Nobody Does It Better (14 page)
Paris
did her best to conjure up a seductive smile worthy of Rachel. "Well, then, you know what they say," she said, lowering her voice to a husky whisper.
He didn't look like he was buying it for a second, but he played along. "What?"
"Performance counts."
"I'll like earning this promotion."
She pulled a three-inch thick binder out of her tote bag and dropped it into his lap. "This. You get to perform this."
"I'm guessing this isn't the
Kama
Sutra,"
Devin dead-panned.
"You're very astute." She flipped to the first section. "You can start with the plot lines of Alexander's books."
* * *
Three hours later, Devin closed the notebook, his eyes sore from reading. He hoped he could keep it all straight. The last thing he wanted to do was let her down.
Devin had to give her points for organization. Her notebook certainly made his job a lot easier. Press clippings, time lines, a fifty-page bio of Alexander, complete with birthplace and educational background. It was all there. A complete primer on Montgomery Alexander. The bloody British bastard.
With a sigh, he leaned back in his seat. He'd agreed to play her Monty in public. Like he'd said, it was his performance that created this mess for her. In private, however, he intended to convince her that she wanted him, not some fantasy she'd crafted over the years. He'd play Alexander, sure. But he'd let Devin seep in around the edges. Until finally, in private, there would be only him. Devin.
And when that happened, he didn't want there to be any doubt in her mind about who was holding her and loving her. That was the real reason he'd agreed to this tour. The only reason he'd sucked up his pride and committed to three weeks—even though that meant he'd probably have to crawl to Derek when he got back to
Maybe he'd get lucky. Jerry promised to canvass all their friends from the old neighborhood who'd gone legit. He'd end up indebted to half of
Paris
in the end.
And he had every intention of getting
Paris
back in his arms and keeping her there.
Old Monty could take a flying leap.
Paris
mumbled something in her sleep and shifted her position, the flimsy blue blanket dropping from her shoulder. Devin reached over and tucked it around her, unable to resist the urge to stroke her cheek as he pulled his hand away. She stirred, turning her face toward him and prolonging the contact.
He imagined her in bed, asleep, curling her body against his, instinctively seeking his warmth, his touch. It was a dangerous place for his thoughts to go. His body was already reacting to the image of
Paris
, naked beside him, her skin and hair glinting in candlelight.
Very dangerous. And very, very appealing.
She moved again in the seat beside him, pulling the blanket tighter around her. He chuckled. She probably hogged the covers. That was okay. A small price to pay.
Devin reached over and brushed a wild curl away from her face.
"Are we there yet?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. He pulled his hand away.
Paris
sat up and squinted at him. "Do we land soon?"
"Welcome back. I think we're over
"Devin? Thanks for agreeing to the whole tour. I appreciate it." She dropped her eyes. "And thanks for agreeing to keep it purely professional."
"Well, I'm not so sure I willingly agreed to that." She looked up, alarm shining in her eyes. "But, hey, a deal's a deal. The lady wants it purely professional, then professional it is."
Devin allowed himself a tiny grin.
But that didn't mean he couldn't try to change the lady's mind.
Chapter 8
"
I
t's an honor having you stay here, Mr. Alexander. Really. An honor. I just love your books." The bellhop stopped the luggage cart in front of the elevator bank of the swank
Santa Monica
hotel.
"Thank you," Devin said. He gestured to the call button. "It'll come faster if you push the button."
"Oh. Right. I'm just… Wow." The boy jabbed the up-arrow.
Devin squelched a grin, and looked at
Paris
. She scowled at him and crossed her arms over her chest. Then she examined her watch and looked back up at Devin.
He shrugged, not sure what was annoying her. Maybe the taxi drive. Even after the morning rush hour,
Los Angeles
freeways weren't exactly a picnic, and although their driver spoke no English, he seemed to have a fascination with rap music played at deafening levels.
Paris
probably just needed to relax.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. "Right this way, Mr. Alexander." The boy wheeled the luggage cart in, holding the door open just long enough for Devin to enter.
Paris
jumped in as the doors were sliding shut. She shot the bellhop a dirty look, but Devin doubted the boy noticed since he was so intent on staring at the famous Mr. Montgomery Alexander.
This sudden dive into celebrity was turning out to be a wild ride. He checked to see if
Paris
shared his amusement. She rewarded him with a look even dirtier than the one she'd laid on the boy. Okay. So she wasn't amused.
