Celebrity Wedding of the Year. Melissa James

into her eyes. “I’ve never given you reason to doubt my word. If you want me in on this you either trust me or find another sucker.”

      The words were uncompromising, but as she looked in those eyes, deep and darkest green, his own personal Amazon, all she could think was that if she wasn’t careful she could get lost in them and never find her way out.

       No man will ever control me! Even a man with eyes that cold-burn into my soul.

      She squared her shoulders. “I guess I’ll find the other sucker.” Her hand flicked a wave. “Go and sleep, C.J. I’ll leave breakfast for you and get out of your hair.”

      “I thought I was the only really famous reclusive guy you knew that was decent?”

      She shrugged. “So I pay a B-grader from somewhere and enforce the contract.”

      C.J. shook his head. “You honestly think that’ll work? Give him everything Billy has to match what the paparazzi will offer for a scoop on why ‘squeaky clean Mia Browning’ eloped with him? He’ll still take your money and theirs, and run with both. And if you sue him he gets another fifteen minutes of fame and hopefully a contract. The clock keeps ticking, the media surround Billy and Nicole, and he gets sicker.”

      Feeling sucker-punched, she glared at him. “Are you digging holes in my plan for the fun of it?”

      He put a hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn. “Your first plan was pretty good, leaving out your control freak nature and the contract.”

      She frowned. “So … you are thinking about it?”

      “What’s there to think about? You still haven’t told me what the plan is—apart from a fake marriage to fool the squizzes.”

      “Squizzes” had been C.J.’s derogatory term for the paparazzi when he’d been part of End Game, after all the endless intrusions into their lives. Nobody knew where he’d gotten the term from, but in the end they’d all ended up using it. The memory made her smile. But as she was about to comment on it she looked at him—really looked—and closed her mouth. By the way he was rubbing his jaw, with whitened fingertips, exhaustion was taking over again.

      No wonder he sounded cranky.

      She drew in a breath, recalling every word of her perfectly rehearsed plan. “We head to Bali or Fiji for an overnight wedding on the beach—probably Fiji; it’s closer—and allow ‘a source close to the couple’ to leak the news about an impulsive marriage they don’t expect to last beyond a few weeks.”

      His answering grin was wry. “I can’t count the amount of ‘close sources’ who know more about my life than I do.”

      She laughed. “I know. I wish I knew what jerk gave me that ‘ice cream’ tag—sweet, but freezing cold.”

      “You mean it’s not true?”

      “About as true as you sleeping with a fourteen-year-old, or Dad’s last three stints in rehab,” she shot back, hurt, even though his tone had been teasing.

      After a moment the grin faded, and he nodded. “Fair enough. It seems you’re not the only one who’s made stupid assumptions. Sorry, Mia. Go on.”

      So he really thought it of her—sweet and cold? Was that how everyone saw her? Granted, she’d given due respect to her mother’s warnings, but—

      What had he said she did? Put the human race at a distance …?

      She shook off the self-doubt. There was no time for it. “We stay on some exclusive island until some bright squiz gets a shot of us getting hot and heavy or romantic—”

      “So that much touching is allowed?” he murmured, with another grin.

      “—and then we take Dad’s jet to another island, or North Queensland. When they find us there, we head somewhere unexpected … your pick,” she went on, as if she hadn’t heard him. If he made another “ice cream” comment, she’d—

      “The Northern Territory,” he said promptly. “I haven’t hiked around Kakadu or Litchfield Park for a couple of years.” He nodded. “I’d love to show you around—and May’s perfect. The wet season’s just ended, and the weather’s gorgeous.”

      “H-hiking in the Outback?” Mia blinked. That didn’t fit her plans at all …

      His brow lifted again. She was starting to dislike that brow. “What? Did you think I’d go for five-star resorts and demand limos and Bollinger on Billy’s credit card?”

      “Actually, I was thinking I’d need to buy hiking gear,” she shot back.

      He shook his head. “You had the cockroach look on your face. I surprised you. Your plans revolved around my indulging in playing the star again. You thought I’d want to use this as a way to get back into the business.”

      Despite her anger, she had to take the hit. Contrary to all appearances, she’d thought maybe he would want an opportunity to be famous again. Her primary focus was and always would be her father’s health, and C.J.’s choosing the fame track once more, wanting ritzy locales for their honeymoon, would make it easier for the paparazzi to find them … To her shame, a tiny part of her admitted the glitz and glam of a celebrity honeymoon wouldn’t hurt sales of her book, either.

      She bit her lip. Was this the moment to tell him about the book she was writing and her plans for the final chapter? But how could she write a convincing chapter about her marriage if he knew from the start? Also, he might refuse—as was his right—or throw her out. She wouldn’t blame him if he did. His privacy had become almost the stuff of legend … and she’d hate such exposure if their positions were reversed.

      She knew that even if he agreed to this, and she wrote the chapter, she would have to run it by him before it was added to the book. It was only right.

      But for now she couldn’t make herself say the words, so she decided to placate him. “If I offended you—”

      He cut in. “You must have gone into psychosis when you found out I finished university by correspondence while I was in End Game and made medical school.”

      She’d been shocked all right. She’d never even seen him studying—but she’d spent most of her time hiding out herself, studying or writing in her journal. Being a sixteen-year-old finding somewhere to belong in one ritzy hotel after the other hadn’t been easy; finding friends had been harder. They’d envied her too much to see the loneliness in her life. Not one young person she’d met had wanted to know her—they’d wanted to meet C.J. through her, which had made her despise him more.

      She frowned, looking around the homey kitchen. She should have realized she’d need to change her plan the moment she saw this house. What had happened to the opulent apartment overlooking the harbor he’d lived in during his End Game days?

      “I sold the apartment,” he said, with uncanny accuracy. “This is close to the university campus and the hospital. My neighbors are mostly elderly, and don’t know what End Game is.” He gave her that deep look again. And when she stared back her pulse pounded and she was all flushed and—and lost in those forest eyes … “I said when I left that I wasn’t looking back.”

      And she hadn’t believed him for a moment. When he’d won the first Grammy she’d expected him to ditch university and take up a solo career or song writing, but he’d done neither. He’d penned two more songs—”Issues” and more recently “Defiance” the song that had won his second Grammy—but he hadn’t collected either of his Grammys personally, only sent a pre-recorded message.

      Goaded as much by her self-admission as by his words, she snapped, “All right, I apologize again. I was wrong. I’m sorry. Now, can we get on with why I came?”

      Instead of backing down, he grinned. “That was cute, Mia. I’ve never seen a woman give an apology with such disdain.” He mock-bowed, with the crooked smile