Wife for a Day (5 page)

The elderly man's jaw dropped. The woman beside him grinned, and Sam smiled in their direction. “It's a little game we play,” she told them, shrugging lightly. “It's the only way to get him excited.”

Jack grabbed her arm and the sewing machine and dragged her toward his suite, slamming the door behind him after he dumped the sewing machine on the floor. “This isn't a game, and it sure as hell isn't foreplay.”

“What is it then?”

“It's the only thing I can think of to keep from ruining my sister's party.”

“You're not making any sense.”

“Then let me explain.”

“Please do. I like a good story.”

She wanted to appear calm. She was anything but.

“I'll give you a thousand dollars if you can make my sister believe you're my fiancée.”

“Do you like to play jokes on your sister?”

“No, I like to make her happy. That's why I need a fiancée. Just for tonight.”

“Do you have a
real
fiancée?”

“I did.”

Sam sat on the sofa, crossed her legs, and dangled one shoe from the toes of her foot. “What happened to your real fiancée?”

“We had a misunderstanding.”

“She isn't by any chance the person you were talking to right before I knocked on your door? The one who thinks you're a son of a bitch?”

“You heard that?”

“I imagine everyone on this floor heard it.”

“Look, my sister has never met Arabella. She doesn't know what she looks like. You're an actress—”

“But you forget, I've never played anything but a corpse. On top of that, I've never been
to a ball, never socialized with rich people.”

“You can do it. Rich people aren't any better than anyone else.”

That's an understatement
, Sam thought.

“Why don't you just tell your sister that Arabella dumped you?”

“I can't. Lauren's happy for the first time in years. She's excited about meeting Arabella, and I don't want to do anything to spoil tonight.”

“What if someone recognizes me?”

“Have you been to any Palm Beach parties lately? Do you play polo or go yachting?”

She shrugged. “Not recently.”

His brow rose. “Ever?”

“No.”

“Well, Arabella certainly hasn't either, so I don't think there's anything to worry about.”

She sighed, not feeling the least bit comfortable with his proposition. She went to the window, looking at the big round moon shining on the dark gray water. This was her chance to act—really and truly to act. On top of that, this was her opportunity to see how the rich and famous lived. Plus, she could make some desperately needed money. But…She faced him. “I can't do it.”

“Why?”

“I'm not rich.”

“I told you that doesn't matter.”

“You don't understand. I have nothing to wear.”

His gaze trailed deliberately over her body. Heated eyes settled on her lips, then slowly moved to her eyes. “Is that all that's bothering you?”

“That and the fact that I don't feel comfortable deceiving your sister.”

He smiled, a true, deep smile that eased her fear about the masquerade she was embarking on.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For caring about my sister's feelings.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the stack of bills he'd offered her before. “I'll explain everything to my sister in a few days. She won't hold it against you. I promise.”

She stared at the money in his hand. It seemed wrong to take it, wrong to lie to his sister. Still, a thousand dollars would help get Johnnie off her back. He might even extend the loan.

“Okay, I'll do it,” she said, plucking the bills from his palm. “But you'd better tell your sister the truth soon—tomorrow even. Playing your fiancée for a night is one thing, but I don't want you calling me next week and asking me to be your wife for a day.”

His laughter filled the room. “Trust me. That's not about to happen.”

She bit her lip, frowning at the grin on his face. “There's still the problem of what to wear.”

“That's the least of your problems.”

He checked his watch, then lifted the phone. “In less than an hour you'll look like a princess. Think you can act like a pampered socialite, too?”

Doubt clenched at her stomach, but there was no reason to let Jack see her anxiety. “As you said, I'm an actress, Jack. Just give me a few directions, and I'll do the rest.”

“I
can't do
that,” Sam said, sitting in the back of the limousine, staring at Jack Remington, who'd turned from something close to Prince Charming to a detestable frog in the space of five minutes.

“It's a simple request.”

