the bedroom, I snap open the case of my acoustic guitar, remove the instrument, and sit on the edge of the bed. My fingers begin moving over the strings almost automatically, softly strumming the chords to the Rachel-inspired song I recently wrote. Only thirty seconds into the song, and my heart thrills, like it tends to do when I'm performing. I live to stand in front of an audience and share my heart via songs.

But the quiet question returns: _and if the fear remains_? It pricks at my heart. If it did, would I have to choose between Rachel and my career? And if I did, which would I choose?

My fingers pick out a rift that is much easier with the slim neck of a narrow guitar, but I complete it without slipping or causing any string to buzz. For years, I practiced daily for hours to reach this point of expertise on the instrument, so I could show myself competent in front of an audience. And the more I practiced, the more I sang, the more songs I wrote, the more the entire world of musical performance became an integral part of me, until my greatest pleasure and joy and sense of fulfillment came from performing.

Could I lay this all down? Could I be satisfied with limiting my skill and talent to the confines of my home, retain it as a mere hobby? I don't mean financially. I could have left the business after my first year and been set for ten lifetimes as far as money goes.

I mean, could I leave my profession and still feel whole? Ironic, that I could have kept either of the last two women I thought I loved without trying because they wanted my money. As long as they had access to my money, they wouldn't have cared what I did with my life. But now, the woman I am convinced was created for me, and I for her, cares nothing for my money. Instead, without meaning to, she's communicating that she's not sure she can be with me as long as I remain Julio Estrella.

I find myself quietly singing the lyrics to one of my number one hits, "Without You".

Without you, nothing I have means anything anymore

Without you I'm just a shell of the man I was before

Without you I am lost, Without you my heart bleeds

Without you I'm in chains and I can't get free

My chest seizes up.

I have my answer.

If Rachel is truly the one my Creator has chosen for me, then I would give up my career for her. And I will, if I have to.

But... _Father, please let it not be so_.

# Chapter Twenty-One: Rachel.

## Day 5.

When I open my eyes the morning after Marilyn and Joe catch me at the mall, I half-expect to find a horse sitting on my chest. A heavy lump of something fills the space under my rib cage. Blinking and stretching, I twist my neck to look at the clock. Five-thirty. A half hour earlier than I usually wake up, which doesn't make sense because I was up until eleven o'clock watching a movie with Tony and the other guys. Danita went to bed early after struggling to eat a small supper, stating that she was still recovering from the illness.

I sit up, then look over to Danita's bed. She's still there, and by the sound of her breathing, still fast asleep. I hope she feels better today. Not that the tension between us has lessened since she fell ill, but I'm not the vindictive type. Besides, I take full blame on how she feels toward me lately. If Nick were alive, and some woman he'd been dating suddenly shut him out of his life with no explanation, I wouldn't like or trust her, either.

Shoving a couple of pillows up against the headboard of the bed, I maneuver myself into a sitting position. The heaviness in my chest is still there, with the same intensity as when I first awoke. If it had been a residual effect of a dream, it would be dissipating by now.

A minute later, with the last vestiges of sleep clearing from my head, I figure it out. The feeling is a knowing. A negative kind of knowing. The opposite of what a kid feels when they wake up and realize it's Christmas morning. Instead of joy and excitement, the knowing I'm experiencing brings dread.

I know that I can't go any further with Tony until I tell him about Devon. The whole story.

With all my heart, I don't want to relive the story again. But my desire to prevent my relationship with Tony coming to a screeching halt again is greater, and with that realization, I also know that today has to be the day that I tell Tony everything.

The decision made, the horse gets off my chest. I'm not looking forward to the conversation, but I know that the only thing I have to fear from it is the emotions attached to the event I'm going to have to relay. Tony will be sweet and supportive and compassionate, I'm sure.

I'm also sure I'm not going to get another lick of sleep, so I ease out of bed and dress quietly, then slip into the living area of the suite. I can shower after Danita gets up. About a half hour later, I'm starting to get hungry, so I take a banana out of the refrigerator and have it with some soaked and dehydrated almonds. It's eight o'clock before Danita wakes up and I can run the blender to make a smoothie.

In the meantime, I do a lot of thinking, a little reading, and, believe it or not, some praying. If a superstar worth a gazillion dollars can be humble enough to trust God over his own abilities and charm, who am I to say that faith has no value? Anyway, I need all the inner strength and courage I can get for what I'm going to do.

Danita actually smiles at me when she gets out of the shower, a real smile, not a constrained one, and asks me how the movie was. Maybe this is a sign that God is already moving on my behalf?

After texting Marilyn to tell her what I'm about to do, I go next door and knock on it. Tony has already called to tell me good morning and to invite me over to eat breakfast with him.

The door opens just wide enough for me to slip in. Tony is on the other side of it, staying out of sight, but as soon as I am inside he takes the jar full of smoothie I'm holding, sets it aside, and leans down to kiss me on both cheeks. I barely have time to register the tingling he leaves there before he wraps his arms around me. "I missed you."

I laugh, returning the embrace. "But I was here until bedtime."

"Ah, yes." He pulls back and smiles at me. "But what if I couldn't sleep because all I could think about was my soul mate," he strokes one finger down my cheek, "sleeping in the room next to me, all by herself?"

The touch sends waves of pleasure through my body and scrambles my brain so that for a few seconds, I can't think straight. "Then maybe having an ocean between us isn't such a bad thing." I mean it as a tease, but his smile fades as concern flashes through his eyes. "Temporarily," I amend. " _Very_ temporarily."

He sighs, loosening his grip on my waist, then letting his hands slide away. "I'm afraid that will have to happen whether we want it to or not." Shaking his head, he turns to pick up my smoothie from the table where he set it and gives a light laugh. "Never mind, we're together now, and that's the important thing."

He doesn't know the half of it. But he will in a few minutes. I take in a deep, strengthening breath. "Tony," I say as I follow him to the table, "before we eat, can I talk to you alone?"

As Tony spreads his arms to encompass the room, I realize that we _are_ alone. For once. Did he plan this?

Then I remember our conversation about twenty-four hours ago. When he looked like he was being tempted to kiss me.

Duh. Of course he planned this. And by the cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his face, I'm right on target with the reason he planned it.

I decide to play dumb. "So, the guys decided to go down to eat?"

He picks up my hand and ushers me to the sofa. "After promising them I wouldn't open the door for anyone but you or Danita, yes."

"Judge Stoner wouldn't be happy you're guarding me instead of Deshawn or Randy," I say as I sit.

Tony sits next to me, so close that our legs are touching. The intentional posture makes me nervous. It shouldn't, because this is Tony, not Devon. But still, it does, and I shift away a couple of inches, trying to cover it by turning to face him at the same time.

"I won't tell her if you don't," he replies, either not noticing my slight movement, or not caring. At any rate, he places his right hand palm-up between us on the sofa, wiggling his fingers expectantly. I stare down at them for several ticks. Then, I scoot away even further, fold my arms over my chest, and drop my gaze to the floor.

"When I was a junior in college, my boyfriend tried to rape me."

# Chapter Twenty-Two: Tony.

I feel like someone has punched me in the stomach. It's not the worst thing she could have said, not by far. When she moved away from me after I sat down, I began to fear the worse. But though it's not the worst, it was unexpected and has sent my mind into a tailspin.

After a thick pause, I say quietly, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No." She sniffs. She is crying? Yes, she lifts her gaze, and a single tear tracks down her cheek. "No, but I have to."

I reach my hand over and brush the tear away. "You don't have to. I don't want you to –"

She grasps my wrist. "I _do_ have to. So you'll understand. Why I'm so...why I can't..." Puffing out a breath, she lets go of me and drops both her hands into her lap. And tells me the story.

**********

Rachel unlocked the door to her dorm room and stepped inside, her boyfriend, Devon, coming in behind her. She turned and smiled up at him. "Thanks again for lunch. It was delicious."

Today was Saturday, and Devon had to hit the road in a couple of hours to get home in time to attend his brother's evening wedding. So instead of taking Rachel out for dinner, as he often did on Saturday nights, he treated her to lunch at one of the few vegan-friendly eateries in the area.

Devon looked down at her with a glint in his eye that made her uncomfortable. She didn't know why; she loved this man and knew she was going to marry him one day. Besides, Devon had never gone any farther in the affection department than Rachel allowed. She'd made it clear from their first date that she wasn't going to give her virginity away until her wedding night. This is why she rarely got asked out a second time by the same guy, but Devon had told her he thought it was an honorable ambition and he would never push her to do anything she didn't want to do.

Still, as he leaned down to place his mouth over hers, a red flag went up somewhere inside her. His kiss began gently, as usual, and she responded in kind, enjoying the sensations his lips sent through her entire body. He deepened the kiss; she let him. This wasn't anything they hadn't done before. It was typically the way he kissed her good-night, or after coming back from a date.

But after a minute, his mouth became more aggressive. Demanding. And when she tried to pull away to catch her breath, he only squeezed her more tightly to him.

Then, as he gradually pushed her closer to the bed, his hands began roaming up and down her body, touching her in places she didn't want to be touched until she was married. She'd made it easier for him by wearing a skirt.

Gathering all her physical strength, she pushed against his chest as hard as she could with the one hand Devon didn't have pinned next to his body. She managed to yank her mouth away from his, but he still had an iron grip on her body.

"Devon, stop. Let me go."

"We've been going out for nine months." His blue eyes locked onto hers, the wild look frightening her even more. "I've been faithful to you, but I'm tired of walking around being sexually frustrated." His voice grew hoarse as he continued, "I love you, Rachel. And I want you. We're gonna get married, so what's the difference?"

At his question, he pushed her roughly down onto the bed. Before she could think what to do, he had pulled her legs onto the bed and straddled them, pinning them with his weight so that she could barely move them.

But of course, he wasn't going to want to keep her legs pinned. With sudden clarity, Rachel knew what she had to do.

"You're right, Devon." She forced the sexiest smile she could muster under the circumstances. "I want you, too. I'm tired of being a prude. Let's do it."

The lewd grin that spread over his face let her know that he'd bought it. He leaned forward to kiss her, then leaned back, and arched his spine to get her legs in the right position. In so doing, he made himself vulnerable.

With a primal scream, Rachel bent her right leg and thrust her knee into its target: Devon's crotch. Devon howled with pain as he reared back, then let out a string of curse words. Rage tightened every muscle in his face. Fury blazed in his eyes. He started coming down on Rachel with both fists, but she was ready. The heel of her right hand connected with his nose at a hundred miles an hour with a sickening crack.

Blood spurted out everywhere. Another howl. This time, Devon rolled off the bed. At the same time, someone pounded on the door, then came in. It was the resident assistance and two of her neighbors.

Devon was taken into custody, and eventually was sentenced to two years in prison. But not before he'd taken his revenge.

**********

Anger sears my intestines, at the same time that an old grief threatens to overwhelm me. Her story is not unlike my sister's, and for a moment I considered comforting Rachel by sharing it with her in a summarize form. But it's Danita's story to tell, so I thrust the idea back.

I'm amazed at the relative calm in Rachel's voice as she's relayed the story, especially since every once in a while, a tear has escaped one of her eyes. "Does he live anywhere near you? Because if he so much as looks at you ever again..." I clench my hands into fists.

Rachel shakes her head. "He's from Nevada. I guess that's where he landed after he got out of prison. But I've only just begun."

She takes a deep breath. "Since it was his first offense, they released him on not very much bail, and the university let him continue taking classes."

Unclenching my fists, I move a little closer to Rachel and put my right hand over one of hers. This time, she gifts me with a small smile and turns her palm up to clasp my hand. The gesture is almost enough to melt the anger. Almost.

"They even let him stay on as the editor of the university paper." Her gaze drops to our clasped hands. "About a week and a half after the incident, the paper came out with a second-page article about me." A pause, then she shifts her gaze back to me. "The headline was, 'Is Rachel Polowsky living a lie?' And," her gaze drops again, "there was a photo of me kissing a girl."

My eyebrows pull down. "What?"

"I recognized the photo." She brushes her free hand against her cheek. "It was one a friend had taken of me and Devon. He'd cut himself out of it and pasted in some girl instead."

I finally begin to understand her fears. "Rachel, I'm so sorry."

She shakes her head, then raises it to face me. "But wait! There's more."

A lead ball sinks into my stomach. I don't want to hear any more. I just want to pull her into my arms and hold her so tightly that this pain she's been carrying for the past several years transfers from her soul into mine.

"In the next edition, a photo of my face was pasted onto..." She blinks quickly, then stares at a point somewhere behind me. "...let's just say that the picture was pornographic." Her voice breaks on the last word.

