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Nobody Does It Better
Julie Kenner


For author Paris Sommers, truth has become stranger than fiction. She's fallen in love with a man who exists only in her mind–a man she "invented" as a pseudonym for the fast-paced, testosterone-laden spy novels she writes. Only, now the man of her dreams is standing beside her, touching her, loving her. But who is he?Bar owner Devin O'Malley wanted Paris the first moment he saw her. And he was willing to do just about anything to get her–including "becoming" novelist Montgomery Alexander. Only, his deception worked too well. Before long, he'd stolen his way into Paris's bed and into her heart. But was she in love with Devin–or the fantasy he portrayed?









She wanted more


“Please…” Paris could manage only one word, but that was all it took. He pulled her to him and his mouth claimed hers, his tongue challenging hers in the timeless battle of male against female, lust against desire. She writhed against him, wanting a satisfaction his kisses alone wouldn’t bring.

He released his claim on her mouth. “You’re killing me. I can’t keep kissing you, touching you, and not be deep inside you.” His voice was raw with desire. “Paris, what do you want?”

Her eyes locked with his, knowing that if he could see into her heart, he would see the passion. For years, she’d only known adventure through her books. For one night, she wanted to live that adventure. With him. With Alexander.

“You,” she whispered. “Tonight, I want you.” Maybe it was crazy, but tonight, with a desperation she’d never felt before, she wanted him inside her. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t really be Alexander. Hadn’t he told her that, just for tonight, he was? And he had to be…

He had to be her dream man. After all, who besides Alexander could make her feel this way?


Also available

SILENT DESIRES

THE PERFECT SCORE

STARSTRUCK

MOONSTRUCK

NIGHT MOVES

MAKING WAVES

UNDERCOVER LOVERS




Nobody Does it Better

J. Kenner





www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk)


J. KENNER has always loved stories—reading them, watching them on television and on the silver screen, and making them up herself. She studied film before attending law school, but knew that her real vocation lay in writing the kind of books she loves to read. She lives in Texas with her husband, two daughters and several cats.


This book is dedicated to all the people who provided that little bit of magic it takes to coax a story to make the leap from imagination to paper. Especially my husband, Don, for being there, and my mum, Anna, for everything. Extra thanks to Kathleen, for her support and input every step of the way, and for indulging my caffeine addiction in the process. Latte, anyone? To Dee, for joining us and rounding out one heck of a group. And to my wonderful editor, Brenda Chin, whose support and encouragement have meant so much. Thanks for never letting me doubt it would happen, and for bringing me into the Mills & Boon


family.




Contents


Chapter 1 (#ue87de120-7018-5b19-a57a-3a5fb5285c31)

Chapter 2 (#u3d1d0375-6006-567b-b2bf-0d982a9d6933)

Chapter 3 (#u9d7b8eca-fdb3-5b9b-9a01-63f027d71e10)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




1


“YOU NEED A MAN.”

“Rachel!” Paris Sommers choked on her wine and scrunched lower into the booth. She would have preferred a quiet slide into oblivion, but since that wasn’t possible, poor posture would have to suffice.

“I’m serious,” Rachel continued. “All we need to do is find you an able-bodied male. You use him for one night. Bingo. Problem solved. Just pick one, already.”

Paris scanned the dimly lit Irish pub nestled in the heart of Manhattan. Thankfully, most of the patrons seemed uninterested, studying their pints instead. Some looked up, but then laconically turned away. Only a nearby waiter seemed even the slightest bit intrigued, and Paris caught his eye before he turned back to gathering dirty glasses from an adjacent table.

Pulling herself up, Paris leaned over the polished tabletop until she was nose to nose with Rachel. “Let’s lay off the men talk, okay?” She cast a meaningful glance toward the waiter. “People might misunderstand.”

“Afraid he’ll think you’re looking to get laid?”

“Stop it,” hissed Paris, knowing he must have overheard. Sure enough, his head tilted just a little so he could watch them. Despite the shadows, Paris swore she saw the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he moved away to wipe down another table.

The muted lighting prevented her from getting a good look at him, but what she could see, she liked. Strong features, a nice smile and just a hint of charisma. Well, that figured. A gorgeous guy looks her way and she’s having a ridiculous conversation about getting laid.

She frowned. Rachel Dean might have been her best friend since kindergarten, and her literary agent for the past six years, but she could still be a royal pain.

“Come on, Paris. Half your characters parade around in tiny bikinis on the arms of virile government agents. You’d think I could say ‘laid’ without you blushing.”

“That’s why they call it fiction.”

“Yet another reason you really do need a man.”

“Unlike some people, I have standards.”

Rachel pointed to herself and raised her eyebrows. “Moi? I have standards. Male. That’s a standard.”

Paris rolled her eyes. Rachel might not be a saint, but she was still a far cry from the sophisticated, experienced vixen she tried so hard to appear to be. “Maybe so, but the mere existence of a Y-chromosome doesn’t do it for me.” She wanted more. A lot more.

“No. You want Alexander. What would you do if he walked through that door? You’d jump him and have your wicked way with him right in front of us law-abiding bar patrons.”

Paris felt the telltale warmth of a blush creep up the back of her neck. Rachel knew her far too well.

“Au contraire, my friend,” she said, trying to cover. “I’m much too refined.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes and smiled sweetly. “The floor’s way too hard.”

Rachel downed the last of her beer. “Got news for you, kiddo. It ain’t gonna happen. And meantime, your diaphragm’s collecting cobwebs.”

“Of course it’s not happening, because I am not waiting for Alexander,” Paris insisted, adding a little extra emphasis, more for herself than for Rachel. Hadn’t she told herself over and over to let go of the fantasy that someone as delicious as Alexander would suddenly sweep her off her feet?

Trouble was, Alexander was a rare breed, a hard man to give up. Sophisticated, yet witty. Cold as steel to his enemies. Hot as molten lava with his lover. Fiercely loyal, utterly sexy. A man with the poise of a prince and the coolness of an assassin, Alexander could melt a woman’s heart with a well-placed look.

Paris closed her eyes and sighed. No matter how much she wanted him next to her, Alexander was not going to miraculously appear. Not in person. Not in the flesh.

Hadn’t she dated enough men to know that?

She took another sip of wine, then studied the deep red liquid. It was just as well, really. She knew exactly what she wanted out of life, had it all mapped out, in fact. Alexander was too suave, too cool, too dangerous to be part of the respectable suburban life she’d get around to eventually.

She twirled the stem of her wineglass between her fingers. True, there was a part of her—a tiny but persistent part—that prodded her to cut loose, to take a walk on the wild side. To get out there and squeeze the Charmin at least once.

She’d struggled hard to keep that part under control, and she didn’t intend to blow it. A man like Alexander would throw a real kink into her carefully thought out plans. So it was for the best that he’d never appeared on her doorstep.

At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

Rachel leaned back in the booth and snorted. “Well, if you’re not waiting for an Alexander to sweep you off your feet, then what the devil are you waiting for?”

“Nothing. I date. I date nice men, the right kind of men.” Men who did absolutely nothing for her. No heart pounding. No toes curling. No…anything.

“The kind Daddy would approve of? Let me give you a clue, my friend. You date boring men. And you don’t even do that very often. Actually, considering the men I’ve seen you go out with, it’s just as well your diaphragm’s a little dusty.”

She glared at Rachel. “For your information, I don’t even own one.”

“Maybe you should. You need a little adventure in your life.”

Paris wasn’t about to confess that she’d been thinking almost that very thing. “I have adventure. I’m practically drowning in adventure.” What she really wanted was passion. Just one taste of the stomach-churning, knees-wobbling, lose-all-control kind of passion she imagined with Alexander. One moment of reality to fuel her imagination and tide her over for the rest of her life.

“You’ve got adventure, sure. But it’s in your head. I’m talking reality.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” Paris said, more harshly than she intended. “Could we get back on track? I didn’t force myself onto a plane, leave my goldfish with a neighbor, and come all the way from Texas for Introduction to Dating 101.” She took the last gulp of wine and leaned back, then saw the cute waiter out of the corner of her eye, staring right at her. And soaking up every word.

Great. Just great. When his smirk transformed into a full-blown smile, the heat in her cheeks rose in proportion to his expanding grin. Her stomach lurched as mortification swept over her. Half of her wanted to ask him out just to show Rachel up. Her more practical half wanted to scold him for eavesdropping on a rather embarrassing conversation.

She chose a middle ground. “Could you bring us some water?”

