Matchmaker 10: October

"I want you," he whispered.

He'd never been shy about making his desire known, but it was the first time he'd used those words. I felt a tingle of excitement. Barrett Quillon, one of the top five sexiest men in the world, according to one poll, wanted me, and I damn sure wanted him.

"Get me home and you can have me."

He smiled at me as he softly touched my lips with a finger. "How do you feel about running?"

I snickered. "I think walking will do, don't you? It'll give me time to think of all the things I'm going to do to you."

"And me to you."

He stuck out his arm, and I looped mine though the opening and leaned against his side. That only lasted a few steps, the trail not lending itself to me tucking into his side, but as I slid my arm out of his, he gripped my hand. We walked in companionable silence. When I first met him, he couldn't seem to shut up. It was like he found silence detestable, and after only a minute or two, he had to fill the quiet with words or action to generate a comment from me. Now, our silences didn't seem to bother him as much, and they were growing in length. I didn't feel the need to always have something to say and could sit in comfortable silence for hours. I found that many times, more was said by a silent touch than all the words in the world.

I looked up at him as we walked. Whether he saw my movement or sensed my gaze, I didn't know, but he glanced at me and smiled. I smiled before I returned my attention to the path so I didn't stumble, no words spoken or needed.

We were waiting for our turn to checkout when Lydia suddenly stepped away from me. "Do you see this crap?" she demanded as she grabbed an American Investigator from the rack and slapped it down on the shopping trolley.

On the cover of the tabloid was a large photo of Lydia and me kissing on a trail somewhere, my arms wrapped around her as I held her tight. Around the larger photo were several insert pictures, including one of us walking hand in hand on the same path, another of me watching her eyes as I touched her lips with a finger, and a third of us stepping out of my car in front of a restaurant. Barrett Quillon Loses Heart to Mystery Woman During Secluded Getaway! was emblazoned across the top in lurid yellow letters on a red background.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath. I looked up at her. "I'm sorry about this."

"How? When?"

I shrugged. "I don't know." I studied the grainy photo while the register beeped as the cashier checked out the man in front of me. "You can tell they were taken with a long lens."

"What does that mean?"

"It means someone with a big telephoto took the shots."

She glared at me a moment before she glanced around, clearly looking for someone with a camera. We'd timed our visit with the dismissal of the local school to try to avoid some of the stay at home moms, so the store was mostly empty. What had been a pleasant little shopping trip to stock up on essentials had taken an unfortunate turn.

"This is infuriating. How dare they invade our privacy like this?" The beeping in front of me stopped, and after a moment, the man loaded his items into a cart and began pushing it toward the door. I tossed the tabloid into the cart as I moved up. "You're buying that?" she asked, her surprise clear in her voice.

"Yeah. I want to see what else it says."

"Why do you care?" she asked as the cashier began ringing up our items.

"Don't you want to know what rumors they're spreading?"

She glared at me. "Not really."

"Well, I do."

When the cashier finished his task, I paid and we took our bags to the car, the American Investigator sticking out of the top of one of the bags to taunt her. I'd learned I didn't have to fill silence and stillness with sound or motion. Now I could sit beside her on the deck, my hand holding hers as the night cooled around us, and not feel uncomfortable as we listened to the waves battering the rocks below. It was a restful, peaceful silence, but the quiet between us as we drove home was anything but restful.

I wasn't going to apologize to her again. I hadn't done anything to warrant an apology, and it wasn't my fault some asshole had discovered I was in Maine and had taken pictures. I tried to remember how I felt when I was first being splashed on the covers of tabloids, but I'd become so accustomed to being photographed, I no longer gave it a second thought and couldn't remember feeling any other way.

I didn't care what shit the American Investigator printed about me, but I did care about Lydia. She was obviously upset about having her picture plastered all over the front cover of a gossip rag, and that bothered me. Unfortunately, there was nothing to do about it except ignore it. I'd been counseled long ago not to respond because doing so only escalated the situation, and that was exactly what the piece of shit tabloids wanted.

I pulled the car into the garage and pressed the button to start the garage door down without opening my door, a little trick I'd picked up from those more experienced than me to reduce the chances of being photographed.

