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  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 shook her head to banish such ridiculous thoughts. No matter how much her body sizzled when he touched her, no matter how many goose bumps she got when she looked at him, she had no business thinking that way about her mystery man.

  Why not? She bit her lip. Why not, indeed? Wasn’t this man exactly what she’d always wanted? A slice of fantasy wrapped up in a tailored suit? A finite package of adventure chock-full of enough charisma to nourish her for the rest of her life? Didn’t she want an adventure to sustain her? And hadn’t Mr. Adventure arrived before her on a silver platter?

  Her rational side objected before she got carried away, listing all the reasons why she had no business getting involved with him. Not as much fun, perhaps, but certainly more reasonable, more rational.

  Brandon interrupted her debate by running down a list of people Alexander needed to meet during the evening. “Especially Ellis Chapman. This party was his idea, you know.”

  “Well, then, he certainly should be on the list,” Alexander agreed.

  “I suppose I should go and find him,” added Brandon. “After all, normally we’d already be well acquainted and have no need for this introductory period.”

  Paris wondered if Alexander had caught the criticism in Brandon’s voice.

  Alexander nodded slowly, as if digesting Brandon’s suggestion. “If we’d known each other, it would have been a different Montgomery Alexander. I’m only me, and I make no apologies for my quirks. But if you want me to say I would have enjoyed drinking a beer with you on my deck, and it’s a shame circumstances prevented it, then I will. And Brandon,” Alexander added, “I’ll mean it, too.”

  Brandon’s expression softened. “Every interview has said you are both an enigma and a gentleman. Every interview has been right.” Brandon shook Alexander’s hand again, nodded at Paris and then disappeared into the center of the room.

  Paris realized she was holding her breath.

  Alexander took her hand and tugged her toward the middle of the room. “Don’t you think it’s time we mingle?”

  “I’m not sure we should.”

  “Afraid I’m going to blow your cover?” He dragged his fingertips in lazy strokes up and down her palm, each pass sending her blood throbbing.

  “I…I was.”

  “And now?”

  She eased her hand free, not sure she was comfortable with the way her entire body seemed to sigh with each caress. “Right now you’re batting a thousand. I’m wondering if you can keep it up.”

  “Sommers, I’m shocked.” He held up his hands and pulled a face of mock disbelief. “Here I’ve been slaving for at least eight hours to read up on good ol’ Mr. Alexander and his very pretty manager, and you’re questioning my ability to cram. I crammed before every test in high school. I’ve got it down to an art form.”

  Paris restrained herself from laughing. “Yes, but did you pass those exams?”

  He waggled a finger. “No fair asking hard questions.”

  “That does it. We’re staying in this corner. If they really want to talk, they can come to you.” Besides, she wanted to figure out his angle.

  “Of course.” He moved closer, but didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. His proximity alone made her head spin.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that you must be pretty attracted to me if you’re going to that much trouble to keep me all to yourself.”

  She smiled sweetly, fighting to keep her breathing under control. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying? Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer?”

  “So we’re enemies?”

  “Frankly, I have no idea.”

  “Well, there you go.” He leaned against the wall, smug satisfaction dancing across his face.

  “There I go what?”

  “Just that you don’t know if I’m an enemy or a friend. But you want me around. Sounds like attraction.”

  She held her tongue. Such an infuriating man. Attraction wasn’t the point. The point was that he crashed the party—pretending to be the man of the hour—supposedly to get a date. Then, in a display of pure arrogance, assumed she was attracted to him. The idea was irritating, conceited. It was also, she conceded, exactly what Alexander would assume.

  Well, so what? True, he looked the part. And he did have a certain aura. And, yes, there was a tingle when he took her hand. But that didn’t mean…

  Okay, maybe it did. But even if Paris was attracted to him, he would be the last person she’d tell. “I think you’re confusing curiosity about your lack of manners and good character for attraction,” she finally retorted.

  “Am I?�
�

  His response was so quick that for a moment words evaded her, and he seized the advantage.

  “Let me prove myself. Let me be your knight in shining armor and ride forth into the masses spreading the glorious crusade of Montgomery Alexander.” He thrust one arm skyward as if holding a sword.

  A giggle escaped her. She couldn’t help it. He looked so silly. Besides, what choice did she really have? Montgomery Alexander hiding in the corner with his manager would do nothing to satisfy his fans and would certainly not make Ellis Chapman’s day. Any minute now, the masses would come to them.

  It’s just like swimming. Take a deep breath and jump.

  “Fine,” she said. “But we go together.”

  Arms linked, they plunged forward. Within moments, someone caught Alexander’s attention and pulled him toward the dance floor, but not before he leaned over and offered one last word of reassurance.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I promise an award-winning performance.”

  “I SHOULD HAVE COME right over,” Rachel said. “But I thought you’d hired him, and I was going to sulk a little since you’d kept me out of the loop.”

  The party was winding down, and Rachel and Paris were camped out in the darkest corner of the restaurant. The remains of crackers, cheese and plump strawberries littered their table. Paris grabbed the last strawberry and shoved the plate aside.

  “He’s amazing,” Paris said, glancing toward the dance floor where her mystery man was politely stalling a persistent redhead who kept urging him to dance. “I mean, his performance was amazing,” she added, feeling the heat pool in her cheeks. “I shadowed him for two hours, ready to rescue him, but he never said anything stupid.”

  “Is he how you pictured Alexander?”

  Paris shrugged. Rachel had hit upon the question of the hour. “It’s weird. Before, I could imagine Alexander’s hands, his scent, his walk, everything. But now, when I close my eyes, all I see is, well, him.” She nodded toward the impersonator.

  “Well, of course,” Rachel purred, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.

  “Of course? Oh please, Dr. Freud, do enlighten me.”

  “Fantasy and reality collided. Reality is winning.”

  “You really do sound like Freud.”

  “I’m serious. You’re attracted to him, and—”

  “Whoa, wait a minute. I am not attracted to him.”

  “You’re such a liar. Besides, where’s the harm?”

  “Just because he’s attractive doesn’t mean I’m attracted to him.” Paris wanted Rachel to see the difference. And she needed to convince herself there was a difference. Then Rachel’s words registered. “Harm?”

  “In a little seduction,” explained Rachel. “Where’s the harm in that?”

  “He’s not going to seduce me.” Too bad, thought Paris, taking in his broad shoulders and leading man looks. She could think of worse things than being swept away by a man like that.

  “No, no,” continued Rachel. “You should seduce him.”

  “Oh, 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 woul
d 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.