“I'm not going to spy on your sister's fiancé. Pretending I'm Arabella Fleming is bad enough, but trying to find out if Peter Leighton has some hidden agenda is out of the question.”

“He doesn't deserve her.”

“Do you have any concrete proof of that?”

Jack smiled, leaned forward, and took hold of her fingers. “I have no proof at all. I even had the man investigated and came up with nothing. But I do have a gut feeling.”

“Your sister's in love with him, for heaven's
sake! If you don't have any proof, leave it alone.”

She pulled her fingers from his grasp. “You know what, Jack?”

“What?”

“My mama wouldn't have liked you.”

“Why?”

“You're rich, for one, and she didn't like rich men. Neither do I, for that matter. Number two, you're devious. She used to tell me that I should stay away from devious men because they have a tendency to lead good girls astray.”

“I've been open and aboveboard in everything I've asked of you. There's nothing devious there. As for being rich, I can't help what I am.”

He leaned back in the soft black leather and folded his arms across his chest. “All you have to do is dance with him, ask him a few questions, and maybe bat your eyelashes a time or two.”

“No.”

“I'll give you a thousand more.”

The money was tempting, but she couldn't.

She shook her head.

“Two thousand.”

“I'm not a spy. Please don't ask me—”

“Five.”

Her heart seemed to stop. She could pay off
most of what she owed Johnnie with five thousand dollars. It wasn't right, but she was desperate. “All right. Five.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“No,” Sam said. “Sometimes I sell my services a little too easily. I always regret it in the end.”

He leaned forward again, and lifted her hand. His felt warm; hers was freezing. “You asked me earlier if something was bothering me, and now I'm going to ask you. Are you in trouble? Something I might be able to help you with?”

She didn't know Jack Remington well enough to tell him her troubles. Besides, her foolishness was all too humiliating to talk about. Five months ago she'd confided in a rich man, she'd even asked for his help. In the end, she'd ended up with black eyes and a scar on her jaw. She didn't like the thought of Jack Remington seeing her as a greedy, moneygrubbing con, but she wouldn't be seeing him after tonight. His disdain was something she could live with.

“Thanks for asking,” she said, pulling her hand away, “but I don't have a care in the world.”

 

Lauren Remington Chasen Lancaster looked radiant. Sam picked her out the moment she
and Jack walked through the massive double doors that led into a pink-and-white marble entry. With a devastatingly handsome fiancé at her side, she'd stood at the far end of the room greeting guests, dressed in a gold-colored gown covered with thousands of shimmering amber beads. A Paris original, Sam imagined. More than likely Christian Lacroix. She must have been close to six feet tall and looked more like a voluptuous Amazon princess than a willowy Palm Beach socialite. When she saw Jack, her face lit up like she'd just won a Vegas jackpot.

She threw her arms around Jack's neck, and he lifted her off the floor, spun her around, and every guest in the room stared, as if showing real, honest emotion was unrefined. Peter Leighton frowned, then instantly wiped the look of discontent from his face and put on a smile.

Too late
, Sam thought. She considered herself a good judge of character, and Peter Leighton was definitely a man to be watched. Her feelings about Jack and his gut instinct rose a notch.

Jack caught Sam's arm and drew her toward his sister. “Lauren, I'd like you to meet my fiancée, Arabella Fleming.”

Sam took a deep breath, as the charade began in earnest.

“I hope Jack told you how happy I am for both of you,” Lauren said, “but if he hasn't, well, I'm just thrilled.”

“Thank you,” Sam said. She held out her hand, but suddenly found herself caught up in Lauren's sisterly embrace.

“You're perfect for Jack,” Lauren whispered. “Of course, you don't look at all like he described you.”

“What do you mean?” Jack said, obviously overhearing his sister. “She's exactly how I described her. Beautiful.”

“Well, she is beautiful. But she's got red hair, not brown, you said something about her being average height when she's nearly as tall as me, and, oh, what does it matter. You're both here.” The smile grew even brighter on Lauren's face as she linked her arm through Peter's, drawing him forward.

