Trading Places. Ruth Jean Dale
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as?”
“The media frenzy that awful woman has whipped up.”
“What awful woman?”
Her mobile face registered surprise. “You don’t know? Gina Godfrey, of course. That witch refuses to leave me alone. The other barracudas of the press I can take or leave, but Gina’s out to get me.”
“Ah. Then Gina Godfrey is a journalist?”
“God forbid! She’s head entertainment muckraker for the U.S. Eye. And she’s devoted to making my life a living hell.”
He regarded her kindly. “That sounds almost paranoid, Sharlayne.”
“Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean nobody’s out to get me.” Her brilliant smile flashed again. How did she do that? “The problem is, I’m beginning to think I’ll never finish the book if I don’t find a little peace and quiet. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know how I got this much done.”
“Frankly,” he said, thinking about all the times he’d read her name in newspapers and seen her image on magazine covers in the past year, “neither do I. But peace and quiet aren’t your only problems.”
Her eyes widened. “They’re not?”
“You have several ex-husbands who may not want you to finish the book.”
“Oh, them.” She waved dismissively. “Every single one adores me. At least, the live ones do.”
“Even the senator?”
“Him, especially. He cried like a baby when I divorced him.”
“At his age, he could have been crying from relief. What was he, eighty?”
“Oh, you.” She tossed back her head. “Age is nothing more than a state of mind.”
“Then what’s the state of mind of those near and dear to your most recent husband?”
She somehow managed to frown without marring the perfect smoothness of her forehead. “Oh!” Understanding dawned. “You mean because to John, family had a whole different meaning. But…John’s dead. I didn’t divorce him—he died. I’m a widow. “
“Did it ever occur to you that with him gone, there’s no one to keep his family in check?”
She laughed. “Family? You make him sound like some Mafioso. John was a very classy man.”
“He was also head of one of the biggest crime families in New York. Might you not be in considerable danger, my dear? After all, you promised to reveal the unvarnished truth in your book. That could conceivably make certain parties very nervous.”
“I’ll tell the truth or not publish the book at all,” she said with dignity. “Besides, once it’s out, what can anyone do?”
“Plenty,” Linden said darkly, “but there may be those who’d prefer to stop it from being published at all…as in seeing you get cement overshoes and a quick trip to the nearest deep body of water.”
“Really, Linden.” She leaned back into the overstuffed flower-patterned chair in his library, her body graceful in simple black.
Simple clinging black.
She tapped perfect fingernails on the chair arm. “On the outside chance that I’ve overestimated my charms, I’ve come up with a scheme—oh, dear, let’s call it a plan. A plan to give me time and space to write while lulling everybody into a false sense of security, you know?”
He felt the first stirrings of concern. “I’m almost afraid to hear this.”
“Don’t be. It’s very simple. I’m going to pay someone to move into my new house in Beverly Hills. Did you know about it?”
“Everybody knows about it. You did take a television crew from a national show on a tour.”
“I did, didn’t I.” She looked pleased. “Anyway, I’m going to pay someone to move in there to impersonate me while I hole up somewhere far away and work in blissful solitude. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of months to finish if I don’t have to fight off the vultures of the press and deal with all life’s other interruptions.”
“Let me get this straight. You think you can find someone to impersonate you, one of the most famous and distinctive women in the world?”
She looked delighted. “Well, aren’t you sweet,” she said, traces of her Arkansas beginnings showing through. “I know it’s a long shot, but with proper prior planning—you’re familiar with the seven P’s?”
“I don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about.” Most of the time, in fact.
“Proper prior planning prevents piss-poor performance. My first husband used to say that. A lot, actually.” She rolled those fabulous eyes. “He said it. He didn’t live by it.”
“Are you telling me you’ve already found someone who can pass as you?”
She nodded, suddenly very serious. “Not a perfect match, of course—that would be asking too much. But she doesn’t have to be a clone or anything. With a haircut, a makeover, a little careful instruction, she can pass for me.” She frowned. “At least from a distance. I’m sure of it.”
“Never.” He shook his head decisively. “You’ll never get away with it.”
She looked hurt. “Why not?”
“Well…people know you.”
“So?”
“So they’ll see right through her, whoever she is.”
“Not necessarily.” All business, she began ticking points off on long, slender fingers. “Number one, I’ll move her into my new house with a new staff. None of them will have a clue.
“Number two, I’ll put out the word that she’s—I mean, that I’m—not feeling well. What’s a disease I can have that isn’t disfiguring or fatal?”
“Why…I don’t know. Mononucleosis?”
“No, that’s catching. Don’t they call that the kissing disease?” She shuddered. “I definitely don’t want anything like that.”
“Oh. Then…there’s always exhaustion. You hear that a lot—celebrities checking into the hospital, suffering from exhaustion.”
“But I’m not checking into a hospital,” she pointed out reasonably. “Think of something else.”
“How about a broken bone?”
She considered, finally shaking her head. “I don’t want to get into casts or anything like that,” she decided. “Been there, done that.”
“I’ve got it!” He snapped his fingers. “Laryngitis. You can’t even talk on the phone.”
Her eyes lit up. “That’s perfect. I can set up this decoy in my house, surround her with strangers—except for Tabitha, of course—and then I’ll be free to hide away and write my book. Simple.”
The mention of her personal assistant produced a grimace from Linden. Why the beauteous Sharlayne had hooked up with the formidable Tabitha Thomas was a mystery, but he knew they’d been inseparable for a decade at least.
“Where will you go?” he asked, then caught himself, realizing that now even he was treating this cockamamy idea as if it might actually work.
“I haven’t figured that out yet,” she said serenely, as though she recognized the precise instant she’d overwhelmed his objections. “Somewhere I can be completely anonymous. A mountain cabin, an isolated ranch—something like that. You wouldn’t have any ideas, would you?”
When she turned that luminous gaze on him, he didn’t have an idea in his head.