By Invitation Only (13 page)

Jillian Burns

This story is dedicated to
hard-working teachers everywhere.

W
HY ON EARTH HAD SHE
thought she could do this?

Peyton Monahan squinted out the window of her taxi at the exclusive Rapture Island Resort, but the whole scene was a blur. She switched the designer sunglasses she wore for her prescription glasses and then wished she hadn’t.

Lush palms and vibrant pink hibiscus headlined the expertly landscaped entrance to the hotel, beckoning her inside, but the armed guards in dark uniforms with headsets and clipboards? She shrank into the seat. Maybe she should fly straight back to Princeton and forget this crazy idea.

“Este es el hotel, la señora,”
the cab driver said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to bring you to the front door?”

“No, gracias, señor.”
Peyton paid him and got out around the corner from the entrance. She couldn’t be seen getting out of a taxi.

After the cabbie drove off, she stood there hugging a Gucci bag to her chest and bit her lip. Her entire professional career was riding on this. If she didn’t get into this wedding, her dreams of locating the Mayan codices would go up in smoke.

Stick to the plan, Monahan.

Step One: Use her disguise to get past security.

Step Two: Find Mr. Edward Prescott.

Step Three: Convince him to fund the Mayan expedition to Mexico to find the codices.

Hopefully, she’d be in and out of the hotel before anyone was the wiser.

Focused on the guards, she crossed the lawn to the circular drive.

A cherry-red sports car roared past her and screeched to a halt at the valet’s podium. A sandy-haired Greek god jumped out wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt and khaki cargo shorts that revealed long, muscular legs. He reached into the passenger seat for a black leather garment bag. As he bent over, Peyton couldn’t help but admire his taut gluteus maximus.

The man glanced at her, sweeping his eyes up and down her body as he slung his bag over one broad shoulder. Her stomach tightened, and Peyton spun away, pretending to stare at the sky. Could she be any more lame?

From the corner of her eye, she watched him stride to the valet and hand him his keys, no doubt warning him about scratching the precious car.

Oh, the trials and tribulations of the rich and famous.
Get used to it, Monahan.
This place was going to be swarming with them.
And she was disguised as the belle of the ball.
Gathering her courage, she yanked off her thick glasses, replaced them with the sunglasses and approached the front doors.

A stone-faced security guard glanced at her, and then did a double take. “Ms. Addison?” His brows drew together.

Breath short and hands shaking, Peyton channeled her I’m-a-star-and-you’re-not attitude, strode up the steps and brushed past the guard with a small smile and a wave.

The guard gave her a confused nod, then his gaze darted behind her. “Invitation, sir?” he asked, dismissing Peyton.

That was it? She’d done it! Suz had been right. Her assistant had sworn that with the right blond wig, some makeup and designer clothes Peyton could pass for
the
Holly Addison: movie star and celebrity bride of the “wedding of the century.”

Striding through the revolving doors, Peyton glanced over her shoulder to see the man from the red car pulling a cream envelope from his shorts pocket. If only lowly language professors received invitations to celebrity weddings. Then she wouldn’t have been reduced to this.

Peyton stopped in the glass-ceilinged lobby and let out a shaky breath. Now all she had to do was find a restroom, remove the wig and then she could hunt for Mr. Prescott unnoticed.

Squinting to see her surroundings clearly, she dug her glasses from her bag and slipped them on, and the world came back into focus. She scanned the area in several directions. Surely there was a ladies’ room close by. Her gaze stopped at the escalator leading from the second level.

Holly Addison—the real Holly Addison—was headed straight for her!

The movie star hadn’t seen her yet, but Peyton’s mind blanked.

Come on, Monahan, think!
She hadn’t flown this far just to get thrown out now. Should she yank off the wig and brave Holly and her entourage? But she had her hair pinned up inside an old stocking. Or should she turn her back and hope she wouldn’t get noticed? With this long, silver-blond hair? What could she hide behind? The potted palms? Too short and thin.

The man from the red car sauntered past, headed toward the registration desk. Before she had time to consider the consequences, she threw her arms around the guy’s neck. “Darling! I’ve been waiting for you.”

The man stiffened beneath her arms.