“Now it's my turn to introduce my fiancé. Peter Leighton, this is my brother, Jack Remington, and his wife-to-be, Arabella Fleming.”

Peter was nothing but grace and charm. He was tall, slim, with slicked-back black hair that made him look more like a Latin lover than an Australian polo player. He had a heart-stopping smile, drop-dead gorgeous blue eyes, but his palm felt warm and damp when he took hold of Sam's, and her mama had always told her to beware of sweaty palms. She tried
pulling away, but before he let her go, he squeezed her fingers and smiled one of those “we'll talk later” smiles she'd seen one too many times in Hollywood.

“It's a pleasure to have the two of you join us,” Peter said. “Lauren has talked of nothing else all day.”

“We wouldn't have missed tonight for the world,” Sam said, slipping her hand around Jack's arm, looking at him with all the love she could muster.

“Mother said something similar,” Lauren said. “Of course, she followed that statement with a
but
and told me she'd met an English lord who's to-die-for and they were going to spend the weekend at his country estate.” Lauren laughed softly. “Actually, I'm rather glad she's not here. The lilies would have clashed with her gown, the champagne wouldn't have been the right year, and my dress, well, she'd tell me I should have gotten it in Milan instead of Paris because everyone, I mean
everyone
, is buying in Milan this season.”

Jack laughed, the sound echoing around the room. Peter was restrained, typical of most everyone else at the party. He smiled, but the light Sam would have expected to see sparkling in the eyes of a man in love wasn't there.

“What about Dad?” Jack asked. “He's not
going to make an appearance, is he?”

“Are you kidding? In Palm Beach? He's worse than you, Jack. I doubt he'll ever leave Santa Fe. If the two of you would talk more than once or twice a year, you'd know he's got two or three girlfriends to keep happy and, in Dad's words, that's a full-time job.”

Sam listened to Jack and Lauren talking about family and friends, about Pastor Mike, Jack's ranch manager and the minister who'd officiated at all of Lauren's weddings. Finally, Jack brought up the subject of Beau. She could feel the muscles tightening in his arm when he mentioned his son, but his words weren't strained. They were filled with a mixture of warmth, concern, and uncertainty.

Unconsciously, she found herself moving a little closer to his side, keeping her arm linked with his, and liking the feel of his fingers as they drew slow, lazy circles on the back of her hand.

And Lauren—without doing anything special—had made Sam feel like she belonged inside the big, fancy mansion. More importantly, she made her feel like she was a part of her family.

Belonging had never felt so good. Too bad it had to end.

 

The ballroom was crowded. Suddenly Jack knew how a mustang must feel when herded into the confines of a holding corral after spending a lifetime roaming wild and free on the plains. He never had enjoyed this life. The only thing that made him stay at the party now was the look of happiness he'd seen on Lauren's face when he'd introduced her to his
fiancée
—Arabella Fleming—and the obvious delight the two women had found in each other's company for nearly two hours.

On top of that, being there gave him the perfect opportunity to keep a watchful eye on Peter Leighton. The polo player had an innate charm. Either that, or he was as good an actor as the redheaded seamstress, who was doing a perfect job pretending to be Arabella.

She was lovely. Exquisite. The hotel beauty salon had done its job well. The circles below her eyes had been expertly camouflaged with makeup. Her red hair had been piled on top her head, but a few spiraling strands hung about her face and over her left shoulder. A trio of diamonds dripped from her ears, and a matching necklace rested just below the hollow of her throat. Her gown glistened like new-fallen snow dusted with morning sunlight, and it clung to every gentle curve.

And her smile. It was wide and infectious, and her laughter sang through the room. The
nervousness he'd sensed in her while an army of workers fussed with her hair, her makeup, and her clothes had vanished. When they'd stepped out of the limousine and walked into Lauren's mansion, he thought she would hightail it back to the car and order the driver to take her home. Instead, she'd taken a deep breath, whispered “break a leg” to herself, and gracefully floated over the threshold like she'd always belonged to high society.

