Nobody Does It Better (9 page)
"Rachel, focus for me here. Work what out?"
"You got his number, right?"
"Whose number?" asked
Paris
, even as a queer feeling in her stomach suggested that she already knew the answer.
"From the party. Alexander. He's essential. We absolutely have to have him."
* * *
A smug grin covered about ninety percent of Rachel's face.
"You're kidding me, right?"
Paris
asked, for about the thirtieth time.
Rachel shook her head. "I told you, it's true."
"A three-book deal? Hardback? This is so … so … amazing. I don't even know what to say." She flung herself at Rachel and kissed her on the cheek. The two women linked arms and swung each other around the room, letting loose war whoops every now and then for good measure.
Paris
let go of Rachel, scrambled onto the bed and did a little jig before falling backward onto the mattress. "You realize what this means, don't you?"
Rachel smiled. "Yes, but you're going to tell me anyway."
Paris
sat up. "Darn right. It means that after this deal I'll have enough money to live on while I finish
Distant Passages
."
Rachel shrugged. "If that's what you want to do."
"Of course that's what I want. It's what I've always talked about."
"Always? When we were little girls you wanted to write about spies and secret codes and hidden passageways. Seems to me you're already doing that."
Paris
frowned. "Things change. When we were little you wanted to have a big house with a wraparound porch and a swing. That doesn't sound like any place I've ever seen in
Manhattan
. And I don't see you getting the urge to move back to
"That's different. I don't want a house like that anymore. Really."
Paris
thought about arguing, but decided it wasn't the time. "And wild horses couldn't get me back to Braemer," Rachel added. "But you, on the other hand, do want to keep writing the Montgomery Alexander books."
"What I want is to write
Distant Passages,
sell it, and be respectable." For a brief moment,
Paris
wondered if the forceful tone of her voice was meant to convince Rachel, or herself.
"Well, at least you'll have the clout to sell—" Rachel cut herself off before finishing. "Sorry," she added.
"No, I won't have the clout to sell it.
I'm
not Montgomery Alexander. But at least as his manager I can convince
Brandon
to take a look at it. And maybe Alexander's fabulous agent can help shop it around."
Rachel nodded. "Sounds like a plan. After all, he's got the most amazing agent, if I do say so myself." She winked at
Paris
. "But rumor has it his manager is a little loopy."
"Go ahead,"
Paris
laughed, "taunt all you want. Nothing's going to get a rise out of me today."
"Nothing?"
"Nope."
"You're sure?" Rachel pressed.
Something in Rachel's voice caught
Paris
's attention. "What are you worried about? It's about him, isn't it?"
"Did you get his number? Do you know when he works at the pub? You got his real name, right? We have to get in touch with him."
"No, he owns it, no, and why?"
Paris
crossed her arms over her chest and waited for Rachel's explanation.
"It's not a big deal, really," said Rachel, her voice lyrical and soothing.
Paris
knew better. "What's not a big deal?"
"Just - that - they - want - Alexander - to - do - a - book - tour."
The words tumbled over each other like toddlers in a tiny tots' gymnastics class. She took a breath. "A short tour. More a publicity jaunt than a book tour. Ellis Chapman was really impressed. Said Alexander's got charisma. And he thinks we can increase female readership if he does some public appearances and talk shows."
Paris
imagined Alexander's chiseled features accented by his enigmatic smile and come-hither eyes. Yes, Ellis had a point.
The import of Rachel's words struck home. "Television? Interview shows?"
Rachel nodded.
"You agreed to this?"
"Well, I said I had to check with you, of course, but that I didn't think it would be a problem."
"Not a problem? Rachel, it's a huge problem. How are we supposed to pull it off? Alexander's given about fifty on-line and written interviews over the last few years. This guy's not going to have any idea what Alexander's said in the past. He'll forget something and screw up, and the gig'll be over."
"So, other than the interview shows, you're okay with the idea?"
Trapped.
Paris
was trapped like a rat. She tried to back out slowly without getting even more entangled in barbed wire. "No, it's not okay. I just latched on to the first and biggest of about five-million problems with this plan."
