TEN DAYS Read online

  "No. You won't."

  With that, he turned and strode toward the foyer. There he paused, and turned back toward me. "Be ready for 7."

  I closed my fingers around the key. To Aidan's house. "What's at 7?"

  This time his smile was slower, completely unexpected. "The beginning of tonight."

  Then he was gone.

  Little Black Dress

  For five years, Aidan Cross dominated the bestseller lists, with his dark, psychological thrillers. He had it all, the world at his keyboard, celebrity status, a legion of adoring fans, wealth, and a beautiful young wife.

  Then she died.

  And the tabloids went wild. Rumors spread like a relentless oil spill overtaking his career—and his life.

  And everything fell apart.

  Showing the world a different side of him was the chance of a lifetime.

  If there was a different side.

  Kicking off my shoes, I took in my home for the next ten days, a guest suite larger than my studio apartment in Boulder, with heavy plantation-era furniture and soft, sage green walls. A massive poster bed dominated the center of the room.

  The dress lay on the comforter, small and black and no doubt more expensive than my monthly apartment rent.

  It was also perfectly my size.

  I thought about not wearing it. I didn't want to. Following someone else's plan wasn't my thing. But I didn't have anything comparable in my suitcase, and even if I had, instinct nudged me to play along. It was my first night. Antagonizing Aidan Cross would get me nowhere. I needed to let him think I was following his rules. Gain his trust, lull him into opening up to me. That was the only way I'd ever find what he worked so hard to keep hidden.

  If he wanted me to wear the sex-kitten dress, I would.

  Curious, I moved toward the velvet settee lounging beneath the heavily-draped window. Beyond sprawled the oak-drenched backyard, and the carriage house he'd warned me to avoid.

  I needed to find a way inside.

  Not just into the carriage house—but the man who hid within its vine-shrouded walls.

  Except when I went downstairs a few minutes after seven, it was not Aidan Cross who stood waiting.

  He was already gone.

  Night 1

  A Sea of Masks

  The sleek elevator doors slid open, revealing a large room sprawling in all directions, dark paneling and floor-to-ceiling windows, elegant lighting, round, white-linen draped tables and a stage in front of a semi-circular window. There, a middle-aged woman in a long pearl gown, backed up by a full brass band, sang.

  It was like stepping into an early twentieth-century jazz club.

  "Two," my uncle said, prompting me to turn and find him lifting crystal goblets from the tray of a passing waiter, in a crisp white tuxedo, of course.

  Uncle Nathan also wore a tux, his black and European and no doubt custom-made. The quintessential host, he offered me a glass—and an ornate mask of blood red feathers. "Bienvenue à N'awlins, mon chaton."

  My kitten.

  The familiar nickname made me smile. He'd called me that for as long as I could remember.

  "What's the occasion?" I asked, but before he could answer, a nearby couple, dressed as if for the symphony, shifted, and I saw the crowd across the room. And I knew.

  Sequin dresses of every length and color pressed in close, creating a dazzling kaleidoscope snaking out from a long narrow table, broken up by the occasional black tuxedo—but only the occasional. Boxes sat piled against the wall, while off to the far side, a single, blood red poster stood in a tall easel.

  CRIMSON

  -on sale now-

  "I timed your trip so you would be here," Uncle Nathan said. "I thought a launch party would be the perfect place for you to start."

  Alone on the patio

  He sat behind the long table, dressed in a suit like all the other men, but his tweed jacket and dark grey vest set him apart, the absence of a tie allowing the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt to remain unfastened. No mask hid his face, at least not one with ornate feathers like everyone else wore.

  "I thought he didn't do publicity," I said, taking in the two women flanking him, one with her hand on his shoulder, the other a step back and taking in the festivities from behind a glittery shield of deep amethyst.

  Uncle Nathan laughed. "He's here tonight. That's all that matters."

  Him, and a few hundred others. The line waiting for Aidan Cross to sign a copy of his newest book stretched around the room. But he gave no sense of urgency—no sense of being uncomfortable—instead smiling and talking with each woman, and the occasional man, as if they were personal friends.

  Later, I would learn what a farce that was.

  I wanted to walk closer. I wanted to hear what he was saying. Instead, I turned and made my way onto an outdoor terrace overlooking the Mississippi River. There, the remains of the sunset glowed against the horizon, while along the water, lights of a massive bridge twinkled against the deepening darkness.

  Soft, ambient strains of jazz drifted on the warm breeze. Maybe that's why I didn't hear the footsteps, didn't hear anything, not even a breath, not until he stood right behind me.

  "For you."

  I turned and found him there, a black feather mask concealing the top half of his face—but everything inside me started to rush anyway. Because I knew. His eyes. Even in the dark, the blue pierced.

  "You look surprised," he said.

  "You were just inside."

  "I saw you come out here."

  So he followed me.

  The shock of that stripped the breath from my throat.

  "Then my mask must not be working," I said.

  His gaze slipped along the dress he'd left out for me, little and black and tight-fitting, leaving my chest and shoulders bare. "There are other ways to recognize someone."

  Keeping my eyes on his, I took the glass he held outstretched and sipped. "So there are."

