THE SEDUCTION
The Lake Bittersweet Series ~ 4
Chapter One
Maybe the problem had all started with her name. “Bliss” was a lot to live up to. Sometimes Bliss Gault wondered if she’d simply cracked under the pressure, and a lifetime of near-disasters, partial catastrophes, and skin-of-her-teeth escapes had been the result.
Like now, for instance. Here she was, making her way through a blizzard down an empty Minnesota street, essentially sneaking into town for her half-sister’s wedding, hoping that whoever had been following her in Thailand had given up at the first sight of snow. How did she get into these messes? If only she could figure that out before she stumbled into the next one.
Snow crystals stung her face. She pulled the hood of her hunter-green wool cloak down a little further. She’d bought it at a thrift store near the airport and found it ideal for hiding out in. Her favorite kind of garment.
None of her siblings knew she was here yet, not even Carly. She’d been deliberately vague about her arrival. Even without someone possibly chasing her, that was how she operated, and had for a very long time. People tended to assume she was “flighty” or “spacey” or even just “blond.”
Okay, that last part was true. Ish. Sometimes she was blond, sometimes not, but she always kept her plans and movements to herself. Life was just easier that way.
Which meant that she’d be surprising her new temporary roommate at the Bittersweet Inn. But since he was an FBI agent, she had no doubt he could handle the unexpected. The one time she’d spoken to him on the phone, he’d come across as pretty unflappable, if not downright inscrutable. He’d shown absolutely no personality in their brief conversation. All she knew about Special Agent Earl Granger was that he was a friend of a friend, he needed a place to stay, and that he didn’t mind pretending he was her chief of security.
Given her current potential catastrophe, that was well worth giving up one bedroom of her suite. It filled the entire top floor of the inn, so surely the two of them could coexist for a few days until Carly’s wedding.
Through the thickly falling snow, she spotted the sign for the Bittersweet Inn, written in cheerful flowing script with a vine pattern twining around it. The inn had been a rooming house when it was originally built, but the new owners had upgraded it into the most sought-after hotel in Lake Bittersweet. Bliss was used to expensive hotels; she’d just come from shooting a swimsuit ad in Thailand, where the entire crew had stayed in a five-star resort. But there was something to be said for cozy and comfortable, not to mention far away from the scary people possibly following her.
On the other side of the street, she spotted the pink neon sign for the Blue Drake Club, but she quickly looked away. It had been her father’s club, and she still couldn’t think about Gault’s death without approaching a panic attack. She definitely couldn’t afford one of those right now.
When she pushed open the inn’s door, for a moment it felt as if she was walking into a forest. Evergreen boughs were draped everywhere—on the reception desk, over the windows, over the staircase. The air smelled like pine resin and potpourri. A fire crackled in the hearth that formed the focal point of a comfortable seating area. More pine boughs adorned the mantel.
Right. Christmas was just a few days ago. The crew in Thailand had celebrated with a beach party, then moved on.
Here in Minnesota, Christmas lasted a little longer, apparently.
A middle-aged woman wearing a red sweater and a large broach of a loon looked up as she stepped to the antique roll-top desk labelled “reception.” “I’m sorry, we’re…”
She trailed off as Bliss pushed her hood away from her face and allowed herself to be recognized.
“It’s you.”
“Hello,” Bliss said warmly. “You’re Mrs. Wegman, right? Didn’t you used to teach violin?”
Astonishment passed across the woman’s face. “I can’t believe you remember. You only took one lesson, and you were, what, seven?”
People might think Bliss was flaky, but she had a spot-on memory for names and faces. Which was part of why she was in trouble right now, but that was another story.
“Yes, I was about seven. I’m sorry, I didn’t really take to violin. I remember I got a crick in my neck from holding my arm up. It certainly wasn’t your fault, you were a wonderful teacher. Have you retired from teaching music?”
“I have. My husband and I run this inn now.” The pride in her voice was chased away by an embarrassed expression. “I’m sure it’s very drab compared to what you’re used to.”
