He glanced over at her and lifted a shoulder. In the erratic light, his face seemed like a mask. “Like I said.”

She sat for another time in silence. The rain was coming down harder, now, the way it can in California, sluicing over the windshield and side windows and curtaining them inside in their own little bubble of quiet, alone with the tension of misunderstanding and a thousand unspoken thoughts.

She drew a breath. “He wouldn’t have recognized you.”

“Yeah,” he said, somewhere between a drawl and a growl, “I think I know that…now. Can’t say I did then, though.”

She listened to the echoes of irony. Though far from being an apology, it made the silence seem less electric, somehow.

After a while she asked carefully, “Is it always this-” she coughed “-forgive me, but are you always this nervous when you go undercover?”

He gave an unexpected bark of laughter. “You wanna know the truth? This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done-bar none.”

She stared at him. “Seriously? Why? These are just…people. Showbiz people. Actors, directors, producers. It’s not like they’re…dangerous.” She listened, head tilted wryly, to a replay of that, while Roy echoed her thought.

“I can think of at least one who is.”

He drove for a while without speaking, then threw her a frowning glance. “I don’t know if I can explain or not, but…see, normally, if I’m going to be ‘made,’ it’s because of some screwup on my part-not doing my job right. Those things I can pretty much control. My face…well-not much I can do about that. I’ve never had to worry about being recognized before. I guess I felt…I don’t know…naked. You know-exposed.”

Naked… Celia stared straight ahead through the rain and didn’t say anything. Her throat felt achy and tight.

She could feel him look at her. “Guess you know what that’s like, don’t you?” His voice was deep with unexpected sympathy.

Her impulse was to laugh-why, she didn’t know. Some sort of defensive mechanism, she supposed. “Why would you say that? I’ve never been undercover before.”

“No, I mean, the face thing. Being recognized even when you don’t want to be. I guess, unless you want to go around in a disguise all the time, wherever you go, you’re always going to be Celia Cross.”

She didn’t know what to say. Who would have thought he’d understand? She said dryly, “More likely Nurse Suzanne.” Then, after a short silence, looking away from him again, “Actually, this past year I’ve gotten fairly good at disguises.”

Again she felt his glances, asking questions he didn’t quite know how to put into words. She let the silence settle around her-like fog, cloaking, insulating, protecting and, at the same time, making her feel chilled and lonely, so that when she broke it to say, “That’s my turn up ahead,” even her voice sounded muffled to her own ears, the way it does in fog.

Roy made the turn without comment. He drove slowly down the steep, narrow, winding street and pulled into Celia’s driveway. He turned off the motor, and the roar of rain and the whump of distant breakers rushed to fill the space where the engine and wiper noise had been, keeping time with her heartbeat.

He took the keys from the ignition, but instead of opening the door, said in a gruff voice, “Something I can’t figure out.”

She waited for him to continue, her heart quickening. He turned toward her, a dark silhouette against the silvery sluice of rain on the windows. “Why were you so nervous tonight? I mean, it’s not like you were in disguise, worrying about being recognized. You were…you-Celia Cross. Everybody there knew who you were. But you were shaking. When we first went in. I felt it. How come?”

Her heart gave a lurch, her breath caught, and to hide it she gave another light laugh. “Obviously, you don’t know much about showbiz. Of course I was shaking-it’s excitement, it’s adrenaline. I was about to go ‘on’-as in, on stage, you know? It’s normal, it’s…energy.”

“I heard what they were saying-those people-when we walked in,” he said roughly. “You did, too. Don’t tell me you didn’t.”

She shrugged and looked away, and the movements felt awkward to her, as if her body were a marionette controlled by an inept puppeteer. Through stiff lips, she said, “Oh well, I expected that. I told you about the rumors…the newspaper stories…the tabloids. The first time I appear in public…after…there were bound to be comments.”

“The first time…bound to be comments…you ‘expected’-” He broke off, muttering. Glancing at him, she saw that his elbow was propped on the steering wheel, his hand clamped over the lower part of his face. He shook his head and snapped her a look, blue contact lenses glittering in the meager light. “Why in the hell didn’t you tell me?”

She tried the laugh again, this time with a lift of her chin, hoping it would be enough. “Why would I? What could you have done?” Why do you care? Her heart thumped and her skin shivered with something that felt like fear.

“Hell, I don’t know-” he made an angry gesture, frustrated and typically male “-but you’re my partner in this, dammit, if you’ve got something goin’ on, I need to know about it.”

Smiling, patient and gentle, she said, “I haven’t ‘got something going on,’ as you put it. It’s no big deal. It’s just the way things are in this town. You develop a thick skin or you don’t survive. Look-I got through it-it’s over. Finis. Done.”

He looked at her, saying nothing. She looked at him, and her whole body seemed to hum…background noise, an undercurrent to the restless stormy nighttime sounds.

In a sandy whisper, barely audible above the shush of the rain, he said, “You’re really something, you know that? One hell of an actress…”

Clinging desperately to her smile, Celia said nothing. I must be, she thought, or you would know how vulnerable I am right now. You’d know how much I want you to hold me…warm me with your body, the way I warmed you. Kiss me…make love to me…make me feel strong and good…make this aching go away.

And she thought, Oh, God, I’m glad you don’t know that! Because if you were to touch me right now I’d come apart in your arms and cry on your shoulder. I sure wouldn’t want to do that!

Oh, God…how I want to do that.

Please…touch me.