She reached for her door as soon as I switched the car off, but I took her hand. "Wait," was all I said. When the door thumped closed behind me, I released her hand. "Okay."

"What?" she asked as she opened her door.

"Now that people know where we are, it pays to make the paps' job as hard as we can. By waiting in the car until the door is closed, they can't get any decent pictures."

She glared at me before pushing her door open. "I fucking hate this!"

I opened my door and stepped out. "I know," I said over the top of the car.

We took our bags and carried them into the house. After putting them away, I flipped open the tabloid and thumbed through it until I found the article about us. We rated three full pages, complete with almost a dozen photos. She said she didn't care, but as I read, she peered over my shoulder.

"That's Cadillac Mountain," she muttered.

"Yeah," I said with a nod. "Someone must have followed us down the trail." I glanced up at her as her lips thinned. "Don't let it get to you. If you do, it'll drive you crazy. Everyone knows the stuff they print is more wrong than right. Look here," I said as I pointed to a passage I found particularly amusing. "'Though the woman's identity remains a mystery, some speculate that this affair has been going on for some time and she's carrying his love child. Sources tell us that Barrett has been overheard making arrangements to meet someone in seclusion for an extended vacation. Those same sources confirm that Barrett hasn't been seen around his typical Hollywood haunts, though his promotion tour of Bulletproof is scheduled to begin until mid-November. We reached out to Meryl Lindgrave, Barrett's publicist, but she declined to comment,'" I read. I glanced up at her. "What that means is they're making shit up. 'Some speculate' means the American Investigator speculates to sensationalize their story."

"I should sue them!"

"For what? They'll stand up in court and point to where they said 'some speculate' and deny they accused you of anything. Right now they don't know who you are, but if you confront them, they will. Better to let it go."

"How can you be so calm about this? Doesn't it piss you off?"

"Not really, not anymore. Just ignore it." She growled and stomped away. I rose and followed. "I have some more bad news."

She stopped and whirled on me. "What?"

"This is just the beginning. Those pictures were taken a week ago. You can bet your ass there'll be more. People who read these rags love a good mystery, so you can bet A.I. is going to milk this for all it's worth."

"Fuck," she muttered.

"Sure. I'm game if you are."

"That's not funny!"

I took her by her shoulders. "Let me lay it out for you. You need to relax and ignore it. There's nothing you can do about it because when you're out in public you have no legal expectation of privacy. I don't know what the laws are in Maine, but in most places the paps can't accost you or hinder your movements, but at the same time, you can't do anything to them. If you get in their face, break their camera, whatever, that's assault and you're the one who's in trouble. Worse, it feeds the machine, and I guarantee you they'll be snapping pictures right up until the moment their camera breaks, and those pictures will be published." I held her gaze. She was listening but her face was still hard. "So here's my advice. Ignore them. If you see someone pointing a camera at you, pretend you didn't see them. Don't flip them off, don't do anything to get your picture published. The tabs want sensational pictures. You minding your own business isn't nearly as interesting as you creating a scene."

"We weren't doing anything then and they printed our pictures."

I nodded. "We were kissing, and because nobody has seen you with me before, that was news. It probably will be for another week or so, but after that, everyone has seen you. You're not shiny and new anymore, and they'll move on Ellie Griffen's latest drunken catfight and arrest in a bar somewhere."

She glared at me a moment longer before wilting. "I know it's not your fault, but how can you live like this? I feel like a prisoner."

"Don't. This is a private sub-division, so that gives us some privacy. Maybe one of the bolder paps might try to sneak in, but if he gets caught, he could go to jail for trespassing. It's when you're out in public that you're most likely to be snapped. So just be yourself. You've got nothing to worry about. You're Ms. Everywoman, so unless you start acting out, people will quickly lose interest in you."

"Small consolation," she muttered.

"I know." I pulled her close and held her.

She tightened her arms around me. "I don't know how you live like this."

I shrugged, but I didn't release her. "You get used to it after a while. You're probably in hundreds of pictures you don't even know about. People snapping photos of family or friends when you just happen to be walking by in the background. Stuff like that."