She turned her back to him and faced the closed doors. Her arms were crossed in front of her again, her foot tapped a rhythm, and her back was rigid. She looked ready to explode.
She also looked damn sexy.
What was it with the two of them and elevators?
A light, cotton button-down covered every inch of her back and arms, but it didn't matter. In his mind, Devin could still see the glow of her milky-white skin revealed as he coaxed her zipper down. He delighted in remembering her warmth under his fingertips, her fervent response to his touch.
The elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor. Just in time, thought Devin. He needed a shower. A cold one.
The bellhop led them down the narrow hallway. "Okay. Miss, you're right here." He opened
Paris
's door, then dropped her suitcase inside the threshold. "Enjoy your stay."
Paris
rolled her eyes to the ceiling, nodded curtly at Devin, then slammed the door. The bellhop scurried back to the luggage cart. "And Mr. Alexander, you're in the next room here."
"It connects to the lady's room, right?"
"Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Alexander, sir." The boy winked as he left, and Devin was glad
Paris
wasn't around to notice.
The room was simple, but comfortable. Devin eyed the double bed right away, along with the closed door to
Paris
's room. He crossed to it and rapped lightly. "
Paris
?"
"Not now."
Devin resisted the urge to use the key the bellhop had given him. She'd been fine when they'd left the airport, but now she was as cold as ice. Surely she wasn't ticked off because one of the hotel staff lacked basic manners.
He knocked again.
"I'm napping."
"You're not napping if you're talking."
Muffled shuffling noises, then the click of the dead bolt being turned. The door opened a crack. "What?"
Well, that was an interesting question.
Devin didn't actually have a reason for seeing her. Not right now, anyway. He had his duffel to unpack. The shower was beckoning. And she wasn't exactly brimming over with hospitality.
But if he let her shut that door, he might not see her for hours. And that just wasn't acceptable.
"Devin," she prodded. "What's up? Other than me?"
"Practice." It was the best he could come up with. Besides, it was true.
"Practice?"
"Right," he pushed the door open and walked in past her. It was unlikely she was going to rip off her clothes and jump into his arms, but neither did she look as though she was about to kick him out. A minor victory, but a victory nonetheless. "Television. This evening. Interview. Any of this ringing a bell?"
"Oh." She moved to the bed and stretched out, her back against the headboard, her chin resting in her hand. One finger tapped at her lip. "Afraid you can't handle the spotlight?"
He didn't hesitate. "Of course not."
She raised one eyebrow. "So confident?"
Was she challenging him? Why? Had she lost faith in his ability to play the part? She should know better. He could be Alexander. He would be anything she wanted him to be, as long as in the end she only wanted him to be Devin.
Alexander was suave, in control. And arrogant. Devin could do that. He crossed to the window, standing straighter than he usually stood, shoulders back and rigid. He searched for the faint British lilt to color his voice.
He turned to face her.
"'Confidence is the last refuge of the fool,'"
he said, bending forward into a regal bow, his head up and his eyes fixed on
Paris
.
"'And I assure you, madam, that I am a fool for you.'"
"'So confident that you will defeat me at my own game?'"
Paris
said.
She was playing along, and the fact that he'd managed to lure a grin from her lifted his heart. Too bad it took his Alexander persona to accomplish that little feat.
In two long strides he reached her. He took her hand in his, then traced the tips of his fingers lightly over her palm, teasing, tickling. She closed her eyes, and he saw the struggle reflected on her face. He longed to kiss those little creases between her brows, to kiss the edges of her mouth, to coax away her frown.
He lowered himself onto the bed. When she opened her eyes, he put his arms out, urging her toward him. Her smile as she slid into his arms was shy, sweet, almost grateful. He could sit that way all day, her back pressed against his chest, his fingers linked with hers, their arms intertwined and wrapped around her chest. She belonged there, next to him. He'd known it the moment he had first seen her. Now he just needed to figure out how to make her realize it, too.
"
Paris
," he murmured, letting his lips dance over her shoulders, silently urging her to confide in him, to tell him her troubles and let him help.
She trembled, and pulled his arms tighter around her as she snuggled closer. He kissed the top of her head, breathing in the raspberry scent of her blond curls, then whispered,
"'I assure you everything will be all right. Sometimes the most catastrophic defeat renders the sweetest of victories.'"
Her body stiffened against him, and she sat up, still in his arms, but no longer pressed against his back.
She had moved less than three inches, but now the
Grand Canyon
stretched between them. Devin didn't know what had caused it, and didn't have a clue how to bridge it.
