“No. I’ll order room service.” Despite how well meaning Heath was and how much she usually liked his company, she wanted desperately to be alone.
“You father has called twice, inquiring after you. I told him you were visiting a . . . friend.”
Mystery’s eyes slid shut. She couldn’t miss the hint of disapproval in Heath’s tone. Obviously, he’d caught on to her fuck-and-run routine. Of course, it must be hard to miss now since she was doing the early evening equivalent of the walk of shame. Still, he didn’t say a word, simply slipped a tiny hint of censure into his tone.
She felt it like a yawning abyss of guilt. “I’ll call him as soon as I reach my room.”
“Very good,” he said in his crisp British voice. “Don’t forget the six-hour time difference.”
A glance at the clock in the car told her it was already after midnight in London. Damn it.
“Got it. Thanks.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence back to the Hotel Crescent Court. The journey took less than fifteen minutes—not really enough time for her to get her head together. She avoided Heath’s blue-eyed stare of concern in the rearview mirror.
Her father had sent him along to both bodyguard and babysit her, keep her out of trouble. Her driver would never cross the line and question her actions—but he’d sure as hell tell her father. Marshall Mullins had never stopped being panicked and overprotective after her abduction. He had to be completely fraying at the edges with her traveling to another continent.
Just one more worry . . . but certainly not her biggest.
She gnawed on her lip as the valet attendant from the hotel approached to collect the car. Had she been clandestine enough to keep her identity a secret from Axel? She didn’t want to hurt or deceive him, and she felt more than vaguely ashamed that she’d flat-out lied to seduce him. She’d rationalized it by telling herself that she was saving them both the embarrassment of Axel refusing her again because of their past and her name.
In the hush of evening, that felt a lot like excuses.
Heath opened her door and helped her from the car as the valet attendant slid behind the wheel. Curling an arm protectively around her, Heath placed his body between hers and the street.
“Duck,” he warned in her ear. “In case we encounter press.”
Mystery tried to relax. After all, how could the press possibly have known she’d come here? Mystery hadn’t told anyone other than her father, Heath, and her mother’s sister, Aunt Gail, that she intended to visit the States.
“In this disguise, they won’t recognize me.” After all, Axel hadn’t.
The fact that she’d emerged from a town car and not a limo was a point in the favor of discretion. But having what amounted to a bodyguard curl himself around her would, no doubt, draw attention.
“Hold my hand, just in case.” She put distance between them and shoved her palm against his, interlocking their fingers. “We’ll be less conspicuous if we look like lovers.”
Heath hesitated, then relaxed at her side. “I’m afraid that’s wishful thinking.”
Why? It wasn’t unheard of for a woman in her mid-twenties to date an attractive man pushing forty. Thankfully, she didn’t have to argue her point. He humored her, folding her hand against his own.
They walked from the car and approached the hotel’s entrance without incident. Mystery clutched Heath and released a long breath as they neared the entrance.
As he opened the door to the hotel, a woman her age wearing blingy jeans and an NYU T-shirt sprang to her feet from a plush sofa in the lobby. “Mystery Mullins! Why have you returned to the States after all these years?”
She hadn’t braced herself for press inside the hotel. Stupid and probably naïve. She really didn’t deal with this much in the UK and had forgotten how aggressive some tabloid reporters could be.
“I—”
“No comment,” Heath said beside her, motioning to one of the hotel’s security agents as he hustled her toward the elevator.
He pressed the button to bring the car to the lobby. As they waited, the security guard rushed forward to intercept the young reporter.
The woman protested, shouting across the cavernous interior of the hotel. “Our readers want to know about your sudden visit to the States, Ms. Mullins. I just need five minutes—”
The security guard must have cut her off because Mystery didn’t hear another word from the reporter. Instead, she clutched Heath’s hand, feeling rattled, anxious, and vaguely contrite about everything that had happened today. Maybe she should have bypassed the Dallas portion of her trip and left Axel in peace, simply flown to her aunt’s place and retrieved the effects her mother had left to her on her eighteenth birthday, as she’d been promising to do for years.
“Hurry up . . .” Heath growled at the elevator, willing it to reach the lobby and whisk her away.
Before it did, a young man she hadn’t previously noticed jumped out from behind a tall potted palm with a camera and snapped her picture repeatedly, the flash popping in her eyes.
“Get the devil away.” Heath stiff-armed the man.
“Why are you back in the U.S.?” the photographer demanded, looking over the top of Heath’s head to clap eyes on her.
When he tucked the camera under his arm and held up his phone as if rolling video, she closed her eyes and looked away. “No comment.”
Since the security guard was tied up with the reporter who’d approached her earlier, a female desk clerk bustled over and latched a firm grip around the photographer’s elbow. “You’re harassing our valued guests. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
The photographer shook off the hotel employee and darted past Heath, rolling more video as he got in Mystery’s face. “Are you here to figure out how and why your mother died? Was that the reason for your Tweet last night about looking forward to revisiting some of your mother’s effects?”
“No comment,” she choked.
God, she didn’t need these sleazebags to remind her that the anniversary of her mother’s death fast approached. She thought about it every spring and often sorted through pictures to remember the woman who’d given her life. She should stop Tweeting when she did that shit. She’d meant it more as a memorial than a “look at me.” Of course, these assholes who made a living scamming off people in the public light could care less.
“Is this your secret lover? Is he married? Is that the reason for your disguise?” the photographer demanded. “Did he give you the love bites on your neck? What’s your name?” he shouted at Heath before turning back to Mystery. “Would your father approve of you dating an older man?”
Another employee of the hotel, this one a slight male in an impeccable suit, approached the slouchy photographer and grabbed his arm. The desk clerk grabbed the other.
“We’ve called the police. If you don’t want to be arrested, leave before they arrive. You have less than two minutes.”
That finally got the photographer’s attention. He looked at Mystery, then flipped off the video on his phone, and took off running with a curse.
Mystery released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Why in the hell didn’t these people just leave her alone? She wasn’t an actress or a singer. She’d done nothing to warrant their attention—except be the daughter of one of the most infamous men in Hollywood. She certainly didn’t try to live her life in the public eye. She simply wrote books and worked to forget the past. Was a little peace too much to ask?
“Please allow me to express my deepest apologies,” the man in the suit offered. “We respect the privacy of all our guests and value your—”
“Thank you.” Heath interrupted as the elevator finally dinged its arrival. “Now keep these people away from Ms. Mullins. And bugger off.”