" _Ay, mi amor_." Releasing her hand, I close the few inches between us, wrap an arm around her shoulder, and gently pull her close. She turns her face into my chest and begins to sob. I stroke her hair, wishing there was something I could say to make it all better, but knowing there is nothing.

We sit like this for several minutes. I rock her gently, and as I do, a lyric springs into my head. I mull it over, let it grow, and when Rachel's sobs begin to subside, I start humming. Then, quietly sing, "If I could hang the moon for you, make it glow for all that's true, would it erase the pain, break all your chains?"

Rachel suddenly pulls out of my arms with a deep breath. "Stop." Her eyes are wide. "If you sing anymore, I'll cry for the rest of the day. Wait." She furrows her eyebrows. "Is that new? I've never heard that before."

I reach out to her and wipe at the moisture staining her cheek. "I just made it up, right now."

Her smile is tremulous as her eyebrows lift. "Like I said, you're talented."

I turn my hand over to cup her cheek. The contact sizzles. "And you're beautiful." The final word comes out on a whisper.

Sliding my hand down and to the back of her neck, I nudge her head forward while I lean mine closer. I move slowly, give her time and opportunity to pull away, and when she doesn't, I brush my lips against hers. She turns her body to face me, her free hand settling on my chest, her eyes answering my unspoken question.

I lean into her again, and her lips meet mine halfway, moving hesitantly, but the touch fulfilling an aching need so strongly that desire explodes inside me. And when she slides her hand up to my neck, I take it as permission to take the kiss to the next level.

But in the next moment, she pulls back with a moan, jumps to her feet, and walks to the other side of the room. "I don't know if I can do this!"

Has she misunderstood my intentions? Would she possibly think that I would try to take advantage of her after the story she just told me? " _Raquela_ , I was going no further than a kiss."

Her shoulders rise and fall. "That's not what I meant."

I ease up off the sofa, walk over to her, and put a hand on her shoulder. "What did you mean?"

She pulls a tissue out of her jeans pocket and blows her nose. After putting the tissue back in the pocket, she turns to face me. "You get why I've got a thing about my face being publicized, right?"

I caress a strand of her hair. "I do. And I'm glad you trusted me enough to share your story with me."

"I know I can trust you with my story," she says, her voice small. "But I'm not sure I can trust myself to not go running again if..." She looks away and lifts a shoulder. "I don't want to hurt you again, Tony."

Stepping close to her, I wrap my arms around her. "What about trusting God with your heart?" I whisper into her hair.

She doesn't answer, just sighs against my shoulder.

I suppose the fact that she's still in my arms has to be answer enough for now. I've already told her about the kinds of things I can do to protect her identity, told her that generally, tabloids have little to say about well-behaved partners of well-behaved celebrities.

Then it occurs to me that Rachel isn't the only one who needs to trust God with their heart. Because, that kiss? That marvelous kiss? That too-short kiss that nevertheless managed to turn my world upside down?

I might as well have carved my heart out of my chest and served it to Rachel on a silver platter.

# Chapter Twenty-Three: Rachel.

## The next Monday.

"I prayed for you this morning." I lean against Tony, rubbing my head against his shoulder.

"Oh?" I can hear the smile in his voice. He pulls me a little closer and drops a kiss onto the top of my head.

We haven't done much of this kind of snuggling since our first kiss on Friday. That wonderful kiss which infused a longing inside of me that I never felt with Devon. As my lips had joined with Tony's, I'd felt our connection deepen and strengthen.

And that had scared me.

So this past weekend, I kept as busy as I could in my and Danita's suite. It was hard, because it was like there was a giant Rachel magnet in the room next door, pulling me over there. Good thing one of my strengths is self-discipline.

I did spend some time in Tony's suite, however, and the more time I spent with him, the more comfortable I felt with him. We talked easily, like we did when we were first getting to know each other, except our discussions grew deeper. And my feelings grew deeper.

But because my fears still have some hold on my soul, because I'm still not sure a relationship with him is the best path, I've been working hard to keep things chaste between us. Sure, we've kissed a few times since the first one, but nothing more than a quick peck on the lips. Tony hasn't pressed for more, and my respect for him has grown because of it.

This morning is different, though. This morning, the trial is going to resume, and though he hasn't said anything, I know Tony needs all the emotional support he can get.

"Who would have thought," I say, relishing the feel of his body against mine, "that a rock star could inspire a small-town woman who was raised in a Christian home to start praying again?"

"Stranger things have happened," Deshawn mumbles toward his phone. He is seated at the table, a few feet away from the sofa where Tony and I are sitting.

"Didn't I tell you that bodyguards should be seen and not heard?" Tony teases.

Deshawn looks up and glances our way. "Once or twice." He winks at me, then goes back to his phone.

A second later, and Tony's own phone, on the end table next to the sofa, starts ringing. He snatches it up with his free hand, flicking a glance at the screen, then at me. "It's Richard."

He removes his other arm from around me, and I sit up straight, my heart starting to beat a little faster. We're supposed to meet Richard at the courthouse a little before nine, and it's only seven-thirty now. He wouldn't be calling unless he had some sort of news.

My stomach sinks. He didn't get sick, did he? Or maybe Snyder has. Either way, I don't need this trial to be delayed any further. None of us do.

Okay, except the bodyguards who are getting paid $2400 a day.

"Why?" Tony asks into the phone. While he listens to the answer, he frowns at me. "All right, we're all awake. We'll be there as soon as we can." Another pause. "Thirty minutes should be no problem."

Disconnecting the call with a sigh, he turns to me. "Judge Stoner wants us all at the courthouse within thirty minutes."

I stand up, my heart speeding even more as my mind whirls with a dozen reasons for this unexpected demand. "Did he say why?"

"No." Tony gets to his feet as well, then takes me by the elbow and escorts me to the door. "But you need to go ahead and get dressed. And tell that princess sister of mine to hurry."

I _am_ fully clothed, by the way; he means for me to get out of my sweats and into my "courtroom costume," as we have come to affectionately term my red-haired disguise.

The five of us – Tony, Danita, the bodyguards, and I – arrive at the courthouse about twenty minutes later. Even though the building isn't officially open and there are few people hanging around the front, a small escort of police officers meet us in the parking garage and follow us inside until we are safely away from prying eyes.

Mr. Denton meets us outside of Judge Stoner's courtroom with a twinkle in his eye and his lips quirked in a half smile. Clearly, while waiting for us he has learned something we don't know. Tony, Danita, and I exchange glances, and I can tell by their expressions that they're feeling the same optimistic curiosity as I am.

Mr. Denton ushers us into the room. Standing in front of the court reporter's table are the judge, Mr. Snyder, and the threesome comprising the Kratky family. They and their lawyer look a mixture of nervous and unhappy. I slant a glance toward the judge, and she offers me a tight, fleeting smile which I'm not sure how to interpret.

Mr. Denton has us all sit in the front row of benches on the same side as the judge.

"I'm not going to waste anybody's time with greetings and inquiries into health." The judge nods toward us. "I'm fine, and you all look well." Her stern expression becomes a glower as she looks at the teenage girl. "Patricia Kratky, I order you to tell the defendant and his party everything you confessed to me earlier this morning."

Pity pangs my heart when the girl immediately breaks down into tears. But my sympathy doesn't last long. Through stammers and hiccups, and interrupted by her father on one side with demands that she calm down, and by her mother, Pamela, on the other side with comforting phrases such as, "it'll be all right," Patricia begins to explain how she found my blog a couple of months ago when a friend got her excited about the Vegan movement. She'd sent me an e-mail, asking my opinion about taking a vitamin B12 supplement.

My jaw drops as numbness takes over my body. Danita, who sat herself between me and Tony to make sure we didn't give away our blossoming relationship, takes my hand in hers and squeezes it, apparently having read between the lines of what the girl is saying and drawn the same conclusion as I have.

Patricia is the one who sent me the threatening e-mails.

The girl goes on to confirm what we've concluded. When Snyder began the discovery process, which includes finding witnesses and meeting with them to prepare for the trial, he revealed my name as one of the witnesses for "the defendant." Knowing her parents had filed the lawsuit simply to try to gain more money to cushion their retirement funds, Patricia thought she could help by scaring me away from the trial.

All this time, I haven't been able to take my eyes off the girl. I haven't been able to move. Barely been aware of the pressure of Danita's hand. But as Patricia finishes her confession, anger surges through me, burning away the numbness and leaving behind an ash of disgust. I pull my hand out of Danita's so I can fist mine without breaking hers. Besides Devon, I'm not sure I've ever wanted to throttle anyone before, but right now probably the only thing keeping me glued to this bench instead of jumping over the wood that separates me from the Kratkys is the knowledge that someone in this room would charge me with assault if I did so.

To add insult to injury, when Patricia concludes her story and breaks into loud sobs, she cries out, "I'm sorry, Julio! Please forgive me, Julio!"

I whip my head toward Tony. His lips are pressed in a straight line, the wrinkles on his brow adding a good decade to his appearance. He must see my head move out of the corner of his eye, because he meets my gaze. For just a second. Just long enough to raise his eyebrow a few millimeters and mouth to me, " _Loca_."

A laugh balloons up into my throat. I lower my head and pretend to cough to cover it. Leave it to Tony to make my world feel like a better place to be in when I'm nearly drowning in fury.

I think that Tony's going to ignore the teenager, so am surprised when I hear him say, "I don't think I am the person you need to be asking forgiveness from."

My recovery is instantaneous, and I slowly lift my head, not wanting to miss how the girl is going to respond. For several seconds, she stares at Tony, open-mouthed, her expression shouting clearly that she's astounded that her favorite superstar actually spoke to her. Then her father pinched her arm, and her gaze swings over to me, fear crawling back onto her face. "I'm...sorry. For the," she swallows, the next word coming out in a squeak, "e-mails."

I nod my acceptance, not trusting myself to speak.

A beat of silence, then Tony turns to the judge. "Your honor, if I may ask a question."

Judge Stoner nods at Tony. "You have the floor, Mr. Estrella."

Tony folds his arms over his chest. He shoots a glare at Snyder. "How can we be sure the plaintiff's lawyer didn't orchestrate this? He doesn't seem to be below manipulating his witnesses in order to gain the upper hand at a trial."

Snyder's eyes grow wide. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Then says in a trembling voice, "I've already assured her honor that I had nothing to do with my client's nefarious actions toward the defendant's witness."

And after that, no one says anything. For a solid fifteen seconds. I know, because I count. In boxing, a man only gets a count of ten before he's considered to be defeated.

But Snaky Snyder gets fifteen. Fifteen seconds in which he says nothing to vindicate himself of Tony's implied accusation. Fifteen seconds during which you could punch a hole in the tension in the room with one good thrust of the handle of Tony's electric guitar.

After the fifteen seconds, a single sound pushes into the weighty silence. A humming noise, that sound some black people make that means something like, "I told you so" or, "stuff is about to fly." I don't have to turn around to know it's Deshawn, vocalizing the same thing those of us seated on the benches are thinking.

Snyder's been had, and this might just be the last time he gets away with obstructing justice.

Another five seconds, and Mama Kratky adds, "My Patricia told us that Mr. Snyder had nothing to do with it, and my girl never lies."

"Ha!" The laugh explodes out of my mouth before I even realize it's there. I slap my hand over it and slide my gaze toward the judge, but not before seeing both Tony and Danita smile at me.

The wrinkles on Judge Stoner's forehead are deeper than I've ever seen them. "Notwithstanding this _dubious_ assessment of your daughter's moral standards," she snarls toward Pamela, "which I've no doubt she unfortunately has had modeled to her for her entire life," here the father's face turns beet red, "your daughter could be brought up under several charges, at least one of which would be a felony."

Now the father's face, along with the mother's, drains of all color. Patricia's lips begin quivering again.

"At the very least, Counselor," the judge says to Snyder, "I would _strongly_ suggest that you strongly suggest to your client that they drop this mockery of a lawsuit." Her right index finger jabs the air in his direction. "Because when the jury reconvenes in the next hour and a half, I am going to inform them exactly what transpired here this morning. And it will be recorded and become a permanent part of the court record."

She turns her glare back on Patricia, who starts crying again. She turns back to Snyder. "Despite your sorry lack of judgment and your sorrier lack of ethics, I'm sure you're smart enough to realize what kind of influence your client's confession will have on the jury."

Pamela wrings her hands together. Her gaze drops to the floor, then sweeps up to meet the slimy lawyer's. "We'll drop the suit."

Her quiet statement nevertheless echoes around the room.

"Hallelujah," Deshawn intones as the four of us who aren't bodyguards breathe a collective sigh of relief. He doesn't shout it, but he doesn't whisper, either.