"Yeah, but those pictures aren't printed and on display in a supermarket. What will my family think if they see this?"

I grinned. "Personally? I'd keep a copy so you can laugh about it later. For you to be carrying my 'love child,' you're looking pretty damn sexy."

That finally won me a small smile. "I don't know why people read those things."

"Because people aren't satisfied with their own lives, they're bored, and they love gossip. It's what all these tabs thrive on. Maybe reading about someone rich or famous having problems makes them feel better about themselves. I don't know. I just know they're a fact of life and all you can do is ignore it."

She sighed. "I guess."

"I have an idea."

"What?"

"I think we should skip cooking dinner and you let me take you to out. Show everyone you're still holding your head up and aren't ashamed."

"I don't know," she murmured.

"Are you planning on spending the next week sitting in this house with the blinds closed?"

"No."

"Then let's dress up and go out. I haven't seen you dressed up since we got here. Did you bring anything nice?"

"No, not really."

I smiled. "Then let's take care of that."

"You don't have to buy me clothes."

"As I recall, the deal was all expenses paid for you."

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't include clothes, does it?"

"Will it cost money?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but what are you going to do with it after I wear it? You going to wear it?"

I chuckled. "I don't know. I see you in red, and that's not really my color."

A faint smile tickled her lips. "Okay, maybe."

"No maybe. Bangor is, what, an hour away? We can leave now, do some shopping, and have dinner at the best restaurant in town. Come on," I urged. "If I'm going to have my picture on the cover of some piece of shit tabloid, I want to have the most beautiful woman in Maine on my arm." I stuck my arm out.

She smiled and slid her arm through the opening. "Okay, it's a deal."

"Great! Let's go shower and I'll throw a suit in the car. If we find something, I'll change in their fitting room."

"Does it have to be a red dress? I've never worn red."

I looked her over and smiled. "Oh yeah. Red would be perfect on you."

I opened the changing room door, tugging the sleeves of my jacket to pull out the wrinkles, before I picked up my bag of clothes. I had my clothes custom tailored for a perfect fit, but we didn't have the luxury of time for Lydia to have a dress tailored. Fortunately, she was one of those lucky women whose body shape seemed to be the model for clothing manufacturers. She knew her size, and each item she tried on was a perfect or near perfect fit. Perhaps having the dress tailored might improve the fit a bit, but not enough to that anyone would notice.

I'd envisioned her in a red dress, but what she'd finally selected was a silk, sleeveless, sheath dress in a rich, regal blue, a blue so dark it flirted with purple. Its slight V-neck hinted at the cleavage of her breasts with a ruffled collar drawing the eye to her graceful neck. It hugged her curves with devastating effect, and its simplicity fit her breezy, natural beauty perfectly. Because it was getting colder, she'd paired it with a matching, removable cloak, creating a look that was both sophisticated and almost unbearably sexy. While I still wanted to see her wearing red, I had to admit this rich, deep blue fit her. It was beautiful without being flashy, just like her. I'd also insisted she trade in her flats for some complementing pumps, but she'd refused to wear anything over a two-inch heel. It hadn't mattered. She didn't need look-at-me heels to capture attention, and like the simple dress and cloak, the heels fit her.

When I first met her, I recognized she was pretty, if not Hollywood beautiful, but seeing her now I realized how wrong I was. She was without question one of the most beautiful women in the world. The sudden realization surprised me. It wasn't the dress, or the shoes, or even her appearance that changed my mind. It was her, the complete her. She was made beautiful by who she was. She glowed with an inner beauty that few could match, a beauty that elevated her above shallow appearance, and her beauty was real and pure, as nature intended. She didn't need makeup, surgery, or personal trainers, and unlike many of the Hollywood hotties, as she liked to refer to them, her beauty would never fade.

I wasn't prepared to admit I'd lost my heart to her, but maybe I didn't give American Investigator enough credit. I smiled. "You look stunning," I said, repeating what I'd told her, in some variation, twice already.

She smiled in return. "Thank you for the dress."

