Nobody Does It Better. Julie Kenner
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COURSE, Paris knew the man couldn’t be Montgomery Alexander. Alexander was a figment of her imagination, created so she wouldn’t have to explain why she was writing books filled with guns and cars and girls wearing next to nothing.
For years, she’d shared with him the kind of adventures she craved. Adventures a politician’s daughter just couldn’t have. In her mind, they’d traveled to exotic islands, danced until dawn, made love on the beach with nothing but the breeze to cover them. Real life couldn’t satisfy her desire for passion and romance, but Alexander had filled that gap.
They’d had long conversations in the moonlight, and he’d listened to her hopes, her dreams. He amused her with his wit and beguiled her with his charm. Yes, she’d made him up. She knew that. But somehow she’d fallen in love with him anyway.
And over the years, she’d spent uncounted delightful hours imagining every luscious inch of him. So how was it possible that now Alexander’s details escaped her? Now, she could see only him, an Alexander bursting free of fantasy and striding toward her with such purpose that her sluggish imagination kicked back into gear, conjuring up all sorts of erotic fantasies about how they could pass a little time together.
He stepped out of the shadows and she swallowed. Oh my.
His walk marked him as confident, almost arrogant, and his firm, humorless mouth was belied by a sparkle in his eyes that reflected compassion and intelligence. Defined cheekbones and a sturdy jaw accented his freshly shaved face. Dark brown waves were slicked back in a devil-may-care style.
Even the forest green suit, Alexander’s standard attire for special occasions, was perfect. Another man might just wear the suit. Not Alexander. He commanded it, as if even clothing couldn’t escape the brute force of his magnetism.
Alexander glanced her way, then said something to a nearby woman, who turned to the crowd with the promise that Mr. Alexander would be right back.
Before Paris realized what was happening, before she could still the flutter in her chest, he caught up with her. Her breath caught as his gaze caressed her, starting at her toes, and she surprised herself by trembling under the scrutiny. She took inventory of her appearance—black heels, little black dress with spaghetti straps, pinned-up hair—and wondered if he approved.
When he reached her face, Paris saw real desire in his eyes and fought hard not to blush. When he leaned in and kissed her cheek, she almost dissolved into a puddle of goo right there.
Her logical half knew she should be throwing a fit, hurling accusations and demanding explanations. Baser instincts urged her to grab the moment, to melt into his arms and taste his kisses. She concentrated on just keeping her balance.
“We shouldn’t keep meeting like this,” he said, his voice straight from her fantasies. “People will say we’re in love.”
Paris gasped, knocked even more off-kilter. A right-punch to her stomach wouldn’t have shocked her as much. He was quoting a line from her first book, and Paris wasn’t sure if she should be comforted, or very, very worried.
She took a shaky breath. “Have you read the book?”
He hesitated. “Why do you ask?”
Paris shrugged. “No reason,” she said, trying hard to throw some ice into her tone and take control of, not only the situation, but her own leaping pulse. “It just seemed like an odd line to choose, since Joshua, the hero, says it to a female spy after she’s tried to kill him three times.”
“I assume she fails.”
Paris squirmed, aware that her own insides had turned to jelly with nothing more than the simple brush of his lips across her cheek.
“She doesn’t kill him, right?” the stranger pressed.
“He, um, he manages to convince her otherwise.”
“You mean he seduces her and manages to turn her into a counteragent. Nice technique he had, wouldn’t you say?”
“Under the circumstances, I suppose,” Paris muttered, trying to get a grip on herself.
Discussing a seduction scene with a man who could reduce her to quivers with one heated look was not a good idea. It was bad enough to have a crush on a man her imagination had conjured up, but that could be justified as a creative mind working overtime. But to have a libidinous reaction to some practical joker who was surely little more than a wanna-be actor was just plain ludicrous…no matter how much he looked and acted like the man of her dreams.
She needed to sit down, but nothing was nearby. Squatting on the floor would give entirely the wrong impression, and running screaming from the room simply wouldn’t do. She had no choice but to stick it out.
“Who are you and why are you here?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” The mild accent hinted at New York, not the cultured, almost British lilt she’d always imagined. Even so, it was familiar. She was just too rattled to remember why, who, where.
As if observing herself in a dream, she felt her features smooth into a polite mask punctuated by a sugary smile. “We need to talk.”
“We’re not talking?” His voice was almost a whisper. Sultry. Sexy.
For a moment, Paris thought that talking wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Kissing would be better. If she melted from nothing more than a peck on the cheek, imagine what a real, deep, mind-numbing kiss would do to her…
She gave herself a mental kick in the pants. He was not Alexander. He couldn’t be. And she wasn’t going to let herself crumble in a pile of lust at his feet.
“We need to talk now,” she repeated. He nodded, just barely, and pressed his hand against her lower back, guiding her toward the kitchen. His heat through the thin material distracted her, and it took all her concentration to keep her feet moving and her lips smiling.
As they moved toward the kitchen, a few people called out to him, one or two holding out a hand for him to shake, and all urging him to stop and join the party. If he stepped away from her now and started circulating among the crowd, Paris knew she’d lose what little control over the situation she still had. She held her breath, waiting for him to play his trump card. He never did. Instead, he greeted the fans with a polite smile and a promise to return. With his hand firmly on her back, he steered them both through the mass of people and into the kitchen. Even Alexander couldn’t have handled the situation any better.
She stepped away from him the second they were through the doors. She needed to get centered, to put on a businesslike front. Staying close to him would be too distracting. Too dangerous. Alexander or not, the man was lethal.
“Just who do you think you are?” she demanded.
No glib answer rolled past his lips. He offered no reassurance that all was well. Instead, his lips curved into the slightest of smiles. “Tonight, I’m Montgomery Alexander.”
There it was, that punch in the stomach. For a moment, one freakish, funky, never-to-be-repeated moment, Paris believed him. The thought skittered through her head that all these years she’d been the one impersonating him.
Determination gripped her. He was trying to confuse her. Then she remembered where she had seen those eyes. The hair was no longer blond, and the roguish beard had been shaved, but there was no mistaking his midnight blue eyes.
“Alexander’s eyes are darker,” she said, her words and tone both an accusation and a challenge. “Almost black.” Piercing, yet sensual. A contrast to this man’s warm, inviting eyes—eyes that looked as though they could see all her secrets.
“Really?” He ran his finger casually down her arm, leaving her flesh hot and anxious in his wake. “Are you sure?”
She swallowed. She wasn’t sure of anything. Except that the evening was becoming increasingly surreal and that she needed to regain her equilibrium before she lost complete control of the situation, and herself. It was as if a