She heard Holly speaking as she approached. “I don’t care. It’s my wedding and everyone should wear whatever I want them to.”

The gorgeous guy glanced at Holly, and Peyton maneuvered him around until his large frame hid her from view. The longest second of her life ensued waiting to see if he would shove her away and call security.

But instead, he slid his arms around her waist and flashed a wicked grin. “Sweetie! Sorry I was late.” He swooped down and covered her mouth with his.

Wide-eyed, she almost pulled away, but his lips moved over hers so softly, so sensually. Her body was melting and she opened her lips to him and—then his were gone.

Incredulous, she stared up at him.

One sandy brow rose as if challenging her to complain. His soft musky cologne filled her nostrils and sent an image of sweaty nights on cool sheets straight to her brain. And affected other parts she’d feared had amnesia. But no, they were alive and…remembering very well.

The Greek god in her arms watched the now-disappearing Holly and her entourage, and then returned his attention to Peyton. “That was fun, but now you need to convince me not to call security.” Without warning, he pulled her wig off. The stocking and pins came off with it and her dark brown hair tumbled down in a tangled mess.

“Hey!” Peyton scowled and reached for the wig, but he moved it behind his back. She folded her arms across her chest. “So I wear a Holly Addison wig. That’s not against the law.”

“No, but stalking is. Tell me I didn’t just help some psycho fan crash this wedding.”

She clicked her tongue with disgust. “Of course it’s nothing like that. I—I’m—I was hired to impersonate Holly as part of the entertainment for tonight.”

He moved close. “Then why were you hiding from the real Holly Addison?”

“I—I’m supposed to be a surprise.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up and his gaze had lowered to her lips and then to her. Under his intense scrutiny her nipples tightened and her breathing hitched. Wow. That had happened with a man exactly
never
in her life. She looked up into golden-brown eyes filled with the knowledge of her body’s reaction to him.

“Why don’t you convince me over drinks?”

“Drinks?”

His lips curved in a slow smile. “That’s the going rate for my silence.”

He wanted to have drinks with her? Guess Suz had been right about men being easily attracted by cleavage. Unfortunately, Peyton had missed Feminine Wiles 101 by spending her formative years in her boarding school’s library.

“Look. I assure you I have no violent intentions against anyone, so feel free to enjoy the festivities with a clear conscience.”

“Smile.” He pulled out his cell phone and snapped her photo, and then he crossed his arms and waited.

He had her picture now, and he seemed to have no compunctions about calling a guard to have her thrown out if she couldn’t convince him she was harmless. She smiled and tried batting her lashes. “I guess one drink wouldn’t hurt.”

“Good.” His beautiful white teeth flashed in a smile so stunning, Peyton could only stare. “I’m Quinn Smith, by the way.” He extended his hand, offering her back the wig.

Quinn. The name suited him. His face was a study in anthropological perfection, with a Roman nose and strong chin. And he was just unshaven enough to make his sensual lips stand out. His dark blond hair was cut short yet tousled enough to give it a just-ran-his-hands-through-it look.

But Mr. Smith was at this wedding because he was either a celebrity friend of Holly Addison’s or a very rich friend of the groom, J. D. Maynard, heir to the wealthiest oil and ranch tycoon in Texas. Smith might as well have Spoiled Playboy stamped on his forehead.

“And you are?”

She realized she’d never taken the wig and grabbed it. She’d been too busy gawking at the man. “Peyton M-Miller.” Inwardly, she cringed.
Really, Monahan? A false last name?
It’s not as if she had a criminal record.

“All right, Peyton Miller.” He checked an expensive-looking watch on his left wrist. “They’re serving a buffet dinner on the terrace at six.” He scooped up his garment bag where it had fallen and hitched the strap over his shoulder. “Meet me there in an hour.”

The terrace. An hour. Smiling her promise, she nodded.

Smith narrowed his eyes at her, and then sauntered off to the registration desk.

She let out a relieved breath. With any luck, in an hour she’d be back in a taxi on her way to the airport. Now, to carry out part two of her plan: find Mr. Edward Prescott. Unfortunately, she had no idea what he looked like. Stuffing the wig into her tote, she pulled out the only picture she had of him, found when she’d looked up Prescott Industries on Google. The Google image was at least a decade old.