The judge's gaze snaps our way, and her long, manicured finger aims behind my head. "Amen, brother," she says flatly. Then her lips spread into what, for her, must constitute as a grin.

# Chapter Twenty-Four: Rachel.

Back in the hotel suite I'm sharing with Danita, I try to settle. Try to get some work done on my online business. But the relief that it's all over, mingling with the excitement of a prospect of a future with Tony, mingling with the uncertainty that this is even what I want, it all distracts me. Makes me restless. Huffing out a breath, I push up out of the desk chair, go next door, and knock on Tony's suite.

Deshawn opens the door almost immediately, grinning when he looks down at me. "Girl, you don't think loverboy's back already, do you?"

His reference to Tony warms my cheeks. If it was anybody else, I would reprimand him for stepping over a line. But I know he's teasing me in an older-brother sort of way.

I brush a hair out of my eyes. "No. I just need to get out for a while. Sitting around in here for the next couple of hours is going to drive me crazy."

"May not take a couple of hours, but, all right." Deshawn opens the door wider to let me in. "Let me grab the car keys, and tell me where we're going."

I'm thinking we could drive to one of the city parks and walk around until I get cold, then check in with Danita and decide where to go from there. But first, Deshawn wants to pick up a candy bar to celebrate.

"I don't hardly ever eat junk food," he tells me as we pull into the nearest grocery store parking lot, "but today calls for a celebration, don't you think?"

I agree, but I'm not about to celebrate with something as unhealthy as a candy bar.

We've both passed through the automatic doors to enter the store when Deshawn's pocket begins to ring. A thrill runs up my spine. Are they finished already? On the trail of the thrill, my stomach clenches. But I haven't decided what I want as far as a relationship with Tony. I've been hoping for a little more time to mull it over, to pray, before he returns from court.

Pulling his phone out, Deshawn harrumphs. "My mom," he tells me with a glance. "She'll wanna talk for the next hour. How 'bout you just browse around a bit, and I'll try to make our conversation short and sweet?"

"Sure," I say, then set off for my favorite section of any grocery store: produce. Not wanting to appear that I'm loitering, I select a few apples and bananas to augment my store in the hotel suite, though I don't plan to be there much longer, then go to the checkout counter to pay.

I spot Deshawn a few yards away, standing in front of a display of crackers. In typical bodyguard style, his head is up and his eyes are making a constant sweep of the area, so he notices me as I approach the first open counter. He waves discretely. I smile and nod, then take my place in line. There are two people ahead of me, both making a bigger purchase than I am, so my eyes wander over to the magazine rack.

And freeze.

Actually, my whole body freezes. Every muscle feels like it's turned to stone.

There, in a prominent front-and-center position, are several copies of _In The Know_.

With a photo of me on the front cover.

The headline reads, "Julio's Secret Witness/Lover: REVEALED."

My stomach turns over, and I have to take several deep breaths to keep my breakfast down. Without another thought, I snatch the magazine out of the rack. It shakes in my hands, my heart beating a million miles per hour, as I turn to the article.

_Julio Estrella's star witness for his civil trial turns out to be a twenty-something Ohio native named Rachel Polowsky_ , the article begins. _She had been working a booth at the Midwest VegFest back in June, when she tried to play the hero after Julio's van was mobbed_ ...

I skim the rest of the article, the magazine crumpling under the pressure of my ever-tightening fists, looking for the "lover" part.

There it is.

_She was seen just after the trial started at a prominent health food store in Indianapolis with one of Julio Estrella's bodyguards. Sources revealed that Ms. Polowsky has, in fact, been staying in Mr. Estrella's luxurious hotel suite for most of the tria_ l...

I slam the rag shut, not needing or wanting to read anymore. Gone are the words of reassurance that Tony spoke to me the other day. Gone is the hope that had begun to bloom under the nourishment of those assurances. Instead, images from the past flood my mind, images of me, warped images, embarrassing images, large and prominent in the campus newspaper.

My worst nightmare has come true. I was right; to get involved with Tony was to take the risk of being mortified in front of millions of people.

Jerking my head up, I fight not to let either the gasps or the sobs waiting just below my collarbone careen out of my mouth. I skitter my gaze around to see if anyone has been watching me, if Deshawn has left his post.

No, on both counts.

Swallowing back a soccer ball-sized lump in my throat, I smooth out the wrinkled covers the best I can, then slide the magazine backwards into its spot, concealing the incriminating cover. How many people in this store have seen it? Would anyone recognize me from the photos?

I don't aim on hanging around to find out. I turn around and leave the line, dropping the goods on an abandoned and closed counter, then take a deep breath. I have to calm down, act like everything is okay, or Deshawn will question me. Know that something is up. I also have to think of an excuse to return to the hotel, and to return _now_.

It comes to me in an instant. There are some benefits to being a woman. Head down, I force myself to stroll rather than run over to where Deshawn still stands. I only look up when his black, shiny shoes are within four feet of me, then place a hand on my lower abdomen and plaster a grimace onto my face.

Deshawn raises his eyebrows at me. I can hear his mother speaking, so I communicate silently, pointing to the area below my bellybutton and making a wringing motion with my hands in front of it while I intensify the misery on my face. It comes easily, since I am really and truly as miserable as I've ever been in my life right now. Then I point toward the store entrance.

Deshawn gets at least the general idea and nods, then says into the phone, "Look, Ma, I gotta get back to work...sure, I can call you tonight...yes ma'am, I'll remember..." He rolls his eyes. "Okay, 'bye."

Phone back in his pocket, he puts a hand on my shoulder. "What's the matter, Miss Rachel? You sick?"

Definitely. In more than one way. Feeling like I'm about to pass out, actually. "I guess I'm about to start my period," I say, weaving agony through my words, "because I started cramping really bad a couple of minutes ago."

Deshawn's eyebrows shoot to the top of his dark forehead. "We better get you back to your room, quick."

The entire drive back, I plead silently that neither Tony nor Danita will have returned in our absence, that they won't return for at least another half hour. I might need that long to put the plan in motion that I formulated in the few seconds it had taken for Deshawn to escort me out of the store.

My silent prayer of gratitude is equally fervent when we get up to the suites to discover that we are still the only members of Tony's party that are here. I need to act quickly. As soon as Deshawn leaves me in my suite, thinking I'm going to lie down for a while, I dash off a note on a piece of paper from the hotel's complimentary notepad and leave it in the middle of the bed I've been sleeping on. Then, fueled by panic-induced adrenaline, I have all of my belongings packed and secured in five minutes. Have I left anything in Tony's suite?

Tony. Pain sears my heart at the thought of him, but it's my own fault. I knew I shouldn't have gotten involved with him at any level. I just _knew_ it. Have known it from the beginning.

I take a deep breath to refocus. No, I left nothing in the other suite that I can think of.

Now, to get out of here and out of the hotel without Deshawn or anyone else noticing. I ease the door to the suite open, glancing one way and then the other. No one in the hallway. Good. As quickly as I can with my suitcase in one hand and laptop bag in the other, I walk to the end of the hall where the stairs were. Tony and his entourage will come up via the elevators, so assuming Deshawn doesn't come looking for me in the next five minutes, I'll be safe once I get down to the first floor.

Once there, I push open the back door, grateful it's not an emergency exit, and step out into the brisk fall air. I constantly look right, left, over my shoulder as I make my way to the front of the hotel. Once there, I stop and scan the parking lot for any sign of Tony, Danita, or a bodyguard.

Nobody.

I keep walking, but the adrenaline is beginning to wear off which means my mind starts working again. Which means that memories about Tony, from the past few days all the way back to the VegFest, begin swarming around on the inside of my head.

Which means that I begin to have second thoughts about my decision.

I slow down, glancing back at the hotel, my heart full of longing. This isn't fair to Tony. Especially after I admitted to having feelings for him. And I know he feels strongly about me. Am I about to ruin my life? His life?

I yank my gaze back around, shaking my head, and keep walking. Whoever leaked the photos and information to the gossip magazine already ruined my life. As for Tony, his fame has to have caused him to grow thick skin. A lot thicker than what I have, anyway. And I'm sure I'm not the first woman to ever break his heart. If that, indeed, is what will happen.

Doesn't matter. I'm going to be all over social media by the end of the day, if I'm not already. Being laughed at, or scorned.

For the first time in my life, I want to die. Ten minutes later, an Uber driver picks me up at the fast food place and we begin the trip back to Toledo. It'll cost me an arm and a leg, but whatever. I want to get back home A.S.A.P., and don't want to be at the mercy of a bus schedule. I keep my phone off, knowing that Tony is going to try to call or text me numerous times during the journey. To keep thoughts about him at bay, I ask the driver to find a radio station playing either classical or country music. The last thing I need is to hear Tony's powerful baritone coming through the car speakers.

It's mid-afternoon by the time the driver pulls up two blocks away from my apartment complex. Though he hasn't seemed to know who I am, I don't want to take any chances on him knowing where I live. I hand over the cash to pay for the ride, adding in a generous tip, and begin my trek back to my place.

It ends a half block away from my apartment building. I blink, stare, blink, stare some more. My heart starts pounding against my ribs. No, no.

No! It can't be.

But I know my eyes aren't lying. Those vans are real. The cars. The people with microphones. And cameras.

Whirling around, I jog toward the residential subdivision a few blocks away and the park where I spilled to Marilyn the truth about Tony for the first time. Once there, I sink onto a bench and pull my phone out of my laptop bag. Yep, sure enough, Tony has called and texted me probably a dozen times.

I'll delete them later. Right now, I need to –

My phone starts singing in my hands, startling me so that I almost drop it. My throat constricts. I look at the caller I.D. Marilyn. The strangling sensation eases. I connect the call.

"Rachel," she says without any other greeting, "there's something you should know."

"My picture is on the cover of _In The Know_."

She groans. "So, you've already seen it?"

I ignore the question. I have, unbelievably, a worse problem at my door. Literally. "Marilyn, I need to crash at your place for a while." I'm struggling to catch my breath. "The media...the local media...they know where I live!"

# Chapter Twenty-Five: Tony.

The hour and a half between our early-morning meeting with the judge and the appointed time of what promises to be my last day in court – I hope for the rest of my life – is the longest ninety minutes of my life. I want nothing more than to be with Rachel right now, celebrating. This turn of events has to have proven to her that justice does reign, that the inconveniences of my fame don't last long, or have much of a negative impact on my life. Or hers.

I want to be with her right now, talking through this whole situation, holding her and helping her see that life with me could, most of the time, be routine and almost normal. That most of the time, she wouldn't have to worry about the limelight.

I want her to see that. Hope with something almost like fury that she does, or will. Because last night, I decided that after this trial ended, I would ask her to make one of the most important decisions of her life.

The only reason I don't return to the hotel with Rachel and come back at nine o'clock is that I don't want to risk having to take an extra walk through hoards of fans and paparazzi. So I sit in the courtroom with Danita, Randy right behind us, and play a game on my phone, resisting the urge that plagues me every two minutes to call or text Rachel.

Danita provides a bit of distraction as well, though not a pleasant one. "You know the media is going to be all over us the instant we walk out the door," she whispers. "They're going to have questions, and want answers _yesterday_."

I haven't thought about that; then again, part of her job is to think about things like that for me. And to figure out how to deal with them. Which I know she already has. She rarely brings a problem to my attention that she hasn't already solved in her head.

I look at her with a sigh. "So, what's the plan?"

She tilts her chin toward the judge's bench. "I want to ask Richard if he can go back and ask the judge to let us hold a brief press conference in here when it's over."

I drop my head backwards over the top of the bench with a moan.

"I know," Danita says, a hint of sympathy in her voice, "but we're going to have to do it sooner or later. I say we get it over with."

I bring my head back to its normal position and nod at her. " _De acuerdo_. Agreed."

In less than five minutes, Richard has talked with Judge Stoner, who has agreed with some reluctance to the plan, and only because my case was the only one on her docket today.

A little before nine, the courtroom begins to fill, and Richard leads me to our place at the front of the room. The whispers seem louder today, more abundant, with an undercurrent of excitement, making me wonder if someone somehow found out about what transpired in here a little while ago.

On my right, Snyder and the entire Kratky family slip into the plaintiff's box. I can't resist a glance in their direction. Snyder is pulling on his tie as though it's choking him, the girl is clinging to her mother's hand as if she were a decade younger, her eyes downcast. The mother rolls her lips in and out, occasionally shooting a glance toward her husband, but he only stares straight ahead, his jaw tight and his usual middle-age lines on his brow deeper and pulled down. I wonder if they fear a countersuit from me. They're not going to get one, but in my disgusted and angry state, I feel no guilt about letting them sweat for a while over the possibility.

