Nobody Does It Better (5 page)
Rachel shot her a tentative glance. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Paris
shrugged, not sure it was the time or the place to explore the truckload of issues surrounding Rachel's love life. To say Rachel had self-confidence issues was an understatement. An overweight, plain little girl from the wrong side of the tracks, Rachel had been teased mercilessly during grammar school. And the torment had escalated in high school after
Paris
had moved away. She might have grown up and slimmed down and turned into a knockout, but
Paris
didn't think Rachel saw her true self in the mirror. And so she overcompensated something fierce.
"All I mean is that you've dumped the last dozen guys you've dated without so much as a good-night kiss. You're hardly the roving expert on seduction,"
Paris
said. During their years together in college and law school,
Paris
had watched Rachel master the art of flirting. Now, she attracted a constant stream of men, but always cut them loose before they got too close.
Paris
didn't need a textbook on pop psychology to see why. Rachel couldn't handle being the one to get dumped, so she cut the possibility off at the pass. And as a result, she never got close to anyone.
"That's completely different," Rachel insisted. "The men I date are potential relationship material. When it's obvious things won't work out, I let them down gently."
Paris
opened her mouth to argue, but her friend didn't let her get a word in. "Besides, I'm not suggesting you marry this guy. You just need to have a little fun. Especially if the rest of your life is going to be the utter doldrums." Rachel continued to rummage in her purse, finally pulling out three little plastic packets. Condoms.
"For crying out loud, Rachel,"
Paris
snapped, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. "I don't need these."
"Just take them," coaxed Rachel, opening
Paris
's purse and dropping them in.
Paris
grimaced. The last thing she needed was to get involved with a guy who impersonated authors to get a date.
Even one so intriguing and sexy?
She shoved the thought away. She needed to focus on work … not long, steamy nights with Alexander or the waiter or whoever the hell he was.
Still, a little more time together would give her a chance to figure out what he was up to. And why not have a one-night fling? How many women had the chance to cuddle up to their fantasy man? She shivered from the memory of his taut, tight muscles. Of the way her body had caught fire from just the touch of his fingertip.
She sighed.
Get a grip,
Paris
.
No way was she going to bed with the guy. It simply was not going to happen. He wasn't Alexander, and that was the end of that. Plain and simple.
Except…
Already she missed the way her blood burned when he looked toward her, missed the way her skin tingled when he was nearby. She grazed her teeth across her lower lip. She did want an adventure. And a tall, dark and handsome one had just materialized out of thin air. So maybe Rachel was right. Maybe a little seduction was in order.
No, no, no.
She curled her hands into tight fists. Sleeping with him was out of the question. It would be a mistake—indulgent and foolish.
But why couldn't she spend a little more time with him? A little flirting would be innocent enough. What would be the harm in that?
Before her mind could think up a reason, she pushed herself out of her chair. "The party's wrapping up. I should go collect my Alexander."
Chapter 3
B
y the end of the party, Devin held new respect for actors. He'd been "on" for five hours. Three hundred minutes of smiling and hand-shaking. Eighteen thousand seconds of an award-winning performance.
He'd forgotten how much work it was to stay in character for so long. His head throbbed, fire lapped at his feet and demons tormented each muscle. If
Paris
knew how grueling the evening had been, she would gladly write his check.
Paris
.
His body wasn't too tired to express extreme appreciation for the way the flimsy black dress hugged her, defying gravity with the help of two thin straps. He watched, enraptured, as she maneuvered through the last few guests, kissing cheeks and shaking hands. Primped and manicured, blond and bouncy, she was the complete opposite of the listless, life-weary women who had littered the streets of his childhood neighborhood.
She hypnotized him.
Paris
was everything Devin had ever hoped to find in a woman, but knew he could never have.
You don't belong here.
Memories flooded back. His father, stressing diction and poise. His uncle, teaching him French. It never hurt for a grifter to have a touch of class, they'd said.
His schooling had started with street sessions. He and his father pulling the old switcheroo and conning store owners out of change for a twenty, when he'd paid with only a flyer. The movie
Paper Moon
had shown that maneuver to the world, but still they'd never been caught. Easy cons, kid stuff. Then came the bigger deals. Scams that would prepare him for life on the street.
He knew his father had only been looking out for him, and Devin loved him for it. But he didn't love his father's life-style. So he'd spent a lifetime working and studying, all so he could escape his father's shadow, and this is where he'd ended up. Pulling a con on the most adorable woman he'd ever met.
