Nobody Does It Better

Paris gasped, knocked even more off-kilter. A right-punch to her stomach wouldn’t have shocked her as much. He was quoting a line from her first book, and Paris wasn’t sure if she should be comforted, or very, very worried.

She took a shaky breath. “Have you read the book?”

He hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

Paris shrugged. “No reason,” she said, trying hard to throw some ice into her tone and take control of, not only the situation, but her own leaping pulse. “It just seemed like an odd line to choose, since Joshua, the hero, says it to a female spy after she’s tried to kill him three times.”

“I assume she fails.”

Paris squirmed, aware that her own insides had turned to jelly with nothing more than the simple brush of his lips across her cheek.

“She doesn’t kill him, right?” the stranger pressed.

“He, um, he manages to convince her otherwise.”

“You mean he seduces her and manages to turn her into a counteragent. Nice technique he had, wouldn’t you say?”

“Under the circumstances, I suppose,” Paris muttered, trying to get a grip on herself.

Discussing a seduction scene with a man who could reduce her to quivers with one heated look was not a good idea. It was bad enough to have a crush on a man her imagination had conjured up, but that could be justified as a creative mind working overtime. But to have a libidinous reaction to some practical joker who was surely little more than a wanna-be actor was just plain ludicrous…no matter how much he looked and acted like the man of her dreams.

She needed to sit down, but nothing was nearby. Squatting on the floor would give entirely the wrong impression, and running screaming from the room simply wouldn’t do. She had no choice but to stick it out.

“Who are you and why are you here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The mild accent hinted at New York, not the cultured, almost British lilt she’d always imagined. Even so, it was familiar. She was just too rattled to remember why, who, where.

As if observing herself in a dream, she felt her features smooth into a polite mask punctuated by a sugary smile. “We need to talk.”

“We’re not talking?” His voice was almost a whisper. Sultry. Sexy.

For a moment, Paris thought that talking wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Kissing would be better. If she melted from nothing more than a peck on the cheek, imagine what a real, deep, mind-numbing kiss would do to her…

She gave herself a mental kick in the pants. He was not Alexander. He couldn’t be. And she wasn’t going to let herself crumble in a pile of lust at his feet.

“We need to talk now,” she repeated. He nodded, just barely, and pressed his hand against her lower back, guiding her toward the kitchen. His heat through the thin material distracted her, and it took all her concentration to keep her feet moving and her lips smiling.

As they moved toward the kitchen, a few people called out to him, one or two holding out a hand for him to shake, and all urging him to stop and join the party. If he stepped away from her now and started circulating among the crowd, Paris knew she’d lose what little control over the situation she still had. She held her breath, waiting for him to play his trump card. He never did. Instead, he greeted the fans with a polite smile and a promise to return. With his hand firmly on her back, he steered them both through the mass of people and into the kitchen. Even Alexander couldn’t have handled the situation any better.

She stepped away from him the second they were through the doors. She needed to get centered, to put on a businesslike front. Staying close to him would be too distracting. Too dangerous. Alexander or not, the man was lethal.

“Just who do you think you are?” she demanded.

No glib answer rolled past his lips. He offered no reassurance that all was well. Instead, his lips curved into the slightest of smiles. “Tonight, I’m Montgomery Alexander.”

There it was, that punch in the stomach. For a moment, one freakish, funky, never-to-be-repeated moment, Paris believed him. The thought skittered through her head that all these years she’d been the one impersonating him.

Determination gripped her. He was trying to confuse her. Then she remembered where she had seen those eyes. The hair was no longer blond, and the roguish beard had been shaved, but there was no mistaking his midnight blue eyes.

“Alexander’s eyes are darker,” she said, her words and tone both an accusation and a challenge. “Almost black.” Piercing, yet sensual. A contrast to this man’s warm, inviting eyes—eyes that looked as though they could see all her secrets.

“Really?” He ran his finger casually down her arm, leaving her flesh hot and anxious in his wake. “Are you sure?”

She swallowed. She wasn’t sure of anything. Except that the evening was becoming increasingly surreal and that she needed to regain her equilibrium before she lost complete control of the situation, and herself. It was as if a chasm yawned in front of her, compelling her to jump in, to free-fall into fantasy with this man. To live the adventure she’d always imagined.

Frowning, she urged her meandering thoughts back on track. “The other day. You’re that waiter…” she said, latching on to the one small thing she was sure about.

“Actually, I own the bar.”

“I don’t care if you own the whole city. What are you doing here?” With a start, she realized how she’d been set up. “Rachel put you up to this.”

“No.”

“Don’t give me that. How much is she paying you?” The words spilled over each other. “I’m going to kill her. I can’t believe she would hire you without telling me.”

She slammed her fist into the palm of her other hand. “Look at me. I’m a wreck. My best friend’s made me a total wreck.”

“Paris,” he whispered.

She ignored him.

“Paris.” He cupped her chin, easing her head up until she had to look at him. He dropped his hand and waited.

“What?”

“No one sent me,” he said.

Maybe it was the gentle sound of his voice. Maybe it was something noble in his eyes. Paris wasn’t sure. All she knew was that, despite circumstances and logic, she believed him.

And she wanted him to touch her again. She pushed the thought away, determined not to fall victim to the allure of this stranger. No matter how delicious the prospect.

“Then why are you here?” she demanded.

This time the confident curve of his lips became a full-fledged smile. It was everything she’d imagined Alexander’s smile would be, and more. He reached out to caress her cheek, then pulled away as if he’d been caught in the cookie jar.

A wave of disappointment crashed over Paris as his hand retreated. She fought the urge to lean forward into his touch.

“It’s nothing nefarious. I promise. I just wanted to meet you. To help you.” He looked straight into her eyes. “Actually, I wanted to ask you out.”

She blinked. “Oh. Well, you’ve got strange ideas about how to get a date.” Her retort came out softer than she’d intended. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but regardless, her indignation seemed to be sliding away. For a figment of her imagination, he’d become decidedly real. Not to mention sexy.

Stop it! This man was not Alexander. He was some anonymous party crasher who obviously had an agenda.

If the situation weren’t so absurd, it would have been tragic. Here she was, faced with some weirdo—albeit a seductive, mind-numbingly gorgeous weirdo—impersonating her livelihood, and she was all a-flutter. Like some prepubescent groupie.

She realized he’d been observing her with some apprehension, the way a trainer would study a wild animal he intended to tame. “Is that all you have to say?” She heard the edge of impatience in her voice.

“What else can I say? The situation is in your hands. Are you going to turn me in?”