The One-Week Marriage

THE next morning at eight o’clock, Izzy found herself being handed onto a small, sleek jet by one of two pleasant-looking men in black uniforms and pilots’ caps. When she and her boss entered the cabin, Izzy was struck by the exquisitely appointed white leather interior and plush carpeting. The seats were as big and cushy as armchairs, and were separated by small tables, making each grouping an intimate setting for two. There were three such seating areas on either side of the aisle. Two couples were already on board, seated across the aisle from each other in the forward table groupings.

Izzy tried not to show stunned surprise when her boss’s hand went to her waist in a display of husbandly affection.

The fraud had begun in earnest.

“Did I tell you how nice you look today?” Mr. Parish whispered.

She went stock-still and stared. “No.” His smile was warm and believably loving. If Izzy didn’t know better, she would have been convinced her boss was truly devoted to her. Ha!

“Then you should be told. You look lovely—darling,” he reaffirmed, this time louder.

She lifted her chin and forced a smile. He might as well be complimenting himself. He picked out the dress! She had to admit, the sleeveless frock was beautiful, fashioned out of sand-colored faille and splashed with tropical blossoms and ferns. With its above-the-knee, sarong-wrap skirt, it offered an occasional flash of thigh. Coupled with ankle-strap sandals with high, wedged heels, Izzy didn’t think she looked much like an executive assistant. At least not one who could actually type and take dictation.

“Why, thank you—lovikuns.” The ridiculous pet name just popped out. Miffed about his manipulations to get her involved in this hoax, she couldn’t keep her feelings completely buried. “You know I live for your approval.” She fluttered her lashes, noting how his forehead wrinkled ever so slightly, though he maintained his devoted-spouse expression.

He coaxed her down the aisle. With the touch of his hand scorching her waist, he bent to whisper, “Lovikuns?” Her ear tickled with the brush of his lips. “Don’t overdo it, Peabody.”

He took her hand to help her up to the raised seating area. She was surprised when he touched the chair’s arm and it swiveled out for easy access. Once again, she kept her surprise to herself. Mr. Parish didn’t seem inclined to buy his own plane, at least not yet, so she wasn’t accustomed to such unexpected frills. Clearly Mr. Hugo Rufus had a lot to lose if he couldn’t find a way to make Yum-Yum a household word again. She wondered how much longer the sweet old man could hold onto his fancy plane.

Once Izzy was settled, Mr. Parish slid into the chair on the other side of the small, marble-top table they shared. Gathering her hand into his, he lifted her fingertips to his lips and brushed them with a kiss. “I think of this trip as a second honeymoon, darling.” His eyes held such tenderness she had an urge to turn around to see who he was talking to, but at the last second she remembered her role.

And he said not to overdo it?

“My very thoughts.” Her smile was more like a smirk, since she faced away from the other guests. Withdrawing her fingers, she dropped her hand to the table. “But, don’t you think we should meet these nice people—lambie-pie?”

His lips twitched wryly at her smart-aleck endearment, but he was hardly in a position to reprimand her, and she knew it. “Of course, darling.” Placing a hand over the one she had removed from his, he swiveled to better see those in front of them. He squeezed her fingers. Not enough to give her pain, just reinforce his warning that she not overplay her hand.

Without giving him the satisfaction of a glance, she swung her chair toward the aisle, too, trying not to look too disconcerted. Mr. Parish had touched her more in the past ten minutes than in the entire three years since she’d started working for him. The lingering contact was doing erratic things to her breathing.

Izzy noticed that the other two couples had turned their chairs outward, also. She took a quick survey of Mr. Parish’s rivals for the Yum-Yum account. A middle-aged couple sat across the aisle and forward in the cabin. They both wore navy-blue suits and thin-lipped smiles, looking like sallow, humorless bookends.

The other couple was seated on the same side of the aisle as Izzy and her boss. They appeared to be around Mr. Parish’s age, tanned and trendy, the kind of moneyed couple you might see at a swanky Club Med. The blonde with a casual, windswept coif looked as if she might have a tendency to be snooty, the way she peered down her nose. Or she might simply have a stiff neck. Izzy decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Her husband had the brawny bulk of a football fullback. His hair was white-blond and thinning, his swarthy face too reminiscent of a pit bull to be considered handsome. They both wore California chic summer clothes, and seemed to have a predilection for gold jewelry.

The pit bull leaned forward. “Name’s Wirt. Fox McFarland Wirt, and this is the wife, Claudia.” He grinned at the pale, stiff-lipped couple across from him, then at Izzy and Mr. Parish. “Call me Foxie.”

Claudia smiled, but her smile, like her husband’s, lacked warmth. Nobody was kidding anybody. This trip was no pleasure jaunt. A huge account was at stake. The three couples would be hard-pressed to be more than superficially pleasant.