She was worth every penny he'd paid her. Maybe even more.

He was about to cross the room and ask her to dance, when Peter Leighton stopped beside him, a glass of champagne in hand. “Beautiful woman, your fiancée.”

“Yours, too,” Jack said, not bothering to disguise the animosity in his voice. “Of course, I hear you've had a string of beautiful women in your life.”

“In the past, but that's common knowledge in polo circles. Lauren is my life now—and forever. Too bad you can't accept that.”

“I'm rather protective where my sister is concerned.”

“Once she's my wife, you can stop worrying. I make a habit of protecting what belongs to me.”

Jack took a glass of champagne from a tray. Taking a sip, he watched Peter over the crystal
rim. He'd had a bad day, he didn't like Peter Leighton, and an old-fashioned fistfight, like the ones he'd gotten into as a kid, sounded good right about now. “Lauren's not chattel,” he told his future brother-in-law. “You'll never
own
her.”

Peter laughed. “You misunderstand, Jack.”

“I hope so, but let me make something clear, just so you don't misunderstand me. Lauren's been hurt before, and I'll do anything in my power to keep her from being hurt again. For her sake, I'm going to make a big attempt at liking you, but if I hear even one word about you doing something to cause her the least amount of pain, I'll break you in two.”

Jack saluted Peter with his champagne glass and walked away. His heart was beating dangerously fast, and he needed a way to let off steam. There weren't any bulls to rope in Palm Beach. There weren't any broncs to bust, but there was dancing, and he had a make-believe fiancée standing across the room looking like she needed to be rescued.

Sam laughed at the worst joke she'd heard all evening, then put her hand to her lips and stifled a yawn. Pretending to be rich, worldly, and part of the crowd was exhausting work. Lauren, however, made it look easy and fun. Sam assumed that was because she didn't pretend to be something she wasn't. Lauren was
the most genuine person she'd ever met.

“Jack's coming,” Lauren whispered, leaning close as if they were schoolgirls checking out the boys.

Sam turned, suddenly feeling wide-awake and happy to be at the ball. It wasn't hard to find Jack Remington in the crowd. He stood two or three inches taller than most of the other men and looked all-powerful, maybe even invincible. His jaw was set, his eyes heated, and he cut a path through the guests as he headed straight toward her.

“You've had my fiancée to yourself all evening,” he said, flashing his sister a slightly off-kilter grin. “I want her now.”

Lauren was genuine, Jack was…Well, Jack was Jack. Straightforward and no-nonsense. Nice qualities in a man, she decided.

Jack took her hand and led her from the ballroom to the terrace, where the air was warm, the humidity high. “Dance with me,” he said, sliding one hand around her until it rested at the small of her back. He drew her tight against his chest, his hips, his thighs. She felt a little like clay, being molded to fit his need. Oddly enough, she liked the feeling.

The music wove through the windows and doors and surrounded them as they moved slow and easy.

“You're doing a good job,” he said, his lips
close to her ear, his cheek brushing against hers.

“I've had to wing it a few times. By the way, what's an Andalusian?”

“A horse. Mostly for show. Why?”

“You didn't tell me Arabella's father breeds them. If I'd known, I might have commented on their silky coats or how much fun they are to ride.”

He angled his head to look at her. There was a grin on his face as if he thought the predicament had been funny. “I imagine you carried your end of the conversation without a hitch.”

“I told them my father also raised rattlesnakes and sold their venom.”

Jack's grin widened.

“I didn't have a clue what an Andalusian was, but I figured it wasn't a rattlesnake, and I was bound and determined to change the subject.”

“Do you know anything about rattlesnakes?”

“Enough. They give you a little advance warning that danger's coming and then they strike. You know what, Jack?”

“What?”

“With the exception of your sister and a few others, I feel like I've been slithering around
with a bunch of rattlesnakes all night, and the one with the biggest rattle is your future brother-in-law.”