Nobody Does It Better. Julie Kenner
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You’re that waiter…” she said, latching on to the one small thing she was sure about.
“Actually, I own the bar.”
“I don’t care if you own the whole city. What are you doing here?” With a start, she realized how she’d been set up. “Rachel put you up to this.”
“No.”
“Don’t give me that. How much is she paying you?” The words spilled over each other. “I’m going to kill her. I can’t believe she would hire you without telling me.”
She slammed her fist into the palm of her other hand. “Look at me. I’m a wreck. My best friend’s made me a total wreck.”
“Paris,” he whispered.
She ignored him.
“Paris.” He cupped her chin, easing her head up until she had to look at him. He dropped his hand and waited.
“What?”
“No one sent me,” he said.
Maybe it was the gentle sound of his voice. Maybe it was something noble in his eyes. Paris wasn’t sure. All she knew was that, despite circumstances and logic, she believed him.
And she wanted him to touch her again. She pushed the thought away, determined not to fall victim to the allure of this stranger. No matter how delicious the prospect.
“Then why are you here?” she demanded.
This time the confident curve of his lips became a full-fledged smile. It was everything she’d imagined Alexander’s smile would be, and more. He reached out to caress her cheek, then pulled away as if he’d been caught in the cookie jar.
A wave of disappointment crashed over Paris as his hand retreated. She fought the urge to lean forward into his touch.
“It’s nothing nefarious. I promise. I just wanted to meet you. To help you.” He looked straight into her eyes. “Actually, I wanted to ask you out.”
She blinked. “Oh. Well, you’ve got strange ideas about how to get a date.” Her retort came out softer than she’d intended. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but regardless, her indignation seemed to be sliding away. For a figment of her imagination, he’d become decidedly real. Not to mention sexy.
Stop it! This man was not Alexander. He was some anonymous party crasher who obviously had an agenda.
If the situation weren’t so absurd, it would have been tragic. Here she was, faced with some weirdo—albeit a seductive, mind-numbingly gorgeous weirdo—impersonating her livelihood, and she was all a-flutter. Like some prepubescent groupie.
She realized he’d been observing her with some apprehension, the way a trainer would study a wild animal he intended to tame. “Is that all you have to say?” She heard the edge of impatience in her voice.
“What else can I say? The situation is in your hands. Are you going to turn me in?”
Paris was half-tempted to say yes, but both she and this stranger would know she was lying. She couldn’t reveal him as a fraud without looking absurd herself, and certainly not without producing the “real” Montgomery Alexander. She had no choice but to continue the charade.
She needed him. And he damn well knew it.
Of course, there was a bright side. Ellis had made his rules very clear—no Alexander, no hardback or multi-book contract. Now, that little hurdle had been satisfied.
“Well?” he prodded. “What are you going to do?”
Through the window in the swinging kitchen door, Paris saw Brandon Foster, Montgomery Alexander’s editor, approaching fast. That nailed her decision.
“Just remember who you’re not, and don’t do anything to get either of us in trouble.” She smoothed her dress, trying to gear up for her impromptu performance. Then she pushed through the door, the evening’s Alexander at her heels.
As soon as Brandon was close enough to overhear, Paris planted a kiss on both of the stranger’s cheeks in stereotypical New York fashion, but still slow enough to absorb his scent. It reminded her more of a redwood forest than the streets of Manhattan. Primitive, earthy and masculine.
“Alexander,” she scolded gently in a voice loud enough for Brandon, “I was beginning to think you’d missed your flight.”
The last bit of wariness faded from the stranger’s eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched just slightly. Then he swung an arm around her and pulled her close, as if he’d held her that way a million times before. Automatically, she melted against him, her head resting against his shoulder.
“Sommers, I’m surprised. You know I’d never let you down.”
This man had done his homework. Only one magazine article mentioned that Alexander called his manager by her last name of Sommers, just as she routinely referred to him only as Alexander.
“Good to finally meet you, old man,” said Brandon, extending his hand. “I can’t believe that for six years you didn’t make an exception and let me meet you in person.”
Paris watched as Brandon quit pumping Alexander’s hand. Had she just thought of him as Alexander again? Stop that. He’s not Alexander. He’s a stranger. She pulled out of his embrace. His nearness must be making her confused.
“Not everything’s entirely in my control.” The stranger’s voice was more clipped and less New York than it had been when they were alone. A remarkable performance, really. She had the feeling she was watching an actor playing a duke or some other British noble.
Then the stranger’s last words registered, and Paris opened her mouth to protest. Was he suggesting she’d kept Alexander away from Brandon?
Brandon cocked his head toward Paris. “So our little angel here kept us apart, eh?”
“I’m afraid so.”
How dare he! “I never—”
“She’s kept me locked in a basement in London, a sex slave chained to a typewriter, for the past few years.”
Her jaw dropped, even as wicked and surprisingly appealing images flashed through her head.
Brandon’s eyes went wide. “You two are a—”
“No,” Paris interjected. “No, we’re not.”
“I was just pulling your chain, old man. I leave the business end to Sommers because I don’t have the stomach for the grinder you literary types put my manuscripts through.” Alexander’s smile broadened. “Without Sommers I’d probably go into a less stressful career. Like espionage.”
Paris could have kissed him. Not only had he confirmed her story that it was the author, not the manager, who was the recluse, but he’d hinted at a background in espionage.
Whether Ellis had started it or not, the long-standing rumor that the books were fictionalized accounts of Alexander’s life as a spy seemed to boost sales, so she certainly wasn’t going to complain. Besides, in her mind, the line between Alexander and his hero had always been a bit murky. Except for the fact that he didn’t actually exist at all, the author Alexander was every bit as much the poised, polished secret agent as the fictional hero, Joshua Malloy.
She looked at the stranger, who was chatting amiably with Brandon. With his drop-dead good looks, tailored suit and unflappable air, he seemed to have Alexander down pat. Hell, he claimed he was Alexander, at least for tonight. Absurd.
But the champagne, the party, her stranger—they were a heady mix. She wouldn’t admit it out loud, didn’t even want to admit it to herself, but for tonight she wished it could be true. She wished he really were Alexander.
When he looked her way, she smiled, then concentrated on the floor. Maybe it was just the champagne, but part of her was starting to believe he really was.
Paris