Nobody Does It Better (4 page)
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
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?"
"Just that you must be pretty attracted to me if you're going to that much trouble to keep me all to yourself."
She smiled sweetly, fighting to keep her breathing under control. "Haven't you ever heard the saying? Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer?"
"So we're enemies?"
"Frankly, I have no idea."
"Well, there you go." He leaned against the wall, smug satisfaction dancing across his face.
"There I go what?"
"Just that you don't know if I'm an enemy or a friend. But you want me around. Sounds like attraction."
She held her tongue. Such an infuriating man.
Attraction
wasn't the point. The point was that he crashed the party—pretending to be the man of the hour—supposedly to get a date. Then, in a display of pure arrogance, assumed she was attracted to him. The idea was irritating, conceited. It was also, she conceded, exactly what Alexander would assume.
Well, so what? True, he looked the part. And he did have a certain aura. And, yes, there was a tingle when he took her hand. But that didn't mean…
Okay, maybe it did. But even if
Paris
was attracted to him, he would be the last person she'd tell. "I think you're confusing curiosity about your lack of manners and good character for attraction," she finally retorted.
"Am
I?"
His response was so quick that for a moment words evaded her, and he seized the advantage.
"Let me prove myself. Let me be your knight in shining armor and ride forth into the masses spreading the glorious crusade of Montgomery Alexander." He thrust one arm skyward as if holding a sword.
A giggle escaped her. She couldn't help it. He looked so silly. Besides, what choice did she really have? Montgomery Alexander hiding in the corner with his manager would do nothing to satisfy his fans and would certainly not make Ellis Chapman's day. Any minute now, the masses would come to them.
It's just like swimming. Take a deep breath and jump.
"Fine," she said. "But we go together."
Arms linked, they plunged forward. Within moments, someone caught Alexander's attention and pulled him toward the dance floor, but not before he leaned over and offered one last word of reassurance.
"Don't worry," he said. "I promise an award-winning performance."
* * *
"I should have come right over," Rachel said. "But I thought you'd hired him, and I was going to sulk a little since you'd kept me out of the loop."
The party was winding down, and Rachel and Paris were camped out in the darkest corner of the restaurant. The remains of crackers, cheese and plump strawberries littered their table.
Paris
grabbed the last strawberry and shoved the plate aside.
"He's amazing,"
Paris
said, glancing toward the dance floor where her mystery man was politely stalling a persistent redhead who kept urging him to dance. "I mean, his
performance
was amazing," she added, feeling the heat pool in her cheeks. "I shadowed him for two hours, ready to rescue him, but he never said anything stupid."
"Is he how you pictured Alexander?"
Paris
shrugged. Rachel had hit upon the question of the hour. "It's weird. Before, I could imagine Alexander's hands, his scent, his walk, everything. But now, when I close my eyes, all I see is, well, him." She nodded toward the impersonator.
"Well, of course," Rachel purred, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.
"Of course? Oh please, Dr. Freud, do enlighten me."
"Fantasy and reality collided. Reality is winning."
"You really do sound like Freud."
"I'm serious. You're attracted to him, and—"
"Whoa, wait a minute. I am not attracted to him."
"You're such a liar. Besides, where's the harm?"
"Just because he's attractive doesn't mean I'm attracted to him."
Paris
wanted Rachel to see the difference. And she needed to convince herself there
was
a difference. Then Rachel's words registered. "Harm?"
"In a little seduction," explained Rachel. "Where's the harm in that?"
"He's not going to seduce me."
Too bad,
thought
Paris
, taking in his broad shoulders and leading man looks. She could think of worse things than being swept away by a man like that.
"No, no," continued Rachel.
"You
should seduce
him."
"Oh, well that's … have you lost your mind?"
Paris
blustered, pulling her gaze away from Alexander.
"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. He practically dropped out of the sky into your lap. He admits he wants to go out with you. What better way to get a boy toy?"
"Rachel!" She'd played with the idea earlier, true. Who wouldn't have? But there was no way she'd go through with it. Really. Rachel was just being ridiculous. For one thing,
Paris
wasn't the seducing type. And even if she was…
Well, she wasn't. So it didn't matter.
Paris
felt Rachel's stare, then saw the diabolical grin.
"Uh-huh," said Rachel. "You know you want to. He's your fantasy come true." She grabbed her purse and hauled it onto her lap.
"I'm not looking for a fantasy,"
Paris
urged, as much to herself as her friend. "You know my plan."
"Oh, right. Two more of these books. Sock away the money. Finish your dreary epic. Publish it under your real name. Retire Alexander. Admit to your father you're a writer, but of fine literature that won't embarrass the family name. Find a suitable man—that means boring, by the way—and have babies. The end. How could I have forgotten your brilliant plan?"
"You're going to use a lifetime's supply of sarcasm in one sitting. And there's nothing wrong with my plan,"
Paris
insisted, ignoring the niggling feeling that maybe there was.
"Are you supposed to be a nun in the meantime?"
Paris
squirmed, not wanting to admit just how appealing Rachel's seduction plan sounded. Instead, she parried, figuring that the best defense was a good offense. "You're not exactly practicing what you preach," she said, then immediately regretted her words.