"Hey stranger." She eased up beside him, linking her arm through his as if they'd stood together a hundred times. Her touch excited Devin as much as her familiarity saddened him. He fought the urge to pull her tight against him and cursed sentimentality. She was a mark. Nothing more.
Quit thinking you're better than your background.
"Hey yourself," he said, shaking off the mood and matching her smile. "You left me. I was beginning to think you'd decided you could trust me alone."
Her grin blossomed, punctuated by a wink. "Not a chance. I've been keeping tabs on you from a distance."
"Have you? That's interesting." He'd injected a lascivious note into his voice. From the way she cocked her head, he was pretty sure she'd caught the inflection.
"Interesting? Why?" She pulled out the hairpins holding up her mass of blond curls. They tumbled down, and her fingers intertwined in one long strand. God, she was adorable.
"I've been keeping some tabs on you, too. I wonder if we've been thinking about the same thing."
Twirl, twirl. Devin didn't think
Paris
realized what she was doing. A nervous habit, perhaps. But what was making her nervous? A little innocent flirting?
He raked his eyes over that dress again, taking in the way it clung to her delicious curves, then back up to her soulful eyes and sun-kissed hair. The beginning of an erection strained against his fly.
To hell with innocent. The woman was a siren.
"You said you came because you wanted to go out with me." Her voice held only the slightest tremor. "I was wondering if you meant that."
"Of course." Go out with her, hold her, touch her, taste the sweetness of her skin. Make love to her.
"The party's wrapping up. Are you tired?" The finger returned to that one strand of hair, and Devin imagined the soft lock caressing his chest, her fingers combing through his own hair as she lost herself to passion.
He'd lost his train of thought. "What?"
She hesitated. "Never mind. It was nothing. I'll just say good-night."
"No, no." He took her bare arm, delighting in its softness and anxious to know if the rest of her was as silky. Unable to help himself, he traced his finger up her arm, then across her delicate shoulder, and finally along the neckline of her dress. "Have a drink with me."
She took a shuddering breath. "I … I really shouldn't. It's late."
"'Then stay with me until it's early, and I'll ask you again.'"
She looked up, stern, but the desire in her dark eyes told a different story. "Have you memorized every one of my books?"
"Not at all."
"Just a few choice lines to help you get what you want?"
"Perhaps. Or maybe it's just coincidence."
"Coincidence?"
Devin kissed the back of her hand, letting his lips linger on the delicate skin. He wanted to taste more of her. All of her. "Maybe I'm coming up with these lines entirely on my own. I could be the man you've always dreamed of. Do you really want to risk turning me away?"
He expected her to laugh and say he wasn't the stuff of anyone's dreams, much less hers. It would break the ice, and they could have a relaxing drink, talk, and explore where this chemistry between them would lead. Her hotel room, perhaps? Heat coursed through him and he wondered if she'd be keen on skipping the drink, the talk.
But she wasn't laughing. Instead, her brow furrowed. Rather than putting him down, she took a step backward.
Okay, mistake in judgment. If he didn't regroup quickly, Devin would never get close to her. He frowned, remembering why he was really there.
He
had
to get close to her, had to bring up the money.
"Or not," he said, wishing he could think of something a little more articulate.
She squinted at him. "What?" Although only a few steps from him, it seemed as if she had retreated to the far side of the restaurant.
"I mean I did memorize your books. Well, not every book. A friend culled key lines. We put them on cue cards. I crammed."
A bug. That's what he felt like under her stare. A big, fuzzy bug pinned to acid-free paper and baking under a bare lightbulb.
"Cue cards?" she repeated.
Devin fished in his jacket pocket, finally pulling out a handful of note cards. He held one out like a peace offering.
She took it gingerly, as if it might bite.
"'My job? It's wild and dangerous, but not as dangerous as my passion for you.'
Were you planning on using
that
line tonight?"
If Jerry were around, Devin might just have to kill him for including that card among the bunch. Since Jerry was safe and sound in
Brooklyn
, Devin chose another tact.
"Maybe. I like to keep my options open."
Her mouth twitched. "You do? Why?"
"Because I like to get what I want. And I'm willing to work for it."
Her eyes softened. "What do you want?"
"A lot of things."
Her.
To see raw, sexual heat reflected in her eyes. To know that right then, right there, she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
"For example, I've been wanting to do this all night." He heard her breath catch as he moved toward her. Eyes closed, she leaned toward him, soft and sweet and sexy. Desire radiated from her, and he knew she wanted his kiss.
