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  “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 his voice. From the way she cocked her head, he was pretty sure she’d caught the inflection.

  “Interesting? Why?” She pulled out the hairpins holding up her mass of blond curls. They tumbled down, and her fingers intertwined in one long strand. God, she was adorable.

  “I’ve been keeping some tabs on you, too. I wonder if we’ve been thinking about the same thing.”

  Twirl, twirl. Devin didn’t think Paris realized what she was doing. A nervous habit, perhaps. But what was making her nervous? A little innocent flirting?

  He raked his eyes over that dress again, taking in the way it clung to her delicious curves, then back up to her soulful eyes and sun-kissed hair. The beginning of an erection strained against his fly.

  To hell with innocent. The woman was a siren.

  “You said you came because you wanted to go out with me.” Her voice held only the slightest tremor. “I was wondering if you meant that.”

  “Of course.” Go out with her, hold her, touch her, taste the sweetness of her skin. Make love to her.

  “The party’s wrapping up. Are you tired?” The finger returned to that one strand of hair, and Devin imagined the soft lock caressing his chest, her fingers combing through his own hair as she lost herself to passion.

  He’d lost his train of thought. “What?”

  She hesitated. “Never mind. It was nothing. I’ll just say good-night.”

  “No, no.” He took her bare arm, delighting in its softness and anxious to know if the rest of her was as silky. Unable to help himself, he traced his finger up her arm, then across her delicate shoulder, and finally along the neckline of her dress. “Have a drink with me.”

  She took a shuddering breath. “I…I really shouldn’t. It’s late.”

  “’Then stay with me until it’s early, and I’ll ask you again.’”

  She looked up, stern, but the desire in her dark eyes told a different story. “Have you memorized every one of my books?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Just a few choice lines to help you get what you want?”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe it’s just coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?”

  Devin kissed the back of her hand, letting his lips linger on the delicate skin. He wanted to taste more of her. All of her. “Maybe I’m coming up with these lines entirely on my own. I could be the man you’ve always dreamed of. Do you really want to risk turning me away?”

  He expected her to laugh and say he wasn’t the stuff of anyone’s dreams, much less hers. It would break the ice, and they could have a relaxing drink, talk, and explore where this chemistry between them would lead. Her hotel room, perhaps? Heat coursed through him and he wondered if she’d be keen on skipping the drink, the talk.

  But she wasn’t laughing. Instead, her brow furrowed. Rather than putting him down, she took a step backward.

  Okay, mistake in judgment. If he didn’t regroup quickly, Devin would never get close to her. He frowned, remembering why he was really there.

  He had to get close to her, had to bring up the money.

  “Or not,” he said, wishing he could think of something a little more articulate.

  She squinted at him. “What?” Although only a few steps from him, it seemed as if she had retreated to the far side of the restaurant.

  “I mean I did memorize your books. Well, not every book. A friend culled key lines. We put them on cue cards. I crammed.”

  A bug. That’s what he felt like under her stare. A big, fuzzy bug pinned to acid-free paper and baking under a bare lightbulb.

  “Cue cards?” she repeated.

  Devin fished in his jacket pocket, finally pulling out a handful of note cards. He held one out like a peace offering.

  She took it gingerly, as if it might bite.

  “’My job? It’s wild and dangerous, but not as dangerous as my passion for you.’ Were you planning on using that line tonight?”

  If Jerry were around, Devin might just have to kill him for including that card among the bunch. Since Jerry was safe and sound in Brooklyn, Devin chose another tact.

  “Maybe. I like to keep my options open.”

  Her mouth twitched. “You do? Why?”

  “Because I like to get what I want. And I’m willing to work for it.”

  Her eyes softened. “What do you want?”

  “A lot of things.” Her. To see raw, sexual heat reflected in her eyes. To know that right then, right there, she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  “For example, I’ve been wanting to do this all night.” He heard her breath catch as he moved toward her. Eyes closed, she leaned toward him, soft and sweet and sexy. Desire radiated from her, and he knew she wanted his kiss.

  Wanted him. Devin O’Malley, Montgomery Alexander, it didn’t matter. She wanted the man standing next to her. No matter what name she might give him, tonight Devin was that man.

  Molten desire boiled in his veins. His body craved the feel of her mouth under his, her fingers gliding over his skin, her breasts pressed hard against his naked chest.

  Devin groaned, quelling the urge to take her mouth, to explore with his hands the secrets she had hiding under that sexy little dress. He wanted to let her excitement build slowly, even if it killed him. To wait until her head was just as sure as her body of how much she needed him close to her. Inside her.

  His palms cupped her cheeks, pulling her closer. She trembled as his fingers glided across her skin, skimming over the top of her ears, then tangling deep in her loose curls.

  She tilted her head back, her lips parted, eager and moist. Waiting. Waiting for him.

  “Fabulous,” he murmured.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Fabul—”

  She opened her eyes, still lazy and soft with desire. “Fabulous?” she asked. “My hair? That’s what you’ve been wanting to do all night? Play with my hair?”