“What? Absolutely not. It’s so welcoming and warm, it makes me feel like it’s still Christmas here in Minnesota.” She spent a few minutes gushing about the inn—its down-home charm, its wintertime magic.
“I was so sorry to hear about your father,” Mrs. Wegman said when Bliss was done complimenting the inn.
“Thank you, that’s so kind.” Bliss’ heart stuttered the way it always did when anyone offered their condolences. Steven Gault, her rock star father, had died nearly a year ago, and it still seemed impossible that he was gone. He’d come in and out of her life—or she’d come in and out of his, or maybe both. She compared their relationship to trying to tune into a radio station—longing to—but never finding the exact right frequency.
And now she never would.
“Is my…head of security here?”
“Oh yes. He’s been here a few days. He’s made quite an impression. I think we all feel a bit safer knowing he’s here.” She leaned closer. “No one would dare even think about criminal activity with him around.”
Bliss thought about the weed one of her friends had slipped into her bag, and decided to ditch it immediately.
“I believe he’s in the room now,” Mrs. Wegman continued. “Not that I keep track of our guests, but we only have one entrance so I do tend to know what’s going on, and that goes for all of Lake Bittersweet. Of course we have fire exits too,” she added quickly, “signed off by the fire marshal, the former one, Thomas Cooper, who’s getting married to your sister. Did you know he shut down the Blue Drake for a while due to code violations? Boy, did he and Carly have some battles over that.” Her face was slowly turning beet red. “I’m so sorry, sometimes the gossip just slips right out of me. I can’t help it.”
Laughing, Bliss put a hand on her arm to soothe her before she melted down from embarrassment. “There’s nothing quite like a small town, is there? I used to love that about Lake Bittersweet. So did my father. I remember he used to hang out in the bar and soak in all the news from anyone who stopped by.”
“So he did, so he did,” Mrs. Wegman said nostalgically. “We used to chatter on for hours, me and Gault. I could almost forget he was a famous rock star if it weren’t for those purple stovepipe hats he always wore. He was just like a normal person, not like most…” She trailed off again, turning nearly as red as her sweater. “I don’t mean…”
Bliss gazed at her blankly before catching on. “Oh, no doubt, celebrities are so full of themselves. It’s a good thing I’m not one, just someone who stands in front of a camera.” She winked at her former violin teacher, then gestured toward the old-fashioned key she still clutched. “Shall I take that off your hands and check in with my head of security?”
“Oh! Yes, of course. Here.” She practically shoved the key into Bliss’ hand. “The very top floor. It has a private elevator, well actually, it’s an old dumbwaiter that we converted. And then our daughter told us we shouldn’t use that term, dumbwaiter, so forget I mentioned it. Twice.” She clapped a hand to her forehead.
“You had me at elevator. I already forgot the rest. Is there parking? I’d like to pull my car up closer to unload my bags. I’m doing the hair and makeup for Carly’s wedding, so I have several cases of supplies.”
Mrs. Wegman gave her directions for where to park, and filled her in on other essentials such as morning coffee in the lobby and which local restaurants delivered to the inn.
A moment later, Bliss slumped gratefully against the cherry-wood paneled wall of the elevator. She got so uncomfortable when people didn’t treat her like anyone else. What on earth did it matter if they’d seen her on a billboard or in a magazine? That was just a face, and really, not even that. Photos were nothing but light and shadow as captured by a piece of technology. They had nothing to do with her.
And Mrs. Wegman knew her. She’d attempted to teach her how to play the violin, and Bliss definitely remembered some impatience and frustration. How had she gone from, “Don’t pick your nose with the bow,” to babbling just because Bliss had now posed for Vogue? It made Bliss a little sad.
Having grown up with a celebrity father, she’d seen how people reacted to him. But Gault was a charismatic and talented rock star. Bliss just happened to have a face that photographed well. It seemed odd that something so out of her control could be so important in determining her life. Looks were such a quirk of fate. Every single person she’d ever met had their own certain particular kind of beauty. The fact that the particular combination of genes passed down from Gault and Monica Mayhew, aka Serenity Om, her mother, just happened to come out in a way that cameras loved…it was just a fluke, really.