They're just as likely to be concerned about what's going to happen to Patricia because of the crime she committed against Rachel. Before she left, she told me that she wasn't going to press charges against her, mainly because she just wanted the whole thing "over and done with." However, the judge may press charges, have the girl face her day in juvenile court.

When Judge Stoner appears, her expression is at first as unreadable as ever. Even as she addresses the jury, apologizing because their time has been wasted, and watches Snyder as he contritely explains why the case is being thrown out, the judge maintains a professional and business-like expression. When she begins to lambast the Kratky family, however, her eyebrows pull down and the wrinkles around her mouth double with the stern frown she manufactures. I almost feel sorry for the trio, but infinitely happy to be on the judge's good side.

In twenty minutes, it's all over. Judge Stoner commands the Kratky family to meet her in her chambers in one hour, dismisses the court, then has the bailiff call for three extra officers to protect me during the mayhem that I'm about to face. At least, because a dozen or so reporters were in the courtroom to witness the dismissal of the case, we don't have to waste time explaining the impetus for that decision. Instead, the reporters begin asking things like do I plan to countersue, how do I feel now that it's over, how has this trial affected my tour schedule. Non-invasive, easy to answer.

But not two minutes into the ten-minute spontaneous press conference, someone shouts, "Is it true that the young woman who was supposed to have been your key witness has been staying in your hotel room this entire week?"

My blood runs cold. I slant a glance toward Danita. She meets my gaze, eyes slightly narrowed. We both smell a rotten fish. But I have to answer the question.

"No." Good thing it's the truth.

"Mr. Estrella, you hesitated. Any psychologist would tell us hesitation indicates a lie."

I frown in the direction of the speaker. "Or it indicates that the person being asked a question was caught off guard."

"Then, has she been staying in the same hotel as you?"

My heart skids to a stop. Danita elbows me, then says, "Julio called the press conference to discuss the dismissal of the lawsuit. Are there any more questions –"

"Mr. Estrella, is it true that Rachel Polowsky is your lover?"

"Mr. Estrella, did you seduce Ms. Polowsky to get her to testify on your behalf?"

"No!" I don't think I've ever bellowed at a reporter before, but there's a first time for everything.

Danita's hand is on my arm in a flash. "Ladies and gentlemen," she says through gritted teeth, "may I remind you that we are not opposed to the idea of suing for liable. Do I make myself clear?" Her eyes flash fire.

Silence falls all around.

I know Danita wants me to be quiet, probably doesn't trust my judgment at this moment. But I have my own question, a burning one that requires an answer. I frown out over the small gathering, ignoring the camera flashes that threaten to blind me. "Where did you get such ideas about me and...Ms. Polowsky?" I come within a hair's breadth of saying her first name.

"If you please, Mr. Estrella." This from a young, slim man wearing glasses who steps out from the middle of the crowd, a magazine in his hand.

He hands it to me. I look at the front cover, and my heart drops to the floor. Rachel. With her disguise on, and without it.

And a headline declaring for all the world that she might be my lover.

Not that I mind the idea in its broader, more innocent context, but that's not how it's meant here, and not how the public at large will take it.

I pass the magazine to Danita. Her eyes widen slightly, and I can tell she's holding in a gasp. For my own part, I finally remember my audience, and give them the smile that they are used to seeing, tight and forced as it is.

"I will say this one thing about it," I say, my voice as tight as my smile. "If Ms. Polowsky reaches out to me and asks for my help in encouraging this...disreputable business to publish a first-page retraction, I will." I let my narrow gaze slowly scan the people standing before me. "That I have had, or am having, relations with her, is not true. That I would stoop to the level of using a woman to try to win a lawsuit – or for any other reason – is not true."

I take the arm of my sister, whose face has turned a dangerous, deep red underneath the olive tone of her face. "We are done here."

On the way back to the hotel, I resist calling Rachel. This is something I need to reveal in person, not over the phone. Danita and I discuss how to break the news to her, when a thought slams into my head, bringing with it a concrete ball of dread that hits my stomach, causing all the air to whoosh out of my lungs.

Danita, mid-sentence, stops talking to stare at me. " _Qué tienes_? What's wrong?"

I reach my hand over and grab her arm. "Danita, what if she's already seen it?"

The alarmed expression on her face tells me that this possibility hadn't occurred to her. Twisting around to get access to my pants pocket, I pull out my phone and try to call her. Four rings, and it goes to voice mail.

I call Deshawn. Find out that she's supposedly lying down in her suite. I can only hope it's the case. _Please, God_ , I pray, but when we finally get up to our floor and Danita goes into the suite she's been sharing with Rachel, she's back out in a minute and in my suite, her face hard, her hand holding a piece of paper. She thrusts the paper toward me. "I told you. I warned you."

Pain twists my heart. Danita's words give me more than a hint as to what the note says. I don't want to read it. But I have to.

I hold out my hand and take it, leaning against the wall for support as I read.

Tony,

_I'm sorry I led you on. I can't do this. I'm not strong enough_. _I'm leaving. Don't bother following me or calling or e-mailing_. _I'm going to block you again, anyway_.

_Find someone who can stand your fame. I can't_.

_Rachel_.

_PS_ – _If you don't know what changed my mind, look up the latest copy of the tabloid_ , In The Know.

_Find someone who can stand your fame_. The words stand out to me like a spotlight is shining on them, mocking me. I can barely stand my own fame. And past experience has taught me what kind of women don't mind my fame.

Bile rises up toward my throat at the thought, but it's chased away by a sudden flood of desperate yearning. Because I don't want any other woman. I want Rachel Polowsky.

The question is, what do I do to get her back?

The answer comes like a bolt of lightning in a dark sky: bright, powerful, threatening...and dangerous. If nothing else, it tears my soul in two before I even consider acting upon it.

# Chapter Twenty-Six: Rachel.

## Two weeks later.

"Rachel, I think you should see this."

Marilyn's words set my teeth on edge. I've been busy typing up the fourth draft of a blog post that persists in not coming out right, but I'd rather continue in that vein of frustration than have to, for the millionth time since coming to my cousin's house, brush off my best friend's attempt to "see reason."

At first, I was nice about it. After all, she never sat me down to give me a big lecture, just dropped little nuggets here and there, like, "Tony called to say he really missed you," or, "I found a video of a vegan slamming that headline and defending both you and Tony to the hilt."

But now, it's obvious I made the wrong choice by coming here. I should have gone to my parents' house. They would have, for the most part, left me alone. But two weeks ago I'd been afraid that since the world knew who I was, they'd figure out who my parents are and start camping out on their door, too.

My mom assures me that hasn't happened. So if I needed to, I'd be seriously thinking about switching spare bedrooms for the next while. But according to my neighbor in the apartment building where I live, a thirty-something woman who is what I would term a "good acquaintance," there haven't been any media around the place for three days, so I'm planning I'm driving back tomorrow. If nothing else, I don't want Marilyn and I to lose the friendship we have. And if she keeps playing Tony's side, we will.

"Sorry, I don't think I should." The words come out sharper than I've ever spoken to Marilyn, but I refuse to apologize. I finally worked up the courage to ask her to leave me alone the other day, and she told me she would.

I've never known her to lie.

"It might –"

"I said NO!" I leap out of the wooden chair I'm sitting in, pick it up, and hurl it to the side. It crashes against the bed and falls to the floor.

Regret and embarrassment wash over me. I did not just throw a chair. I don't think I ever did anything so violent even as a teenager.

Taking a step back with a gasp, Marilyn widens her eyes. I stare at her, heat rushing into my face, for several beats.

Then I throw my hands up to my face. "Oh, man, Marilyn. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

A wave of remorse overwhelms me, so gigantic I feel like I'm drowning. I sink to the floor, bring my legs against my chest, and begin to sob. My chest heaves under the weight of the wave. I can barely catch my breath. If I could catch my breath, maybe I would be able to get my emotions under control.

But I can't. I bawl like a lost child. Because, I realize, I feel lost. And, I _have_ lost. Why I haven't broken down like this sooner, I don't know. But now, all the anger, all the sorrow, all the fear, it all tangles up in my solar plexus and comes spewing out.

Devon. The fake photos. Tony. The way he looks – used to look – at me. His loving caresses. The lawsuit. Patricia Kratky stalking me. The tabloid cover. The knowledge that I broke Tony's heart.

Another hip brushes mine, and soft arms wrap around me. I lean into Marilyn's embrace. Decide not to try to control this time. Realize that I probably am better off to let it all out.

Exactly what Marilyn whispers to me, "Rachel, it's okay. Just let it all out."

She might not have made that invitation if she'd known the amount of noise and bodily fluid it would entail. My cries are loud, gut-wrenching. I've only cried like this one other time in my life, and that was after Nick died. After I'd lost a loved one.

So my misery makes sense. I _have_ lost a loved one. And my heart in the process. And up until now, hadn't properly grieved the loss of either. Maybe if I cry hard enough, and long enough, I'll experience sweet relief on the other side. Be able to step back into life as I used to know it, before Tony came along. And be at peace.

I don't know how long we sit on the floor, but I slowly become aware that sweet relief is not happening. Instead, I feel like someone has pulled my insides out and tossed them into a grinder.

I feel like I'm dying a slow, torturous death.

But eventually, my strength wanes, and I stop crying from sheer exhaustion. It did bring one benefit: I feel lighter. But I'm not sure that's necessarily a good thing, because I also feel empty inside. The heavy weight that came from ignoring my feelings the past two weeks has been replaced by stark nothingness.

I want to curl up in the bed and sleep for the rest of my life.

Instead, I wipe my eyes with the tissues Marilyn hands me, then blow my nose. Marilyn sits cross-legged, watching me with a sympathetic smile. "I think you owe the chair an apology," she says.

I cough out a laugh, and glance where said piece of furniture lies on its back. "I'm sorry, chair."

Marilyn reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. "Are you sure you're ready to start living by yourself? I mean," she adds, and I understand her need to clarify, "go back to your apartment."

Before she came in, I would have said yes. Now, I'm not so sure. The idea of living with just myself and my thoughts almost scares me.

But I lift a shoulder and say, "I'm a big girl."

She holds my gaze for another few ticks. "Should I stay or should I go?"

"If you stay there will be trouble," I sing weakly.

She chuckles. I sigh. "Go ahead and show me the thing I should see." I figure whatever it is will be coaxed across my path eventually, so I might as well not keep myself in suspense. Besides, I need to make up for my horrible tantrum somehow.

Getting to her feet, Marilyn steps over to the dresser by the door, picks up what looks to be a magazine or catalog, and walks over to me. I've stood up as well, and I catch a glimpse of the cover as she comes to a stop next to me.

My stomach begins to churn. _In The Know_? She should know better than –

"I can see on your face you're already jumping to the wrong conclusion." Marilyn pushes the tabloid toward me. "Look at the headline."

I clench and unclench my jaw, and force myself to accept the magazine calmly and not snatch it like a spoiled child. Then I look down to read the main headline, but that's not what catches my eye. What does, is a photo of the most beautiful man living on the planet. And one of the most popular, and one of the most famous.

Tony.

My breath hitches, and my heart jumps.

But unlike any other photo I've seen of him, he's not smiling in this one. He looks angry. Looks like he's yelling, actually.

But it goes along with the headline that I finally get around to reading: "Julio Debunks Lies About Witness In Recent Trial."

Witness. Me. I know it before I read a single word of the article. Which I'm not sure I want to.

Marilyn touches my arm. "I can give you a summary, if you want."

I shake my head, my eyes still fixed on the picture of Tony. I wonder where that picture was taken, what he was saying. If Marilyn weren't standing right next to me, I would caress the photo with my hand, maybe start crying again. But I don't need to give her any more ammunition in her fight to get us back together.

So I turn to the article, which ends up being the first one. In short, Tony says that whoever told _In The Know_ that he and "Miss Polowsky" had been staying in the same hotel room had lied. He also emphatically stated that he would never use a woman in any way for any reason, and he never used me to try to defeat the case against him.

"I developed an acquaintance with Miss Polowsky during the trial, and as far as I can tell she is an upstanding, hard-working woman with strong morals, and doesn't deserve for her reputation to be tarnished in this way."

The article ends with the editor of the magazine apologizing for having published untruths. "Our sources don't always get it right," he wrote.

Hilarious. As though tabloids ever publish the truth? I would laugh if my mind wasn't such a confused tangle. Tony was sweet to do this. I know he did it for me. But, why? To try to win me back? Or just because it was the right thing to do?

And just as my name had started to disappear from social media, here it is again in the nation's most popular tabloid. Will that reawaken my unwanted fame? I've already planned to use yet another wig, this one blonde and on the short side, with reading glasses to keep the general public from recognizing me. Maybe for another month. Now I wonder, am I doomed to wear a disguise for the rest of my life?

