Masquerade (12 page)

Clarissa swallowed hard and willed her brain to think of something to say that actually made sense. “Well, it’s not funny in a humorous way,” she finally decided on. “It’s just funny that with
so many things in life to think about, a person would zero in on the crumbs in the silverware tray.”

“Oh,” Natalie said, and then
, with a shrug of her shoulders, laughed. “I can’t tell you the last time I cleaned out my silverware tray.”

AJ
winked at her. “That’s because you always eat out.”

“Still,” Natalie said, “it’s nice to know if I ever want to be a perfectionist, all I have to do is dump out the silverware tray once in a while.”

Clarissa suddenly felt strangely detached from her marriage, as though here, thousands of miles away from Alex, she could begin to see him clearly. “It’s not only the silverware tray,” she said. “It’s also the hangers in the closet. They have to face the same direction. The shoes have to be lined up in a row, and the paper towel roll in the kitchen has to have the flap in the front and not the back.”

AJ
shook his head sadly. “Your husband is definitely OCD. Except for the paper towel thing. I do that too.”

“And he watches every single football game during the entire season,” Clarissa said.

“How is that being a perfectionist?” Natalie asked.

“
It’s not,” Clarissa said. “It’s just something else I find annoying.”

Slade smiled at her
—a stiff unhappy smile, like he wanted to kick her underneath the table.

Clarissa
cleared her throat. She was supposed to say happy things about Alex, no matter how hard that was.

“Alex is thorough about everything. He’s an accountant for an engineering firm. I suppose that’s about as opposite of an actor as you can get. Although
,” she picked up her glass, “I guess it’s hard to tell what actors are like. I mean . . .” She looked across the room searching for an example. “Take Landon McKellips. He always plays the part of a womanizing playboy, but for all I know, he’s completely different from that in real life.”

“No,” Slade said. “He’s actually like that.”

Clarissa swirled the ice in her drink. “One woman is about the same as the next to him?”

Slade cocked his head at her. “Why do you ask?”

She knew she ought to change the subject, to forget Landon, and yet she felt compelled to reach some sort of conclusion about him. She couldn’t be so close to the answer and not ask the question. She shrugged as casually as she could. “I’m just thinking about different types of men. You know, perfectionists. Womanizers. I mean, in theory, it wouldn’t hurt Landon’s feelings for long if a woman turned him down. He’d just move on to the next woman, right?”

AJ
let out a grunt. “Actually, he’d probably go into shock from the surprise.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever turned down
Landon,” Natalie said, and she grinned in a way that made Clarissa wonder if she spoke from experience.

Slade’s eyes narrowed at Clarissa. “How did we suddenly start talking about
Landon? What do womanizers have to do with perfectionists?”

Clarissa cleared her throat to give
herself time to think. “They both determine their self-worth by using outside props.”

The group stared at her for a moment. “Well,” Slade said at last, “that will give me something to think about the next time I clean out my silverware tray.”

AJ looked upward thoughtfully. “If I had to choose to be either a perfectionist or a womanizer, I’d be the womanizer.”

Natalie swatted him playfully
. “See,” she told Clarissa, “you ought to be glad your husband just watches football. He could be watching something else.” Then she gave a perfectly charming pout to AJ. “When are you going to take me dancing, you womanizer, you?”

AJ
took his napkin from his lap, tossed it on the tabletop, and stood. He held his hand out to Natalie, and her pout instantly turned to a smile. They left the table without saying good-bye.

They were the first ones out to dance, but as soon as they took the floor, several couples followed, then several more, until Clarissa felt she was one of the only people still working on dinner.

Slade ripped his dinner roll in half. “When I told you I wanted you to talk about your husband, I was thinking along the lines of endearing little stories that would let everyone know you were happily married, not an exposé on his faults.”

Clarissa slunk down in her chair a bit. “
Sorry. I just said the first thing that came into my head.”

“The first thing that came into your head was which direction your husband puts the hangers in the closet?”

Clarissa looked out at the dance floor, wondering if it would be impolite to ignore the question altogether. That’s when she saw Landon striding toward her.

He smiled at her, a knowing smile, as if he knew she’d been discussing him during dinner—not because anyone had told him, but simply because he understood women. “Are you too busy for that dance you promised me?”

She glanced at Slade. He rolled his eyes. If she stayed here, Slade would continue his lecture on her shortcomings as a dinner guest. She smiled up at Landon and took his hand. “I’d love to.” They walked onto the dance floor, and she noticed as she turned in Landon’s arms that Slade was watching her and his lips were drawn into a disapproving line.

For a few minutes
Landon said nothing. He moved her around the dance floor, gazing down at her in a manner that could have been classified as “lazily” if there hadn’t been an intensity behind his eyes.

Finally
tired of the silence, she said, “I’m sorry about turning you down this afternoon. I really was planning on tending the girls. It was a last-minute thing that I came.”

“You’re sorry?” His voice was sultry.

“I just said so.”

He pulled her closer to him and bent to whisper into her ear. “Then make it up to me.”

“Make it up to you?”

His fingers momentarily tightened on her waist. “Clarissa, remember how you told me to name a favor, and you’d do it?”

Yes, well, apparently that had been a mistake. How in the world was she supposed to know this afternoon that he’d be whispering things into her ear tonight? She hadn’t expected him to even remember her name, let alone whisper it.

“You’re blushing,” he said and actually sounded surprised. “That’s so refreshing. I don’t remember the last time a woman blushed around me.”

“I can help you with that. It was this afternoon by the swimsuit rack.”