On the one hand Rachel had just created the perfect opportunity to spend more time with Alexander. More time doing exactly what they'd been doing. And more.
But on the other hand—the one that still had a grip on sanity and her career—Rachel had just upped the ante on
Paris
's whole scheme. Unless Alexander was one-hundred-percent perfect all of the time, someone would surely catch on. "No book tour, no contract. No contract, no nest egg to support you."
"If
Dearest Enemy, Deadly Friend
continues to do okay, I bet they'll offer another contract."
Rachel shrugged. "Maybe."
Paris
glared at Rachel, irritated that her friend was right. For years,
Paris
had been telling herself that she wanted to retire the Montgomery Alexander books and turn to serious fiction. The kind that got reviewed on PBS, won obscure literary prizes and could justify a visiting professor position at some prestigious university. All the trappings of upper-strata respectability necessary to be a card-carrying member of the Sommers clan.
So far the money wasn't enough to keep her in food and shelter while she worked on
Distant Passages.
She needed a job lined up in case the book was a huge flop. Of course, she could go back to being a lawyer full-time to make money, but the hours were too intense if she wanted to get any serious writing done.
Now someone had dangled a carrot in front of her nose. She could finish her first important book and get started on another while she still had the security of steady income from Montgomery Alexander. Even with the risks, she'd be a fool to turn down the opportunity.
She glanced at the door to Alexander's room, thinking about the delicious perks that would go along with the arrangement. After only one night,
Paris
wasn't ready to blurt out her undying love, but neither did she want him to just walk away. She at least wanted to know his name.
Somewhere between the bar and her room, sometime between the flirting and the kisses, she'd begun to want more from this Alexander than just one wild night of adventure. She wanted to go out, maybe eat dinner and see a movie. Heck, she wanted sex. Normal life stuff.
Of course, her life was rarely normal. And it seemed to be getting more abnormal by the minute. Alexander might not fit into her long-term plan, but in the meantime, if she couldn't have normalcy, she'd take this.
"I'll do it."
"Yes!" Rachel punched the sky and whooped. "Okay, so how do we get in touch with our man Alexander? Do you have a phone number?"
"Call him? Now? What's the rush? Go home and we'll track him down tomorrow."
Rachel shook her head, sending her hair flying. "No, no. You don't understand. You have to leave the day after tomorrow."
Paris
blinked and clutched the edge of the bed. "What? How?"
"I told you, it's a short tour. Do you remember Madame Marasky, the one who writes all those psychic detective books?"
Paris
nodded, not sure what the funny old gypsy woman had to do with Alexander. "Well, she lives in
Las Vegas
for the book and media convention. Only a couple of weeks, but heavy on the public relations." She paused for a second before rushing on. "Oh, and there's even a few days in
Paris
rubbed her temples. Maybe it was the late hour, but Rachel still wasn't making any sense. "What does this have to do with me or my dad?"
"Madame Marasky's having gallbladder surgery. You're getting her itinerary. You and Alexander. But you have to be on the
Los Angeles
the day after tomorrow." She looked at her watch. "Actually, tomorrow. Because today already is tomorrow, so the day after tomorrow would be too late."
The news settled over
Paris
. A book tour. With radio and television. Wow. She sucked in a deep breath. She just needed to round up her imposter.
Rachel's eyes drifted to
Paris
's robe. "Throw on some jeans and let's run down to his bar. Maybe we can catch him cleaning up or something."
Paris
glanced down at the pattern on the carpet, willing the blood to leave her cheeks and go back to other parts of her body where it belonged. "Um. I—"
She couldn't finish. Rachel was her best friend. And best friends make the most notorious teasers.
"What?" As Rachel stared at
Paris
, the question in her eyes transformed into curiosity, then speculation.
Paris
hurried to jump in, before Rachel could leap to a conclusion even more bawdy than the truth. "We don't have to go to his bar."
"Oh? Do tell."
Paris
hadn't seen Rachel looking so interested in anything since they'd watched the "Introduction to our Bodies" filmstrip in sixth grade health class.