“Sure thing.” His deep voice held just enough of a New York accent to add flair without stealing attention from the rest of him. As he leaned over to clear their empty glasses, Paris inhaled his cinnamon-musk scent, a nice contrast to the smell of beer and tobacco that wafted through the pub. The dark stubble on his face contrasted with honey-colored waves to give him a wild, bohemian quality. His hair was the kind a woman’s fingers, and her kisses, could get lost in.

His profile danced on the edge of her memory, just inches out of reach. Why did he seem so familiar? She knew she’d never seen him before, yet his appearance called to her. His features were angular, with high cheekbones and a well-defined jawline. The tip of his nose bent just a little, as if broken in a reckless youth.

He moved away, weaving his way through the tables.

Then it hit her—that chiseled face, the sensual mouth, his bad-boy-playing-at-respectable air. Could it really be?

“Waiter!” she called, desperate for another look. When he turned and stepped into the light, Paris quelled a gasp. She’d been right. In her mind, she could picture every line, every angle, every contour of Alexander’s face. Except for the dark blond hair, this waiter could be Alexander’s twin.

“Miss?”

With a start, she realized she’d been staring, her mouth hanging open like an idiot. At least she’d refrained from drooling.

She grappled for something to say, then noticed the empty bowl that had earlier held cashews. “Um…could we also get something to nibble on?”

Her cute waiter nodded. “No problem.”

DEVIN O’MALLEY TRIED to get a grip on himself. He rarely noticed women. For years he’d been too immersed in his business to bother. Of course, that didn’t stop the women from noticing him, and if they made the first move, Devin had no qualms about reciprocating. He’d entertained plenty like the brunette named Rachel, in and out of his bed, usually converting their casual talk about sex into low-pitched moans and desperate pleas once the lights went out.

Yet he’d never once experienced such a tug of pleasure just from watching a woman like the petite blonde with the deep brown eyes. And it had been ages since he’d puzzled over how to ask a perfect stranger out on a date.

But he was wondering about how to ask this one.

Paris. The name seemed to fit, even though she lacked the exotic appearance he’d expect to accompany that name. She wasn’t a classic beauty. Each of her features, standing alone, boasted some flaw. Brown doe-eyes spaced a little too far apart, untamed eyebrows a shade darker than her neatly pinned golden curls, a nose that was just a little crooked, a too-small mouth that didn’t do justice to the perfectly shaped, full lips.

Empirically, her features were flawed. As a whole, her face was striking. It had certainly struck Devin. She was every fantasy he’d ever had rolled into one woman. And then some.

Her friend said she needed a man. Well, he intended to apply for the job.

“Pass me some nuts, would you, Jerry?” Devin asked as he slipped behind the mahogany and brass bar.

“We’re out. Want me to run to the back?”

“I’ll do it,” he said, actually grateful no one had bothered to stock the bar. He needed a few minutes to get his head in order. To plan his attack.

A large room with high ceilings and bare walls, the stockroom was a hodgepodge of electronic gadgetry and miscellaneous supplies. Devin found the cashews under a stack of misprinted menus and grabbed a box.

“Larry? Federal prosecutor Larry? He doesn’t have any magnetism. No one will buy that he’s Alexander.” Devin almost dropped his bundle. That smooth voice belonged to her.

“Well, I’ll be,” he mumbled. He’d forgotten that the room shared a thin wall with booth twelve.

“He’s perfectly fine,” Rachel replied.

“People have an image of Montgomery Alexander. Not just anyone can step into his shoes.”

Whoever this Alexander guy was, Paris sure seemed taken with him. The lucky bastard.

Devin took a deep breath. What the hell was he doing, eavesdropping on a woman he didn’t know and envying a man he’d never met? “Dev, you’re a basket case,” he muttered.

“You can say that again.”

Jerry’s whisper carried, and Devin spun around, a finger to his lips.

“Don’t worry,” Jerry assured. “The sound only comes in. Don’t ask me why. I just—”

Devin held up his hand. The women were talking again.

“So you’re okay with the idea?” Rachel asked. “All we have to do is find the right guy?”

“No, I’m not okay with it.” That was Paris. He pictured her with slightly raised eyebrows, like a woman scolding a small child. “Even if he looked perfect, how can we be sure this guy would keep the secret? Besides, it’s not right. It’d be like we were scamming everyone.”

“Scamming? Honey, what do you think we’re doing now?”

“Nothing,” Paris insisted. “Montgomery L. Alexander is just a pen name. My pen name.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” whispered Jerry. “Who woulda thought Montgomery Alexander was a broad?”

The knot in Devin’s stomach loosened and his heart picked up its tempo. He caught himself smiling and almost laughed out loud. There was no Alexander. It was just a pseudonym.

His reaction bordered on absurd, and he knew it. She didn’t know him from Adam. Just because there was no Alexander didn’t mean she was going to rush into Devin’s arms and smother him with kisses. So what difference did it make if this Alexander guy was out of the picture? None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

Didn’t matter. The logic center of his brain must have taken a vacation and left the lust department in control. All he could think was that Alexander’s untimely demise left one less person in the world to compete with for her attention.

Now he just had to figure out how to get her attention.

“Okay,” Rachel finally said, and Devin imagined her leaning back into the worn red leather booth, gathering steam for her next attack on Paris’s logic. “But there’s a drawing of Alexander on the back of your latest book. There’ve been articles, and web-pages, and on-line interviews. There are even women who swear they’ve slept with the man. You didn’t expect that, and neither did I. But that’s what we’re dealing with now.”

“I should just ’fess up and tell the truth at the party.” Paris said, sounding as if she’d prefer to have a root canal.

“And ruin everything? Hardback book deal. Remember? Money, publicity, the whole nine yards. Remember? You know Cobalt Blue’s only going to make an offer if Alexander comes through at the party tomorrow.”

“I know. I know. Besides, I’m just babbling. You know I can’t tell the truth. Not now. I’m in too deep.”

“So, let’s go out and find us an Alexander.” There was a pause. “What? Oh, no. You’re not going to say what I think you’re going to say.”

“But it’s true,” Paris insisted. “Not just anyone can be Alexander. He’s special. He’s unique.”

“Hello? Anybody home? He’s made up. Or are you going mental on me?”

Paris laughed. “Haven’t I always been?”

“Well, I’ll give you that.”

Devin heard shuffling.

“But what about the party?” Rachel asked. “We need time to find the right guy.”

“Maybe we could say he missed his plane from London.” Although her voice was muffled, Devin could just make out what Paris said. “As his personal manager, I guess little ol’ me will just have to break the bad news.”

Her voice barely penetrated the wall, and Devin realized they were leaving. The urge to see her again overwhelmed him, and he was on his feet and out the door before the echo faded. He burst into the dining area just as the front door swung shut.

“Damn, damn, damn,” he spewed, startling an old man munching pretzels at the bar. Without stopping to consider, he sprinted for the door, opened it and stepped into the heavy August heat. Paris stood across the street, about to slip into a taxi.

For a moment, she seemed to look right at him. Without thinking, he took a step toward her. Her mouth twitched in what could have been a smile, then she ducked in, slammed the door and was gone.

Devin mentally shook himself. He was acting like a flake. Since when did Devin O’Malley run after anonymous women? He tried to laugh it off, blaming his quirky behavior on testosterone, sunspots, or his fast-approaching thirty-first birthday. Anything to lessen the feeling that he had suddenly and without warning lost something terribly important.

“Answer to your prayers, eh, boss?”

“She’s a diamond, Jerry,” Devin answered, without turning around. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m coal. My whole family’s coal. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll make it to graphite by the next millennium. But not diamonds. Never diamonds.” And that was a damn shame.

“I ain’t suggesting you marry her, man. I’m saying she’s a nice little solution to your problem.”

Distracting thoughts of marriage and honeymoon nights, bare shoulders and a willing woman, that woman, drifted though Devin’s mind. Devin and the diamond? The possibility intrigued him, and Devin had never turned his back on a challenge. Hadn’t he started his business despite every possible obstacle? Wasn’t he finally shaking loose the remnants of his childhood?

Devin shook his head to clear his thoughts. “What are you talking about, Jerry?”

“Just your gal-pal and that twenty-thou you owe a certain, um, loan manager.”

Devin turned. “I don’t owe it.” A technicality, but true. After his dad’s stroke, Devin had said he’d cover the debt. Too bad for him the creditor was more vile than the worst thug in a Scorsese gangster flick.