“Good to meet you, Foxie.” Mr. Parish smiled at the man, then his wife. “Claudia.” It was a good smile, and Izzy saw only friendliness there. She tried to make hers as engaging, but felt she was having little success. “This is my lovely wife....” He paused. When he squeezed her hand, she glanced his way, curious about the delay. It startled her when he took her chin into his fingers and drew her face toward his, brushing her lips with a light but soul-wrenching kiss. Her body went into quivering, melting shock as he angled her face around to press a kiss against her ear. “What in hell is your first name, Peabody?” he whispered. Izzy didn’t know how he managed to say anything with his tongue and teeth nipping and stroking. The man had more talents than she’d ever imagined.

Every mental circuit in her brain zapped and snapped, with downed wires writhing all over the place. Yet even with her brain gone haywire, she could detect his annoyance. Belatedly the substance of his question succeeded in rerouting to a functioning part of her brain. He wanted to know her first name. Clearing her thumping heart from her throat, she whispered near his ear, “Izzy.”

He shifted his gaze to clash with hers, his eyes conveying the message that he would never have guessed anything so appalling could possibly be her name. With a pseudo-devoted pat on her cheek and a dazzling smile, he faced the onlookers. His expression was believably apologetic. “Forgive me. She drives me wild. What were we talking about?”

Izzy felt so discombobulated she wanted to scream. He’d kissed her, sending every cell in her body into chaos—right there in front of everybody—then he’d crossly admitted that he didn’t recall her name! No, screaming was not enough! She wanted to...to...she eyed her boss with scorching intent. She wanted to scratch out his...to...to pluck out...those...those...

The tingling pleasure of his kiss continued to flow through her, making her light-headed. She was too intensely aware of him, of his scent, the lingering heat of his lips, his magnetic eyes gazing lovingly at her.

“You were about to introduce your wife,” Foxie said.

Izzy blinked, coming out of a stupor his soft stare brought on.

“Oh, yes. Foxie, was it?” Mr. Parish said. “My wife’s name is—Isabel.”

“Call me Izzy,” she cut in, grateful her lips worked, considering they still sizzled. She passed her fake husband an impertinent look, her emotions a roiling mix of anger, hurt and melancholy. “Lambie-pie loves the nickname, Izzy.”

His grin turned lopsided at her gibe, and though she saw a flash of reproach in his gaze, she knew the others couldn’t have noticed. “And I’m Gabe Parish.”

“Ah, right.” Foxie snapped beefy fingers. “I’ve heard good things about you, my man. The young genius of promotion in the Big Apple.”

Gabe lifted his gaze from Izzy. “And I about you, Foxie. L.A.’s hottest ad exec.”

“California, my man,” Foxie amended, with a guffaw “California’s hottest ad exec.”

“I stand corrected.” Gabe’s glance moved across to the bookends in blue. “And you are?”

“We’re Mr. and Mrs. Miles. Hedda and Roger Miles. Chicago. The Miles and Unwin Agency.” Mr. Miles straightened his tie. His movements held a prim, brittle dignity that did nothing to indicate a desire to strike up a friendship.

“I’ve heard of your firm. Good solid reputation,” Gabe said. He still held Izzy’s hand. As he spoke he laced his fingers with hers. She continued to face Mr. and Mrs. Miles with an expression of interest, but it was difficult. Her heart ached because the intimacy of their entwined fingers was a superficial sham.

“And what do we call you?” Foxie’s voice boomed in the cabin. “Rog?”

Roger Miles turned close-set eyes on Foxie. With a sniff of his thin nose, he said, “Roger and Hedda.”

Foxie’s white-blond brows wagged upward as though he was amused by the man’s frigid tone. “You got it, my man. Roger and Hedda it is.”

Izzy scanned Mr. and Mrs. Miles. Clearly they weren’t planning to disguise their aversion to their competition, at least until in the presence of their host.

The pilot and copilot climbed aboard. As the crew disappeared up front, an attractive brunette, also clad in a black uniform, entered the plane and began to take drink and breakfast orders.

Not long after Gabe ordered two glasses of gourmet water with a twist of lime, Izzy braced herself for takeoff. She’d never enjoyed the experience. Glancing at her disturbing counterfeit husband, then around at his business rivals, she had a sinking sensation that the white-knuckled takeoff would be the least stressful experience she could expect for the next week.

Gabe only half listened to Claudia and Foxie Wirt name-drop about celebrities they buddied around with in Los Angeles. He smiled and nodded when appropriate, but knew half of what the couple said was bull.

His gaze drifted to Roger Miles, who looked like a bean counter in his conventional blue suit, wing tips and slicked-back graying hair. Gabe wasn’t fooled by the drab image. Roger Miles’s reputation in the advertising business was well-known. The man was sharp and creative and had won a lion’s share of prestigious awards.