Nobody Does It Better

Paris was half-tempted to say yes, but both she and this stranger would know she was lying. She couldn’t reveal him as a fraud without looking absurd herself, and certainly not without producing the “real” Montgomery Alexander. She had no choice but to continue the charade.

She needed him. And he damn well knew it.

Of course, there was a bright side. Ellis had made his rules very clear—no Alexander, no hardback or multi-book contract. Now, that little hurdle had been satisfied.

“Well?” he prodded. “What are you going to do?”

Through the window in the swinging kitchen door, Paris saw Brandon Foster, Montgomery Alexander’s editor, approaching fast. That nailed her decision.

“Just remember who you’re not, and don’t do anything to get either of us in trouble.” She smoothed her dress, trying to gear up for her impromptu performance. Then she pushed through the door, the evening’s Alexander at her heels.

As soon as Brandon was close enough to overhear, Paris planted a kiss on both of the stranger’s cheeks in stereotypical New York fashion, but still slow enough to absorb his scent. It reminded her more of a redwood forest than the streets of Manhattan. Primitive, earthy and masculine.

“Alexander,” she scolded gently in a voice loud enough for Brandon, “I was beginning to think you’d missed your flight.”

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?”