Nobody Does It Better (6 page)
"
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.
Only their hands were touching. She wanted so much more.
"What's so special about Alexander?"
She gaped at him, letting his words sink in. Something clicked in her head. Montgomery Alexander didn't exist. So who was this man sitting across from her and making her pulse burn? Slowly she took her hand back. "What's with the twenty questions?"
"Maybe I want to get to know you."
"Or maybe you're up to something," she retorted, careful to lace her voice with a slight tease. She might want the truth, but she didn't want to scare him away getting it. She knew he wasn't Alexander. But he was close. And real. And sexy.
Just being there with him was more adventure than she'd ever had. And touching him, feeling the way she did when he touched her back, well, she could store that memory away and live on it forever.
Mystery Man leaned back in the booth, his eyes widening. "Up to something? Why on earth would you think that?" She quirked an eyebrow, and was rewarded with his chuckle. "Fair enough. I'll grant that you've got a few good reasons."
He took her hand, and she glanced down at their casually intertwined fingers. The touch lacked the earlier erotic caress, but the contact affected her all the same. She took a shaky breath and looked back up into his eyes.
"Really,
Paris
," he continued, the sparkle in his eyes matching the smile on his mouth. "I'd like to know. Why was I necessary?"
I?
He spoke as if he really was Montgomery Alexander.
Paris
couldn't shake the feeling that she was having a drink with a man she had known for years, not just hours. A man she'd dreamed about forever.
Of course he wasn't Alexander, and for a second she thought she should argue with him, pursue uncovering whatever he was up to, at least for the sake of appearances. But the desire to share her secret with this enigmatic, fascinating man overwhelmed her. And that confused her even more than the fire that consumed her every time he looked her way.
"There were lots of reasons," she said, pulling her hand away and focusing on her words. She started to tick them off on her fingers. "I've always wanted to be a writer, but my dad never took my writing seriously. I love him to death, but it's no secret that a lot rides on the family name. He's a federal judge in
Houston
, the fifth in a long line of judges, with various other relatives owning companies, performing heart surgery, politicking."
Paris
heard his slight cough as she switched hands to offer more reasons. This talking was good. It proved his proximity hadn't killed her ability to form a coherent sentence.
"Does your mom know?"
"She died when I was three. I think that fueled Daddy's zest for watching out for his little girl. And mine for not wanting to disappoint him." She shrugged. "That's why I went to law school—Daddy wanted me to. But I came here for school, to
Desperado,
the men's magazine."
"Let me guess. You published under a pseudonym, figuring your dad wouldn't find out.
Desperado
also publishes pulp paperbacks, and they wanted one from you. And then another, and it snowballed."
"You're good. If you're wondering, the story ends with the good daughter telling Daddy that she's opening her own law firm. She moves back to
Austin
. She figured that was near enough to
Houston
to keep Daddy happy, but far enough for a little distance. And, surprise, surprise, she soon lands a major client, up-and-coming author Montgomery Alexander. Eventually, she becomes his manager. Daddy's proud, because she's doing well, but he's a little bit miffed that she spends so much time promoting the author of 'those kinds' of books."
Paris
took a long sip of the drink before continuing. "So I've got myself stuck. I don't
want
to tell him because of his reaction to the books themselves, and I
can't
tell him now because it's ballooned so much."
"Does it bother you?"
Paris
studied the pattern in her cocktail napkin, only half noticing that it required significant effort to see only one, not four, designs. "Daddy not knowing?"
"Nobody
knowing."
"Some people know,"
Paris
replied, feeling like a schoolgirl trying to argue her way out of a failing grade in a subject she'd never studied.
"Who?"
"Well, Rachel. And now you."
"Oh, yeah, lots of people know." She heard the sarcasm.
"I didn't say lots. I said some people. You're 'some people.'" Two, actually.
Montgomery
Alexander and
Mystery
His dimple appeared. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
She smiled at him, then sighed. "It doesn't matter anyway, because I won't be writing these books forever. I'm working on an epic novel. Very literary. Very Oprah."
"Does
Brandon
know?"
"That I'm writing a literary novel?"
"That you write these books that Daddy doesn't approve of."
"Isn't it my turn for questions?"
Paris
asked, wishing she were bold enough to suggest they just skip to the kissing part
Thankfully, kissing wasn't sex, at least as long as they didn't get carried away. Which meant kissing was within the random boundaries she'd drawn within her plan, a loophole she'd quite happily exploit.
"Humor me."
Paris
knew the big picture eluded her, but the alcohol was making her thoughts mushy.
Why was he asking these questions? What didn't he want her to know?
Before she could figure out how to challenge him, Alexander jumped in with another query.
"So why doesn't
Brandon
know? He seems like a nice guy."
