“Famous,” Timmuttered as a man settling down on a stool on the other side of the bar caughthis eye. Though the man looked like any other tourist, in his faded navy poloshirt and khaki cut-offs, something about his stiff, almost regal bearing sethim apart. He looked like he should be chairing a meeting or giving a lectureinstead of hanging out in a palm-hutted tourist trap.
Who is he, who is he, who is he echoed over andover in Tim’s head as he signed for the drinks. He cursed the fact that hewasn’t better at facial recognition. Colleagues at work had teased him that oneday a VIP would be right under his nose and Tim would miss out because hecouldn’t identify the person.
But Tim was notabout to let this opportunity pass him by, even if he didn’t exactly know whohe was pursuing. He picked up the drinks and sauntered over to the other sideof the bar, as if he wanted to change seats for a better view. He chose a stoolseveral feet away from the man, close enough to get a better look, but farenough away that the man wouldn’t realize he’d attracted anyone’s interest,especially that of a reporter.
Time reachedinto the pocket of his cargo shorts, grateful he’d brought his phone along,even though Caleb had urged him to leave the “electronic leash” in his room. Hechecked the settings to make sure the telltale click of the camera was turnedoff. He’d take several pictures from different angles and then e-mail them tohis editor at the Chronicle, whomight be able to tell him the identity of the mystery man.
Tim took thepictures, pretending the sun’s glare caused him to have to move around and holdthe phone in different positions. The man didn’t appear to notice—his gazeremained on the newspaper in front of him. Satisfied he had enough to lead to apositive identification, Tim slid his phone back intohis pocket and picked up the drinks to leave.
At that moment,the man lifted his gaze and looked Tim dead in the eye. Oh, shit, I’m caught. Tim’s heart raced. But just as he scrambledfor a reason he’d be staring at a man he didn’t know―Bob, is that you? Oh, sorry, thought you were an old high schoolclassmate―he finally recognized the guy.
The man was noneother than Connor Albright, media software giant and reclusive billionaire. Oneof Philadelphia’s most elite and least known citizens sat not more than fifteenfeet away from him.
However, theConnor Albright before Tim now had longer hair, was atleast forty pounds lighter, and appeared ten years older than the photograph inlast year’s Vanity Fair profile. Maybe it’s not him, Tim considered. Butthe intimidating, steely blue gaze in the magazine’s portrait remained the same,as did the strong, chiseled jaw.
With slow,precise movements, Tim set the drinks on the counters and wiped his hands onhis shorts. He swallowed his nerves and approached Connor with his handoutstretched. “Hi, Mr. Albright, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m Tim McInerny with ThePhiladelphia Chronicle. Would you mind if I asked you a couple of quickquestions?”
Chapter Two
Motherfucker.
It took everybit of Connor’s control to remain calm, cool, and collected. He could hear hisdoctor warning him as if he was there by his side. “By no means get overlyexcited, don’t exert yourself. Absolutely no stress.”
Fine. Connor couldfollow orders, and coming to this supposedly secluded island proved that. Butalmost from the start, this trip had been one fiasco after another. First, theprivate, quiet island of Cedros he remembered fromhis childhood had become an overpopulated tourist mecca. Then he’d arrived tofind the home he’d rented had sustained hurricane damage the previous year and hadnot yet been repaired, thus rendering the place uninhabitable. On such shortnotice, he’d been unable to find any other rooms available, except at thischain hotel. While the suite he’d settled for wasn’t horrible, it was still alot lower quality than what he’d grown accustomed.
Connor comfortedhimself with the fact that it was highly unlikely he would run into anyone fromhis business and social circles here. People of his wealth usually stayed onprivately owned islands, or barring that, booked themselves into an exclusiveresort that placed a premium on privacy and discretion.
Yet here he was,almost a thousand miles away from Philadelphia, confronting what he dreadedmost: someone who recognized him. Actually, it was worse than that… a reporter recognized him. This had allthe makings of a first-class disaster.
Connor felt hisheartbeat escalate and pound in his chest. He forced himself to take a deepbreath and reluctantly shook the man’s hand. “Is this an accidental meeting, ordid you track me here?”
A brief look ofconfusion crossed the man’s face, and for some odd reason, the vulnerabilitytouched Connor. The guy looked at least a decade younger than his ownthirty-seven years, with the freckles on his nose making him look youngerstill. If he hadn’t said he was from the Chronicle,Connor might have guessed he was a model, with his thick, dark, wavy hair andfull, lush lips.
From where hesat, Connor could tell the reporter was tall, maybe only an inch or so belowhis own six-foot-three stature. But he had well-developed biceps and pecs, not to mention strong, toned thighs, where Connor’sown body had grown thin and pale over the last few months since his surgery. Beforeit, he’d have been a match for the reporter. Now, Connor felt like aninadequate imitation.
He didn’trealize just how lost in thought he’d become until he heard the man say, “…andI’d really appreciate the chance to interview you. At yourconvenience, of course, whether here or back in Philadelphia.”
Connor snappedout of it with a shake of his head. “I don’t do interviews. The publicrelations staff at Albright Software Media can answer any questions you have.”
He thought histerse tone might dissuade the reporter, but the other man stood his ground. “IfI have questions related to your products, I’ll be sure to contact them. However,what I’m asking for is an interview with you.I know it is something you rarely do―”
“Withgood