Frustration chafes against the burst of tenderness in my heart toward Tony, making me feel even more weary and raw.

"You don't look happy," Marilyn states as I hand her the magazine.

I stare at her.

"I mean, I thought you'd at least be glad that he did this." She lifts the magazine in the air. "Grateful."

"I'm grateful." As I speak, I realize the words are true. However else I feel, I'm grateful that he did this.

Marilyn steps around to pick up the chair I'd thrown. "He probably threatened to sue them if they didn't retract the other article, and publish this one verbatim." She steps back around me and puts the chair back by the desk.

"Oh, yeah. Lawsuits." I sink down onto the edge of the bed. "Thanks for reminding me why it's not worth getting involved with a celebrity."

Marilyn's gaze sharpens. "Rachel...Never mind." Letting out a sigh, she walks to the door.

Then turns back to me. "No, I'm going to say it."

Of course she is.

"It doesn't matter who you fall in love with. There will always be a risk." She drops the magazine back on the dresser. "You have to decide which is the bigger risk, being with someone or dedicating your life to loneliness. Because," she adds, pointing a finger at me, her voice increasing in volume, "that's what you're going to have if you walk away from the one God picked out for you."

She pivots around and walks out of the room, closing the door behind her.

I can only stare after her. It's the first time she's ever been so in my face about anything. I want to be angry with her, but I can't. Because deep down inside, I know she's right. I know my choices are love, or loneliness.

And both of the choices scare me to death.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven: Tony.

## Ten days before Christmas.

Four mouths gape at me, four pairs of eyebrows stretch upward. The silence that has fallen in the studio in Murcia, Spain, is almost palpable.

"You're joking, right?" Guillermo twirls a drumstick in his hand. "I should do that cymbal ping that comes after a punchline, right?"

I take in a deep breath. "No, I'm not joking."

"You're not joking, but you're lying." Edgar stands up from the stool behind his keyboard, stepping out in front of the instrument, his eyebrows pulling down. "If you were really happy about this decision, you'd be smiling."

I force a small smile.

" _Really_ smiling." He steps close to me, his frown deepening. "I've known you for too long, Tony. You're not quitting because you need a break." He glares at me a few beats, then his eyes narrow even further. "It's a woman, isn't it?"

I glare back, even as fear ripples through me. Part of my band for the tour, my cousin Marcos is standing a few feet away. I can only hope he can resist the inevitable temptation to reveal what he knows. "That's none of your business."

"No. No!" Edgar shakes his head. " _Estás loco_? Guys, are you hearing this? He's going to give up his career for a woman!"

I've never been in a fistfight in my life, and am surprised when I find my hand clutching the collar of Edgar's neck. "I said I need a break. I mean, I need a break."

Guillermo, the only other guy in the group who works out more than I, is between us a second later, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from Edgar.

I look down at my hand, then up at my long-time friend. Flinch. "I...I'm sorry, Edgar."

My keyboardist, crossing his arms in front of his chest, makes a _pfft_ -ing noise. "She's really done a number on you, hasn't she? What, she told you she couldn't marry a singer? A famous person? What?"

We lock gazes, and for the space of a few heartbeats I consider telling him – all of my band – the truth. He is, after all, ninety percent there. But then I would disrespect Rachel's wishes to remain anonymous. And she isn't requiring me to do anything for her.

I shake my head and step back, the adrenaline that had me acting like a stupid teenager a minute ago draining away. "Perhaps it is I who is tired of the fame." I lift my palms. "Ever think of that?"

Glances dart back and forth around the studio. Expressions of disbelief.

"I am wounded," my cousin Marcos says, in complete seriousness. "You have been struggling with this, and never told me?"

Does he really believe this has nothing to do with Rachel? Well, far be it from me to dismantle that illusion. So I send him an apologetic glance, then turn back to Edgar. As I suspected, pain and betrayal flash through his eyes. He is almost as close to me as my cousin. I wait for him to speak, but he simply drops his gaze to the floor and scuffs the tile with the toe of his shoe.

I clear my throat. "I asked you all a few minutes ago how you would fare if we cut the tour in half, and cancelled the rest of the concerts from June forward."

"Blue Vibes is going to have your butt on a platter," is Antonio's dry remark, referring to my record company.

He doesn't know the half of it. He doesn't know I'm actually planning to breach my contract.

"Otherwise," Antonio adds, "I'm good with money."

The other three men mumble their agreement.

"What does Danita say about your decision?" Edgar asks, looking up. "You've told her, right?"

I grimace. My sister and I actually got into a shouting match when I told her what I was going to do. That hasn't happened since she was a teenager. And she left the room in tears. I felt horrible. It takes a lot to make Danita break down, so I know I really hurt her. She didn't cry because she was going to lose her job. She is well-off financially because she's been working with me and invested according to our mutual accountant's advice. Also, because she's been working with me, she could easily find work as someone else's talent manager if she wanted.

She cried because she believes I am going to regret this decision, and regret it deeply.

"Performing is in your blood," she'd insisted. "You can get over a woman, but you can't get over what you were born to do!"

"I was born to spend my life with Rachel!" I'd countered in a volume I try to avoid at all costs unless I'm singing. And thus had begun the most intense, most heated argument I've ever had. It didn't last long, but I fear it may have wounded our relationship in ways that may never heal.

Edgar smirks. "You did tell her, and she doesn't like the idea anymore than we do."

The problem with having close friends is that sometimes, they can read you better than you want to be read.

Stepping right next to Edgar, Guillermo throws and arm over his shoulder and pins me with a glare. "If we ask Danita if this is about a woman, what would she say?"

My jaw tightens. I would hope she would say nothing. She has only spoken to me as necessary since our fight, and when I approached her not too long after to apologize for my harsh words, I also asked that she would not tell anyone the real reason I want to step back from my career.

"Oh, so you want me to lie?" had been her searing comeback, and she never did give me an answer.

I can't hold that against her, because it's not fair to ask her to do wrong simply because my heart has been turned inside out and wrung dry.

There is only one right answer to Guillermo's question, and I can only hope he's bluffing. "You would have to ask her and see what she said," I say. I don't bother trying to smile. It would be forced, and that would give the truth away more than anything.

Antonio picks up his bass, still plugged into the speakers, and plucks out a few notes. "You know this sucks, this sucks, this really, really sucks," he belts out to the tune of Michael Jackson's song, "Bad." The move surprises me, because like me, he's reserved, usually keeping his opinions to himself. He also rarely speaks English, often pretending he doesn't know the language when he's out in public in English-speaking countries, just so he won't have to engage in conversation.

I watch him as he sets his guitar down, tears filling my eyes. His reaction isn't about the money; we've just established that. And it can't be about fear of not getting work, because when they're not touring with me, all four of the other guys here with me have regular work as studio musicians.

I blink rapidly to hold the hot moisture at bay, then look from one man to the other. "I will miss all of you."

"You kicking me out of the house?" Marcos asks. I know he says it in jest, but I'm in no mood for jokes right now.

I give him a sharp glance. "You know what I mean."

Silence falls again. I clear my throat. "I will see you all in Tampa." That's where our first stop is on our U.S. tour, three days from now.

I motion to Sven, my bodyguard who has been standing by the studio door, and I walk out with him without another word. What else can I say? I've disappointed my friends – possibly have destroyed one or two of those friendships today. I've disappointed my only sibling. Even my father, who hasn't always been enthusiastic about my career choice, said, "You're crazy, but you're stubborn, so you're going to do what you want to do."

The only person I haven't disappointed in all of this is my mother, who was relieved to hear I might put myself at less risk of a terrorist attack because of the terrorists' affinity for large, crowded public places.

A few weeks ago, I convinced myself that disappointing my friends and loved ones, even angering them, would be worth it for the approval of the one person whose approval has come to matter more to me than anything. Now, doubt swoops down over me. I'm not even certain that this drastic step will bring Rachel back to me. If it doesn't, do I really despise my fame that much, to leave the life and people that I have come to love?

Danita accused me of not trusting God. I remember her passionate plea, the frustration etched into every pore on her face. I see the faces of my four band members, my friends, shock mingled with hurt on every one.

And I see Rachel, gazing into my eyes with trust, affection, perhaps even love.

And I realize that this choice, without even factoring in the reaction of my producer, is turning out to be a thousand times more difficult than I'd first believed it would be.

**********

The next day, halfway across and several thousand miles above the Atlantic Ocean, I give up on trying to read the novel on my phone and, closing my eyes, lean my head back. If I had known the tension on the plane would be so thick that a blade from a ProVitaBlend blender wouldn't be able to cut it, I would have cancelled this concert. Or, if I could go back in time, I wouldn't tell anyone about my decision to walk away from Julio Estrella until early next year.

What had I been thinking? How well are my band and I going to perform together, now that they are all upset with me?

I hear soft footsteps, then hear and feel someone slide into the seat next to mine. I open my eyes with a sigh. Turn toward Danita, fully expecting the stony expression she's been giving me for the past couple of weeks.

Lift my eyebrows when instead, I see remorse hovering over her features.

" _Hermanito_ , we can't go on like this."

"We can," I say, shifting to face her better, "but I don't want to."

She breathes out a soft sigh and leans her head against my shoulder. "It's your life. You can do what you want to do. And I know a lot of musicians who make it big end up limiting their time in the spotlight." She puts a hand on my thigh, patting it. "I just didn't think you'd be one of them."

I lift my right arm and place it around her upper back. "I didn't either."

We sit without speaking for a couple of minutes, and I feel the tension between and around us melt away. For the first time in two days, my shoulders relax. At least I haven't lost my sister. Our relationship.

But I mustn't take her move to reconcile for granted. "I'm sorry I dumped this on you so suddenly."

Danita pulls away and gives me a wry smile. "Like Mama says, you always were impulsive." She straightens, then runs her fingers through her hair that had just been squashed against me.

I keep my arm up over the back of her seat. "Since we're talking now," I say, "there's something I need to know."

She raises her brow at me.

"Do you hate Rachel?"

Rolling her eyes, she releases a puff of air. "Hate is too strong a word." She looks away for a moment, returns her gaze back to me. "I still think you're probably making a mistake, and I don't like her for being the one to cause you to make it." She looks away again. "And..."

"And?" I prompt.

Her gaze comes back to me, haunted. "Is nobody trustworthy anymore?" Her voice is small, completely void of the usual business-like firmness.

It takes me a few seconds to understand what she means. Then, a light bulb goes on. She'd felt betrayed by Rachel the first time she cut me – us – off. I've been so wretched over my heartbreak I haven't given one thought to how my sister might have been affected by Rachel's second break with us. But...

"I was under the impression you kept your distance from her during the trial."

The lines around her mouth tighten, and her eyebrows draw down. "I should have." She raises a shoulder, shaking her head. "But after we got sick, and she took care of us...well, I guess I let my guard down."

I let my arm slide down to come around her shoulders again. "Danita, you can't compare Rachel to –"

"Don't say his name!" Danita pulls back, anger flaring in her eyes.

I bring my arm back to my body, then lift both palms in a gesture of surrender. "I won't. I'm sorry." The name I'm not allowed to say is Rodrigo Carda, who was my first drummer.

And was, for a time, much more than that to my sister.

She heaves yet another sigh. "And you're right. Rachel's running scared. It's a completely different situation."

"I'm glad you see it that way."

She slants a glance back to me. "I suppose you want to know how I would treat her if she came back to you."

I give her arm a light pinch. "When, not if."

"A million-to-one chance," she says, brushing my hand away.

My mouth curls upward. "Anyway, yes. I would like to know."

Danita glowers. "I would treat her civilly, until she proved to be as good for you as you claim she is."

"And then?" I prod.

She crosses her arms over her chest. "And then," her face softens, "I might be glad to call her my sister."

*********

I wake up the next morning, bleary-eyed and disoriented. It takes me a minute to remember I'm in a hotel room in Atlanta, Georgia, to perform at a charity Christmas concert tonight. And tomorrow, I will fly to Tampa to meet my band to begin our U.S. tour.

I've always had mixed feelings about touring. They are a lot of work, even for a superstar like me for whom record company hires the crew, schedules the venues, and takes care of all the backstage issues. But I get a high out of being onstage, from the actual performing itself and from knowing that I'm helping other people feel good with my entertainment.

As I roll out of the bed and go into the bathroom, however, I have only one feeling about both tonight and the tour: dread. And sorrow. As though a loved one is on their deathbed, and I'm just waiting for the end to come.

I shake my head several times in quick succession. Better start with cold water, if that's the way I'm thinking. Rachel is worth more to me than a million performances. She is my soul mate. If I didn't know that before, I've learned it during the past two months. Two lonely, despairing months of constantly wondering if I would ever see her again, and wondering if I could go on if I didn't.