Jerry shrugged. “Your pop, you. Same difference. You stepped in, so now it’s yours.”

Devin moved closer to the pub, out of the way of the foot traffic on the sidewalk. “What scheme are you crafting?”

“You ever read any of Montgomery Alexander’s books?”

Devin shook his head. “Never.”

“Well, I have. Every one. They’re all about this dude who’s your average, everyday super-spy named Joshua Malloy. A real slick number. All the books are pretty much the same. Old Joshua’s hired by some government to fight terrorists, assassinate the enemy, that kinda thing.”

He popped a karate chop toward Devin. “Fire fights, supersonic jets, nuclear bombs. Sex. You name it, these books got it.” Jerry grinned. “They ain’t literature, but they’re a damn wild ride.”

Blond curls, petite features and delicate hands flashed through Devin’s mind. “And that wisp of a woman writes these things?”

“Who’da thunk it, huh? For years people been wonderin’. ‘Who is Montgomery Alexander?’ they ask. Navy SEAL? Former CIA? Lot of folks say he’s a retired spy carryin’ a grudge. Got tired of his life being top secret and decided to call it fiction.”

“So you’re saying nobody knows what we just overheard?”

“You kiddin’?” Jerry lowered his voice. “This is major scoop material. I’ll tell you something else. Nobody, I mean nobody, woulda guessed Alexander was the homecoming queen.”

Devin looked down the bustling street, but her cab was well out of sight. His first impression had been right. She was one hell of a woman. And she’d taken a taxi right out of his life.

Idiot. He should have raced through the bar, fallen at her feet, shouted bad poetry over the loudspeaker. Something, anything, to have kept her close to him.

“Well,” Jerry prodded. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Come on, Dev.” He gripped Devin’s shoulders and groaned with exaggerated melodrama. “The perfect scam just walked into our little corner of the world.”

Devin jerked away. “I run a pub. That’s not my world. And when I hired you, you promised me it wasn’t yours anymore.”

“I’m clean, man. I been straight over a year, ever since you hired me. But you need that money, and opportunity just strolled by. You can’t tell me you didn’t think of it. You’re a chip off the old block, eh? And your pop was among the best.”

“I’ll get the money, Jerry,” Devin insisted.

“What? In two weeks? How? This place is mortgaged to the hilt, buddy boy, and I know you don’t got any spare cash tucked in a drawer somewhere. What’re you gonna do? Call Derek?”

Devin grimaced. His older brother had been more than happy to follow in their father’s footsteps. On the night Devin moved out, Derek had told him in no uncertain terms that he was a loser, would never make it in the legitimate business world, and would come crawling back with his tail between his legs. Every cruel word was a prophecy Devin had no intention of fulfilling.

“I’ll get it. Without Derek and without pulling a con.”

Jerry held up his hands in surrender. “See, this is what I been talkin’ about.” He gestured to Devin and then back to himself. “You and me, we ain’t communicatin’. I’m not talkin’ ’bout conning nobody. The thought never even entered my mind.”

“Sure, Jerry.”

“Honest. A simple business deal. You do something for diamond-lady, she does something for you.”

Twenty grand weighed on Devin’s shoulders. If Jerry really did have an idea, didn’t he owe it to himself to listen? And if Jerry’s idea wasn’t legitimate, he could just walk away.

Fighting against his better judgment, Devin looked into Jerry’s eyes. “You’ve got five minutes.”

JERRY LET OUT a low whistle. “Man, you are gonna knock ’em dead. If this were a movie you’d be a shoo-in for an Oscar.” He was sprawled in the middle of Devin’s tattered but comfortable couch, the major piece of furniture in the tiny, rent-controlled apartment. Piles of paperback novels teetered on either side of him. Index cards and empty cans of soda littered the glass-topped coffee table, replacing Devin’s financial magazines that were now scattered across the floor.

Devin chuckled. “Yeah, well, thanks for the vote of confidence. But I’m not interested in anything beyond the girl. She’s where my head is tonight.”

“The girl’s money, you mean,” Jerry said, slapping a sticky note inside one of the books.

“Of course,” Devin lied. First rule of the con—always keep your eye on the ball—and he’d already blown it.

His head knew the money was the only reason he’d finally agreed to this little scam. Unfortunately, his heart and certain other parts of his body were preoccupied with the thought of seeing Paris again. Of getting close to her. Talking to her.

Touching her.

His head was planning a scam, and his heart was planning a seduction.

Wonderful. His first con in over ten years and he couldn’t even focus. The woman had really thrown him for a loop.

But for the most part, he wasn’t worried. Jerry’s instinct was right. As a teenager, Devin had worked the streets enough with his dad to know he had a knack for playing whatever role needed to be played. Once he got the old rhythm back, Devin could practically sleepwalk through a con and pull it off.

That thought fostered another. Why not combine some not so pleasant business with some very pleasant pleasure? As long as when all was said and done he had twenty grand in his pocket, he might as well make the most of it. And other than paying off his dad’s debt, about the only good thing that could come out of the whole mess was the chance to spend a little time with Paris.

He moved to the apartment’s one bedroom and studied his reflection in the full-length mirror. He’d never really thought of himself as the suave, sophisticated baccarat type. More the jeans, T-shirt and poker type, actually. But he had to admit he looked the part. All it took was a close shave, some hair dye, and a double-dose of attitude and he was in like Flynn.

How easy it was to fall back into old habits. Bad habits.

His stomach churned and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Dammit. What the hell was he thinking?

He ripped off the suit jacket and threw it on his bed, then stormed out of the bedroom, determined to rectify this mistake before it went any further.

“Forget it, Jerry. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not conning her.” No matter how much he needed the money, he wasn’t going to scam Paris. He’d walked away from that life the day he turned eighteen. And not even the prospect of seeing her again could entice him back into that role.

Jerry closed a paperback crammed full of yellow sticky notes and stood up. “You’ll be doin’ her a favor, buddy boy. You heard the lady. She needs an Alexander.”

He tossed the book to Devin. “And here you are, a walkin’, talkin’, breathin’ solution to her little problem.”

Devin studied the sketch on the back cover. The artist had been careful not to include anything too specific in the loose drawing. But even so, the resemblance was there. He could pass for Alexander. Easy.

“Your diamond gal’s up a tree. You heard ’em. Don’t you think she’d pay twenty grand to find the perfect Alexander?”

“She probably would,” Devin agreed.

“Well, then,” said Jerry, as if he’d just resolved some mathematical theorem.

“But she didn’t hire me. I’m crashing the party, remember? That’s how we know it’s a con and not gainful employment.”

“For cryin’ out loud, Devie-boy. Where’s the harm? I mean, we’ve already decided she’d pay it, right? And it sure ain’t no worse than the con she’s got going.”

That lost Devin. “What con?”

Jerry spread open his arms. “Everything. The whole shebang. Letting the world think this Alexander dude exists. That he’s smoking cigars and driving fast cars and sidling up to the ladies, when really he’s a chick, fussin’ over her hair, painting her toenails and taking bubble baths.”

A pounding at the front door jerked Devin’s mind away from images of Paris lounging in a tub full of bubbles.

“Expecting someone?”

Devin shook his head, frowning. His Manhattan apartment might not be in a high security building, but nobody was supposed to be able to enter without first being buzzed in. “Probably a neighbor.” Still, he had a bad feeling…

He looked out the peephole. Nobody. The mailman had probably left Devin’s mail in Mrs. Miller’s box again. He’d given her his phone number three times, but the poor old thing just kept on risking a coronary by trotting up three flights of stairs and leaving his mail under the welcome mat.

When he opened the door, instead of his mail he found a small package, neatly wrapped in white paper and tied with string. A very bad sign.

Jerry looked over his shoulder. “They got your number, man.”

With some trepidation, Devin picked up the package and dropped it on his kitchen table. Using a steak knife, he cut the twine and loosened the paper. A wave of nausea swept over him.

A cow’s tongue. Fresh from any butcher shop in the city.

“It’s a warning, my friend.” Jerry’s voice was lower and more serious than Devin had ever heard. “If you don’t pay up on time, it’ll be your tongue. Or your dad’s.”

Devin nodded, fighting back the urge to fly down the stairs and comb the streets for the punk who’d left that little gift. But that wouldn’t help. It would only up the stakes.

Pop had always been small-time. Little cons. Just enough to pay rent and put food on the table. But his damn gambling habit had mushroomed. First the track, then Atlantic City.