Wanted
him.
Devin O'Malley, Montgomery Alexander, it didn't matter. She wanted the man standing next to her. No matter what name she might give him, tonight Devin was that man.
Molten desire boiled in his veins. His body craved the feel of her mouth under his, her fingers gliding over his skin, her breasts pressed hard against his naked chest.
Devin groaned, quelling the urge to take her mouth, to explore with his hands the secrets she had hiding under that sexy little dress. He wanted to let her excitement build slowly, even if it killed him. To wait until her head was just as sure as her body of how much she needed him close to her. Inside her.
His palms cupped her cheeks, pulling her closer. She trembled as his fingers glided across her skin, skimming over the top of her ears, then tangling deep in her loose curls.
She tilted her head back, her lips parted, eager and moist. Waiting. Waiting for him.
"Fabulous," he murmured.
"Yes," she whispered. "Fabul—"
She opened her eyes, still lazy and soft with desire. "Fabulous?" she asked. "My hair? That's what you've been wanting to do all night? Play with my hair?"
"It's hypnotic. Hair like that could have felled an entire army. Helen of Troy and all that." His voice was husky with lust, and it took every ounce of his strength to keep from touching his mouth to hers, to keep from giving her what she wanted. What he wanted, too.
"I'm … well, thank you, but…"
She frowned, and he knew she was trying to figure out his angle. "You really just wanted to touch my hair?"
The disappointment in her voice humbled him.
"Actually, there was something else."
She smiled, almost shyly, and his heart raced. "Yes?"
"I'd still like to buy you a drink."
She hesitated, her small tongue flicking over her lips. He held his breath. Was she, like him, wondering if maybe skipping a drink and going straight to her room might be the better plan? Or maybe she was trying to talk herself out of even the drink?
"All right,"
Paris
agreed at last. "But just one drink." He exhaled, relieved, and held his hand out to her.
"You have my word," he assured.
But after the drink…? Well, he'd make no promises about that.
* * *
He kept his word, too,
Paris
thought. An hour later she was still sitting across from him in a secluded booth near the back of the hotel's deserted bar, one unfinished drink between them. Meant to serve twelve, the drink, called a "House on Fire," combined vodka, rum, banana liqueur, coconut and other fruit flavors into a concoction the menu said was a favorite at parties. Mystery Man and Paris hadn't made a dent.
He also hadn't made a pass. And despite the heated way he kept looking at her, she was starting to think that all he really wanted was the drink and a little small talk.
Well, what did you expect? He's your fantasy, but that doesn't mean you're his.
Paris
sighed. She was beginning to feel like a tennis match was going on in her head. Yes, she wanted to sleep with Alexander. No, she didn't want to sleep with
Mystery
The "no's," of course, were a lie. She
did
want to sleep with one of him, more than she'd ever wanted any man. But that would be a mistake. She needed to keep reminding herself. He wasn't Alexander, and sleeping with him would be a huge, giant, mind-blowing mistake.
Too bad.
He'd barely even touched her and already her body mourned his absence.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
You're not touching me.
That's
what's wrong.
But she didn't say it. Instead, she shook her head. "No, not at all."
Whatever game he was playing, she'd hold her own. She plucked a slice of orange out of the huge bowl that housed their mammoth drink. "I want to know about you. I mean, how on earth did you manage to end up here tonight?"
Alexander reached across the table to stroke her cheek, the caress electric and inviting. Without thinking, she pressed her face into his palm, soaking up the warmth before he pulled away. He didn't let the contact between them break, however. As soon as one hand left her face, the other took her fingers.
"You already know everything. Didn't you invent me?"
"I'm beginning to think I did."
Paris
's thoughts became fuzzy as she lost herself in his caress. Fingers intertwined as he traced the outline of her hand. His skin, slightly calloused, melded with hers that was lotioned and pampered. He dragged his fingernails lightly across her palm. The effect was torture, almost a tickle, and completely erotic in its casualness.
She blinked, then remembered to breathe. "Maybe I conjured you up in my head and you just fell from the sky like manna."
"So why did you make me up?"
Why indeed? How could she explain? She'd needed an author for her books, true. But that wasn't the whole story. She'd been lonely, plain and simple. And the sunsets in
So she'd made him up.
She opened her mouth, trying to find the words to explain about twilight, then shut it again. That wasn't a secret she wanted to share.