It sounds cliché and melodramatic, I know, but it's true. She has my heart in her hand. The power to caress it or to crush it.

This remorse I feel at the prospect of walking away from my career, it will fade in time. Perhaps there will always be a small ache in a small void within my soul for what used to be and for what might have been, in the realm of performing. But I am persuaded it wouldn't compare to the near-horror that I feel at the thought of Rachel not being a part of my life.

Bending over, I turn the faucet on, keeping the handle turned toward the blue side. I step into the tub, take a deep breath, and start the shower. I gasp at the initial streams of frigid water, but I force myself to stay under it. I let it soak my head, then run down my back. Thirty seconds of this self-induced torture, and I'm already feeling better. More at peace with my decision. Less fretful about my relationships among my band members.

I turn the handle to the red side and warm back up, and as I lather my body I can almost feel the negative energy from the past couple of weeks being washed away. I force my mind on tonight. I am to be a surprise appearance, which was a surprise to me because I would have thought that putting my name on the program would assure the organizers a full house.

That sounds arrogant, but it's simple truth. These days, my name brings crowds. As I dry myself off, I nod. Yes. It's not just about Rachel. I need some time to be allowed to be Antonio Ramirez, human being. To not have to worry about crowds. Or mobbing. To be able to go into a grocery store and do my own shopping with no one coming up to me and asking for an autograph.

It's not just about Rachel.

But even as I mull over the idea of being able to live a "normal" life, which I'm not sure I've fully experienced as an adult, my gut clenches. I ignore the feeling and get dressed.

I've barely pulled on my jeans when there's a knock on the bedroom door. Danita slept on the sofa bed in the living area of the suite, so I guess it is she. But when I open the door, Deshawn stands in front of me, eyebrows forming a V in the middle of his forehead, his phone in his hand. I'm not surprised that he's up already; it's after nine, and if I haven't played a concert or otherwise had to stay up past midnight, he's in bed by ten. What does surprise me is that he's come to my suite without texting or calling me first.

"Danita said I could come in, that she thought you'd be dressed by now," he says, his voice sounding...off. Confused?

Frowning, I swing the door open wider and step back. "Hold on a second." I turn my back toward him to pick up the long-sleeved shirt off the bed and pull it over myself.

When I turn back around, he hands me his phone, pointing to a certain area on the screen. "Is this true?"

It's his Twitter feed. The tweet in question reads, "Julio Estrella announces that he's DONE with the music business!"

My stomach drops to my knees. Someone must have said something. But all my band members promised they'd say nothing. Guillermo, the only married one among us, said he wouldn't even tell his wife.

As I lift my head, feeling as confused as Deshawn looks, Danita appears in the doorway, just behind the bodyguard. "Danita, you didn't..." I shake my head, immediately repentant. "I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't."

On the other hand, she looks guilty. My eyes narrow.

"Oh, Tony," she says in English, "Mama just called. She said she sent someone a private message on Facebook, mentioning that you were thinking about –"

I interrupt her with a groan. Slap myself on the forehead. "How many times do I have to tell her not to trust _anyone?_ " A dumb question. Our mother has to be the most trusting – and trustworthy – person on the planet. It's part of what makes her such a great person.

It's also what has caused me extra trouble a couple of times since my rise to fame. I thought after our last conversation, when a social media slip of hers brought a small crowd of mischievous teenage girls to the hotel in Berlin where I was staying, she had learned her lesson.

Deshawn moves to the side to let Danita step into the bedroom. She comes up to me, gently grasping my upper arm. "She said to call you right away. She feels terrible and wants to beg for your forgiveness."

I let out a small laugh. Mama knows I've already forgiven her. Even if the irritation still chafes.

Danita's face remains serious as she rubs my arm. "Tony, I know we don't agree on this, but I wouldn't have wished this...inconvenience on you. Not for anything."

"When was I gonna find out about this?" Deshawn is leaning against the doorjam, arms crossed, mouth curving down.

I take in a deep breath. "Sometime in the next month."

He stares at me for several ticks. Then, his eyes widen. Narrow. "You doin' this to get Miss Rachel back, ain'tcha?"

I stare back. Feel my mouth twitch. "I cannot tell a lie to a man with several inches and a few dozen kilos on me." I hand his phone back to him.

He takes it, his chest expanding with a deep breath. "Yo' life, Tony." He looks like he wants to say more, but he just shakes his head and walks out of the room.

Danita sinks onto my bed with a moan. When I turn to look at her, she's rubbing her forehead. " _Qué_? What?"

She jerks her gaze up, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, 'what'? You know what this means, don't you? All kinds of demand from the media after the show tonight, wanting details." She stands up and steps right in front of me, frowning. "Fans ranting and screaming at every concert, begging you not to quit. Double the interviews. _Aye, mi madre_. I have a headache just _thinking_ about it."

Guilt pinches. I push it away. I wasn't going to announce my decision until the last concert of this tour. This isn't my fault.

Danita points a finger at me. "I suppose you think this isn't your fault."

I take a step back at the hostile tone.

"If you would have done what I said, talked to Rachel first – never mind." A whoosh of air leaves her lungs, and she whirls around and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

And leaving me second-guessing every decision I've ever made in my life.

# Chapter Twenty-Eight: Rachel.

"Four o'clock. Perfect timing."

I glance at Tyrone, the tall, mocha-skinned man sporting an afro who's been sitting to my right during our limo ride from the airport to the hotel. I've never met him before, but based on how he's been fretting about time ever since we all gathered at Chicago O'Hare, he seems to be the one person on earth more persnickety about time and schedules than I am.

Okay, him and a certain talent manager for a certain rock star with whom I'm a little more than acquainted.

"Four more hours!" The thirty-year-old woman seated across from me, Michaela, squeals like a teenager. "Can you believe it? I haven't been to a concert in _forever_."

The white guy sitting next to her, Darryl, is in his mid-forties and looks like every stereotype of a successful salesman, down to the navy blue tie hanging over his white dress shirt. He smiles and puts an arm around Michaela. "You're too pretty to have been alive that long."

Michaela elbows him good-naturedly, wriggling away from him. Apparently, the two of them have joined forces several times at various marketing venues in the Chicago area to hock their ProVitaBlend wares. And despite their amazing success, she hasn't been convinced that he would be amazing enough on a personal level to be considered as a boyfriend.

If I were in the market, I sure wouldn't give somebody fifteen years my senior a second look. Five years, max.

_Two would be good_ , a naughty voice in the back of my head whispers at the same time it brings up a picture of Tony.

I blink it away. I refuse to go there this weekend. While concerts aren't my thing, I didn't want to say no to the ticket to this one that ProVitaBlend handed to me on a silver platter. It was a reward for being one of the four top sales reps this year in our region. If nothing else, I thought getting out of Dodge would take my mind off of certain, uh, things.

Which is dumb, when I think about it. I'm going to attend a _concert_. Where some of the biggest names in music are going to perform. Like that's going to keep my mind off of certain, uh, things.

But Tony's not going to be here. If he'd been on the roster, I would definitely have given my ticket away. As it is, I'm determined to enjoy myself, including at tonight's concert. I get to spend a couple of days away in sixty-something degree weather, something I've never experienced during the month of December. _And_ I get to spend it in a nice hotel, with food vouchers and everything.

My only qualms about coming had been who else on our team would be with me. Some of them know me from conferences, well enough that they would know that I was "the" Rachel Polowsky who had been scandalized by a tabloid. But I've never met the other three people before, and I'm wearing the blond wig with fake reading glasses that I've been wearing out in public for the past couple of months, just in case. And I introduced myself to the other three as Rachel O'Connell, using my maternal grandmother's maiden name so I wouldn't feel quite like I was lying.

If any of them has recognized me, they haven't shown it.

This gig is nice P.R. for the company, too. The concert tickets were $1,000 a piece, with all of the profits going to several reputable charities. Everyone who purchases a ticket is going to have their name published on those charities' websites, as well as in some of the biggest newspapers in the country.

I follow the others into the hotel, marveling that I don't even have to drag my carry-on in with me. The limo driver told us he'd bring our bags in shortly. There are a few other people checking in ahead of us, and as we wait, Michaela pulls out her phone and starts tapping and swiping.

I about jump out of my skin when she shrieks, "No!"

Tyrone and Darryl, as well as the clerk and the people checking in ahead of us, turn to her with curious, if not alarmed, expressions.

Michaela blushes, waving at the strangers. "Sorry. It's nothing." She takes a deep breath, stepping closer to me. "But it _is_ something," she says, lowering her voice. "A _major_ something. Look at this."

She moves close enough to me so that I can see the screen.

It takes all of my strength to keep my mouth closed. To not gasp. I can do nothing, though, about the sudden thundering of my heart inside my chest.

Without thinking, I yank the phone away from Michaela and start swiping to read more. There isn't a whole lot to the Instagram story, beyond the cyber-weeping and wailing of a woman claiming to be Julio Estrella's biggest fan.

Yeah, he has a lot of "biggest fans."

Michaela jostles me with her elbow. If I weren't so stunned, I might suggest that it's an annoying habit she should lose. "I see you're a fan, too," she says. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"'Sup?" Tyrone asks, reading over my shoulder. He lets out a low whistle, then tilts his gaze toward Michaela. "No way!"

Exactly what I want to say. Except a sudden surge of emotion has gotten stuck in my throat, threatening to choke me.

Curious, Darryl meanders over to our cluster as Tyrone pulls out his own phone and starts tapping. "Dude," he says, "looks like it's all over the Internet."

"What are you guys talking about?" Darryl asks. Tyrone flips his phone around for Darryl to read. The older man lifts a shoulder. "Big deal. Guy's probably worth a billion dollars. Why shouldn't he quit?"

His words barely register through the roaring in my ears and the thoughts reverberating like crazy in between them.

Tony's going to quit performing. Walk away from his career.

Why? He'd told me once that aside from the fame, he couldn't imagine a life without performing onstage.

Wait. Fame. Fame. He's not...no. It couldn't be. He can't be doing this...for _me_?

An invisible wrench grips my stomach, tightens, and twists. He'll be miserable if he quits. I know that playing and singing as a hobby wouldn't do it for him. He's called to perform. _Called_.

"Rachel?"

Tyrone's voice rouses me from my reverie. My gaze snaps toward it to find my three traveling companions at the desk, giving me strange looks.

"She needs to see your I.D.," Tyrone adds.

Heat burns my cheeks as I step over to join them. "I'm sorry. I was just remembering...something I forgot to do for Christmas."

Tyrone's raised eyebrow lets me know that I continue to be the world's worst liar. But I'm certainly not going to tell the truth.

As we get checked in, I try to focus my mind on anything else other than the news I've just seen, but all I can think is that Tony is making the biggest mistake of his life.

Then again, is he? I remember him telling me how much he hated being famous. Maybe it's not about me at all. Maybe the misery of fame is, for him, worse than the misery of walking away from the thing he was born to do.

And, wouldn't he have tried to contact me through Marilyn to tell me, if he wanted to get back together with me? I would've been the first person to know about this, if it had been about me.

In fact, now that I think about it, he hasn't called Marilyn for a couple of weeks, asking for me. The last call had been to find out if I knew the latest about the Kratkys. I did, thanks to an enlightening call by Richard Denton.

Turns out that the father was so upset by his wife's public announcement that she was willing to have an affair with a rock star, he filed for divorce shortly after the end of the trial. Then, he confessed to the judge that his wife had paid someone to follow Tony's rental van that day her daughter jumped him and take photos of us as we entered the hotel. She was also the one who took a picture of me and Deshawn in the grocery store the day that Judge Stoner had ordered me to stay under Tony's protection. She'd recognized Deshawn from some online photo where he'd been escorting Tony, and so had taken both our photos with her phone, thinking she might make some money by tipping off a tabloid. After that, she'd look me up in the public records and found my driver's license picture, realizing that I had been the woman she'd seen in the store.

Mr. Denton informed me that both the Kratky parents are in a boatload of trouble.

Anyway, up until that last call, Tony had been calling every third day since the end of the trial. Maybe he's given up on me.

The same pain that ripped through me that day two weeks after the trial, when I broke down in front of Marilyn, wells up and threatens to tear at my heart again. Proof that no matter what I've been telling myself, I've fallen for Tony, and fallen –

"Rachel!" This time it's Michaela's voice.

I jerk my head up to find the clerk holding out a key card to me, her eyebrows drawn down. "Oh." I take the card. "Sorry."

More stares from my new acquaintances. "Are you all right?" Michaela asked. "You look like you're going to be sick."