  “It’s hypnotic. Hair like that could have felled an entire army. Helen of Troy and all that.” His voice was husky with lust, and it took every ounce of his strength to keep from touching his mouth to hers, to keep from giving her what she wanted. What he wanted, too.

  “I’m…well, thank you, but…”

  She frowned, and he knew she was trying to figure out his angle. “You really just wanted to touch my hair?”

  The disappointment in her voice humbled him.

  “Actually, there was something else.”

  She smiled, almost shyly, and his heart raced. “Yes?”

  “I’d still like to buy you a drink.”

  She hesitated, her small tongue flicking over her lips. He held his breath. Was she, like him, wondering if maybe skipping a drink and going straight to her room might be the better plan? Or maybe she was trying to talk herself out of even the drink?

  “All right,” Paris agreed at last. “But just one drink.”

  He exhaled, relieved, and held his hand out to her.

  “You have my word,” he assured.

  But after the drink…? Well, he’d make no promises about that.

  HE KEPT HIS WORD, too, Paris thought. An hour later she was still sitting across from him in a secluded booth near the back of the hotel’s deserted bar, one unfinished drink between them. Meant to serve twelve, the drink, called a “House on Fire,” combined vodka, rum, banana liqueur, coconut and other fruit flavors into a concoction the menu said was a favorite at parties. Mystery Man and Paris hadn’t made a dent.

  He also hadn’t made a pass. And despite the heated way he kept looking at her, she was starting to think that all he really wanted was the drink and a little small talk.

  Well, what did you exp
ect? He’s your fantasy, but that doesn’t mean you’re his.

  Paris sighed. She was beginning to feel like a tennis match was going on in her head. Yes, she wanted to sleep with Alexander. No, she didn’t want to sleep with Mystery Man. Yes, no, yes, no.

  The “no’s,” of course, were a lie. She did want to sleep with one of him, more than she’d ever wanted any man. But that would be a mistake. She needed to keep reminding herself. He wasn’t Alexander, and sleeping with him would be a huge, giant, mind-blowing mistake.

  Too bad. He’d barely even touched her and already her body mourned his absence.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  You’re not touching me. That’s what’s wrong. But she didn’t say it. Instead, she shook her head. “No, not at all.”

  Whatever game he was playing, she’d hold her own. She plucked a slice of orange out of the huge bowl that housed their mammoth drink. “I want to know about you. I mean, how on earth did you manage to end up here tonight?”

  Alexander reached across the table to stroke her cheek, the caress electric and inviting. Without thinking, she pressed her face into his palm, soaking up the warmth before he pulled away. He didn’t let the contact between them break, however. As soon as one hand left her face, the other took her fingers.

  “You already know everything. Didn’t you invent me?”

  “I’m beginning to think I did.” Paris’s thoughts became fuzzy as she lost herself in his caress. Fingers intertwined as he traced the outline of her hand. His skin, slightly calloused, melded with hers that was lotioned and pampered. He dragged his fingernails lightly across her palm. The effect was torture, almost a tickle, and completely erotic in its casualness.

  She blinked, then remembered to breathe. “Maybe I conjured you up in my head and you just fell from the sky like manna.”

  “So why did you make me up?”

  Why indeed? How could she explain? She’d needed an author for her books, true. But that wasn’t the whole story. She’d been lonely, plain and simple. And the sunsets in Texas, orange and purple and vibrant, were too perfect to share with just anyone. How many times had she sat, alone, above the river sipping coffee and waiting for the sun to set? She’d never met a man worthy of sharing her sunsets.

  So she’d made him up.

  She opened her mouth, trying to find the words to explain about twilight, then shut it again. That wasn’t a secret she wanted to share.

  “Paris?”

  She took another sip while she collected her wits and considered what part of the truth to tell him. “Necessity.”

  “You had no choice but to write novels under a fake name?”

  Paris laughed. “Are we talking about me, or philosophizing about free will?” She shrugged. “I thought it was necessary. It’s even more necessary now.”

  “Why?” He leaned toward her, elbows on the table, his chin resting on his fists while still clasping her hand. As he slowly rubbed his chin along their joined hands, the slight prickle of his evening beard grazed her fingertips and his breath mingled with her skin. His earthy scent teased her, sending her head swirling to dizzying heights.

  His appearance was innocent, like a fascinated student caught up in the wonder of learning. The effect was anything but innocent. Paris couldn’t escape her body’s reaction. Her palms were damp, her stomach fluttery. She wondered if he could see her tight nipples under the thin black dress.

  Only their hands were touching. She wanted so much more.

  “What’s so special about Alexander?”

  She gaped at him, letting his words sink in. Something clicked in her head. Montgomery Alexander didn’t exist. So who was this man sitting across from her and making her pulse burn? Slowly she took her hand back. “What’s with the twenty questions?”

  “Maybe I want to get to know you.”

  “Or maybe you’re up to something,” she retorted, careful to lace her voice with a slight tease. She might want the truth, but she didn’t want to scare him away getting it. She knew he wasn’t Alexander. But he was close. And real. And sexy.

  Just being there with him was more adventure than she’d ever had. And touching him, feeling the way she did when he touched her back, well, she could store that memory away and live on it forever.

