Tampered with. As though I was some kind of rare wine and he wants to be sure the cork wasn’t pulled. Elise felt a spasm of guilt, which she suppressed ruthlessly. “Don’t worry, James,” she said as briskly as she could. “As I said, nothing they did to me was…was sexual.”
“Well then, we’ll say no more about it. Bury it in the vault as it were.”
His choice of words surprised and upset her. Had she ever spoken about her own private methods of dealing with unpleasant memories to James before? Elise was almost certain she hadn’t. “What did you say?” she asked, her voice shaking.
“Why, just that I’ll respect your wish not to speak of the whole distasteful experience, that’s all.” He peered at her closely. “Are you certain you’re just hungry, Elise? You don’t seem like yourself at all today.”
That’s because I’m not myself. I’m not the Elise you knew before I was zapped up into a hostile alien spaceship and forced to relive the worst parts of my past. Not the same woman you knew before I was found and healed and loved by a man who felt like part of me…then torn away from him before I could explore what might have been between us. Not…
God, shut up! Stop with the fricking soap opera already, she told herself angrily. I have to get over this. I have to go on with my life.
“I’m fine,” she said firmly. “Just really, really hungry. Come on.” She laced her fingers with his and pulled him toward the IHOP door. “Let’s eat.”
“Well, if you say so…” James allowed himself to be pulled into the generically cheerful interior of the fast food restaurant without further protest, though Elise did notice him looking anxiously around to make sure no paparazzi were lurking in any dark alleys nearby.
Being an international businessman with offices in both London and Tampa and a patron of the local art scene, James was a bit of a minor celebrity. The press seemed to view him as a sort of Batman type character—a billionaire tycoon with interesting secrets to hide—one of which was not the fact that he had a secret addiction to the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity breakfast special.
Her fiancé loved acting the part of the mysterious mogul, playing it cool and aloof though always scrupulously polite for the roving packs of reporters that delighted in following him. In fact, only Elise and a few others knew that his biggest secret was her—almost no one knew they were engaged. James either went alone or took his secretary, Pam, when he went out to charity events and shows, and he refused to answer any questions pertaining to his private life.
Keeping their relationship under wraps had been a joint decision. Elise hated the limelight and she knew if they were photographed together and the paparazzi started digging, they’d find out about the fortune she was supposed to one day inherit. Not that she had any intention of touching her stepfather’s money—not a single penny of it. But the reporters didn’t know that—all they would see was a piece of juicy gossip about the eccentric billionaire playboy and his rich and mysterious wife to be.
Elise didn’t want that—didn’t want any part of it. She was perfectly fine with flying under the radar and she had never been more glad of her decision than she was right now. If it had been known that she and James were engaged, the paparazzi would have been all over them like a pack of vultures on a dead carcass the minute she stepped out of the HKR building.
A lone woman, without close friends or family connections being abducted and sent back alive was barely worth a mention. But a fabulously wealthy heiress being held hostage by hostile aliens and tortured in who knew what horrible and interesting ways would have made the front page of all the news vids for days. Add the fact that she was engaged to be married to a local celebrity and Elise would have had to kiss her private life goodbye forever. No, it was better this way. Much better, she reflected as they waited to be seated.
The hostess, a gum-popping waitress, who looked to be on the downhill side of forty, eyed James’ impeccable suit and Elise’s flirty red dress in disbelief as she collected two sticky plastic menus and some silverware rolled into paper napkins.
“You want smokin’ er nonsmokin’?” she asked, cracking her gum between large yellow teeth.
“You have a smoking section?” James frowned. “But Florida is a clear air state. There hasn’t been smoking allowed in public buildings for decades!”
“Tell that to th’ manager.” The waitress nodded at the paunchy, middle aged man behind the cash register. He had a receding hairline and a cigar butt clamped between his teeth. “So—smokin’ or non?” she repeated.