His dad’s biggest mistake had been placing a bet with Carmen’s boys, then letting it ride, double or nothing, when the pony lost. Carmen and his cronies had sucked the old man in like quicksand. And mob-backed bookies weren’t quick to forgive. Forget interest rates, it was the penalties that really got you.

“It’s your choice, man. Either call Derek or…” Jerry’s voice trailed off as he glanced toward the books on the sofa.

Trapped, Devin shut his eyes. Jerry was right. There was no way in hell he was going to call his brother. He’d run out of choices. He’d do this.

For his father, he would pull one last con.

PARIS TOOK A DEEP BREATH, then another. It didn’t help. Panic inched another step closer.

The first hour of the party had been painless. She had circulated among the crowd, making small talk, evading questions about Alexander, and having a better time than she’d expected. But now people were beginning to wonder why Alexander hadn’t arrived. And that meant it was almost curtain time.

She pressed her back against the wall, hoping no one would notice her and decide to chat. Right now, Paris wasn’t sure she could form a coherent sentence. But despite her frazzled nerves, she had to concede the party was a hit. Cobalt Blue Publishing had rented the back two dining areas of a funky restaurant tucked away on the first floor of a renovated older hotel where Paris frequently stayed.

As she had wandered through the party earlier, she’d overheard various snippets of lively conversations. Everything from speculation about whether Alexander would really show, to intellectual ruminations about the deeper meaning behind some of Alexander’s plots. A few people even asked if she was involved with Alexander that way. She’d said “no,” of course, although for a fleeting moment she’d been tempted to reveal to the public the steamy affair she had going on in her fantasies. That was an urge she’d quelled right away.

But while Alexander might be the man of the hour, his absence wasn’t keeping the guests from taking full advantage of the music, the food and the drink. A band Paris recalled seeing on late night television jammed in one corner under a wall of neon beer signs. A few energetic souls were dancing on a raised platform, but for the most part people clustered near the food or the alcohol. Two open bars bracketed a buffet laden with typical cocktail party appetizers. Nothing particularly original, but all tasty. Mounted behind the buffet, a six-foot-tall reproduction of the cover of Montgomery Alexander’s latest book, Dearest Enemy, Deadly Friend, loomed over the crowd, a not-so-subtle reminder that this party had a purpose.

Paris had to hand it to Ellis Chapman. Once again he’d outdone himself. The owner of Cobalt Blue, Ellis had grown his small press into a legitimate publisher. Now he was on the brink of being a real industry player, primarily because of his guerilla marketing stunts. At a minimum, Ellis insisted his authors do local television talk shows, and it had originally irritated him when Paris explained that Alexander refused to make public appearances. Ellis being Ellis, he’d quickly turned the situation to his advantage by focusing on Alexander’s mystique. If Paris were a betting woman, she’d lay odds that Ellis had planted the persistent rumors that Montgomery Alexander was a former spy.

She’d hoped Ellis would stay happy with the mysterious recluse angle indefinitely. But with the release of Dearest Enemy, he’d become antsy. Sales were doing just fine, but he wanted them to do even better. So when the book made one of the bestseller lists, he’d sent out invitations to a supposedly low-key cocktail party honoring the book’s success. Then he’d hinted to the right people that Alexander himself might drop by.

When Paris had protested, he’d started throwing around words like “hardback,” and “higher royalties,” and “multi-book deals.” At the same time, he’d casually asked Paris to let Alexander know he’d be seeing none of those things if he didn’t get himself to New York for the cocktail party.

Now the restaurant overflowed with a variety of people who’d been drawn by the allure of seeing the reclusive Mr. Alexander. Reporters danced with editors. Fans chatted with other Cobalt Blue authors. A few soap opera stars mugged for the photographers.

Paris caught sight of Ellis chatting in the corner with a reporter she recognized from that morning’s news. She swallowed the lump in her throat and wondered what he would do when she made her announcement that Alexander wasn’t coming. Her gaze swept over the relatively well-mannered crowd. Surely this group wouldn’t transform into a modern-day lynch mob.

Would it?

Swaying to the rhythm of the music, Rachel approached with two glasses of champagne and pushed one toward Paris.

“You know I don’t drink that stuff.”

“Trust me on this one.”

Paris sniffed the champagne, sighed, then took a quick sip. The bubbles tickled her nose and took her mind off the party. Since that wasn’t a bad thing, she took a bigger swallow.

“Having fun?”

“Better than I expected.” She frowned, remembering the announcement she still had to make. “For now, anyway.” With a broad wave of her arm, Paris gestured over the entire room. “Look at this. Put these folks in pinstripes and it would be just like all the parties back when my dad was hot and heavy into politics. I spent the first twenty years of my life promising myself I would spend the rest of my life avoiding any function where I was required to schmooze. But here I am of my own free will.”

“It’s a fun party. And you’re not the same girl who turned down Daddy’s offer to run his law practice when he became a judge.”

Paris nodded. That was true. She’d changed a lot since law school. If her dad had asked the woman she was now to follow in his footsteps, maybe she’d have been able to turn him down honestly, telling him she wanted to try her hand at writing. And if she was having a really brave day, she might even have told him what kind of writing—fast-paced, sexually charged, testosterone-laden flights of fancy.

Unfortunately, Judge Sommers hadn’t asked today’s Paris. He’d asked a Paris who existed almost a decade ago. Fresh out of law school, that Paris didn’t have the stomach to stand up to her father. That Paris couldn’t bear the look of disapproval she knew would have flashed across his face. So she’d concocted a job in another city and never told him about her books.

She grimaced. Who was she kidding? Today’s Paris wasn’t any braver. She’d managed to dig herself in deep with this life full of lies. But she’d get back on track soon enough. She had her literary and financial life all mapped out, and she didn’t intend to keep secrets from her dad forever. As soon as she could afford to quit writing the Alexander books, she would. She’d turn to accepted literature. The kind that got reviewed in Sunday newspaper inserts. The kind that won literary awards.

The kind her dad would find respectable.

She tossed back the last of her drink, grabbed Rachel’s still untouched one, and took a gulp.

Rachel’s eyes widened. “Just because I’m the poster girl for step aerobics doesn’t mean I can carry you back to your room.”

“I think I’ve discovered the cure for nerves,” said Paris, raising her glass. “Tiny bubbles.” She hummed, trying to remember the words to one of her dad’s favorite songs, her feet tapping out a subtle little jig.

“Paris.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s about time.”

“They’re going to hate me. What’s that saying? Kill the messenger?”

“Nonsense. Maybe you won’t get Christmas cards, but they won’t hate you. They won’t hate Alexander, either. It’s just a delay, remember? Until we can find the right guy. In the meantime, this will just add to his mystique. Hell, it’ll probably boost sales.”

“Maybe I should—”

“Paris. Go.”

Paris grimaced, but nodded. Walking like a woman condemned, she crossed the dance floor and headed toward the kitchen. On the way, she noticed a commotion near the entrance. Camera flashes illuminated the room like tiny bursts of lightning.

On any other day, Paris would have been lured by the possibility of seeing a big celebrity. But right now, even Harrison Ford couldn’t have waylaid her. She had to get to the phone, pretend to dial, then return to the party and relay the sad news that Mr. Alexander had missed his flight from London.

A thunderous round of applause stopped her dead in her tracks. Curious, she turned and watched as the crowd parted to make way for a man she knew. A man who didn’t exist.

Montgomery Alexander was walking straight toward her.




2


OF COURSE, Paris knew the man couldn’t be Montgomery Alexander. Alexander was a figment of her imagination, created so she wouldn’t have to explain why she was writing books filled with guns and cars and girls wearing next to nothing.

For years, she’d shared with him the kind of adventures she craved. Adventures a politician’s daughter just couldn’t have. In her mind, they’d traveled to exotic islands, danced until dawn, made love on the beach with nothing but the breeze to cover them. Real life couldn’t satisfy her desire for passion and romance, but Alexander had filled that gap.

They’d had long conversations in the moonlight, and he’d listened to her hopes, her dreams. He amused her with his wit and beguiled her with his charm. Yes, she’d made him up. She knew that. But somehow she’d fallen in love with him anyway.

And over the years, she’d spent uncounted delightful hours imagining every luscious inch of him. So how was it possible that now Alexander’s details escaped her? Now, she could see only him, an Alexander bursting free of fantasy and striding toward her with such purpose that her sluggish imagination kicked back into gear, conjuring up all sorts of erotic fantasies about how they could pass a little time together.