  Mystery Man leaned back in the booth, his eyes widening. “Up to something? Why on earth would you think that?” She quirked an eyebrow, and was rewarded with his chuckle. “Fair enough. I’ll grant that you’ve got a few good reasons.”

  He took her hand, and she glanced down at their casually intertwined fingers. The touch lacked the earlier erotic caress, but the contact affected her all the same. She took a shaky breath and looked back up into his eyes.

  “Really, Paris,” he continued, the sparkle in his eyes matching the smile on his mouth. “I’d like to know. Why was I necessary?”

  I? He spoke as if he really was Montgomery Alexander. Paris couldn’t shake the feeling that she was having a drink with a man she had known for years, not just hours. A man she’d dreamed about forever.

  Of course he wasn’t Alexander, and for a second she thought she should argue with him, pursue uncovering whatever he was up to, at least for the sake of appearances. But the desire to share her secret with this enigmatic, fascinating man overwhelmed her. And that confused her even more than the fire that consumed her every time he looked her way.

  “There were lots of reasons,” she said, pulling her hand away and focusing on her words. She started to tick them off on her fingers. “I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but my dad never took my writing seriously. I love him to death, but it’s no secret that a lot rides on the family name. He’s a federal judge in Houston, the fifth in a long line of judges, with various other relatives owning companies, performing heart surgery, politicking.”

  Paris heard his slight cough as she switched hands to offer more reasons. This talking was good. It proved his proximity hadn’t killed her ability to form a coherent sentence.

  “Does your mom know?”

  “She died when I was three. I think that fueled Daddy’s zest for watching out for his little girl. And mine for not wanting to disappoint him.” She shrugged. “That’s why I went to law school—Daddy wanted me to. But I came here for school, to New York I mean, and I wrote whenever I wasn’t studying. About the time I graduated, I sold a story to Desperado, the men’s magazine.”

  “Let me guess. You published under a pseudonym, figuring your dad wouldn’t find out. Desperado also publishes pulp paperbacks, and they wanted one from you. And then another, and it snowballed.”

  “You’re good. If you’re wondering, the story ends with the good daughter telling Daddy that she’s opening her own law firm. She moves back to Texas, but settles in Austin. She figured that was near enough to Houston to keep Daddy happy, but far enough for a little distance. And, surprise, surprise, she soon lands a major client, up-and-coming author Montgomery Alexander. Eventually, she becomes his manager. Daddy’s proud, because she’s doing well, but he’s a little bit miffed that she spends so much time promoting the author of ‘those kinds’ of books.”

  Paris took a long sip of the drink before continuing. “So I’ve got myself stuck. I don’t want to tell him because of his reaction to the books themselves, and I can’t tell him now because it’s ballooned so much.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  Paris studied the pattern in her cocktail napkin, only half noticing that it required significant effort to see only one, not four, designs. “Daddy not knowing?”

  “Nobody knowing.”

  “Some people know,” Paris replied, feeling like a schoolgirl trying to argue her way out of a failing grade in a subject she’d never studied.

  “Who?”

  “Well, Rachel. And now you.”

  “Oh, yeah, lots of people know.”

  She heard the sarcasm.

  “I didn’t say lots. I said some people. You’re ‘some people.’” Two, actually. Mont
gomery Alexander and Mystery Man.

  His dimple appeared. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  She smiled at him, then sighed. “It doesn’t matter anyway, because I won’t be writing these books forever. I’m working on an epic novel. Very literary. Very Oprah.”

  “Does Brandon know?”

  “That I’m writing a literary novel?”

  “That you write these books that Daddy doesn’t approve of.”

  “Isn’t it my turn for questions?” Paris asked, wishing she were bold enough to suggest they just skip to the kissing part.

  Thankfully, kissing wasn’t sex, at least as long as they didn’t get carried away. Which meant kissing was within the random boundaries she’d drawn within her plan, a loophole she’d quite happily exploit.

  “Humor me.”

  Paris knew the big picture eluded her, but the alcohol was making her thoughts mushy. Why was he asking these questions? What didn’t he want her to know? Before she could figure out how to challenge him, Alexander jumped in with another query.

  “So why doesn’t Brandon know? He seems like a nice guy.”

  “He is a nice guy. Same reason, I guess. I didn’t think I could tell him at first, and now it’s too late. Besides, I kind of like getting his unfiltered reaction to my work.”

  Kissing, she thought, trying to throw psychic energy his way. Forget Brandon and concentrate on kissing. She focused on his forehead and tried out Rachel’s most seductive smile.

  “Why didn’t you just tell him at the beginning?”

  So much for her psychic abilities. “If you knew Brandon, you’d understand. He started his career at Desperado. The most prominent thing in his office was a poster of six women wearing bikinis made out of the flag and toting rifles. It was on the wall next to his safari trophies.”

  She watched his face to make sure he had the scene firmly in mind. “Now picture me. Early-twenties, size six, frequently described by my friends as perky. I was afraid if he knew I wrote it, he’d ooze so much testosterone that the book would lose what little literary merit I’d managed to cram into the hundred and fifty thousand words.”