Seeing Red(17)
She was glad she had those contacts now, and that she had a job to go home to.
She counted to five, slowly, to temper her response.
Still, what appeared on her phone screen at her own hands was F.O.A.D.
She clicked Send before she could talk herself out of it, caring very little that he’d probably use it as fodder in his lawyer’s next court filing.
What would it be? Contempt of court?
F.O.A.D. had been the title of one of Spike’s songs a few years back. The meaning, and subtitle, had been “Fuck Off and Die.” It was a breakup song.
She powered the phone off altogether and zipped it into the front pouch of her suitcase. As soon as she got home, she was changing her numbers and even her address if she could manage it. She wasn’t going to be “Poor Meg” anymore. She was no one’s pity case, and she was going to prove it.
Minutes later, she had at least three photographers grabbing shots at a respectful distance as she strode, head high and shoulders back, onto the beach in a tiny purple bikini and a sheer caftan. A matching wide-brimmed straw hat covered her head, but enough of her red hair hung loose to give any bystanders a clear hint of her identity. She’d added dark sunglasses and a straw tote to her ensemble, hoping to transmit the impression she was going to spend some quality time on her ginger-girl sunburn.
Nah. She had other ideas, but she’d need a costar for this little scheme.
“Where are you, Mr. Rozhkov?” she whispered into the breeze as she passed their assigned cabana. She put her hand up to her forehead, shielding her eyes, and after a minute located his coppery hair in the distance.
He walked up the shore holding his flip-flips in one hand, and what looked like a book in the other.
She plastered a phony smile onto her face and held up a hand in greeting.
When he spotted her, he stilled for a few seconds, likely not sure what he was seeing, then returned her wave.
He cut across the beach at a diagonal, eyes slightly widened, and eyebrows raised.
“Come here,” she said through her clenched teeth, still grinning for the tabloids.
When he was close enough to touch, she stood on tiptoes, clasped her right hand to the back of his sun-warmed neck, and pulled him in close.
Her lips pressed against his, chastely. Briefly. She pulled back wearing a shit-eating grin.
Seth’s expression flitted from surprise to—was it annoyance?—to a forced gaiety.
Good. He gets it.
There were obviously some perks to being married to a genius.
“Needed a good shot,” she explained with her back to the resort.
He merely nodded.
“Are you heading to the cabana? What’s that you’re reading?”
He turned the paperback around for her to assess the Cyrillic characters of the title. She couldn’t make heads or tails of them, and the picture beneath them—blueprint images of some sort of engine—didn’t elucidate her further on the content. Whether it was fiction or nonfiction, she didn’t know.
“Why don’t you come sit with me for a while? I’ll keep my hands to myself,” she said, shifting her tote to her other shoulder.
“I’m not concerned about the whereabouts of your hands, Megan,” he whispered, leaning in close so his lips grazed her ear. “Just tell me what the plan is so I don’t accidentally bungle it.”
She turned her face so it was her lips at his ears, and for show, pressed her body more firmly against his and draped her free arm over his shoulder. “No plan. Act like you want me. That’s all.”
“That’s all, huh?”
“You’ll be enjoying alone time again by lunch.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He shifted his book into the hand that bore his flip-flops and used the other to relieve Meg of her tote. She beamed at him as he took it, and they started the hundred-yard walk to the cabana.
Once inside, he set her bag on a table in front of the cushioned banquette and sank onto the seat. He put his feet up on the table, crossing them at the ankles as one of the bar staff poked his head in.
“Drinks? Snacks?”
Meg had three bottles of water in her tote and was going to refuse, but Seth, now thumbing through the pages of his paperback, said, “Is it too early for a seven?”
“No, sir. I can get one for you, no problem at all. Anything to drink?”
“Vodka tonic. Double.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man shifted away, scribbling on his pad, as Meg sank onto the bench next to Seth. She removed her hat and reached into her bag for a book of her own. It was some “deliciously erotic” story, according to Sharon, with cover art inconspicuous enough not to give its heat level away. Probably not the best thing to be reading while cooped up in an open cabana with the only man who’d made her come in two years, but she doubted she’d make much headway, anyway.