I Married a Billionaire: Lost and Found(5)

"Ever thought about taking it up again?" he said, after a while. "I could get you lessons."

I could get you. I hated it when he phrased things like that. "God, no," I said. "What a nightmare."

We were starting to approach some more populated parts of the beach, and I became acutely aware that people were staring at us. I pushed my sunglasses up on the bridge of my nose and urged my horse on faster.

"What about you?" Daniel called after me, semi-successfully convincing his bay to pick up the pace accordingly. "How did you take up riding?"

"I grew up in horse country," I said, watching a little kid stop building his sandcastle and gape at us, open-mouthed, while we passed. "My best friend had stables." I wanted to keep staring out at the ocean, but the glare of the sun was almost blinding, so I turned away to give my eyes some rest.

Looking back inland, I noticed a young man with a very large camera in his hands. As soon as he spotted me looking at him, he started backing away, dropping the camera to dangle around his neck on a thick strap.

"Hey," I said, reaching out and touching Daniel’s arm. "Look. This is new."

He looked at the photographer, and then back at me.

"What?" he asked. "People taking pictures?"

"No, genius. He was talking pictures of you." I gestured emphatically. "Us."

"Don’t be ridiculous." Daniel frowned. "Look, he’s gone."

"Oh my God. You’re like a child." I shook my head, digging my heels into the palomino’s sides.

"No, you’re paranoid, is what you are," said Daniel, good-naturedly, urging his bay to keep up. "You think paparazzi are following us halfway around the world, now? I’m not exactly a celebrity."

***

We had lunch in the little bistro on the beach, picking over cured meats and cheeses and drinking some brand of mineral water I’d never heard of. I couldn’t stop thinking about the photographer. I’d been floating along, more or less peacefully, since we got here; now I felt abruptly yanked back to reality. And it wasn’t a reality that I had any idea how to handle.

Right about the time Daniel was pondering the dessert menu, I started to feel very watched. I ignored it for as long as I could, but finally I couldn’t shake the sensation of someone’s eyes burning into my back.

I turned around to look.

It was the photographer.

He spun around as soon as he sensed me moving, but I recognized him immediately.

"What’s wrong?" Daniel wanted to know, frowning while he chewed on something.

"It’s the guy," I said, softly. "The photographer."

The photographer who was, in a moment, standing directly next to our table.

"I’m so sorry," he said. "I don’t mean to bother you. You’re on vacation. But I think your wife is starting to think I’m some kind of crazy stalker."

"I don’t think that," I said, coolly, taking a sip of my water.

"Please," said Daniel, looking up at him with a slightly confused expression. "Don’t apologize. Can I help you?"

"Well, maybe." The photographer smiled, extending his hand for Daniel to shake. "My name’s Ryan Brewer, I’m a freelance journalist. I just happened to be out here on vacation, and who do you think I saw?"

Daniel’s smile was frozen. "Me?"

"You," said the journalist, pulling out an empty chair without asking. He sat down, leaning toward Daniel. "Can you believe my luck?"

"Hardly," said Daniel.

"I’d love to get a quick interview. No big deal. Nothing heavy, just a light piece, I’m thinking maybe Vanity Fair?"

"A quick one," said Daniel. "I suppose."

"Okay. First of all - what makes Daniel Thorne tick?"

I drummed my fingers on the table.

"A desire to succeed, I suppose," said Daniel. "Same as anyone else."

"You think you’re the same as other people?"

Daniel picked up a grape and examined it. "More or less," he said.

"So what sets you apart?"

Daniel took a deep breath, and let it out. The journalist’s foot was jiggling under the table.

"I suppose I do things," he said. "Other people might just be content with - thinking, or imagining. I act on it. That’s what sets me apart."

"That’s very interesting," said the journalist. "That’s very…you know, I talked to some people about you recently. They said something similar - that your ability to take action is what makes you different."

Daniel looked up, sharply. "And who would that be?" he said, a little louder than necessary.

"You might remember them. I believe you were involved in some…legal troubles with a few them, actually."

My husband stood abruptly, rattling the table.

"Maddy," he said. "Let’s go."

I got up to follow him, and the journalist jumped to his feet as well. "Mr. Thorne," he said, tripping over his chair to come after us. "Mr. Thorne, please, if you could just give me a minute more of your time -"

One of the waitstaff appeared out of nowhere, grabbing the journalist by the arm and yanking him back. Daniel was walking quickly back to the lobby of the hotel, and I hurried after him, my feet sinking into the sand as I tried to pick up my pace. He put his hand on the small of my back and urged me forward.