Without thinking,
Paris
turned toward the connecting door. Rachel's gaze followed, her expression blank. Then she looked at the bed and the tangled bedclothes.
Paris
knew the second her friend figured it out.
"He's next door—"
Paris
blurted out.
"I can't believe you didn't tell me—" Rachel said at the same time.
They both laughed.
"You're the one who said I should,"
Paris
reminded Rachel.
"Well, yes, but I never thought you'd actually listen. Lord knows, even I hardly ever follow my own advice."
"If it's any consolation, nothing's happened. Yet.
Somebody
interrupted before we got to the main attraction."
Rachel actually had the decency to look embarrassed. But just slightly. "At least I interrupted for a good reason, right?"
Paris
pretended to pout. "Well, your news
could
have waited until morning."
Rachel laughed. "If it had occurred to me that there was even the remotest possibility that you would be doing what you were thinking about doing. I would have waited. And waited. And waited." She winked. "And then I'd have waited a little more."
Images of the way the evening
didn't
turn out flashed through
Paris
's mind. "Oh, oh my gosh."
Rachel's eyes widened. "What?"
Paris
ran her hands through her hair, trying to avoid the reality that was creeping toward her. "I was actually going to go to bed with a man I'd just met."
"No, no, no. A
cute
man you'd just met."
"Not cute. Gorgeous."
Rachel nodded. "I'll give you that one. And you have a lot in common."
"Well, yes. We have
him
in common."
Rachel raised an eyebrow. "And you like him, right?"
Paris
remembered the way his hands had raked over her body, hearing again all the things he'd whispered in her ear. Her body flushed with the memory. He'd been right there for her. Touchable. Kissable.
Real.
She knew the smile she flashed Rachel was one of complete satisfaction. "Oh, yeah. He's wonderful."
Trouble was, she didn't exactly know who
he
was.
Chapter 5
D
evin felt like a grinning idiot, unable to wipe the smile
off
his face.
Paris
completed him, made him feel like a whole person. They'd been together almost nonstop since the party began, and he still hadn't soaked up enough of her. No woman had ever affected him so much or so quickly.
He fought the urge to burst through the connecting door, interrupt her meeting and whisk Paris away to some white sand beach. Anyplace but here, where they each had their predetermined roles to play.
But that was impossible. In a few minutes, Rachel would leave, and
Paris
would knock on the door. Devin would go in, they'd make love, then morning would come, along with orange juice, muffins and the moment of truth.
And what then?
Devin stood in front of the mirror, challenging his reflection to come up with a way to get the money he needed without scamming
Paris
. His reflection failed.
All you have to do is remind her of what a great
Montgomery
Alexander you make and what a huge favor you did for her. You hand
Paris
her checkbook and tell her to write. And
if
she doesn't, you drop the bad news. Simple.
Devin wasn't sure if the voice in his head belonged to his father, Jerry, or himself. All he knew was that whoever was speaking was going to be sorely disappointed.
Then
just forget the money and stay with her.
Now that was an intriguing idea. Everything about
Paris
fascinated him—and not just sexually. Something about her recharged him. Her wit, her gentleness, her mystery. Even the odd dichotomy between her wild-ride books and her staid and proper family. This was a woman with a lot of layers. And he wanted to peel away each layer until he knew all of her.
The heavy connecting-room door drew his attention. He could burn it, break it, somehow get through it. No problem.
If only that door was the only thing between him and Paris.
Fat chance, buddy. You've got some serious competition.
That was an understatement. If he had any hope of something developing between him and Paris, he'd have to compete against her fantasy, his performance of her dream man, and the public image of a suave, sophisticated, mysterious author. He'd have to compete against Montgomery Alexander.
Devin groaned. He didn't stand a chance.
He took a tentative step toward the door to the hallway, urging his leaden feet to do the right thing and carry him away.
Paris
had been willing to give herself to Montgomery Alexander, not Devin O'Malley. The man she wanted to make love with was suave, sophisticated, a witty raconteur, a man who could dine at the White House or in a foxhole. Montgomery Alexander could probably quote Yeats while smuggling encrypted messages across the Serbian border.