He stepped out of the shadows and she swallowed. Oh my.

His walk marked him as confident, almost arrogant, and his firm, humorless mouth was belied by a sparkle in his eyes that reflected compassion and intelligence. Defined cheekbones and a sturdy jaw accented his freshly shaved face. Dark brown waves were slicked back in a devil-may-care style.

Even the forest green suit, Alexander’s standard attire for special occasions, was perfect. Another man might just wear the suit. Not Alexander. He commanded it, as if even clothing couldn’t escape the brute force of his magnetism.

Alexander glanced her way, then said something to a nearby woman, who turned to the crowd with the promise that Mr. Alexander would be right back.

Before Paris realized what was happening, before she could still the flutter in her chest, he caught up with her. Her breath caught as his gaze caressed her, starting at her toes, and she surprised herself by trembling under the scrutiny. She took inventory of her appearance—black heels, little black dress with spaghetti straps, pinned-up hair—and wondered if he approved.

When he reached her face, Paris saw real desire in his eyes and fought hard not to blush. When he leaned in and kissed her cheek, she almost dissolved into a puddle of goo right there.

Her logical half knew she should be throwing a fit, hurling accusations and demanding explanations. Baser instincts urged her to grab the moment, to melt into his arms and taste his kisses. She concentrated on just keeping her balance.

“We shouldn’t keep meeting like this,” he said, his voice straight from her fantasies. “People will say we’re in love.”

Paris gasped, knocked even more off-kilter. A right-punch to her stomach wouldn’t have shocked her as much. He was quoting a line from her first book, and Paris wasn’t sure if she should be comforted, or very, very worried.

She took a shaky breath. “Have you read the book?”

He hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

Paris shrugged. “No reason,” she said, trying hard to throw some ice into her tone and take control of, not only the situation, but her own leaping pulse. “It just seemed like an odd line to choose, since Joshua, the hero, says it to a female spy after she’s tried to kill him three times.”

“I assume she fails.”

Paris squirmed, aware that her own insides had turned to jelly with nothing more than the simple brush of his lips across her cheek.

“She doesn’t kill him, right?” the stranger pressed.

“He, um, he manages to convince her otherwise.”

“You mean he seduces her and manages to turn her into a counteragent. Nice technique he had, wouldn’t you say?”

“Under the circumstances, I suppose,” Paris muttered, trying to get a grip on herself.

Discussing a seduction scene with a man who could reduce her to quivers with one heated look was not a good idea. It was bad enough to have a crush on a man her imagination had conjured up, but that could be justified as a creative mind working overtime. But to have a libidinous reaction to some practical joker who was surely little more than a wanna-be actor was just plain ludicrous…no matter how much he looked and acted like the man of her dreams.

She needed to sit down, but nothing was nearby. Squatting on the floor would give entirely the wrong impression, and running screaming from the room simply wouldn’t do. She had no choice but to stick it out.

“Who are you and why are you here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The mild accent hinted at New York, not the cultured, almost British lilt she’d always imagined. Even so, it was familiar. She was just too rattled to remember why, who, where.

As if observing herself in a dream, she felt her features smooth into a polite mask punctuated by a sugary smile. “We need to talk.”

“We’re not talking?” His voice was almost a whisper. Sultry. Sexy.

For a moment, Paris thought that talking wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Kissing would be better. If she melted from nothing more than a peck on the cheek, imagine what a real, deep, mind-numbing kiss would do to her…

She gave herself a mental kick in the pants. He was not Alexander. He couldn’t be. And she wasn’t going to let herself crumble in a pile of lust at his feet.

“We need to talk now,” she repeated. He nodded, just barely, and pressed his hand against her lower back, guiding her toward the kitchen. His heat through the thin material distracted her, and it took all her concentration to keep her feet moving and her lips smiling.

As they moved toward the kitchen, a few people called out to him, one or two holding out a hand for him to shake, and all urging him to stop and join the party. If he stepped away from her now and started circulating among the crowd, Paris knew she’d lose what little control over the situation she still had. She held her breath, waiting for him to play his trump card. He never did. Instead, he greeted the fans with a polite smile and a promise to return. With his hand firmly on her back, he steered them both through the mass of people and into the kitchen. Even Alexander couldn’t have handled the situation any better.

She stepped away from him the second they were through the doors. She needed to get centered, to put on a businesslike front. Staying close to him would be too distracting. Too dangerous. Alexander or not, the man was lethal.

“Just who do you think you are?” she demanded.

No glib answer rolled past his lips. He offered no reassurance that all was well. Instead, his lips curved into the slightest of smiles. “Tonight, I’m Montgomery Alexander.”

There it was, that punch in the stomach. For a moment, one freakish, funky, never-to-be-repeated moment, Paris believed him. The thought skittered through her head that all these years she’d been the one impersonating him.

Determination gripped her. He was trying to confuse her. Then she remembered where she had seen those eyes. The hair was no longer blond, and the roguish beard had been shaved, but there was no mistaking his midnight blue eyes.

“Alexander’s eyes are darker,” she said, her words and tone both an accusation and a challenge. “Almost black.” Piercing, yet sensual. A contrast to this man’s warm, inviting eyes—eyes that looked as though they could see all her secrets.

“Really?” He ran his finger casually down her arm, leaving her flesh hot and anxious in his wake. “Are you sure?”

She swallowed. She wasn’t sure of anything. Except that the evening was becoming increasingly surreal and that she needed to regain her equilibrium before she lost complete control of the situation, and herself. It was as if a chasm yawned in front of her, compelling her to jump in, to free-fall into fantasy with this man. To live the adventure she’d always imagined.

Frowning, she urged her meandering thoughts back on track. “The other day. You’re that waiter…” she said, latching on to the one small thing she was sure about.

“Actually, I own the bar.”

“I don’t care if you own the whole city. What are you doing here?” With a start, she realized how she’d been set up. “Rachel put you up to this.”

“No.”

“Don’t give me that. How much is she paying you?” The words spilled over each other. “I’m going to kill her. I can’t believe she would hire you without telling me.”

She slammed her fist into the palm of her other hand. “Look at me. I’m a wreck. My best friend’s made me a total wreck.”

“Paris,” he whispered.

She ignored him.

“Paris.” He cupped her chin, easing her head up until she had to look at him. He dropped his hand and waited.

“What?”

“No one sent me,” he said.

Maybe it was the gentle sound of his voice. Maybe it was something noble in his eyes. Paris wasn’t sure. All she knew was that, despite circumstances and logic, she believed him.

And she wanted him to touch her again. She pushed the thought away, determined not to fall victim to the allure of this stranger. No matter how delicious the prospect.

“Then why are you here?” she demanded.

This time the confident curve of his lips became a full-fledged smile. It was everything she’d imagined Alexander’s smile would be, and more. He reached out to caress her cheek, then pulled away as if he’d been caught in the cookie jar.

A wave of disappointment crashed over Paris as his hand retreated. She fought the urge to lean forward into his touch.

“It’s nothing nefarious. I promise. I just wanted to meet you. To help you.” He looked straight into her eyes. “Actually, I wanted to ask you out.”

She blinked. “Oh. Well, you’ve got strange ideas about how to get a date.” Her retort came out softer than she’d intended. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but regardless, her indignation seemed to be sliding away. For a figment of her imagination, he’d become decidedly real. Not to mention sexy.

Stop it! This man was not Alexander. He was some anonymous party crasher who obviously had an agenda.

If the situation weren’t so absurd, it would have been tragic. Here she was, faced with some weirdo—albeit a seductive, mind-numbingly gorgeous weirdo—impersonating her livelihood, and she was all a-flutter. Like some prepubescent groupie.

She realized he’d been observing her with some apprehension, the way a trainer would study a wild animal he intended to tame. “Is that all you have to say?” She heard the edge of impatience in her voice.

“What else can I say? The situation is in your hands. Are you going to turn me in?”

Paris was half-tempted to say yes, but both she and this stranger would know she was lying. She couldn’t reveal him as a fraud without looking absurd herself, and certainly not without producing the “real” Montgomery Alexander. She had no choice but to continue the charade.

She needed him. And he damn well knew it.

Of course, there was a bright side. Ellis had made his rules very clear—no Alexander, no hardback or multi-book contract. Now, that little hurdle had been satisfied.

“Well?” he prodded. “What are you going to do?”

Through the window in the swinging kitchen door, Paris saw Brandon Foster, Montgomery Alexander’s editor, approaching fast. That nailed her decision.