"
Paris
?"
"You're fine. You don't need practice. Montgomery Alexander hardly needs to be coached on how to behave during an interview on the local news."
Lightbulbs flashed, thunder crashed, trumpets blared, the soundtrack surged. All the usual indicators Realization finally hit. She was jealous. Stupid of him not to have realized before. She was jealous, and he was a fool.
Paris
didn't want Devin. Not yet, anyway. Alexander was the one who had comforted her, who had touched her skin, kissed her hair.
Paris
sought refuge in Alexander's arms, not Devin's.
But even as she longed for Devin to transform into Alexander, warm and willing and so much more alive than her fantasies, she resented him. No, she resented the limelight that went along with his role. The very role she asked him to play.
His muscles tensed and his jaw tightened. The situation ate at his gut.
He got up from the bed and stalked to the window. Happily ever after loomed before him, big as life, on the other side of this book tour, and damned if he knew how to get there. In her mind, Devin was still just a slick streetcon. She'd fight like hell before she'd give in to just Devin.
But he couldn't sneak into her heart by starting out as Alexander, either. Not if she was going to be jealous and removed.
The scope of the problem frustrated him. He'd worked hard his entire life. Nothing had slipped from his grasp if he'd worked hard enough at it. Escaping his dad's lifestyle, taking night classes, opening his pub.
But he'd never wanted a woman like this before. And certainly not a woman like
Paris
. A diamond. Now that he did, knowing he might not be able to have her irritated the hell out of him.
With one hand, he pushed the curtain aside and looked down fourteen floors to
Devin wasn't a quitter. He'd beaten the odds before. And something told him that, deep down,
Paris
wasn't at odds with him. She was attainable. She just didn't know it yet.
Deep in his soul he knew that
Paris
was the woman for him, and that he was the man for her. Somehow, someway, he'd make sure she realized that as well.
In the meantime, he had no choice but to play the role he was hired to play—Montgomery Alexander. He'd just have to remind her that she was the one who'd hired him to play it.
* * *
Paris
watched as Devin pushed the heavy drapes aside. The
Eternity passed before he spoke again. "You're right, Sommers, as usual. I don't need to rehearse. I could give an interview in my sleep." He turned away from the window and looked at his watch, his casualness irritating. "The studio's sending a car for us at five. I think I'll go hit a few bookstores. Sign autographs."
"Autographs?"
Paris
couldn't believe he had the gall to suggest that he should just go downstairs and start signing autographs. "Wait just a second."
She kneeled at the end of the bed, putting her just about eye to eye with him.
"I'm
Alexander," she said. "Maybe I should just go downstairs and announce it to everybody."
"Maybe you should." He opened his mouth as if to say something else, then closed it. For a second, she thought Devin was going to fight back. She almost hoped he would. Her insides felt all knotted up, and she wondered if some heavy-duty verbal sparring, followed by a crying jag, wouldn't make her feel better. But then Devin's face softened, and
Paris
knew she'd have to get through the afternoon without a tantrum.
Pity.
"You're not really mad at me, you know." He paused, probably giving her a chance to agree or argue. He was right, but she didn't say anything. "You're really mad at yourself."
"Myself—"
He didn't let her finish. "I think you should go ahead and do the interview. Why not? Go ahead and reveal all."
Paris
took a breath to calm down. How did she manage to get so worked up about one bellboy? Montgomery Alexander had lots of fans. She'd known that for years, and it had never bothered her before. At least not very much.
But none of those fans had closed an elevator door in her face.
She closed her eyes. No wonder she was cranky, what with lack of sleep and close quarters with an off-limits man who made no secret of the fact he wanted her. Who wouldn't be stressed?
She took another deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I'm not mad. Really." She caught his eye. "Besides, it's just for three more books and then it's bye-bye Alexander, hello my life."
He spun the desk chair around and straddled it, one leg on either side, his arms crossed over the top of the back. Forget cool, suave and sophisticated Alexander. He was one hundred percent Devin, masculine and casual and hot. She couldn't stop staring at him.
"Get rid of Montgomery Alexander and get your life? Seems to me like you've got a pretty good life right now." He tilted his head, as if recalling all the things she had going for her. "Steady income, a body of work you should be proud of and you're writing the stuff you enjoy."
Paris
opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. The man was impossible. He had no clue what he was talking about. Really. Her life would be on track when she could do what she'd always planned on doing. The fact that she enjoyed writing the Montgomery Alexander books had nothing to do with anything.
