Nobody Does It Better. Julie Kenner
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well that’s…have you lost your mind?” Paris blustered, pulling her gaze away from Alexander.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it. He practically dropped out of the sky into your lap. He admits he wants to go out with you. What better way to get a boy toy?”
“Rachel!” She’d played with the idea earlier, true. Who wouldn’t have? But there was no way she’d go through with it. Really. Rachel was just being ridiculous. For one thing, Paris wasn’t the seducing type. And even if she was…
Well, she wasn’t. So it didn’t matter.
Paris felt Rachel’s stare, then saw the diabolical grin.
“Uh-huh,” said Rachel. “You know you want to. He’s your fantasy come true.” She grabbed her purse and hauled it onto her lap.
“I’m not looking for a fantasy,” Paris urged, as much to herself as her friend. “You know my plan.”
“Oh, right. Two more of these books. Sock away the money. Finish your dreary epic. Publish it under your real name. Retire Alexander. Admit to your father you’re a writer, but of fine literature that won’t embarrass the family name. Find a suitable man—that means boring, by the way—and have babies. The end. How could I have forgotten your brilliant plan?”
“You’re going to use a lifetime’s supply of sarcasm in one sitting. And there’s nothing wrong with my plan,” Paris insisted, ignoring the niggling feeling that maybe there was.
“Are you supposed to be a nun in the meantime?”
Paris squirmed, not wanting to admit just how appealing Rachel’s seduction plan sounded. Instead, she parried, figuring that the best defense was a good offense. “You’re not exactly practicing what you preach,” she said, then immediately regretted her words.
Rachel shot her a tentative glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Paris shrugged, not sure it was the time or the place to explore the truckload of issues surrounding Rachel’s love life. To say Rachel had self-confidence issues was an understatement. An overweight, plain little girl from the wrong side of the tracks, Rachel had been teased mercilessly during grammar school. And the torment had escalated in high school after Paris had moved away. She might have grown up and slimmed down and turned into a knockout, but Paris didn’t think Rachel saw her true self in the mirror. And so she overcompensated something fierce.
“All I mean is that you’ve dumped the last dozen guys you’ve dated without so much as a good-night kiss. You’re hardly the roving expert on seduction,” Paris said. During their years together in college and law school, Paris had watched Rachel master the art of flirting. Now, she attracted a constant stream of men, but always cut them loose before they got too close. Paris didn’t need a textbook on pop psychology to see why. Rachel couldn’t handle being the one to get dumped, so she cut the possibility off at the pass. And as a result, she never got close to anyone.
“That’s completely different,” Rachel insisted. “The men I date are potential relationship material. When it’s obvious things won’t work out, I let them down gently.” Paris opened her mouth to argue, but her friend didn’t let her get a word in. “Besides, I’m not suggesting you marry this guy. You just need to have a little fun. Especially if the rest of your life is going to be the utter doldrums.” Rachel continued to rummage in her purse, finally pulling out three little plastic packets. Condoms.
“For crying out loud, Rachel,” Paris snapped, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. “I don’t need these.”
“Just take them,” coaxed Rachel, opening Paris’s purse and dropping them in.
Paris grimaced. The last thing she needed was to get involved with a guy who impersonated authors to get a date. Even one so intriguing and sexy? She shoved the thought away. She needed to focus on work…not long, steamy nights with Alexander or the waiter or whoever the hell he was.
Still, a little more time together would give her a chance to figure out what he was up to. And why not have a one-night fling? How many women had the chance to cuddle up to their fantasy man? She shivered from the memory of his taut, tight muscles. Of the way her body had caught fire from just the touch of his fingertip.
She sighed.
Get a grip, Paris.
No way was she going to bed with the guy. It simply was not going to happen. He wasn’t Alexander, and that was the end of that. Plain and simple.
Except…
Already she missed the way her blood burned when he looked toward her, missed the way her skin tingled when he was nearby. She grazed her teeth across her lower lip. She did want an adventure. And a tall, dark and handsome one had just materialized out of thin air. So maybe Rachel was right. Maybe a little seduction was in order.
No, no, no. She curled her hands into tight fists. Sleeping with him was out of the question. It would be a mistake—indulgent and foolish.
But why couldn’t she spend a little more time with him? A little flirting would be innocent enough. What would be the harm in that?
Before her mind could think up a reason, she pushed herself out of her chair. “The party’s wrapping up. I should go collect my Alexander.”
3
BY THE END OF THE PARTY, Devin held new respect for actors. He’d been “on” for five hours. Three hundred minutes of smiling and hand-shaking. Eighteen thousand seconds of an award-winning performance.
He’d forgotten how much work it was to stay in character for so long. His head throbbed, fire lapped at his feet and demons tormented each muscle. If Paris knew how grueling the evening had been, she would gladly write his check.
Paris.
His body wasn’t too tired to express extreme appreciation for the way the flimsy black dress hugged her, defying gravity with the help of two thin straps. He watched, enraptured, as she maneuvered through the last few guests, kissing cheeks and shaking hands. Primped and manicured, blond and bouncy, she was the complete opposite of the listless, life-weary women who had littered the streets of his childhood neighborhood.
She hypnotized him. Paris was everything Devin had ever hoped to find in a woman, but knew he could never have.
You don’t belong here. Memories flooded back. His father, stressing diction and poise. His uncle, teaching him French. It never hurt for a grifter to have a touch of class, they’d said.
His schooling had started with street sessions. He and his father pulling the old switcheroo and conning store owners out of change for a twenty, when he’d paid with only a fiver. The movie Paper Moon had shown that maneuver to the world, but still they’d never been caught. Easy cons, kid stuff. Then came the bigger deals. Scams that would prepare him for life on the street.
He knew his father had only been looking out for him, and Devin loved him for it. But he didn’t love his father’s life-style. So he’d spent a lifetime working and studying, all so he could escape his father’s shadow, and this is where he’d ended up. Pulling a con on the most adorable woman he’d ever met.
“Hey stranger.” She eased up beside him, linking her arm through his as if they’d stood together a hundred times. Her touch excited Devin as much as her familiarity saddened him. He fought the urge to pull her tight against him and cursed sentimentality. She was a mark. Nothing more. Quit thinking you’re better than your background.
“Hey yourself,” he said, shaking off the mood and matching her smile. “You left me. I was beginning to think you’d decided you could trust me alone.”
Her grin blossomed, punctuated by a wink. “Not a chance. I’ve been keeping tabs on you from a distance.”
“Have you? That’s interesting.” He’d injected a lascivious note into