“Just remember who you’re not, and don’t do anything to get either of us in trouble.” She smoothed her dress, trying to gear up for her impromptu performance. Then she pushed through the door, the evening’s Alexander at her heels.

As soon as Brandon was close enough to overhear, Paris planted a kiss on both of the stranger’s cheeks in stereotypical New York fashion, but still slow enough to absorb his scent. It reminded her more of a redwood forest than the streets of Manhattan. Primitive, earthy and masculine.

“Alexander,” she scolded gently in a voice loud enough for Brandon, “I was beginning to think you’d missed your flight.”

The last bit of wariness faded from the stranger’s eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched just slightly. Then he swung an arm around her and pulled her close, as if he’d held her that way a million times before. Automatically, she melted against him, her head resting against his shoulder.

“Sommers, I’m surprised. You know I’d never let you down.”

This man had done his homework. Only one magazine article mentioned that Alexander called his manager by her last name of Sommers, just as she routinely referred to him only as Alexander.

“Good to finally meet you, old man,” said Brandon, extending his hand. “I can’t believe that for six years you didn’t make an exception and let me meet you in person.”

Paris watched as Brandon quit pumping Alexander’s hand. Had she just thought of him as Alexander again? Stop that. He’s not Alexander. He’s a stranger. She pulled out of his embrace. His nearness must be making her confused.

“Not everything’s entirely in my control.” The stranger’s voice was more clipped and less New York than it had been when they were alone. A remarkable performance, really. She had the feeling she was watching an actor playing a duke or some other British noble.

Then the stranger’s last words registered, and Paris opened her mouth to protest. Was he suggesting she’d kept Alexander away from Brandon?

Brandon cocked his head toward Paris. “So our little angel here kept us apart, eh?”

“I’m afraid so.”

How dare he! “I never—”

“She’s kept me locked in a basement in London, a sex slave chained to a typewriter, for the past few years.”

Her jaw dropped, even as wicked and surprisingly appealing images flashed through her head.

Brandon’s eyes went wide. “You two are a—”

“No,” Paris interjected. “No, we’re not.”

“I was just pulling your chain, old man. I leave the business end to Sommers because I don’t have the stomach for the grinder you literary types put my manuscripts through.” Alexander’s smile broadened. “Without Sommers I’d probably go into a less stressful career. Like espionage.”

Paris could have kissed him. Not only had he confirmed her story that it was the author, not the manager, who was the recluse, but he’d hinted at a background in espionage.

Whether Ellis had started it or not, the long-standing rumor that the books were fictionalized accounts of Alexander’s life as a spy seemed to boost sales, so she certainly wasn’t going to complain. Besides, in her mind, the line between Alexander and his hero had always been a bit murky. Except for the fact that he didn’t actually exist at all, the author Alexander was every bit as much the poised, polished secret agent as the fictional hero, Joshua Malloy.

She looked at the stranger, who was chatting amiably with Brandon. With his drop-dead good looks, tailored suit and unflappable air, he seemed to have Alexander down pat. Hell, he claimed he was Alexander, at least for tonight. Absurd.

But the champagne, the party, her stranger—they were a heady mix. She wouldn’t admit it out loud, didn’t even want to admit it to herself, but for tonight she wished it could be true. She wished he really were Alexander.

When he looked her way, she smiled, then concentrated on the floor. Maybe it was just the champagne, but part of her was starting to believe he really was.

Paris shook her head to banish such ridiculous thoughts. No matter how much her body sizzled when he touched her, no matter how many goose bumps she got when she looked at him, she had no business thinking that way about her mystery man.

Why not? She bit her lip. Why not, indeed? Wasn’t this man exactly what she’d always wanted? A slice of fantasy wrapped up in a tailored suit? A finite package of adventure chock-full of enough charisma to nourish her for the rest of her life? Didn’t she want an adventure to sustain her? And hadn’t Mr. Adventure arrived before her on a silver platter?

Her rational side objected before she got carried away, listing all the reasons why she had no business getting involved with him. Not as much fun, perhaps, but certainly more reasonable, more rational.

Brandon interrupted her debate by running down a list of people Alexander needed to meet during the evening. “Especially Ellis Chapman. This party was his idea, you know.”

“Well, then, he certainly should be on the list,” Alexander agreed.

“I suppose I should go and find him,” added Brandon. “After all, normally we’d already be well acquainted and have no need for this introductory period.”

Paris wondered if Alexander had caught the criticism in Brandon’s voice.

Alexander nodded slowly, as if digesting Brandon’s suggestion. “If we’d known each other, it would have been a different Montgomery Alexander. I’m only me, and I make no apologies for my quirks. But if you want me to say I would have enjoyed drinking a beer with you on my deck, and it’s a shame circumstances prevented it, then I will. And Brandon,” Alexander added, “I’ll mean it, too.”

Brandon’s expression softened. “Every interview has said you are both an enigma and a gentleman. Every interview has been right.” Brandon shook Alexander’s hand again, nodded at Paris and then disappeared into the center of the room.

Paris realized she was holding her breath.

Alexander took her hand and tugged her toward the middle of the room. “Don’t you think it’s time we mingle?”

“I’m not sure we should.”

“Afraid I’m going to blow your cover?” He dragged his fingertips in lazy strokes up and down her palm, each pass sending her blood throbbing.

“I…I was.”

“And now?”

She eased her hand free, not sure she was comfortable with the way her entire body seemed to sigh with each caress. “Right now you’re batting a thousand. I’m wondering if you can keep it up.”

“Sommers, I’m shocked.” He held up his hands and pulled a face of mock disbelief. “Here I’ve been slaving for at least eight hours to read up on good ol’ Mr. Alexander and his very pretty manager, and you’re questioning my ability to cram. I crammed before every test in high school. I’ve got it down to an art form.”

Paris restrained herself from laughing. “Yes, but did you pass those exams?”

He waggled a finger. “No fair asking hard questions.”

“That does it. We’re staying in this corner. If they really want to talk, they can come to you.” Besides, she wanted to figure out his angle.

“Of course.” He moved closer, but didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. His proximity alone made her head spin.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you must be pretty attracted to me if you’re going to that much trouble to keep me all to yourself.”

She smiled sweetly, fighting to keep her breathing under control. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying? Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer?”

“So we’re enemies?”

“Frankly, I have no idea.”

“Well, there you go.” He leaned against the wall, smug satisfaction dancing across his face.

“There I go what?”

“Just that you don’t know if I’m an enemy or a friend. But you want me around. Sounds like attraction.”

She held her tongue. Such an infuriating man. Attraction wasn’t the point. The point was that he crashed the party—pretending to be the man of the hour—supposedly to get a date. Then, in a display of pure arrogance, assumed she was attracted to him. The idea was irritating, conceited. It was also, she conceded, exactly what Alexander would assume.

Well, so what? True, he looked the part. And he did have a certain aura. And, yes, there was a tingle when he took her hand. But that didn’t mean…

Okay, maybe it did. But even if Paris was attracted to him, he would be the last person she’d tell. “I think you’re confusing curiosity about your lack of manners and good character for attraction,” she finally retorted.

“Am I?”

His response was so quick that for a moment words evaded her, and he seized the advantage.

“Let me prove myself. Let me be your knight in shining armor and ride forth into the masses spreading the glorious crusade of Montgomery Alexander.” He thrust one arm skyward as if holding a sword.

A giggle escaped her. She couldn’t help it. He looked so silly. Besides, what choice did she really have? Montgomery Alexander hiding in the corner with his manager would do nothing to satisfy his fans and would certainly not make Ellis Chapman’s day. Any minute now, the masses would come to them.

It’s just like swimming. Take a deep breath and jump.

“Fine,” she said. “But we go together.”

Arms linked, they plunged forward. Within moments, someone caught Alexander’s attention and pulled him toward the dance floor, but not before he leaned over and offered one last word of reassurance.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I promise an award-winning performance.”

“I SHOULD HAVE COME right over,” Rachel said. “But I thought you’d hired him, and I was going to sulk a little since you’d kept me out of the loop.”

The party was winding down, and Rachel and Paris were camped out in the darkest corner of the restaurant. The remains of crackers, cheese and plump strawberries littered their table. Paris grabbed the last strawberry and shoved the plate aside.

“He’s amazing,” Paris said, glancing toward the dance floor where her mystery man was politely stalling a persistent redhead who kept urging him to dance. “I mean, his performance was amazing,” she added, feeling the heat pool in her cheeks. “I shadowed him for two hours, ready to rescue him, but he never said anything stupid.”