"Trust me, the pleasure is mine."

Her smile spread. "You look nice too."

"I feel like I'm a little underdressed, but what can I do?" I asked with a shrug.

She snickered. "Don't be silly. People won't even notice me."

"Babe, you couldn't be more wrong. Once they see you, they'll forget I exist."

"Uh-huh," she grunted. "Shall we go put that to the test?"

I smiled at the clerk. "Thank you for letting me use your dressing room to change."

"Any time, Mr. Quillon," the young clerk replied.

I winked at her. "Unless I'm old enough to be your dad, which I'm not, I'm Barrett."

She beamed. "Uh, okay... Barrett."

I led Lydia to my car, glancing around as I held the door open for her. Across the street there was a parked white Honda Accord, the window rolled down, with a large camera lens poking out. I looked past the car like I hadn't noticed. I wouldn't tell Lydia we were being photographed. She'd calmed down since she'd discovered our picture on the cover of A.I., and I didn't want to upset her or ruin our evening. Besides, let those assholes at A.I. see Lydia as she really was. I tossed my clothes into the backseat and shut the door once she had her long, lovely legs tucked inside the car.

I drove to Novio, a restaurant reported to be the best in the area. I hadn't made a reservation, since I didn't know when we'd arrive, but I wasn't above using my fame to ensure we got a table. I parked the Panamera before I hurried around the car to opened Lydia's door. As she exited the car, I saw our shadow ooze to a stop down the street. He was too far way for me to tell, but undoubtedly his camera was clicking away. I smiled as I turned my back to him and stepped between him and Lydia to block his view of her.

He could snap all the pictures he wanted. Tonight, the only thing I was interested in was enjoying a great meal with the woman who was becoming surprisingly special to me.

I'd noticed the white Honda containing the man with a camera when we stepped out of Glamor! after purchasing my dress. I tried to do what Barrett suggested and ignore him, but it was hard, very hard. What I wanted to do was march over there and ask him if he had any shame at all about invading people's privacy, but I'd forced a smile to my face and pretended I hadn't seen him. When we'd arrived at Novio, I'd been unable to avoid scanning the room, watching to see if someone was pointing a camera at us.

I saw no paparazzi, but Barrett had plenty of pictures taken of him. When he'd given his name to the hostess, he'd created a sensation as people murmured to themselves when they realized a movie star was in their presence. Nobody bothered us for several minutes, though all eyes were on us, but finally a teenage girl tentatively approached and asked for an autograph and picture. When he agreed, that opened the gates, and suddenly everyone wanted to talk to him and have their picture taken with him. I tried to fade into the background, but he kept his arm firmly around my waist to prevent my escape. Most pictures were snapped of him with the owner of the phone, but a few were taken of us as a couple. I didn't want to damage his reputation by being a bitch, and these were just normal people, so while I wasn't fond of having my picture taken after discovering the tabloid this afternoon, I forced myself to woman up and smile for the cameras.

I didn't know if we got bumped to the head of the line because he was Barrett Quillon, or because his presence was creating a bottleneck in the entrance, but we waited only about ten minutes before we were shown to a cozy table tucked away in a corner, leaving several couples and families waiting even though they were already on the list when we arrived. Once seated, the clamor around him died down. It was clear many people recognized him, but they respected our privacy and didn't bother us.

"You're doing it again," he said softly as we sipped wine after our meal.

I was trying to develop a taste for the beverage since it seemed expected in such a nice restaurant, and I couldn't get decent tea anyway.

"What?"

"Looking for cameras."

I flushed and forced my gaze back to him. "Sorry."

He smiled and took my hand. "No need to apologize, but you're going to drive yourself crazy. Relax. The paps won't come in here, and if they do, I'll have the manager ask them to leave."

"I saw that guy outside the store earlier."

"In the Honda?" I nodded. "You did great then. I didn't know you spotted him. That's exactly what you should do. He followed us here, so he'll probably be waiting when we leave."

"He did? I didn't see him after we drove away. What do they do, sit around, waiting to follow us?"

He smiled and pointed a finger pistol at me. "That's exactly what they do."