“Move,” he ordered before she could finish the shocked sentence.
He held onto her arm and practically dragged her toward the exit. The press stayed on their heels, capturing their every move with those intrusive cameras. They were in a large open space but Ben suddenly felt like the entire airport was closing in on him and he quickened his strides, loosening his grip on Maggie’s arm when he noticed his knuckles had turned white and were digging into her skin.
“Enjoy your vacation, Ben?” one obnoxious reporter called out.
Another followed up with, “Maggie, how long have you two been seeing each other?”
How the fuck did they know Maggie’s name? Without pausing to question the woman who’d spoken, Ben pushed Maggie through the automatic doors. Her eyes were still wide with distress, but she didn’t say a word. Just glanced back at the reporters still trailing after them, her face flickering with disbelief and confusion. She looked dazed, stunned, and he didn’t blame her. He’d gotten used to this bullshit years ago, but he understood how it could be overwhelming for someone else.
He took her hand and pulled her toward a taxi, waited for her to get in then slid inside and slammed the door. Another flash caught his eye and he almost gave the finger to the reporter who’d snapped their picture.
Leaning back in his seat, he opened his mouth to address the driver, only to be cut off by Maggie. He was taken aback when she softly gave out directions to the Olive Martini.
As the cab pulled away from the airport, he looked at her and said, “Are you sure you want to go to work?”
“I don’t have a choice,” she said in a shaky voice. “My shift starts in an hour.”
A short silence stretched between them. Maggie kept her gaze glued to the window, but he could tell she was still shaken up and confused by what just happened. He was pretty fucking confused himself. How had the press learned Maggie’s identity? He hadn’t told a soul that he was staying at her apartment, not even Stu or his publicist knew about her. And the resort would never have released the information—Marcus Holtridge and his staff respected their guests’ privacy far too much to sell them out to the media, especially since the resort prided itself on secrecy.
Unless it wasn’t a staff member who’d said anything, but another guest…
He stifled a groan as it hit him. Sonja. It to be Sonja. She’d looked undeniably pissed when he’d left her in the casino after she’d offended Maggie, and he wouldn’t put it past his ex-flame to get even by talking to a couple of reporters. He’d always told Sonja how much he hated the vultures, and if she wanted revenge for his rebuffing her, calling the press would be right up her alley.
The silence in the cab dragged on so long Ben began to feel claustrophobic again. He wanted to say something, but he feared anything he said would only push Maggie farther away from him. She’d been so happy and relaxed when he’d first brought her to the resort, and he knew she’d been having a good time, at least up until when they’d run into Sonja. But despite her shutting down afterwards, she’d seemed to come around again on the plane, when he’d told her the truth about Gretchen. He suspected they’d reached some kind of turning point, though he couldn’t quite put a label on it yet. And now it was all blown to hell, thanks to a few nosy reporters.
He wanted to tell her he’d fix this, that somehow he’d make the media storm go away, but he knew better than to make empty promises. The press would hound him no matter what he did, and even if Stu and his publicist managed to spin the story in a way that made his relationship with Maggie not seem so tawdry, the reporters already knew her name. And that meant they’d soon learn everything else about her. Where she worked, where she lived.
And if he knew the vultures—and boy, did he know them—they wouldn’t hesitate to make Maggie’s life as hellish as they’d made his.
“You’re late.”
Maggie’s head snapped up, her hand poised over the laces of her sneakers. In the doorway of the employee lounge, Linda stood with her arms crossed over her chest. She could tell from the look on her manager’s face that she wasn’t happy with her.
“I know, I’m sorry,” she burst out, quickly kicking off her shoes and grabbing for the heels at the bottom of her locker. “It won’t happen again.”
“It’d better not.” With a deep frown, Linda stalked off.
Ouch.
Maggie glanced at her watch, which confirmed what she already knew, that her shift had only started five minutes ago. Since when did Linda get so crabby over five measly minutes?