She felt his chuckle, rather than heard it. “I meant besides you.”

Clarissa thought the subject of favors had been dropped, then Landon leaned toward her ear again. “Are you going to keep your word? I want to name a favor.”

“Um . . .
”

“You don’t need to start blushing again. I just want you to have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

For a moment, she actually considered saying yes. She swallowed back the word instead. “I mentioned that I was married, didn’t I?”

“You mentioned it. I promise to take you somewhere respectable.”

“That’s the point. It wouldn’t be respectable.”

The intensity in his eyes grew until she felt
like she wasn’t looking at him at all—she was just looking at a picture of him. It was like watching a movie, and this was the part where he swung the heroine into his arms and kissed her passionately. He leaned closer to her ear. “Couldn’t you be disrespectable for one night?”

Clarissa
laughed. She hadn’t meant to, but it seemed so . . . Landon—as if he’d rehearsed for the part of being himself. “You’re good at this,” she said. “No wonder they pay you so much to do this onscreen.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” He
ran his hand gently down her back. “It’s too crowded here. Let’s take a walk to the beach.” He drew back and gave her a playful look, already anticipating her protest. “A respectable walk.”

“I can’t disappear anywhere. It would defeat my whole purpose for being here.” And because she’d reminded herself of this fact, she glanced back at their table. Slade had left his seat. A moment later she located him standing with some of the production people he’d introduced her to earlier.
His gaze connected with hers, and his lips were still drawn into a tight line.

“Your whole purpose?”
Landon asked. “And what would that be?”

Clarissa tried to think of a way to explain it to him without implicating Natalie, then realized she couldn’t do it. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“No, really, tell me.”

“I can’t. Forget I said anything.”

“Hmm.” Landon nodded. “You’re gorgeous and now mysterious too.”

Clarissa smiled at him. She probably shouldn’t have. She probably should have found some proper way to put an end to
Landon’s flirting. But it had been so long since anyone had flirted with her that it felt like water on parched ground. She hated to turn it off.

Besides, it wasn’t wrong to smile up at him this way, because she wasn’t really married. And none of it mattered to
Landon anyway. He undoubtedly flirted with everyone. He wouldn’t remember her next week, let alone remember that she smiled back at him while they danced. She would bask in his attention for a few more moments before she returned to being a dowdy, unnoticed housewife.

“Your purpose
.” Landon said again. “Let me guess. You’re an undercover reporter?”

“Nope.”

“An actress? A spy?”

“Sorry.”

The intensity returned to his gaze. “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“I really can’t.”

Landon smiled at her again, undefeated. “All right. I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with holding your picture.”

“My picture?”

“The one in the paper. As soon as I get back to my hotel room I’m going to cut it out.”

“What paper?” she asked.

He cocked his head at her. “This morning’s paper. Didn’t you see the picture of you and Slade in it?”

“No,” she said and then, “Oh, no.” She felt a ball of anxiety tightening in her stomach. “What did it say?”

He shrugged. “Nothing really. Just that Slade was here with the cast.”

She hadn’t even realized she was holding her breath
but now exhaled slowly. “That doesn’t sound too bad.” Of course it wasn’t bad. If the paper had printed anything unfavorable, she would have heard about it by now from Slade. Repeatedly. In a loud, angry voice.

Landon
pulled her toward him to avoid another couple. “Yeah, every once in a while the papers have an off day and print something nice. I’m sure their next article will call us Under-the-Covers Agents, and they’ll write about how we trashed the hotel during our wild parties.”

“Well, I’m not talking to anyone from here on out. In fact, I’m going to insist on some sort of identification and proof of occupation before I even discuss the weather.”

He laughed softly. “It won’t matter. The press is like Santa Claus. They know when you’ve been sleeping. They know when you’re awake. And they know about anything that happens in between those two times.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Sometimes.” A brief scowl touched his lips. “It’s been worse lately. It’s to the point that the whole cast is afraid to cough for fear of being written up as having contracted the plague.”

Which only made Clarissa feel more guilty about her slipup at the pool. “Why did you tell Sylvia I was an old friend of yours?”

His hand slid across her waist. “I know how reporters like Sylvia think. She won’t believe you’re only a nanny. She thinks you have some ulterior motive, some connection. I let her believe your connection is to me instead of to Slade.” He winked at her. “I don’t mind being linked with beautiful women. You see, this isn’t just a dance—I’m helping your cover story.”

Clarissa shifted a bit in
Landon’s arms, uncertain how to reply to the compliment. “Well, thanks again for pulling Sylvia away from me.”

“You still owe me a favor,” he said.

The song ended. Landon didn’t let go of her. “You’re not ready to go sit down, are you?”

She didn’t have time to formulate a reason for doing so. Slade was
suddenly at her side. He smiled pleasantly at Landon. “Do you mind if I cut in?”

Landon
looked as though he did mind but stepped aside anyway. He nodded to Clarissa and then gave her a sultry stare. “Thanks for the dance, Mrs. Hancock.”

Despite her intentions to do otherwise, Clarissa blushed at his parting, which made it that much harder to look
at Slade. He was eyeing her in a very Hawk Hawthorn sort of way—handsome, dark, and dangerous.

The music started up
—another slow song. Slade took her hand in his and placed his other hand on her waist. She shouldn’t have felt a tingle of electricity at his touch. He was her employer, and judging by his facial expression, he wasn’t that happy with her right now. But he was still Slade Jacobson. A man that had been voted America’s sexiest man in more than one poll.