“Well, you definitely had everybody there fooled tonight,” Roy said, reaching for the door handle. “Sure as hell fooled me.”

Celia let out a breath and opened her door, gasping, “Thanks,” as the cold rain hit her face.

Yes, she thought, I surely did fool you, didn’t I?

In the days that followed, Roy grew to appreciate the one good thing about having a deadline coming at you way before you were ready for it-it made time go by a whole lot faster.

Although, he’d probably have to admit, at least part of that could have been due to the fact that much of what filled his days-not just events, but images, sensations, emotions-was new to him.

Every day, he and Celia put in an appearance at some trendy restaurant or other on Melrose Avenue or in Beverly Hills. Lunch at Morton’s, maybe, where the prices made it hard for him to swallow his steak and fries, even with the ketchup the place thoughtfully provided. At other times, it was dinner at some romantic garden hideaway where he felt underdressed even in the silk Armani suits Celia insisted on buying for him on their shopping forays to Rodeo Drive.

At those times, it was Roy’s job to look rugged and outdoorsy and enigmatic-Canadian, he surmised-and Celia’s to appear the love-struck celebrity-starry-eyed, effervescent, radiantly beautiful. No great stretch for her-not the last one, anyway. As for the first two, well…it just made him admire her acting ability all the more when he saw how the stars faded from her eyes and the effervescence went flat as three-day-old beer as soon as they were alone together.

Admiring…awed…hell, yes. Where Celia was concerned, he had no trouble justifying all those feelings. It was the let-down-disappointed blues that came with them he couldn’t understand.

As far as Roy was concerned, it was all getting too damn complicated. In his past life, B.C.-Before Celia-whenever a relationship showed signs of developing complications he’d put an end to it in a hurry. Which he figured was probably why he’d managed to remain friends with so many of his old girlfriends, most of whom were currently happily married to other people. But this thing with Celia-in the first place, of course, it wasn’t even a real relationship. It was all playacting. Make-believe.

Or was it?

That was where it began to get complicated. Could things ever become real between Celia and him? On her side…truth was, he didn’t know. Normally he considered his instincts to be pretty good, but in this case…for starters, there was the acting thing. He’d seen firsthand what the lady was capable of. How was he supposed to tell whether the feelings she was letting him see were real or not?

Lately, every waking minute it seemed his mind was full of images and sound bites: some grainy and flickering like old black-and-white film clips-Celia blowing on a spoonful of broth before touching it to his lips…sitting cross-legged on the foot of his bed, laughing…tumbling with him onto the sheets…kissing him; others warm and glowing with color-Celia painting a scar and goatee on his face with her fingertips…mugging in a purple fedora in a Rodeo Drive menswear shop…sniffing a gardenia and smiling at him across it with her eyes in a candlelit garden café. Still others made him feel restless and uncomfortable, like watching a sad movie when other people were around who might see him cry: Celia saying, “Of course I miss them!” And her eyes shining with unshed tears…a scarred leg peeking through the gap in a silky robe…Celia walking along the water’s edge, pausing to throw a stick for a passing jogger’s dog, laughing…then looking up to see Roy watching her and the laughter fading to a bleak and lovely mask, impossible to read.

If only he could make some sense of it all! But the memories flashed by too quickly, always changing, so he never got a close, clear look, a chance to figure out what they meant. If only, he thought, memories could be more like photographs, so he could shuffle them around, lay them all out like snapshots in an album…maybe that way get a sense of the overall picture.

And supposing he did figure it out and, from Celia’s viewpoint, the answer was yes…what then? Would he want a real relationship, considering all that was sure to come with it?

From a purely physical standpoint, the quick and easy answer was: what red-blooded male in his right mind wouldn’t?

But again, this was where it got complicated. And Roy didn’t like complications, particularly where his own emotions were concerned. Having a “real” relationship with the likes of Celia Cross-meaning not make-believe-was one thing; having a real relationship, as in one that might put his heart in danger-that was something else.

The way Roy saw it, as long as he and Prince Abby al-Fayad’s bodyguards were walking around loose in the same city, he was in enough danger as it was.

Prince Abby al-Fayad…danger…loose in the city…

Sometimes he could almost manage to forget the nightmare cloud that might even then be approaching L.A.’s oblivious millions, hidden in the hold of one of the thousands of apparently innocent sailboats, fishing boats, pleasure craft and yachts that floated regularly in and out of Southern California’s marinas and boat harbors. He could almost believe his own nightmare on board the yacht Bibi Lilith and in the chilly waters of the Pacific had been only that-a bad dream. The fantasy role Celia and Max had created for him became less alien to him once he got used to the idea that nobody short of a mind reader was ever going to connect the battered, shivering wretch in the frogman suit, shot and thrown into the deep, dark ocean, with the silver-haired Canadian billionaire with a scarred larynx and a movie star mistress.

The truth was it should have been an easy part to play, putting him in no imminent physical danger, demanding nothing of him except that he appear at Celia’s side, present in her scene but not a part of it, indulgent and a little aloof, like a patient and loving parent watching children in a playground.

He did have a bad moment the first time photos of the two of them appeared in People Magazine.

“Shoot, my momma reads People,” he told Celia in an outraged growl. “What am I gonna do if she recognizes me?”

For an answer, she turned the magazine around and showed him the picture, snapped by some paparazzi on Rodeo Drive, then waited in silence while he studied it. After a long time, he nodded and muttered, “Well, okay, then…”