Oh well. It was what it was. She was Bliss Gault, the photogenic one, the flighty one, the carefree one. That was what people wanted from her, and she gave it to them. Because it mostly felt like an act that didn’t fit her, she had a mantra: “When in doubt, smile it out.”
She said it now, alone in the elevator, which rose to the top floor so quietly and smoothly that at first she didn’t notice when the door slid open.
Someone cleared their throat, and she jerked her head up to see a large figure standing just outside the elevator door. It was a man, quite tall, broad in the shoulder, solid as quarry rock. His arms were folded across his chest and he was squinting down at her.
“Do you always talk to yourself in empty elevators?”
“No,” she said immediately, defensively. “I mean, what business is it of yours?”
“I need to know if I should buy headphones. Do you talk a lot, generally?”
His sheer size had her so flustered that it took her another long moment to put it together that this was, of course, Earl Granger, her “head of security.”
In person, he was very intimidating. Not just because of his height, but also thanks to the stern expression on his face. His skin was several shades darker than hers, somewhere between bronze and copper, his hair was cropped no-nonsense short, and his general manner was one of badassery.
Which, she considered, was probably a very good thing in a fake head of security.
“So far, you’ve said twice as many words as I have,” she pointed out.
He stared at her for a long moment. It was the kind of look she didn’t experience very often—if ever. Penetrating, direct, seemingly unconcerned with her outer appearance, more about deciphering whatever was underneath.
“Good point,” he finally said. “I’ll hold off on the headphones. Are you coming out? The doors are about to close. They stay open for exactly six-point-two seconds.”
She quickly stepped off the elevator, just as the doors slid together behind her. “You must be Special Agent Earl Granger.”
He seemed to wince slightly at the sound of his name. “Just call me Granger.”
“Granger. I’m Bliss Gault.” She offered her hand. He took it for a quick handshake. She watched her hand completely disappear inside his huge brown one. He shook it gently enough, even though she could feel the massive strength he held back. He wore a black thermal that hugged his muscles, and dark olive-drab pants. “Thanks for agreeing to play my bodyguard.”
“Head of security.”
She smiled at the correction. “Of course. Call it whatever you want. It’s not real anyway.” The truth was, the idea of having someone follow her around all the time, even for her safety, gave her hives. She was at heart an introvert, despite her carefree facade.
“That remains to be seen.”
She widened her eyes at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“If you need a fake bodyguard, that probably means you need a real bodyguard. Why else would you need a fake one?”
She put on her flakiest, Bliss-iest smile. “O.M.G., that’s such a good point! The thing is, all my model friends have bodyguards, they’re like, the hot new thing.”
“So I’m…what, trendy?” The muted horror in his voice nearly made her break character.
“Heck yes, our selfies are going to be fire. I hope you like going viral on Insta.” She brushed past him, which was kind of like dodging around the face of a cliff. He didn’t budge, not one bit. “I assume you’ve already chosen a bedroom.”
“Yes, but I can move if need be, Blondie.”
What the…
He must be trying to get under her skin for some reason.
“You can call me Bliss.”
“I figured I’d call you ‘Blondie’ when you’re doing that.” He waved vaguely at her.
“Doing what?”
“Acting like you want people to think you’re an idiot.”
She bristled. “Blonds aren’t idiots. Intelligence is in no way related to hair color.”
“I agree. Don’t know why you’re playing into the stereotype, but that’s your call. I also know that you aren’t on Instagram.”
“You checked out my socials? Is that really necessary for a short-term fake head of security gig?” She realized that she’d lost her fake smile in the middle of this conversation.
“Of course I did. I’m FBI.” His face softened, just a bit, enough to make her wonder what he was like underneath that gruff facade. “I’m grateful to have a place to stay. Everything else was booked up.”
“You don’t need to move. I’m sure both bedrooms are just fine.”
