The Borrowed Ring

“So what do you want to do?” he asked, discreetly keying in his computer password while he kept her distracted with conversation.

“I don't know,” she answered simply. And rather poignantly. “I only know I haven't found it yet.”

Barely twenty minutes later, he studied her across the small round dining table set against one glass wall in the sitting room. Apparently her confusion about the situation she had found herself in—coupled with a whirlwind day of travel—had not affected her appetite. She ate with a heartiness that amused him, considering her reed-slender figure.

He remembered that she had liked to eat when they were teenagers. She'd always been one of the first in line for helpings of the barbecued meats that had been the main fare of so many Walker family gatherings.

They didn't say much during the meal. He figured she was replaying the things he had said to her, trying to make sense of them and prepare herself for the role she'd been forced into assuming.

They had just dipped into their desserts when there was another knock on the door. Motioning for B.J. to continue to eat the strawberry shortcake she seemed to be enjoying so much, Daniel moved to answer.

A striking young woman in a brief red sarong-style sundress and sandals stood in the hallway next to a covered, wheeled garment rack. “Mr. Andreas?”

He couldn't help noticing the masses of sun-streaked blond hair, glossy, full lips, golden-tanned shoulders, high, firm breasts and long, tanned legs. He was only human, after all. “Yes.”

Her smile glittered, as did her violet-tinted eyes. Young Elizabeth Taylor eyes, he mused. He had no doubt that tinted contact lenses provided the color, but the result was quite nice. “I'm Heather. From the Beach-front Boutique? I understand your poor wife arrived without her luggage.”

“Yes. An unfortunate airline mix-up.” He turned toward the small dining area at the other side of the room. “B.J.?”

She was already up and moving toward them. Her short dark hair was mussed, any makeup she had worn earlier had worn off and her slightly oversize camp shirt and khakis emphasized her slender frame.

Many men, perhaps, would have preferred Heather's more obvious feminine charms. Yet Daniel found himself increasingly fascinated by B.J.'s subtle—and completely natural—attractions.

“Heather, this is my wife,” he said, helping her roll the bulky garment rack inside. “Darling, I'm sure you'll be glad to have some fresh clothing to change into.”

He noticed that Heather was eying B.J. in surprise, as if she had expected her to look different. Heather was accustomed, he imagined, to very wealthy men with sleek, ultragroomed eye-candy wives.

He didn't blame her for that expectation, of course. When he had very briefly considered casting the role of his “wife” for this trip, that was exactly the type of woman he would have selected. Someone who looked rich and pampered and a bit disconnected from the real world.

He had rejected the idea of bringing someone along because he was concerned that the situation would become too complicated. Too distracting.

He'd had no idea, of course, that fate would step in to provide a make-believe wife for him. And that fate's choice would be even more complicated and distracting than anyone else Daniel could possibly have found on his own.

Chapter Three

At Daniel's request, Heather left the clothing for B.J. to examine in private. She promised to return in an hour to collect the rack and invoice the selections.

When Heather departed, Daniel removed the cover from the wheeled rack. He motioned toward the colorful garments hanging from the top bar and neatly folded into clear plastic boxes fitted into the bottom part of the display rack. “There you are. A boutique on wheels, with everything in your size.”

Hands on her hips, she looked from the rack to his decidedly smug expression. “You enjoy snapping your fingers and having people jump to please you, don't you?”

His eyebrows lifted, as if he was surprised that she had even to ask. “Of course.”

“Just what have you been up to for the past thirteen years, Daniel?”

Displaying that annoyingly selective hearing again, he turned toward the clothing rack and plucked a hanger from the rod. “This would look good on you.”

The yellow cotton sundress clipped to the hanger was strapless and short and tailored to fit very snugly. “That's not really my style.”

“Yes, but remember, you're playing a new role here. You're wealthy, stylish and accustomed to designer fashions.”

“According to your backstory, I'm depressed and too self-absorbed to even notice that you're frittering away my money. Would a person like that really wear skimpy, brightly colored dresses?”

“Ah, but you also adore the husband who treats you like delicate and valuable glass. You would certainly want to dress to please him.”

She scowled, wondering if he was always so quick at coming up with counterarguments. Just once she would like to win one of their verbal skirmishes. “I don't like yellow.”

“In that case…” He replaced the sundress and pulled out a similar one in deep fuchsia. “Is this better?”

“Maybe I should just select a couple of things for myself,” she said, moving toward the rack.

“Since it's important that you present the image Drake is expecting, I feel compelled to assist you in your selections.”

“And when did you start talking like that? That isn't the way you used to talk when I knew you before. Back when you were Daniel Castillo,” she couldn't resist adding.

She hadn't been surprised to learn from a reliable source that he was now using his mother's maiden name, but she wanted him to know that this masquerade hadn't erased from her mind the reality of who he had once been.

For just a moment his self-satisfied smile faded. She could almost see a few painful old memories swirl in his dark eyes before he hid again behind the bland mask he donned so easily. “Yes, well, you aren't the only one playing a role.”

Changing the subject then, he pulled several garments from the rack, piling them into B.J.'s arms. “These look as though they would work for you. Why don't you take them into the bedroom and let's see how well they fit.”

She peered at him over the huge pile of clothing. “You expect a fashion show?”

His faint smile back in place, he dropped onto the sofa and draped an arm over its curvy back. “I think I'd enjoy that.”

She was strongly tempted to give him a suggestion he would not enjoy quite so much, but she bit her tongue to hold it back. For one thing, she wasn't one to use such language easily. For another, she had a glum suspicion that Daniel was right.

Given her own tastes in clothing, she would probably never pass for a wealthy socialite. Her poor mother had tried for years to talk her into dressing with more of an eye for fashion than comfort.

She sighed heavily. “When this is over, you are going to owe me big-time for saving your butt.”

“Technically you're saving both our butts,” he pointed out equably. “But when this is over, I will definitely owe you whatever penalty you choose to make me pay.”

“I'm glad you agree. Thinking about that penalty will help me get through this ordeal.”

He grimaced slightly, as though well aware of the punishments her imagination could conjure up. “Try on some clothes,” he said. “You have less than an hour before Heather will be back.”

Turning on one heel, she stamped into the bedroom, which wasn't easy when she could barely see over the pile of clothing she carried. Daniel didn't offer to assist her. He probably knew she would have snarled at him had he tried.

Daniel turned out to be surprisingly difficult to please. While B.J. would have just grabbed the first things that fit, he seemed to have a shrewd eye for what suited her best, rejecting the outfits that hung too loosely on her slender frame or were less than flattering to her skin tone. She was beginning to feel like a mannequin by the time he finally approved a couple of sun-dresses—including the fuchsia one—several summery capri-pants-and-top sets and one classic black sheath.

“This is too much,” she protested. “We aren't going to be here that long.”

“You never know,” he replied with a shrug. “Besides, the clothes look good on you. You should keep them.”

“And who's paying for them?” she asked tartly.

“That needn't concern you.”