"He is a nice guy. Same reason, I guess. I didn't think I could tell him at first, and now it's too late. Besides, I kind of like getting his unfiltered reaction to my work."
Kissing, she thought, trying to throw psychic energy his way. Forget
Brandon
and concentrate on kissing. She focused on his forehead and tried out Rachel's most seductive smile.
"Why didn't you just tell him at the beginning?"
So much for her psychic abilities. "If you knew
Brandon
, you'd understand. He started his career at
Desperado.
The most prominent thing in his office was a poster of six women wearing bikinis made out of the flag and toting rifles. It was on the wall next to his safari trophies."
She watched his face to make sure he had the scene firmly in mind. "Now picture me. Early-twenties, size six, frequently described by my friends as perky. I was afraid if he knew I wrote it, he'd ooze so much testosterone that the book would lose what little literary merit I'd managed to cram into the hundred and fifty thousand words."
"How'd you keep it a secret? What about royalty checks?"
She twirled her straw around the edge of the glass. That had been the tricky part. "Well, you could say my dad helped with that." His brow furrowed. "Law school, I mean. Just one afternoon of paperwork, and suddenly the Montgomery L. Alexander Literary Corporation was born. The company actually owns the copyrights to all of the books. And it has a tax identification number, so there's no problem with the IRS."
Alexander leaned back, nodding approval. "Very clever."
"Thanks."
Now can we move on to other topics? Perhaps,
say,
kissing?
"But
Brandon
never asked?"
Paris
took a long swallow of the drink. Obviously he was stuck in the getting-to-know-you phase while she was itching to start rounding bases. "Sure he did. I told him about Alexander being the private type, and that was that. Eventually he quit asking."
"You must have liked him, though. You're at another publisher, and he's still your editor."
"Same publisher, actually. Cobalt Blue's a recent spin-off of
Desperado.
Ellis Chapman thought the classy name would help with marketing," said
Paris
. "But you're right.
Brandon
's swell. He's a fabulous editor. And we've become good friends, too." She felt a blush creep to her cheeks. "At least, as much as we can be considering I lie to him pretty much every day."
Paris
fell back against the plush upholstery, intending to nip in the bud his fascination with the fine art of conversation. "Listen to me babble. This drink on top of champagne. Wow." She drew the straw up to her mouth and licked off every drop of liquid, enjoying the reaction she saw in his eyes.
She didn't really doubt he wanted her. Throughout the entire evening, his touch, his look, his voice had all told her so. He wanted her and she wanted him.
But she wasn't going to have him. She was going to hold tight to her resolve. It was just chemistry between them, anyway. Nothing magic, nothing earth-shattering. She would allow herself a kiss, maybe even two or three, just so she'd have the memory. So she could satisfy the part of her that longed to be swept up and away, the part that wanted to lose herself if only for a moment.
She'd lose herself in his kisses. Those kisses, she told herself—
his kisses
—would be enough.
Of course, even a kiss might be wishful thinking. Like her or not, he still hadn't tried anything.
So what are you going to do about it?
No brilliant plan stepped forward, and for the first time in her life
Paris
wished she'd paid more attention to Rachel's scripted, rehearsed and tested technique. She'd just have to wing it. Or chicken out entirely.
"Are you going to tell
Brandon
?" he asked.
She smiled at him, still teasing the end of the straw between her lips in a manner she hoped emphasized how kissable she was. "You'll be out of a gig if I do."
* * *
Her response was light and teasing. But even so, Devin worried she had realized what his questions were getting at. If a number of people already knew Alexander's deep, dark secret, she'd have little motivation to pay him to keep his mouth shut.
His father's voice lectured in his head.
So what
if
she's figured it out? She'll realize when you ask her for the cash.
True enough. But he didn't want to demand the money just yet. He wanted to get to know her, to spend time with her. Alone. Preferably undressed. From the way she looked at him, he knew she wanted to spend that type of quality time with him, too.
If he could just keep the desire burning in her eyes, maybe he could get the money and still manage to hold on to the girl.
He bit back a curse. Who was he fooling? She wasn't interested in him.
Paris
wanted Montgomery Alexander. She wanted to be swept away by a suave, sophisticated man who said all the right things.
Devin O'Malley was not that man. But he wanted her, wanted her bad. Even if it meant playing a part. And maybe, just maybe, she'd fall a little bit for the man behind the mask.
Oh, Devie-boy. Falling for a mark. Didn't I teach you better?
"Shut up," he whispered.
"What?" She looked confused. He hoped she hadn't heard him.
"I said we should go up."
She cocked an eyebrow.
"We
should?"
"I meant that I should walk you to your room."
"Oh." She studied her short manicured nails. Was she disappointed he hadn't suggested more?
"And then you'll invite me in for a nightcap." There. That was a very Montgomery Alexander thing to say.