Contrast that with Devin O'Malley, for whom a good week meant no screwups with payroll or inventory, no employees calling in sick, and no Carmen and his mob cretins breathing down his neck. Hardly the epitome of the man Paris wanted.
He was stuck in a dilemma. He couldn't go through with his blackmail scheme and still look himself in the mirror. But neither could he stay with her, pretending that two such different people actually had a chance.
So he left, slipping into the hallway and pushing the button for the elevator before he could change his mind. All the while he half hoped she'd poke her head out the door and catch him. But of course she didn't. It wasn't meant to be.
The down-arrow lit up, and Devin stepped in, fighting back memories of touching
Paris
in this very elevator just a few hours earlier. He swore he could still smell her perfume.
Like a vertical fade in an old-fashioned movie, the door slid shut, cutting off his view of the door to
Paris
's hotel room. How fitting. End of the scene, end of that chapter of his life.
He wondered when she would realize he'd left. Would she be hurt? Angry? Relieved? He hoped not. As much as he didn't want to hurt her, he couldn't believe that she'd be happy to find him gone. Their time together had been special, almost magical. For himself, he needed to hold fast to the belief that she thought so, too.
Devin leaned against the polished wood panels of the elevator, fixed in place by the strong grip of hesitation. He fought the urge to get off at the next floor, race back up the stairs and pull her into his arms.
Don't even think about it, Devie-boy.
No, he had done the right thing by walking away. Best to make a clean break, even if the leaving pained him.
He caught the tail end of an idea and stood a little straighter, his hand heading for the Stop button. Maybe he should tell her the truth. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to lay it all on the line and invite her out for a proper date. After all, when he started this scheme he'd had no idea how he would end up feeling about her.
"You're pathetic, Dev," he whispered, dropping his hand. He was trying to justify a reason to stay based on the strength of his own feelings. But what about
Paris
?
She was an up-and-coming author with a carved-in-stone image of the man she wanted. She didn't have any room in her life for a pub owner mortgaged to his eyeballs and scurrying to satisfy a debt he couldn't pay.
Devin couldn't be Montgomery Alexander forever. Sooner or later, he'd have to be just Devin. And as much as he wished it weren't true, just Devin wasn't the man
Paris
wanted.
Their short-lived affair was over before it even had a chance to start.
Except.
The elevator thudded to a halt in the lobby and Devin pushed the thought away. Even his dad would know better than to bet on
Paris
sauntering into Devin's bar of her own free will, hoping to continue where they'd left off. Stuff like that only happened in fiction, an area Devin no longer had anything to do with.
* * *
"He's a creep."
"
Paris
," Rachel chided, rolling down her window to let some fresh air into the stale taxi.
"No, it's true. He's a creep and I'm an idiot."
Paris
kept her voice at a monotone, using no more emotion than a store special announcer at the local mega-mart. "I should have known from the first moment. It's his eyes. They're shifty."
"His eyes are
not
shifty."
No, his eyes are gorgeous. Deep and inviting.
"Maybe they shift just a little,"
Paris
insisted, gunning for a squabble, but Rachel wasn't going to be baited. The problem, of course, was that
Paris
didn't want him to be a creep, and didn't believe that he was one, not really, even though he'd engaged in some very creep-like behavior. But ranting felt good, and
Paris
intended to wallow in it.
Rachel flopped against the soiled upholstery, then crossed her legs in an I'm-in-control sort of way.
Paris
knew better. Rachel usually made balancing on the edge of taxicab seats an art, careful not to let her typically chic outfits get more mussed up than absolutely necessary. Today, however, Rachel was practically hugging the tattered back seat.
"What are you so upset about?"
Paris
demanded. "I'm the one who almost boffed some lunatic with a slick come-on line."
Rachel grimaced and looked out the window.
Paris
gave up. Rachel wasn't going to say a word until she calmed down.
Fat chance that would happen anytime soon.