I _am_ sick. Very sick, but not in the way she's thinking. I'm heartsick. Have been ever since I left the hotel that day Tony's case was dismissed. Only I'm just now getting around to admitting it to myself.

I shake my head, force a small smile. "I think my time of the month is coming. Makes me really fatigued all of a sudden sometimes." At least that's half true.

Our rooms are all next to each other, and a few minutes after I've entered mine, Michaela knocks on my door, wanting to know if I'll hang with her until dinner time.

"If I stay by myself," she says, "Darryl is going to hit on me. And I'm beyond tired of him not taking no for an answer."

I am more than willing to take on any opportunity to distract me from thoughts of Tony and our relationship, so I accept her offer.

Except, my mind refuses to be distracted, telling me I should try to call or text him, or Danita, before the concert.

But I have no right. Not after the way I slunk away from them in October, leaving a note, coward that I am. And, I remind myself, I have good reason to believe that Tony is trying to forget me, to let me go, exactly the way I wished he would have back in the summer.

Now, I wish for the opposite. Because I've realized I can no longer deny the truth: I love him. _Need_ him, as though he's a part of me. The oxygen that I breathe. The blood running through my veins.

I love him. As in, I don't think I can ever be happy again if I spend my life away from him.

And I have no idea what to do about it.

**********

I settle back into the cushy seat with a sigh. "I want one of these for my apartment," I comment to whomever might be listening.

On my left, Michaela slides her purse off her arm and sits down. "Yeah." Her gaze slides to mine, and she smiles. "Nice." She looks around the non-stadium sized building as Tyrone sinks down next to her. "But I don't get why they didn't use a bigger venue. I mean, I'm sure they could have sold it out, with the names who are going to be performing tonight. And then they could have raised more money."

"A marketing ploy." Sitting on my right, right next to the aisle, Darryl shifts in his plush, red seat to face us. "First of all, they probably wanted to charge the same donation to everyone. They wouldn't have been able to do that fairly in a stadium, where there's nosebleed sections and the seats aren't necessarily as nice the farther away you get from the stage."

His gaze flicks to me, then settles on Michaela. "Second, it makes the donors feel special, being in a more intimate space, and knowing it's an event exclusive to people who can afford it."

I wrinkle my nose. "Elitist." The word feels sour on my tongue.

Darryl looks at me and grins. "You know it." He sits back, adjusting his tie. "So for the next two hours we can pretend we're doctors and lawyers and Forbes 500 entrepreneurs instead of lowly salespeople for a mid-class company."

"Bet there won't be a lot of my color represented here tonight." Resignation, and a hint of defiance, edge Tyrone's remark.

Even Darryl has the grace not to comment on the statement, but it makes me squirm. Suddenly, I wish I hadn't accepted the ticket, and it has nothing to do with finding out about Tony. Marilyn would have told me after this weekend, anyway. I hate the idea of people thinking they're better than other people because of their wealth or skin color. Or whatever. And I feel like my having shown up is some kind of approval of that superiority.

My discomfort can't last long, when the first performer is a concert pianist. I sit in rapt attention, listening to his rendition of a medley of "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" and "What Child Is This?" He continues playing for the next performer, a famous country singer who about bowls me over with his version of "Mary Did You Know?"

I wonder if the entire show is going to be religious, until he finishes that song and goes into a lovely rendition of "Silver Bells."

The rest of the songs performed by the rest of the artists are a mix of Christmas carols and secular Christmas songs, heavier on the secular music. Some of the styles and voices I like more than others, but I'm generally impressed with how the show has been put together, with one performer or group sometimes combining with the next in line to perform a song, and many of the artists putting entertaining, even enchanting, spins on the beloved Christmas classics.

I might enjoy the concert more if my mind didn't keep going back to Tony. I have yet to see him perform – maybe never will – but how can you be in love with a musician and not think about him while watching other musicians?

Still, between Michaela's constant poking me and making humorous comments under her breath, and the upbeat atmosphere of the place, not to mention the thrill of actually listening to live music, by the time the show comes to a close, my mood is a lot more positive than it could have been. In fact, I can honestly say I feel downright optimistic about life.

When the last singer walks off the stage and the enthusiastic applause for her dies down, the M. C. for the night steps back into the spotlight, holding a microphone. Like everyone else, I expect him to thank everyone for coming, and to share a few parting words about our generosity in having dug deep into our pockets to help the charities being assisted by this fundraising event.

Like everyone else, I am surprised when he says, "Ladies and gentlemen, I see some of you gathering your coats and purses and getting ready to leave. But I would advise you to relax for just a few more minutes. We, the organizers of this event, wanted to give all of you a special 'thank you' for being a part of this spectacular holiday fundraiser by surprising you with someone who isn't on the program, but someone I think you will find well worth your time."

I exchange a glance with Michaela, who raises her eyebrows at me. I lift a shoulder in response. My guess is as good as hers.

"He received two Grammys for his first album three years ago, and has been one of the fastest-rising stars in the music world since the Beatles."

My heart jolts. That's how people have been describing... _Tony_.

"He begins his latest U.S. tour tomorrow night in Tampa..."

Didn't I hear Julio Estrella's first stop on his tour was Tampa? Yes, Marilyn told me so, about a week ago.

"...but was more than happy to make our humble event his first stop. Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Spain..."

My chest constricts as people around me now apparently draw the same conclusion as I just have, and start to cheer.

"Please welcome, Julio Estrella!"

I am only vaguely aware of Michaela jumping to her feet and screaming. I barely feel Darryl elbowing me, hardly hear him speaking, practically needing to yell because of the eruption of noise all around us, "Another marketing ploy. See? Next year people will remember this, and they'll be begging to buy tickets."

I don't look at him, don't scream. Can't. Every muscle in my body, including my vocal chords, have frozen. My wide eyes are riveted to the stage.

A line of a half-dozen large, grim-faced, uniformed men step in front of the stage, a human blockade between the audience and the performer. Then, Tony walks out, guitar slung over his shoulders, a smile on his face. But it's not a big smile. Not enthusiastic.

Fake. I know it as soon as I see it. But...why? I've watched videos online of him entering a stage to begin a performance, and he always looked like he was ready to have the time of his life. Like he wanted to be there.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Deshawn step just outside of the curtain on the right side of the stage. A plan begins to form in my mind as someone in the audience begins the chant, "Don't quit! Don't quit!" It spreads quickly, and within seconds it sounds like ninety percent of the people in the auditorium have joined in.

Tony flinches. Raises his hand for quiet. But the chant goes on, a full sixty seconds, at least. Obviously our little foursome are far from being the only people present who have heard the rumor.

If I ever wanted to hold him in my arms, give him comfort, it's now. The smile fades, and even from the distance that we're sitting, I see misery crawling over his face.

When the chanting finally dies down, I expect him to say something about the rumor. Instead, as though the chanting hasn't even occurred, he starts playing a slow arpeggio on his guitar, then leans into the microphone. " _Noche de paz, noche de amor_."

" _Todo duerme en derredor_ ," I whisper with him through the lump in my throat. My third and fourth years of Spanish in high school, the teacher taught us some Christmas carols in Spanish. "Silent Night," the one Tony is singing, is one of the few to which I remember all the words. At least to the first verse.

His voice is tender, soulful, like when he sings one of his love ballads. There is also an undercurrent of awe. As though he believes what he's singing.

Which I know he does.

His voice floats out across the stage and over the audience, seeming to hover and swirl and dance over me, asking for permission to land. I close my eyes and give it, and the caress of his voice to my heart rivals only the delicious caress of his touches to my body.

Tears pool behind my closed eyelids. I open my eyes, bending over to retrieve a tissue from my purse. I know people cry over beautiful music, but it's just "Silent Night." Being sung by a rock singer. And I don't need anyone wondering about me, asking uncomfortable questions.

I quickly dab my lower eyelids, then look back at Tony. What if he saw me? Would he stop in the middle of a song? Call to me? Or would he just ignore me?

With the spotlights in his eyes, he probably can't see past the fourth or fifth row, so it's a moot question. Still, I wonder what I'd do if he did recognize me. And called me to the stage. Or...something.

He ends the carol, and the audience stares at the stage, mesmerized, for several beats. Then they burst into applause and cheers. The smile that spreads on his face is genuine now, and his eyes roam the audience as they continue to offer their adulations. I can't help wondering if he's looking for me.

The applause settling, he makes a rolling motion with his hand, I guess cueing a sound man somewhere because the introduction to " _Feliz Navidad_ " begins. He puts his mouth back at the microphone. "You all know this song. Sing it with me!"

As he begins to play his guitar and sing, those in the audience who sat down after the carol, now stand back up to dance and sing. Michaela and Tyrone are among them. I use this opportunity to put my plan into action. I have a Plan B, in case this doesn't work, but it would be harder to put into motion.

Working my features into a grimace, I turn to Darryl, who is still sitting down. "I really don't feel well," I tell him. "You guys leave without me. I'll call a cab. I might be in the bathroom for a while."

His eyes grow wide and he immediately stands up to let me get into the aisle. I rush out as quickly as I can, having to push by a few people dancing in the aisle, pulling my phone out as I do so. I bring up Danita's number as I hurry to the restroom. I don't go inside. Just stand against the wall next to its entrance while I send Danita a frantic text, and God a frantic prayer.

Then I wait.

And wait.

My heart's been thumping overtime since Tony took the stage, but now it moves its rate to the next level. This song only lasts so long, and if Danita's not actually here –

My phone beeps as I watch it tell me I've received a text.

From Danita.

My gut tightens. She has every right to hate me. To say no to my request. So my hand is shaking as I open her reply.

_WHAT?? You are HERE?_ , is how it begins. _Never mind. Yes, I am here, too. I ought to say no_. _You are not my favorite person right now. But if anyone can talk sense into my thick-headed brother, it is you_. _Where are you_?

Relief washes over me. _By the restrooms closest to the exit door for the middle section_.

_Wait there. No privacy backstage. Will come get you when ready to leave, take to limo_.

That won't work. Michaela will probably need to use the restroom when she comes out, and will probably head for this one. I'm already repenting in my mind for the little white lies I've had to tell today, especially about my last name. I don't want to have to come up with anymore. Neither do I want to take up a stall when there will probably be a line of women out the restroom door once the show is over.

Nope. Waiting here isn't going to work for me. But I have another idea. I think, a better idea.

My thumbs fly as I propose it to Danita. She must not disagree, because she replies immediately, giving me the information I need. At that moment, I hear voices coming from the auditorium. I look up. Yep. Doors open, people coming out.

Past time to put my plan into motion.

# Chapter Twenty-Nine: Tony.

My breath comes out on a long exhale as I sink into the seat of the limousine. I had expected to receive some sort of protest from my fans when I walked out on stage, thought I'd mentally and emotionally prepared for it. But when I heard the first cry of, "Don't quit!", it slammed into my gut like a knife. And as others joined in, the knife twisted. When the voices rose to a crescendo, something deep in my soul grabbed at me, pleading with me to obey. In that moment, I saw a future without Julio Estrella, and it looked like a black hole.

I'm not sure how I got through the first song without breaking down. Backstage, my fellow artists complimented me on my performance, the emotion with which I'd sung the Christmas carol. I didn't tell them that it was because I was fighting despair, fighting against that horrible vision.

I also expected that my fellow musicians would have something to say about my unofficial "announcement." But I didn't expect to be told that I was crazy, that a one-year hiatus from my career would cure me of all the stress, that I was young and needed to take advantage of my youthful energy in every way possible.

I didn't expect to receive zero support from my colleagues.

And that was within the mere ten minutes that I spent backstage after the show had ended.

At least my sister seems to have finally decided to be supportive. I'm supposed to be attending a private Christmas party with the others who performed at tonight's concert at a hotel a block away from the one where we're staying tonight. But as she tugged me away toward the back exit of the building, she suggested that we would do better simply to return to our hotel and get a good night's rest.

It's a mere four-minute drive from the venue where I just performed, and we all – Danita, I, and my two bodyguards – sit in silence for the duration. Deshawn and the other man working with him tonight, another black man named Jay, sneak me in the back entrance of the hotel, and when we arrive at my suite all I want to do is strip off my clothes, curl up into the bed, and sleep for the next twelve hours.

"We need to talk about our schedule for tomorrow first," Danita insists after I tell her my plan.

I frown, my hand on the bedroom door. "We can talk about it on the way to Tampa."

She rolls her eyes. "This includes what we need to do _before_ we leave for Tampa."

I narrow my eyes. She gestures toward the sofa. "It will only take a few minutes. I just want to make sure we're ready."

Suspicion snakes around me, but I do as she asks. It is, after all, much earlier than when I usually finish a concert, and I haven't exhausted myself performing for two hours.