  Aidan Cross was a man who thought ahead.

  He stood close, closer than that afternoon in the library—far closer than strangers generally dared. It was instinct that sent me stepping back.

  It was the rail that stopped me.

  "Not having fun?" he asked.

  "Just wanted a little fresh air."

  His mouth curved. "Good."

  "Is that why you followed me?" I tossed back, wanting the questions to be mine, not his. "Because you thought I wasn't having fun?"

  "You looked lonely."

  And he knew how that felt.

  He didn't say the words. There was nothing to indicate that was the case. He was a man who had it all, fame, wealth, acclaim.

  And yet his house was quiet.

  Empty.

  "And if I was?" I asked. "Lonely? What would you do?"

  His smile was slow. So was the way he lifted his hand toward me, and took the glass from my fingers. "This," he said, and before I realized what was happening, I was in his arms and we were moving to the rhythm of the slow jazz bleeding from inside.

  Dancing.

  With Aidan Cross.

  On some vague, hazy level, even then on that very first night, I knew what he was doing, taking the lead before I could, trying to weave a spell or pull the strings, to make sure he determined what happened next. And next again. And every next after that.

  Control. It was what Aidan Cross thrived on. Already I knew that. He was a man who played god with the tortured characters he created, carefully orchestrating the psychological gauntlet he put them through.

  All that manipulation had to come from somewhere.

  "Your mask," I said. "You weren't wearing one inside."

  His eyes glittered. "You don't think so?"

  Something inside me started to hum. "Not one anyone could see."

  Again, beneath the black feathers, his mouth curved.

  And even then I knew. The masks concealing Aidan Cross were far more permanent-and much more dangerous. "Why the change?" I as
ked. "Why now?"

  He shrugged. "Maybe I was ready to disappear. Maybe I wanted to come outside without anyone following me."

  Come outside.

  To me.

  Because he said I looked...lonely.

  Except we weren't alone. He hadn't disappeared. Already, a small crowd was gathering in the open doorway, watching.

  "At your own party?" I asked.

  "A man can hope," he said, steering me deeper into the shadows. "Did you ever imagine this, fifteen years ago?"

  Warmth trickled through me. From the champagne, I told myself. Too many glasses, with too little to eat. I needed to stop while I still realized I needed to.

  "Imagine what?" I asked, shifting my attention from the glittering terrace lights back to him.

  "A night like tonight—you...me. Here."

  I laughed. I couldn't help it. The reaction was soft and immediate.

  Fifteen years ago, I attended a private Catholic school—he an inner-city hellhole.

  I wore ribbons and a prim uniform.

  He was the skinny kid in torn jeans and threadbare t-shirts, who shot hoops in my uncle's driveway.

  "No," I said, smiling. Not even once.

  Not a glittering party, anyway. Being in his arms...

  "No for me?" His hands slid to curve more firmly along the bare skin of my shoulders. "Or no for you?"

  I knew what he meant, whether I'd ever considered the punk with the long stringy hair would someday make something of himself.

  He had no way of knowing that the second part of his question hit closer to home.

  I may have appeared the princess all those years ago, but appearances rarely matched reality.

  "I was a little girl," I said, working hard to keep the catch and the memory from my voice. "I didn't think a lot about the future." That came later. Then, my world had consisted of the day ahead, the week—when I'd get to go see my uncle again.

  And if the skinny boy would be in the driveway.

  "You just tensed," he said quietly.

  Deliberately, I smiled and forced myself to let go. "Just a chill."

  "I can give you my jacket," he said, and started to pull back, but instinctively I resisted.

  "No, I'm fine." I didn't want his jacket.

  But already he was shrugging out of the elegantly-fitted tuxedo coat and slipping it around my shoulders.

  Let him think he was being gallant, I reminded myself to a whisper of warmth. Let him think he was in control. That way he wouldn't be so on-guard.

  "Thank you," I said as lights flashed from my left.

  Cameras.

  Reporters.

  Even behind his mask, I knew Aidan winced. I saw his jaw tighten. And this time, it was his body that tensed.

  "So tell me," he said, and then we were moving again, away from the view of the doors, toward a corner overlooking the river. "What do you think so far?"

  That was easy: that I'd started the day in one world—mine—but was ending it in another.

  His.

  "I'm impressed." It was impossible not to be.

  "Your uncle is all about image," he said—but the words did not sound like a compliment.

  "What's it like?" I asked, "Living like this, in the spotlight?" A fishbowl. Always on display. Always being watched.

  It was not a question from my list. Not something I'd really considered before stepping off the elevator.

  "I try not to," he said.

  "Why?"

  He laughed. "Not wasting any time, are you? Straight to work."

  Some doors slam with a bang. Others close softly, so gently you don't realize what's happening until you're faced with solid wood instead of an opening.

  "Maybe just curious," I said.

  "Maybe," he acknowledged. "Or maybe you haven't learned where to draw your lines yet."

  I looked at him standing there in the moonlight, with his eyes glittering and his mouth slightly curved, his arms around me and his body only a breath from mine, and the stories flashed, the lurid speculation and gossip. Aidan Cross. Tall. Hypnotic. Wicked smart.