“Is he how you pictured Alexander?”

Paris shrugged. Rachel had hit upon the question of the hour. “It’s weird. Before, I could imagine Alexander’s hands, his scent, his walk, everything. But now, when I close my eyes, all I see is, well, him.” She nodded toward the impersonator.

“Well, of course,” Rachel purred, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.

“Of course? Oh please, Dr. Freud, do enlighten me.”

“Fantasy and reality collided. Reality is winning.”

“You really do sound like Freud.”

“I’m serious. You’re attracted to him, and—”

“Whoa, wait a minute. I am not attracted to him.”

“You’re such a liar. Besides, where’s the harm?”

“Just because he’s attractive doesn’t mean I’m attracted to him.” Paris wanted Rachel to see the difference. And she needed to convince herself there was a difference. Then Rachel’s words registered. “Harm?”

“In a little seduction,” explained Rachel. “Where’s the harm in that?”

“He’s not going to seduce me.” Too bad, thought Paris, taking in his broad shoulders and leading man looks. She could think of worse things than being swept away by a man like that.

“No, no,” continued Rachel. “You should seduce him.”

“Oh, well that’s…have you lost your mind?” Paris blustered, pulling her gaze away from Alexander.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. He practically dropped out of the sky into your lap. He admits he wants to go out with you. What better way to get a boy toy?”

“Rachel!” She’d played with the idea earlier, true. Who wouldn’t have? But there was no way she’d go through with it. Really. Rachel was just being ridiculous. For one thing, Paris wasn’t the seducing type. And even if she was…

Well, she wasn’t. So it didn’t matter.

Paris felt Rachel’s stare, then saw the diabolical grin.

“Uh-huh,” said Rachel. “You know you want to. He’s your fantasy come true.” She grabbed her purse and hauled it onto her lap.

“I’m not looking for a fantasy,” Paris urged, as much to herself as her friend. “You know my plan.”

“Oh, right. Two more of these books. Sock away the money. Finish your dreary epic. Publish it under your real name. Retire Alexander. Admit to your father you’re a writer, but of fine literature that won’t embarrass the family name. Find a suitable man—that means boring, by the way—and have babies. The end. How could I have forgotten your brilliant plan?”

“You’re going to use a lifetime’s supply of sarcasm in one sitting. And there’s nothing wrong with my plan,” Paris insisted, ignoring the niggling feeling that maybe there was.

“Are you supposed to be a nun in the meantime?”

Paris squirmed, not wanting to admit just how appealing Rachel’s seduction plan sounded. Instead, she parried, figuring that the best defense was a good offense. “You’re not exactly practicing what you preach,” she said, then immediately regretted her words.

Rachel shot her a tentative glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Paris shrugged, not sure it was the time or the place to explore the truckload of issues surrounding Rachel’s love life. To say Rachel had self-confidence issues was an understatement. An overweight, plain little girl from the wrong side of the tracks, Rachel had been teased mercilessly during grammar school. And the torment had escalated in high school after Paris had moved away. She might have grown up and slimmed down and turned into a knockout, but Paris didn’t think Rachel saw her true self in the mirror. And so she overcompensated something fierce.

“All I mean is that you’ve dumped the last dozen guys you’ve dated without so much as a good-night kiss. You’re hardly the roving expert on seduction,” Paris said. During their years together in college and law school, Paris had watched Rachel master the art of flirting. Now, she attracted a constant stream of men, but always cut them loose before they got too close. Paris didn’t need a textbook on pop psychology to see why. Rachel couldn’t handle being the one to get dumped, so she cut the possibility off at the pass. And as a result, she never got close to anyone.

“That’s completely different,” Rachel insisted. “The men I date are potential relationship material. When it’s obvious things won’t work out, I let them down gently.” Paris opened her mouth to argue, but her friend didn’t let her get a word in. “Besides, I’m not suggesting you marry this guy. You just need to have a little fun. Especially if the rest of your life is going to be the utter doldrums.” Rachel continued to rummage in her purse, finally pulling out three little plastic packets. Condoms.

“For crying out loud, Rachel,” Paris snapped, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. “I don’t need these.”

“Just take them,” coaxed Rachel, opening Paris’s purse and dropping them in.

Paris grimaced. The last thing she needed was to get involved with a guy who impersonated authors to get a date. Even one so intriguing and sexy? She shoved the thought away. She needed to focus on work…not long, steamy nights with Alexander or the waiter or whoever the hell he was.

Still, a little more time together would give her a chance to figure out what he was up to. And why not have a one-night fling? How many women had the chance to cuddle up to their fantasy man? She shivered from the memory of his taut, tight muscles. Of the way her body had caught fire from just the touch of his fingertip.

She sighed.

Get a grip, Paris.

No way was she going to bed with the guy. It simply was not going to happen. He wasn’t Alexander, and that was the end of that. Plain and simple.

Except…

Already she missed the way her blood burned when he looked toward her, missed the way her skin tingled when he was nearby. She grazed her teeth across her lower lip. She did want an adventure. And a tall, dark and handsome one had just materialized out of thin air. So maybe Rachel was right. Maybe a little seduction was in order.

No, no, no. She curled her hands into tight fists. Sleeping with him was out of the question. It would be a mistake—indulgent and foolish.

But why couldn’t she spend a little more time with him? A little flirting would be innocent enough. What would be the harm in that?

Before her mind could think up a reason, she pushed herself out of her chair. “The party’s wrapping up. I should go collect my Alexander.”




3


BY THE END OF THE PARTY, Devin held new respect for actors. He’d been “on” for five hours. Three hundred minutes of smiling and hand-shaking. Eighteen thousand seconds of an award-winning performance.

He’d forgotten how much work it was to stay in character for so long. His head throbbed, fire lapped at his feet and demons tormented each muscle. If Paris knew how grueling the evening had been, she would gladly write his check.

Paris.

His body wasn’t too tired to express extreme appreciation for the way the flimsy black dress hugged her, defying gravity with the help of two thin straps. He watched, enraptured, as she maneuvered through the last few guests, kissing cheeks and shaking hands. Primped and manicured, blond and bouncy, she was the complete opposite of the listless, life-weary women who had littered the streets of his childhood neighborhood.

She hypnotized him. Paris was everything Devin had ever hoped to find in a woman, but knew he could never have.

You don’t belong here. Memories flooded back. His father, stressing diction and poise. His uncle, teaching him French. It never hurt for a grifter to have a touch of class, they’d said.

His schooling had started with street sessions. He and his father pulling the old switcheroo and conning store owners out of change for a twenty, when he’d paid with only a fiver. The movie Paper Moon had shown that maneuver to the world, but still they’d never been caught. Easy cons, kid stuff. Then came the bigger deals. Scams that would prepare him for life on the street.

He knew his father had only been looking out for him, and Devin loved him for it. But he didn’t love his father’s life-style. So he’d spent a lifetime working and studying, all so he could escape his father’s shadow, and this is where he’d ended up. Pulling a con on the most adorable woman he’d ever met.

“Hey stranger.” She eased up beside him, linking her arm through his as if they’d stood together a hundred times. Her touch excited Devin as much as her familiarity saddened him. He fought the urge to pull her tight against him and cursed sentimentality. She was a mark. Nothing more. Quit thinking you’re better than your background.

“Hey yourself,” he said, shaking off the mood and matching her smile. “You left me. I was beginning to think you’d decided you could trust me alone.”

Her grin blossomed, punctuated by a wink. “Not a chance. I’ve been keeping tabs on you from a distance.”

“Have you? That’s interesting.” He’d injected a lascivious note into his voice. From the way she cocked her head, he was pretty sure she’d caught the inflection.

“Interesting? Why?” She pulled out the hairpins holding up her mass of blond curls. They tumbled down, and her fingers intertwined in one long strand. God, she was adorable.

“I’ve been keeping some tabs on you, too. I wonder if we’ve been thinking about the same thing.”

Twirl, twirl. Devin didn’t think Paris realized what she was doing. A nervous habit, perhaps. But what was making her nervous? A little innocent flirting?

He raked his eyes over that dress again, taking in the way it clung to her delicious curves, then back up to her soulful eyes and sun-kissed hair. The beginning of an erection strained against his fly.

To hell with innocent. The woman was a siren.

“You said you came because you wanted to go out with me.” Her voice held only the slightest tremor. “I was wondering if you meant that.”

