Nothing of note from Abigail. Good. “Super red, I’m sure.”
He thought over the situation. The stalker’s timing didn’t make sense. That her stalker was on this island at all was… unexpected. Then again, it significantly narrowed the pool of people who were messing with Jules. Dean could access a list of Americans who’d traveled outside the US. They could check airline records. Titan could also look into who knew where Jules had planned to honeymoon.
Probably a lot of people. Definitely the paparazzi. If not before, then they would today. Sloane had to be working her contact list to make sure the pictures she wanted were taken.
Had investigators considered her stalker might be a photog? Rhys could name most of them. Most were normal Joe Schmoes who enjoyed the chase of celebrity money shots. They weren’t stalkers, even if they were always there, always snapping pictures. Many cultivated relationships with publicists, PR teams, and, sometimes, even celebrities themselves. The paparazzi were predictable in their relentlessness.
Both Jules’s and Mason’s people could have invited their preferred gossip hunters to St. Barts. Even if they hadn’t, gossip outlets would have sent photographers for a peek at the honeymoon. They could have finagled their itinerary. Jules had kept her dinner plans, simply inserting Abigail in place of Mason and adding another person to her table.
Photographers weren’t the problem. The paparazzi didn’t want Jules to quit. She was their bread and butter. Pictures of her, gossip about her, anything having to do with her, paid well.
They wanted her to come home and be visible. They wanted her working—making movies, walking red carpets, living her life for them to make money off of.
Unless one of them had a screw loose.
“I said there’s yellow ones too.” Abigail drummed her fingers on the table. “Are you listening to me? You’re not asking about the yellow and purple hibiscus.”
“Oh, sorry. Um, very yellow?” Jules tried.
Two lines etched into Abigail’s forehead. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, just that my crazy stalker came here to ruin my honeymoon and take pictures of me holding hands with Rhys.”
Abigail arched an eyebrow. “Wait. You were holding hands?”
“Focus, Abs,” Jules snapped. “He took a picture from behind us, then told me to stay here.”
“How does anyone know where you are?”
“Lots of ways,” Rhys grumbled. “The easiest being the dinner reservation has likely been on the books since your travel was arranged. Anyone who knows the name under which your reservation was booked could find out when and where you planned to eat.”
He’d have their itinerary rebooked. New restaurants. New plans. They didn’t even need to stick to a specific schedule if all Jules and Abigail wanted to do was lie out on the beach with fruity drinks.
The waiter arrived, reciting specials and drinks and adding island joy to the conversation again. The ladies relaxed. They ordered. Rhys studied their surroundings, hoping to pinpoint an obsessed fan on a tropical vacation, but their table was hidden from view.
“I need to make a phone call.” Rhys stood, using his vantage point to check all the angles again. No one could see them. None of this made sense. “Excuse me.”
He positioned himself nearby to see Jules, Abigail, and the area around the private seating, and dialed Vivian.
His boss picked up on the first ring. “Paradise treating you well?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Her stalker with a hard-on for her retirement also made the trip.”
“What the hell? Seriously?”
“Yup. Took a picture of her and told her to stay on the island.”
“Is she okay?”
“Unnerved at first, but she’s moved on to pissed.”
“You and me both,” Viv muttered. “What kind of picture? This isn’t Sloane’s doing?”
“Not one of Sloane’s people.” Rhys stalled. Vivian was one hundred percent behind the publicity stunt, but discussing his holding Jules’s hand with anyone in his office made him want to crawl out of his skin. “I had her hand in mine. Part of Sloane’s whole shit show that she’s orchestrating.”
Dead air hung on the phone for eternity. “Uh-huh. Okay. Right.” Vivian paused. “What exactly did the guy say?”
His molars clenched. “You work fast. Stay here in paradise. No one wants you to come home.”