  Author.

  Lover.

  Murder suspect.

  "Tell me then," I said. "Where should I draw my line?"

  "Sometimes it's impossible to know until after."

  "Isn't that too late?"

  He shifted me closer. "Is this how you won the Hearst award?" he murmured. "Always digging for more?"

  I answered first with my eyes, narrowing them so that I knew they tilted at the corners. "Looks like I'm not the only one who dug."

  I'm not sure what caught my eye, the flash of a camera maybe, a movement. But whatever it was, it had me glancing away, toward the small crowd gathered around the French doors, where I saw her again, the woman in the amethyst mask.

  "Kendall?"

  It was only then, when Aidan stopped dancing, that I realized I had stopped, as well.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing, I—" Before I could say anything else, she slipped away, back into the soft golden glow from inside.

  "It's just this," I said, sweeping my attention back to him. "The party. The glamour. If you don't like living in the spotlight, then why all this?"

  Aidan smiled. It was slow, and it was knife-sharp. "Life isn't always about what we like and want, is it? Sometimes it's all about playing the role."

  Acting.

  Pretending.

  Wearing masks...so no one saw what was beneath.

  No one knew.

  Follow-up. Dig deeper. There were so many more questions I could ask—what role? And why? Why was he playing a role if it didn't make him happy? Why was he living a dream...if it was more like a nightmare?

  But those weren't questions for our first night, because they'd only yield first night answers—pat, surface-level, the lies he wanted the world to believe.

  Those were questions for later, after I'd worked my way beneath the surface. Questions to be observed, not asked. Pieced together from all that he said, and all that he didn't say.

  Sometimes it was that, the unsaid, that revealed the most.

  "Tell me about your book," I said instead, veering in a much simpler direction.

  He squeezed my hand and did the same, steering us around the corner, toward the farthest edge of the patio, where blood red flowers spilled from a hanging basket. "Which one?"

  I tried to take it all in, the bright lights of the Quarter in the distance and the glow of the old Cathedral-but it was hard to look away from Aidan.

  Even though I knew I should.

  Asking questions was only one of the ways to make sure I got what I wanted. There were others, rules of the game, and they were equally important.

  Don't get involved.

  Don't lower my guard.

  Don't remember...

  ...how he once made me feel.

  "Crimson," I specified.

  He lifted a hand to the feathers fanning out from my eyes. "Like your mask."

  I have no idea why something low and dark pulsed through me. Maybe because I hadn't noticed. I hadn't made the connection when Uncle Nathan handed me the deep red mask.

  "Surely you read about my book in your research," he said. "I expected you to have read everything I've written.

  Don't let him turn the tables. That was the sixth rule on my list.

  "Maybe I want to hear your own words." Not the carefully scripted blurb from his editor.

  "Then maybe you should read the book—lots of my words there."

  I wasn't sure whether to laugh, or shove him to the edge. I wanted to do both.

  So naturally, I did neither.

  "It's not out yet," I reminded.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. "I know someone who can get you a copy."

  Another rule: Don't let him take over.

  "What's it about?" I pressed.

  "A widow."

  The breeze swirled around us. I knew that it did. I could feel the cool caress against my face, through my
hair. And yet, a quick breath of stillness fell over me.

  A widow.

  Fiction, I knew, always had its roots in truth. Reality fed fantasy, not the other way around. Except...fantasy was the wrong word.

  No one fantasized about being a widow—or a widower. No one fantasized about their spouse dying.

  At least, most people didn't.

  "And the plot?" I asked. "What happens to your widow?"

  Instinctively I knew she wasn't going to meet an incredible guy and fall in love. We were talking about an Aidan Cross story. If his widow met anyone, it was going to be the wrong man, leading her to all the wrong places.

  From inside, the music shifted, the slow tempo giving way to something more upbeat. But Aidan's rhythm never changed. He continued to move slowly, deliberately, steering me in barely discernible circles, to music only he heard.

  I didn't think he was going to answer.

  But then he did.

  "She starts having blackouts and waking up in strange places—"

  My heart kicked hard.

  "—naked."

  My pulse raced along with the music, even though my body barely moved. "Why?"

  Amid the sea of black feathers, the stark blue of Aidan's eyes gleamed. "You'll have to read the book."

  I planned to. I absolutely planned to. "What are you working on now?"

  He guided me to the edge, revealing a horse-drawn carriage ambling along the street below. "Top secret."

  "I won't tell anyone."

  From somewhere unseen, the faint strains of a saxophone mixed with the rumble of car engines and a distant siren.

  "Neither will I," he said, pulling me closer. "Can you feel them?" he asked. "All the people watching us?"

  Even had my eyes been closed—which they absolutely were not—I would have known they were there. "You draw quite a crowd." Almost double in size now, the group stood in the corner, watching.

  Lightbulbs kept flashing.

  The woman in the purple mask was back.

  "Most of them would kill to be where you are."

  I flashed a smiled. "Maybe not the men."

  He laughed. "Most of them are press. If they had any idea who you are, why you're really here, they'd be all over us in a heartbeat."