Secret Fantasy. Carly Phillips
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and the charade he’d have to employ to get his story. Guilt wasn’t an emotion Doug was familiar with, especially when it came to getting the job done. But this job was too important to let something like unexpected feelings get in the way.
He was at this resort tracking down Juliette Stanton, Chicago’s Runaway Bride, so he could dig up dirt on her ex-fiancé. And therein lay the source of his guilt. He could console himself with the fact that he wasn’t out to dig up dirt on her and in that, at least, he hadn’t lied to Merrilee.
But Doug had a nagging feeling the reasons for Juliette’s run from the altar had everything to do with Doug’s recent troubles—and his journalist father had taught him never to ignore a burning gut. Treat it with antacids, maybe, but pay close attention. After the last fiasco, Doug damn well would.
Doug wasn’t green and knew to be on the lookout for an unreliable source. Problem was he’d never thought to distrust so close to home and when his latest story had come crashing down around him he’d been taken off guard. His adopted father, a journalist and a man respected by all, had trained him to be the best. Yet Doug’s fall from grace had been swift and as public as his damning headline about Congressman Haywood’s meeting with a reputed Mob boss and the laundering of money through a supposed legitimate coffee business.
The congressman was the business partner of Juliette Stanton’s fiancé, the man aspiring to her father’s senate seat. A man, Doug thought, who was just as corrupt as his partner. Doug still believed his story was true. He just didn’t have the proof he needed to back up his story or support his claim. Proof he was certain Juliette Stanton possessed.
Doug ran a hand through his collar-length, windblown hair—another part of this charade. No haircut, no shave until after his time on the island was through. After he was certain Senator Stanton’s daughter wouldn’t recognize him from the more clean-cut picture in his Tribune column.
A week on this tropical island wouldn’t be a hardship if his father wasn’t still in the hospital. Though he’d normally enjoy paradise, Doug had to follow up on this latest tip regarding Juliette and get the hell out. A tip he believed no one else had. And with some serious cash in the right hands he hoped to be the only one who knew Juliette had left town. The only one to spend an uninterrupted week alone with the Runaway Bride—once he got the final okay from Merrilee. She hadn’t thrown him off the island when he’d shown up in time to coincide with Juliette’s visit, but he knew he was on probation.
He’d paid good money to an old military pal of his father’s to dig hard and deep until he broke Merrilee’s security system and came up with the information Doug needed—Juliette Stanton’s fantasy. And in the process, he’d discovered the woman was hurting and he’d been forced to accept some of the blame.
No matter how he consoled himself with truth—that his fantasy would help Juliette Stanton forget her pain, and that he wasn’t out to hurt her—the fact remained, he was using another woman for information. Again.
Doug had no choice.
This story would reinstate him as the Tribune’s ace political reporter, a place he wanted desperately to be and not just because he’d worked damn hard for his professional reputation or because of an overblown ego. He could deal with the kick in the ass. He couldn’t handle disappointing his adoptive father, a man whom Doug owed his life. Doug was ten years old when his mother died and he’d been running from Social Services when Ted Houston had caught him trying to steal his wallet. Doug had figured he needed food in his stomach more than the guy with all the questions needed the cash in his pocket. Within the hour, he’d had Doug’s life story and he’d taken Doug into his home and his heart.
That same heart was bad now and the stress of Doug’s professional problems had taken a toll on the older man, and also on Doug’s mother—the woman who’d raised him like her own son. Which meant Doug had to uncover whatever the Runaway Bride knew about her ex-fiancé and his shady dealings. If he scooped the other papers he’d be back on top. Doug wasn’t ignorant and he knew clearing his name wouldn’t fix his father’s heart. But good news would give the older man an emotional boost, something the doctors said would help his mental state and drive for recovery. They were right. Just knowing Doug was out attempting to prove his claim had done wonders for his father’s attitude. Enough to give Doug the push he needed to remain on the island and give this pretense a shot. And besides, he owed it to the Tribune and his boss to get accurate proof and cement his story.
So now, he awaited his prey. He knew what Juliette looked like thanks to the black-and-white photos in all the papers and the colored ones he’d seen in his research. He wouldn’t be able to mistake the sleek, auburn hair, the chiseled profile or the elegant mannerisms ingrained in her by her public family. Until she’d bolted from the altar, Juliette had been perfection personified. And for Doug, a man intending to embark upon romance and discovery, she was both easy on the eyes as well as the libido.
Without warning, Merrilee, her assistant and a woman Doug had never seen before—but one he’d have no problem viewing again and again—walked into the lobby. Long spiral curls hung down her back in windblown disarray. Disheveled from the breeze and humidity, her hair had a tousled look, like that of a woman who’d just woken up after a night of hot sex. The moment when a woman was most soft, pliant and easily aroused. As aroused as he was now, just looking at her. Doug shifted his stance.
The white ruffle on her short denim miniskirt swayed provocatively in the humid breeze and the matching white, soft-looking cotton top dipped below one shoulder, revealing creamy white skin in stark contrast with fire-rich hair that screamed “touch me.” And he wanted to.
Then she walked closer and he caught the chiseled profile surrounded by the auburn hair. High cheekbones. Pouty lips. Fire-rich hair—auburn hair.
His Runaway Bride.
He’d been so certain he’d know her on sight. He hadn’t. And though he now realized she resembled her twin, Juliette was too distinctive to be identical to any other woman. It wasn’t just the glorious mane of hair that had changed but the sense of liberation he saw both in her face and her more expressive mannerisms. Her hands flew in the air as she spoke to Merrilee. Her eyes glittered with surprise and awe as she took in whatever the older woman was saying.
She no longer resembled the conservative fiancée of Stuart Barnes or the biddable daughter of Senator Stanton. This woman had spark and intensity. Excitement burned inside of her.
She’d undergone a transformation since her almost-wedding and the reasons why intrigued him as much as the story itself.
Which said a lot for a man in search of the proof that would clear his name.
He wondered what it said about the outcome of his fantasy.
SECRET FANTASY. As her sister’s students would say, “Well, duh.” Juliette should have known by the name of the resort this wasn’t just any island retreat. Better yet, she should have known when Gillian had elicited the promise that Juliette let loose that her twin was up to no good. And setting Juliette up for a week of decadence and sin—which was what being paired up with a sexy stranger would amount to—was definitely no good.
Or was it? Juliette gnawed on her lower lip, recognizing an opportunity to make up for all she’d missed by taking the safe and expected route all her life.
“Obviously you didn’t sign on for this. If you decide to leave, I’ll give you a full refund.” Merrilee Schaefer-Weston shook her head and laughed. “Or should I say I’ll give your sister a full refund? I must say this is a first for Fantasies, Inc.” She reached out and touched Juliette’s arm. “But, please, at least stay overnight as my guest. Perhaps the magic of the island will sway you.”
Juliette glanced at the older but still beautiful owner of the complex. “Magic?” she asked wryly.
Merrilee’s eyes danced with delight. “What else would you call a week away from prying eyes? A week solely for yourself, where no one will know what you say or do?”
“Except my fantasy man.” Juliette shivered at the prospect