Paris
had been indulging in a grab bag of emotions since about three-thirty in the morning. It was now one in the afternoon. Except for a four-hour nap between five and nine,
Paris
had been bingeing nonstop on self-pity and anger, with a high emphasis on embarrassment. For a woman who usually kept her cool,
Paris
thought she was doing a heck of a job in the ranting and raving department.
She had to admit, though, it was getting a little old. And all the pouting in the world wouldn't get her the information she really wanted—why? Why had he walked away?
Out her window, the
Manhattan
streets groaned under the weight of taxis, buses and cars, each moving at a snail's pace, with drivers gesturing wildly to each other in a futile effort to make the traffic move more quickly.
Paris
didn't mind the delay. The longer it took to get where they were going, the more time she had to prepare to meet
him.
What
did
annoy
Paris
was that some secret, almost-buried, traitorous part of her wanted to see him again, to touch him and feel his arms around her. To feel her breath catch and her blood boil the way it had last night.
She leaned her head back against the seat and stared at the roof of the taxi. For six years, she'd lived her life in neat little compartments. Her future had been all planned out, what kind of books she would write, what kind of man she'd marry.
Twenty-four hours ago
Paris
had total control of her perfect plan. Now chaos had taken over. Her world was swerving out of control. And she didn't like that one bit.
"Rach, maybe I should just tell Chapman everything."
Rachel turned and stared at
Paris
, her face a mixture of annoyance and concern—an expression that evolved into something even more significant. If she hadn't seen it herself,
Paris
would never have believed that Rachel could give such an in-depth response without even saying a word.
Paris
sighed, drawing out the sound until she noticed the cabdriver eyeing her in the rearview mirror, possibly wondering about her sanity. She was sane, all right. But if she was going to suffer, she was going to do it in style. A little melodrama never hurt anyone.
She shot Rachel an accusatory glare. Usually Rachel was as loyal a friend as
Paris
could want. But today, instead of helping like agents and best friends were supposed to, Rach was just sitting there like a bump on a log.
"If you don't say something, I really am going to tell."
"Honey, we went over this earlier. You don't want to tell Chapman. Embarrassment, remember? Money? Deal?"
"I can't believe I'm about to beg help from some guy who left me half-naked in a hotel room without even a goodbye note."
"Are you mad at him for leaving, or at yourself for what was going on in your dirty little mind?"
"Whose side are you on?"
"I'm on the side that gets us another book deal."
"Nice. You're a real pal."
Rachel laughed. "Oh, come on,
Paris
. You're more mad at the situation than you are at him. You practically slept with the guy, something you never do despite all of my urging and coaxing. And now you're embarrassed because the one time you steer from your normal little dull routine, the plan backfires."
There were times when Rachel could be so
right.
It was downright annoying. "It didn't backfire, it exploded. He left. Poof. Picture a big cloud of dust. Then the dust settles, and, golly gee … there's … no … guy."
"Well, he's probably just as embarrassed as you."
Paris
doubted that. "How do you figure?"
"He came to the party to meet you. Maybe he fantasized that you'd fall for his Montgomery Alexander routine—"
"So far he's right on the money."
"—but he never
really
believed
it,"
Rachel finished, shooting
Paris
a do-you-mind look. "And then when you do fall for him, it's like this fantasy come true. First he figured out the secret, and then he seduced the woman of his obsession."
Paris
had never been the object of anyone's obsession before, at least that she knew of. "Go on," she urged.
"Well, you're both wrapped up in this fantasy. And you've got great chemistry on top of it."
Paris
nodded. No matter what, the chemistry between her and Alexander had crackled.
"So when I knocked and you scooted him off to never-never land, reality probably kicked in. I'll bet he thought you'd be hopping mad once the haze of passion wore off. He probably thought he should get out of there before you had him arrested."
"So you're buying his story that he pulled off the whole thing just to meet me?"
Rachel shrugged. "Sure, why else? He knew all those lines. He's obviously a fan."
Maybe.
But something wasn't clicking. Still, what Rachel said about Alexander being embarrassed made some sense. If it had been her shuttled off to the connecting room, maybe reality would have propelled her out of the hotel as well.
