Page 70 of What Doesn't Kill You…

"I don't sing," came the implacable reply, shutting down anything else he might have said on the subject.

They lay in silence for a while, not touching, a no-man's land between them by silent mutual agreement.

"I'm sure my gran knows the wedding is fake," Violet said at last. "I think she's challenging me to come clean and tell everybody before we're forced to go through with it."

"What will she do if you don't?"

Violet made an irritated huffing sound. "Who knows? She's fearless and unpredictable."

Just like you.

"I'd try to contain her," Violet continued, clearly disgusted. "But I'm not sure I can. The problem is, she has age on her side. How do you fight a woman in her eighties? I can't physically stop her from doing anything because she has fragile bones. And I can't tie her up and put her somewhere until everything is over because the rest of my family would notice she was missing."

Max desperately wanted to laugh but knew it wouldn't be appreciated. "Have you thought about talking to her? Explaining everything and throwing yourself on her mercy?"

"Yeah, right," she scoffed. "That isn't how Lian works. She's the master of the mind game. Right now, she's letting me know she knows without coming right out and saying anything. If I challenge her, she'll feign ignorance, which will give her the upper hand and make me look stupid. No, I'm locked in a game of chicken and all I can do is hope she swerves first."

Max was grinning so widely his face hurt. He hoped his amusement didn't come across in his voice because Violet was deadly serious. "Then all we can do is carry on as planned and hope she doesn't blow our cover," he said, sounding a little strangled. He found it hard to believe Violet's own grandmother would ruin her wedding on a hunch.

Violet turned to face him in the darkness. "Are you laughing at me?"

"I'd never," he lied, still grinning, and very grateful all she could see was a silhouette of his head.

She made a sound of disgust. "Go to sleep. And?—"

"I know, don't touch you, don't disturb you, don't get in your way."

"Exactly," she said sounding pleased.

A moment later, he heard her snore. It was as though she had an off switch she could flick and instantly fall asleep. Lucky her. It took Max a little longer to succumb, but he eventually did, slipping straight into a dream about the woman beside him.

A few hours later, he woke to the feeling he was being suffocated and knew instantly what it was. Violet was back on her perch, lying on top of him like he was a log. How she got in position without waking him, he didn't know. Even in sleep, she had the moves of a ninja.

He didn't try to avoid touching her this time. They were past that. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and stroked her back, marveling at how soft she felt, when he knew she was toned muscle head to toe. She snuggled closer, although he suspected Violet wouldn't call it that. The word snuggle would probably make her gag.

A weird sense of rightness overcame him as he lay there, holding her close and breathing in her scent. Like everything else about her, it was unique. A tantalizingly sexy blend that evoked mystery and power. Like a night flower, quietly emitting the lure of its heady scent, to seduce visitors in the darkness. Yeah, his Violet was just like a seductive night blossom.

His Violet?

The words hung in his mind as though he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. She wasn't his. He couldn't have her, even if he wanted to. It was the wrong time, the wrong place—and he was probably the wrong man for her too. His obsession with Damien Poole had taken him over and there wasn't a whole lot left to give to a relationship. Maybe after everything was over…

Who was he kidding? When things were done, she'd go back to Houston and he'd return to Toronto to write a story that would hopefully get his life back on track. And get justice for his friend.

His chest hurt at the thought of saying goodbye to his bodyguard, and he had the fierce desire to clamp his arms tight around her and never let go. But he was being unrealistic. He was feeling the potential of what could have been between them, not the reality of their situation—which was rooted in pretending and a shared need for justice.

He ran his fingers down the curve of her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin. Such a contrast to the woman herself. Violet was all steel and sharp edges, until you touched her. He smiled—or until she crashed out on top of you. Then she cuddled like a little panda, so trusting and warm and soft. And she felt like his.

His Violet.

The potential of that phrase was so tantalizing he could almost taste it. A longing, so deep it scarred his bones, made him close his eyes. He felt her breathing against his chest, her heartbeat against his, and wished the moment would never end. That he didn't have to go back to reality.

That he didn't have to walk away from what could have been.

Potentially his Violet.

He ached with wanting.

Against him, Violet stirred and snuggled closer, nuzzling against the crook of his neck.