“Very down-to-earth of you. Appreciate it.”
Oh, no doubt, he was definitely trying to get under her skin.
He stepped back and ushered her toward the open door on the other side of the hallway. The hall was wallpapered in a gold fleur-de-lis pattern that seemed to insist that this was the fanciest floor of the whole gosh-darn hotel.
The suite had the same vibe of trying to look fancy while not forgetting its roots—there was an antique mahogany wardrobe, a low-slung Italian leather couch in creamy beige, all overlooked by an oil painting of a loon on Lake Bittersweet. The bird wore a look of astonishment as a fish slipped out of its beak.
She liked the suite. That loon alone gave it more humanness than some five-star hotels. She wondered if someone local had painted it. Lake Bittersweet was home to a few artists who sold their work to tourists and tourist-oriented establishments.
She looked for evidence of Granger’s presence, and saw only a laptop on the coffee table and a pair of loafers sitting by the doorway.
That pleased her too. She liked orderliness, but was constitutionally unable to achieve it herself. She tried, but somehow things seemed to just go rogue around her. Clothing would slide off hangers, magazines would end up with coffee rings on their covers, mail would spend weeks hiding out under couches. Eventually she’d hired a cleaning woman, but she’d felt incredibly guilty about it and apologized nonstop during her first session.
Finally poor Adriana had told her to please be quiet and let her do her job, and if Bliss felt that bad about it, she should just pay her more. Bliss had laughed and given her a big raise on the spot.
Adriana would approve of Granger. Granger, on the other hand, was not going to be happy when he saw how Bliss managed things. Maybe she should beg Adriana to come to Lake Bittersweet and sneak in and tidy up when Granger was out of the room.
The idea was so absurd that Bliss smiled to herself.
She caught a sidelong glance from Granger, and realized it was the first time he’d looked at her as if he was actually noticing her exterior, and appreciating it.
It was a good feeling, having Granger look at her that way. He was so very…impassive. Unflappable.
Experimentally, she added more firepower to her smile. The words of an early photographer came back to her. He was a pervy guy who’d tried to kiss her when she was only fifteen, but still, she’d never forgotten the direction he’d given her during the shoot that had launched her career.
You’re seductive. You’re flirting. You’re drawing me in. You’re making me want to be part of your world. You ARE the world. Seduce me, baby. Seduce me.
“What are you doing?” Granger’s frown chased away the words flitting through her mind.
Her smile dropped. “What do you mean?”
“You were up to something just now, with that smile.”
“No. Just…I was just thinking about something.”
“Talking to yourself in an empty elevator again?”
She clenched her back teeth together. Why did this man have to catch her in so many awkward moments? “I guess you could say that.”
“Well, just for the record, you don’t need to practice any of your million-dollar smiles on me.”
“Okay…I mean, I wasn’t practicing anything. I already know how to execute a million-dollar smile.”
His face cracked in a slight smile of his own. “I’m sure you do. I’m just pointing out that they don’t work on me.”
“What doesn’t work on you?”
“Seductions.”
She blinked at him. How on earth had he picked up on the exact word she used to psych herself up for a shoot? “I wasn’t trying to seduce you. I never will try to seduce you, I can promise you that.”
“Good. Because as I told Kirk, I’m not remaking The Bodyguard. That movie is perfect as it is. And we wouldn’t be a good fit,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Okay.” She shrugged and offered him a sunny smile. Why should she care if they were a good fit or not? No one would guess it, but she kept men at a very careful distance. Should she mention that The Bodyguard was one of her favorite movies? Maybe not.
“Not that you’re not beautiful, because clearly you are. But FBI agent and hippie-chick don’t really work. I’m sure you feel the same.”
Was she a hippie-chick? She looked down at her outfit. She hadn’t even taken her coat off, so why would he think she was a hippie-chick? Her cloak was more Heidi than hippie. But she did have a string of crystal beads in her hair.
Whatever. She flashed Granger a peace sign—sarcasm intended—and headed toward the unclaimed bedroom.
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