“Of course.” Go out with her, hold her, touch her, taste the sweetness of her skin. Make love to her.

“The party’s wrapping up. Are you tired?” The finger returned to that one strand of hair, and Devin imagined the soft lock caressing his chest, her fingers combing through his own hair as she lost herself to passion.

He’d lost his train of thought. “What?”

She hesitated. “Never mind. It was nothing. I’ll just say good-night.”

“No, no.” He took her bare arm, delighting in its softness and anxious to know if the rest of her was as silky. Unable to help himself, he traced his finger up her arm, then across her delicate shoulder, and finally along the neckline of her dress. “Have a drink with me.”

She took a shuddering breath. “I…I really shouldn’t. It’s late.”

“‘Then stay with me until it’s early, and I’ll ask you again.”’

She looked up, stern, but the desire in her dark eyes told a different story. “Have you memorized every one of my books?”

“Not at all.”

“Just a few choice lines to help you get what you want?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe it’s just coincidence.”

“Coincidence?”

Devin kissed the back of her hand, letting his lips linger on the delicate skin. He wanted to taste more of her. All of her. “Maybe I’m coming up with these lines entirely on my own. I could be the man you’ve always dreamed of. Do you really want to risk turning me away?”

He expected her to laugh and say he wasn’t the stuff of anyone’s dreams, much less hers. It would break the ice, and they could have a relaxing drink, talk, and explore where this chemistry between them would lead. Her hotel room, perhaps? Heat coursed through him and he wondered if she’d be keen on skipping the drink, the talk.

But she wasn’t laughing. Instead, her brow furrowed. Rather than putting him down, she took a step backward.

Okay, mistake in judgment. If he didn’t regroup quickly, Devin would never get close to her. He frowned, remembering why he was really there.

He had to get close to her, had to bring up the money.

“Or not,” he said, wishing he could think of something a little more articulate.

She squinted at him. “What?” Although only a few steps from him, it seemed as if she had retreated to the far side of the restaurant.

“I mean I did memorize your books. Well, not every book. A friend culled key lines. We put them on cue cards. I crammed.”

A bug. That’s what he felt like under her stare. A big, fuzzy bug pinned to acid-free paper and baking under a bare lightbulb.

“Cue cards?” she repeated.

Devin fished in his jacket pocket, finally pulling out a handful of note cards. He held one out like a peace offering.

She took it gingerly, as if it might bite.

“‘My job? It’s wild and dangerous, but not as dangerous as my passion for you.’ Were you planning on using that line tonight?”

If Jerry were around, Devin might just have to kill him for including that card among the bunch. Since Jerry was safe and sound in Brooklyn, Devin chose another tact.

“Maybe. I like to keep my options open.”

Her mouth twitched. “You do? Why?”

“Because I like to get what I want. And I’m willing to work for it.”

Her eyes softened. “What do you want?”

“A lot of things.” Her. To see raw, sexual heat reflected in her eyes. To know that right then, right there, she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

“For example, I’ve been wanting to do this all night.” He heard her breath catch as he moved toward her. Eyes closed, she leaned toward him, soft and sweet and sexy. Desire radiated from her, and he knew she wanted his kiss.

Wanted him. Devin O’Malley, Montgomery Alexander, it didn’t matter. She wanted the man standing next to her. No matter what name she might give him, tonight Devin was that man.

Molten desire boiled in his veins. His body craved the feel of her mouth under his, her fingers gliding over his skin, her breasts pressed hard against his naked chest.

Devin groaned, quelling the urge to take her mouth, to explore with his hands the secrets she had hiding under that sexy little dress. He wanted to let her excitement build slowly, even if it killed him. To wait until her head was just as sure as her body of how much she needed him close to her. Inside her.

His palms cupped her cheeks, pulling her closer. She trembled as his fingers glided across her skin, skimming over the top of her ears, then tangling deep in her loose curls.

She tilted her head back, her lips parted, eager and moist. Waiting. Waiting for him.

“Fabulous,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Fabul—”

She opened her eyes, still lazy and soft with desire. “Fabulous?” she asked. “My hair? That’s what you’ve been wanting to do all night? Play with my hair?”

“It’s hypnotic. Hair like that could have felled an entire army. Helen of Troy and all that.” His voice was husky with lust, and it took every ounce of his strength to keep from touching his mouth to hers, to keep from giving her what she wanted. What he wanted, too.

“I’m…well, thank you, but…”

She frowned, and he knew she was trying to figure out his angle. “You really just wanted to touch my hair?”

The disappointment in her voice humbled him.

“Actually, there was something else.”

She smiled, almost shyly, and his heart raced. “Yes?”

“I’d still like to buy you a drink.”

She hesitated, her small tongue flicking over her lips. He held his breath. Was she, like him, wondering if maybe skipping a drink and going straight to her room might be the better plan? Or maybe she was trying to talk herself out of even the drink?

“All right,” Paris agreed at last. “But just one drink.”

He exhaled, relieved, and held his hand out to her.

“You have my word,” he assured.

But after the drink…? Well, he’d make no promises about that.

HE KEPT HIS WORD, too, Paris thought. An hour later she was still sitting across from him in a secluded booth near the back of the hotel’s deserted bar, one unfinished drink between them. Meant to serve twelve, the drink, called a “House on Fire,” combined vodka, rum, banana liqueur, coconut and other fruit flavors into a concoction the menu said was a favorite at parties. Mystery Man and Paris hadn’t made a dent.

He also hadn’t made a pass. And despite the heated way he kept looking at her, she was starting to think that all he really wanted was the drink and a little small talk.

Well, what did you expect? He’s your fantasy, but that doesn’t mean you’re his.

Paris sighed. She was beginning to feel like a tennis match was going on in her head. Yes, she wanted to sleep with Alexander. No, she didn’t want to sleep with Mystery Man. Yes, no, yes, no.

The “no’s,” of course, were a lie. She did want to sleep with one of him, more than she’d ever wanted any man. But that would be a mistake. She needed to keep reminding herself. He wasn’t Alexander, and sleeping with him would be a huge, giant, mind-blowing mistake.

Too bad. He’d barely even touched her and already her body mourned his absence.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

You’re not touching me. That’s what’s wrong. But she didn’t say it. Instead, she shook her head. “No, not at all.”

Whatever game he was playing, she’d hold her own. She plucked a slice of orange out of the huge bowl that housed their mammoth drink. “I want to know about you. I mean, how on earth did you manage to end up here tonight?”

Alexander reached across the table to stroke her cheek, the caress electric and inviting. Without thinking, she pressed her face into his palm, soaking up the warmth before he pulled away. He didn’t let the contact between them break, however. As soon as one hand left her face, the other took her fingers.

“You already know everything. Didn’t you invent me?”

“I’m beginning to think I did.” Paris’s thoughts became fuzzy as she lost herself in his caress. Fingers intertwined as he traced the outline of her hand. His skin, slightly calloused, melded with hers that was lotioned and pampered. He dragged his fingernails lightly across her palm. The effect was torture, almost a tickle, and completely erotic in its casualness.

She blinked, then remembered to breathe. “Maybe I conjured you up in my head and you just fell from the sky like manna.”

“So why did you make me up?”

Why indeed? How could she explain? She’d needed an author for her books, true. But that wasn’t the whole story. She’d been lonely, plain and simple. And the sunsets in Texas, orange and purple and vibrant, were too perfect to share with just anyone. How many times had she sat, alone, above the river sipping coffee and waiting for the sun to set? She’d never met a man worthy of sharing her sunsets.

So she’d made him up.

She opened her mouth, trying to find the words to explain about twilight, then shut it again. That wasn’t a secret she wanted to share.

“Paris?”

She took another sip while she collected her wits and considered what part of the truth to tell him. “Necessity.”

“You had no choice but to write novels under a fake name?”

Paris laughed. “Are we talking about me, or philosophizing about free will?” She shrugged. “I thought it was necessary. It’s even more necessary now.”

“Why?” He leaned toward her, elbows on the table, his chin resting on his fists while still clasping her hand. As he slowly rubbed his chin along their joined hands, the slight prickle of his evening beard grazed her fingertips and his breath mingled with her skin. His earthy scent teased her, sending her head swirling to dizzying heights.

His appearance was innocent, like a fascinated student caught up in the wonder of learning. The effect was anything but innocent. Paris couldn’t escape her body’s reaction. Her palms were damp, her stomach fluttery. She wondered if he could see her tight nipples under the thin black dress.




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