Danita plops down beside me and pulls a leg up underneath her. "Do you think you would have done this if you hadn't had other business in the States?"

I raise a shoulder. "Maybe. Our schedule?"

"I was thinking next year, you could sing a duet with someone like Cyndi Lauper or Kate Perry." She leans back and purses her lips, rolling her eyes upward in thought. "Do 'O Holy Night' or something. You could practice it vir –"

"Danita." I reach over and grasp her arm. "The. Schedule."

She huffs out of breath. Straightens. "I'm having an idea right now, okay? Can you just go with me for a second? Think about it, Tony." Her eyes widen and she jerks around to face me fully. "You've never done a Christmas album. You should talk to –"

"Danita." I raise my voice, the suspicion now nipping at me. "Do we really need to talk about tomorrow's schedule?"

Her mouth twists. "You know I hate being interrupted."

"And you know I really want to go to bed."

Danita opens her mouth to answer, but is interrupted yet again, this time by a knock on the door. But this time, instead of looking half-annoyed and half-guilty, she looks relieved.

My spine stiffens. Surely she hasn't invited a reporter to talk to me about the rumor this late at night? But who else would it be?

I clench my jaw. We've been speaking in Spanish, but now I switch to English. "Dani, are you about to tick me off?"

She grins. "I don't think so." She gets up, walks over to the door, and opens it.

I remain on the sofa, arms crossed over my chest, anger already burning in my throat as I stare straight ahead. I've had a hard enough day. And night. She should know –

"Tony?"

The voice, though small and timid, cuts through the air, through the anger, through the confusion of the past few days, soothing, calming, softening. I must be hearing things. I jerk my neck toward the hotel door, where the voice has its origin.

No, I'm not. I'm not hearing things. Or, I've fallen asleep on the sofa and am dreaming.

But I know it's not a dream. It doesn't make any sense, what I'm seeing, but I know it's real.

My heart turns over, then starts galloping. I slowly rise, a thrill skittering up my spine, my gaze glued to the miracle before me.

Danita and Deshawn, who I assume delivered the miracle to my suite, depart without a word, letting the door close quietly behind their surprise, who is as beautiful as ever in a pair of red jeans and a white blouse.

A dozen questions slam into my brain. Had they planned this? How long ago? Why here? Why not wait until I was in Chicago in a few months?

My mouth can only form one word, however, as my heart squeezes: " _Raquela_."

Rachel takes a step toward me, though as yet I can't move. Her forehead wrinkles. "You can't do it."

"Do what?" But as soon as the question leaves my mouth, I know. And as soon as I know, the suspicion, which had loosed its hold and begun to slide away, now throws itself back around me, tightening its grip.

I clench my jaw yet again, my heart hardening. "Danita put you up to this, didn't she?"

She takes a rapid step back, as though threatened. Or struck.

She frowns. Shakes her head. "No." The word sounds strangled. And though she stands a good ten feet away from me, I see tears spring into her eyes.

She wraps her arms around her waist. "But I guess I deserve you thinking I would do something crappy like that."

Guilt sears my stomach. "No." The word comes out hoarse, and I have to clear my throat. I finally find the strength to move toward her. One step. Then two. "Don't say that. You don't deserve that. But...I don't understand. How did you know I was going to be here?"

"I didn't." She lifts a hand to her face and wipes a finger under an eye. "My company sent me and three colleagues to the concert as a reward for our sales this year." The left side of her mouth quirks upward. "Although I'm not sure I deserved it, since I had one uber-wealthy person go overboard with blender purchases."

That smile. I didn't realize how much I missed it until this moment.

I smile back, the tension easing out of my shoulders for the first time tonight. "The purchases were worth every penny," I whisper, "if they are what brought you here to me tonight."

Her smile fades as she takes in a deep breath. "What brought me here is...the rumor." She takes another step forward, her hands dropping to her sides. "Tony, you can't just ditch your career." Her tone both pleads and commands. "It's your dream, your calling. If you stop being Julio Estrella, at least right now, you'll be miserable for the rest of your life. I just _know_ it."

I take the remaining steps to close the gap between us, and put my hands around her upper arms. "No. I will be miserable for the rest of your life if you're not in it."

Trembling underneath my touch, she looks up at me. Our gazes lock. Desire and longing, more desperate than I've ever felt, course through me. It takes all my self-restraint not to lean down and claim her lips with mine.

"Are you familiar with the phrase, you can't have your cake and eat it, too?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I nod. I have actually considered that phrase during the past few weeks, thinking it fit my dilemma precisely.

"What if I told you that you _can_ have your cake and eat it, too?"

My eyebrows pull down, then lift to my forehead. Hope ignites inside me. "Are you saying." I ask, "what I think you're saying?"

She nods. "I think so." She reaches up and strokes my cheek. "I love you, Tony. I don't want –"

She can't finish, because I can restrain myself no longer. How can I? She has spoken the words I've been yearning to hear for months. My lips cover hers, hungry, urgent. She presses herself into me, her response equally desperate. She parts her lips, and our mouths meld together, tasting each other, exploring, dancing. A dance of apology and forgiveness and joy and hope. She makes a mewling sound of pleasure, spiking the desire already flooding my veins.

I rub my hands up and down her back, then pull my mouth away from hers to kiss her ear, her neck, that sensitive spot between her shoulder and neck, then her lips again. We go on like this for another full minute, until Rachel pushes me away, half-laughing, half gasping.

"Tony," she says, "we'd better not do that again until we're..."

Her face turns red as her eyes widen. I grin. "Until we're what, _mi amor_? What were you going to say?"

I fully expect her to look away and refuse to answer, but her gaze stays on mine as she says, "Married."

In that instant, I make a decision. I gently tug her to the sofa, gesturing for her to sit down. "I'll be right back," I say, then go into the bedroom. As I retrieve a small, velvety box from my suitcase, my mother and sister chant in the back of my head, _Impulsive, impulsive_.

I ignore them, keeping the box behind my back until I drop onto one knee in front of Rachel, who immediately throws her hands to her face. Silent tears begin to stream from between her fingers. I reach one hand up to brush some of the moisture away. "These are good tears, yes? Happy tears?"

Nodding, Rachel laughs.

"Good." I present her with the box and open it, revealing a small solitaire diamond.

She gasps.

"Rachel Polowsky," I say, my heart churning with emotion, "I have loved you since the moment I met you. I know we are soul mates, and I want you to be my wife. If you agree to that, I will do everything in my power to keep the world from knowing about us for as long as you want, or as long as possible." I take a deep breath. "The question is, am I worth the risk?"

Bending over, she reaches out to grasp my free hand, gaze focused squarely on me. "Antonio Ramirez," she says, "if I learned nothing else from that bogus lawsuit against you, I learned that I would be miserable without you, too. And _that's_ the risk I'm not willing to take." She nods. "Yes, Tony. Let's get married."

"Ha- _ha_!" I shout, then we both laugh as I slip the ring onto her left hand. I pull her up and hold her close, slowly rocking her back and forth, wishing we were already married, that I could take her into the bedroom and keep her with me the rest of the night.

But for now, I'll be content that she loves me. That, as the world will soon find out, I am not going to have to choose my _alma gemela_ over my career.

I will find constant joy in how God has shown both of us that true love is always worth the risk.

THE END...

_but not really!_ First of all, read on to find out how to grab a copy of a FREE sweet, clean romance novel, only available through my blog!

Second, this series continues with _Damien's Violet_. Remember Violet, the non-vegan who purchased a blender from Rachel at the beginning of this novel? She encounters her own adventures with a different rock star. One she should really steer clear of, but how can she, when he's hired her to be his personal chef? The novel is definitely available from the largest online store in the world (that shares the name of a large river in Brazil). It may or may not be available in the other online ebook retail stores. Search for it by title and author.

OR, the boxed set for the "Rock Star Husband" series, including the novel you just finished reading plus the other three books in the series, is now available at all the major ebook retailers, and will continue to be available at all those retailers. When you buy the boxed set, you save 25% over purchasing each novel individually. Search for "Rock Star Husband Series Boxed Set by Emily Josephine."

If you enjoyed this story, I ask you _pretty-please-with-maple-syrup-on-top_ to write a brief review! It will help other readers to discover the novel, and encourage me to keep writing sweet romances. Thank you so very much! :)

Finally, read on to discover how you can get every single one of my novels that will be published in the future at a one-time, deeply-discounted price. _PLUS, a free gift!_

# A note to the reader

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this novel! If you enjoyed it, I have a HUGE favor to ask you. Would you take a moment to write a review for it? Reviews are the lifeblood of authors. In today's digital world, it's how prospective buyers find their books, _and gives extra support to the authors that you enjoy._ So I would appreciate it SO MUCH if you would jot just a couple of sentences to help other readers decide whether this novel is worth a try for them.

As soon as you read the end of this book, you'll be able to navigate straight to the page where you can write a review. If you're a Goodreads user, feel free to leave a review there, as well.

Thanks a ZILLION in advance! :)

## Remember to claim your FREE NOVEL!

Remember that if you visit my blog, https://emilyjosephinewrites.com, you can claim a FREE novel. It is my mail-order bride novel (totally clean!) _Redeeming Laura_. Simply click on the above link to my blog, then click on the topmost image in the right sidebar.

## How Tony and Rachel came to be

Six to eight months before I published the first version of this novel, I declared to my husband and publicly on my blog that I was through with writing novels – at least for the foreseeable future. I was going to stick to short stories, because they don't require nearly the research or time commitment as a novel.

At that time, I was writing a series of short stories with surprise endings when I had a dream. In case you haven't read my short story "Revenge", I'm not going to describe the dream. Suffice to say that like the story, in the dream a woman who chooses natural beauty over conventional beauty is shunned and made fun of by apparently wealthy women who are into conventional beauty (make up, manicures, etc.). And the dream ended in a similar way as my short story does.

It was only the second time in my life that I can remember that a dream made enough sense and contained enough potential drama that I could actually turn it into a story. Within three days, I had finished "Revenge." And thought that would be the end of it.

However, a few days later an invisible finger started poking me on the arm and whispering, "Turn it into a novel." I ignored the prompting at first. I wasn't going to write any more novels, right?

But the more time passed, the stronger that inner prompting became. I knew I had to tell the story behind the story. And so this novel was born.

The most trouble with the story I had was figuring out how to get Tony and Rachel to meet. While trying to clear this hurdle, my family took a road trip during which I encountered a sales rep for the most popular high-powered blender company. He was handing out – guess what? – strawberry/banana/pineapple/orange smoothie samples!

BOOM! Rachel got her career.

In "Revenge", Rachel tells her new acquaintances that she met her husband at a vegan festival. While I've never attended a vegan festival, thanks to YouTube I got a good handle on the different variations of such events. Put that together with Rachel's sales rep job, and BOOM! here came the first chapter of the novel.

Read on for several other titles that you may enjoy!

Blessings,

Emily Josephine

# Other Books By Emily Josephine

You just finished reading the first novel in the "Rock Star Husband" series. The boxed set for the "Rock Star Husband" series, including all four novels in the series, is available at all the major ebook retailers, including wherever you found this first novel in the series which you just finished reading. When you buy the boxed set, you save 25% over purchasing each novel individually. Search for "Rock Star Husband Series Boxed Set by Emily Josephine."

The following titles are the first in a series. Every single one is FREE, and each is available at your favorite e-book retailer. Search for them by title, adding "by Emily Josephine."

_The Envelope,_ the first novel in my inspirational romance series, "Texas Hearts."

_Pine Mountain Secrets_ , the first novel in my Christian women's fiction series, "Pine Mountain Estates."

_His Second Chance,_ the first novel in my sweet, clean romance series, "Choices and Chances." WARNING: I wrote it as a unique, entertaining way to teach about healthy eating, which, gauging by the reviews, wasn't cool with many of the readers. So if you're going to be like them, offended because the book carries a message, please don't download it. I don't need any more negative reviews. ;)

Then there is _Revenge,_ the FREE short story that inspired the novel you just finished reading.

Visit either my blog at https://emilyjosephinewrites.com or my Amazon author page at <https://amazon.com/author/emilyjosephine> to view all the titles in all my series.

# About Emily Josephine

A former sugar addict, Emily is now a fervent health nut. A former schoolteacher, she is now an avid advocate of homeschooling, especially for children who are labeled because their brains are differently wired from the majority. A former too-much-stuff-city-dweller, she is now living her dream as a semi-minimalist rural homesteader.

As an author, she seeks to write faith-based fiction that inspire others to grow in God's grace.

**ONCE AGAIN...** If you enjoyed this book, please take a minute to write a positive review of it. It will help others to find and enjoy this novel, as well.

Thank you very much, and I wish you every blessing!

Emily Josephine