Owner and CEO of one of the United States’ largest manufacturing conglomerates, Edward Q. Prescott was a New Jersey magnate, and an alumnus and patron of Princeton. He’d funded past excavations back when her father had run the Archaeology Department, but the last few years Prescott had become a recluse. No one in academic circles had seen him or been able to contact him.

Then, her department chair had heard through the university grapevine that Prescott would be attending the Maynard/Addison wedding. Thank the stars for gossipy secretaries. It seemed the groom’s father, Maynard Sr., was a powerful enough business associate to force Prescott out of seclusion.

It was only a rumor, but Peyton was desperate enough to take the chance. All the other possible patrons had been hit by the economic downturn, and the Mexican government had offers from several other universities. If she couldn’t come up with the financial backing soon, she’d lose her bid to locate the hidden codices. And possibly her career along with it.

Where to start? This hotel was larger than some small towns. There were a half dozen restaurants, a casino, three pools and an entire level dedicated to shopping. After scanning the lobby in the vain hope the CEO would suddenly materialize, Peyton grabbed her cell phone from the tote, dialed the hotel’s registration desk and asked for Mr. Prescott’s room.

“One moment, please,” the woman said.

Peyton closed her eyes.
Come on. Be there.

“I’m sorry, no Mr. Prescott has checked in.”

“Thank you.” Peyton closed her phone. She’d already sent the man three letters and called his office dozens of times. All without any reply. But he was the only one who hadn’t given her a definite no. She only wanted a chance to make her case in person.

She made her way to a set of sofas with a view of the hotel’s entrance, and waited. He had to show up soon. Didn’t he?

Q
UINN RODE THE ELEVATOR
up to the correct floor and stepped into his room as if on autopilot. He couldn’t get the brazen brunette out of his mind.

There’d been a time in his life when risking arrest had come as naturally as breathing. It had taken facing five-to-ten in the state pen to convince him he might want to explore other options. But there still lurked a part of him that needed the rush of breaking the rules and damn the consequences.

And, it seemed, he’d found a kindred spirit.

He had a lot of questions for Peyton Miller. Like, what would she have done if he’d called security?

Maybe he shouldn’t have trusted that she would meet him in an hour, but he’d learned a thing or two about judging the opposition while running Prescott Industries, and Peyton had been way too determined to crash this shindig. No way she’d leave without getting what she came for. Which was probably to scoop a story for her gossip rag.

But she hadn’t tried to hit him up for any dirt on the bride or groom.

In any case, he intended to discover her secret. He hadn’t been this intrigued by a woman in years.

Not that his schedule left him much time for women, intriguing or otherwise. But this weekend should remedy that.

He strode to the balcony doors and pushed them open. A warm breeze blew in and he drew in a deep breath of salty air. The steady crash of waves against the shore relaxed his shoulders. This is what he’d needed. How long had it been since he’d taken time off? Hell, even most weekends were spent at the office. Nine years he’d worked for the old man, and he could count his vacation days on one hand.

When Edward had received the invitation to the Maynard/Addison wedding on Rapture Island, Quinn had jumped at the chance to get away. He figured he was a Prescott in all but name, and Maynard was an important business contact. No way the old man would go, not in his condition. And Prescott Industries needed to be represented at an event of this magnitude.

He’d had his assistant clear his calendar and begun fantasizing about a carefree weekend with a long-legged, suntanned woman. Three whole days to party hard, to make up for almost a decade of sixteen-hour days and watching Edward deteriorate from a ruthless tyrant to a paralyzed stroke victim.

Quinn preferred the tyrant. As much as the old man had made Quinn’s life hell for years, Quinn hated to see that steel-trap mind stuck inside a failing body.

But he didn’t want to think about Edward right now. He wanted to spend the weekend soaking up the sun, and getting laid. And not necessarily in that order.

His BlackBerry vibrated, but he ignored it and started to unpack, stashing condoms in the bedside drawer. Wait. The hotel had Wi-Fi. Wouldn’t hurt to do a search on Peyton Miller.