Nobody Does It Better

For his father, he would pull one last con.

PARIS TOOK A DEEP BREATH, then another. It didn’t help. Panic inched another step closer.

The first hour of the party had been painless. She had circulated among the crowd, making small talk, evading questions about Alexander, and having a better time than she’d expected. But now people were beginning to wonder why Alexander hadn’t arrived. And that meant it was almost curtain time.

She pressed her back against the wall, hoping no one would notice her and decide to chat. Right now, Paris wasn’t sure she could form a coherent sentence. But despite her frazzled nerves, she had to concede the party was a hit. Cobalt Blue Publishing had rented the back two dining areas of a funky restaurant tucked away on the first floor of a renovated older hotel where Paris frequently stayed.

As she had wandered through the party earlier, she’d overheard various snippets of lively conversations. Everything from speculation about whether Alexander would really show, to intellectual ruminations about the deeper meaning behind some of Alexander’s plots. A few people even asked if she was involved with Alexander that way. She’d said “no,” of course, although for a fleeting moment she’d been tempted to reveal to the public the steamy affair she had going on in her fantasies. That was an urge she’d quelled right away.

But while Alexander might be the man of the hour, his absence wasn’t keeping the guests from taking full advantage of the music, the food and the drink. A band Paris recalled seeing on late night television jammed in one corner under a wall of neon beer signs. A few energetic souls were dancing on a raised platform, but for the most part people clustered near the food or the alcohol. Two open bars bracketed a buffet laden with typical cocktail party appetizers. Nothing particularly original, but all tasty. Mounted behind the buffet, a six-foot-tall reproduction of the cover of Montgomery Alexander’s latest book, Dearest Enemy, Deadly Friend, loomed over the crowd, a not-so-subtle reminder that this party had a purpose.

Paris had to hand it to Ellis Chapman. Once again he’d outdone himself. The owner of Cobalt Blue, Ellis had grown his small press into a legitimate publisher. Now he was on the brink of being a real industry player, primarily because of his guerilla marketing stunts. At a minimum, Ellis insisted his authors do local television talk shows, and it had originally irritated him when Paris explained that Alexander refused to make public appearances. Ellis being Ellis, he’d quickly turned the situation to his advantage by focusing on Alexander’s mystique. If Paris were a betting woman, she’d lay odds that Ellis had planted the persistent rumors that Montgomery Alexander was a former spy.

She’d hoped Ellis would stay happy with the mysterious recluse angle indefinitely. But with the release of Dearest Enemy, he’d become antsy. Sales were doing just fine, but he wanted them to do even better. So when the book made one of the bestseller lists, he’d sent out invitations to a supposedly low-key cocktail party honoring the book’s success. Then he’d hinted to the right people that Alexander himself might drop by.

When Paris had protested, he’d started throwing around words like “hardback,” and “higher royalties,” and “multi-book deals.” At the same time, he’d casually asked Paris to let Alexander know he’d be seeing none of those things if he didn’t get himself to New York for the cocktail party.

Now the restaurant overflowed with a variety of people who’d been drawn by the allure of seeing the reclusive Mr. Alexander. Reporters danced with editors. Fans chatted with other Cobalt Blue authors. A few soap opera stars mugged for the photographers.

Paris caught sight of Ellis chatting in the corner with a reporter she recognized from that morning’s news. She swallowed the lump in her throat and wondered what he would do when she made her announcement that Alexander wasn’t coming. Her gaze swept over the relatively well-mannered crowd. Surely this group wouldn’t transform into a modern-day lynch mob.

Would it?

Swaying to the rhythm of the music, Rachel approached with two glasses of champagne and pushed one toward Paris.

“You know I don’t drink that stuff.”

“Trust me on this one.”

Paris sniffed the champagne, sighed, then took a quick sip. The bubbles tickled her nose and took her mind off the party. Since that wasn’t a bad thing, she took a bigger swallow.

“Having fun?”

“Better than I expected.” She frowned, remembering the announcement she still had to make. “For now, anyway.” With a broad wave of her arm, Paris gestured over the entire room. “Look at this. Put these folks in pinstripes and it would be just like all the parties back when my dad was hot and heavy into politics. I spent the first twenty years of my life promising myself I would spend the rest of my life avoiding any function where I was required to schmooze. But here I am of my own free will.”

“It’s a fun party. And you’re not the same girl who turned down Daddy’s offer to run his law practice when he became a judge.”

Paris nodded. That was true. She’d changed a lot since law school. If her dad had asked the woman she was now to follow in his footsteps, maybe she’d have been able to turn him down honestly, telling him she wanted to try her hand at writing. And if she was having a really brave day, she might even have told him what kind of writing—fast-paced, sexually charged, testosterone-laden flights of fancy.

Unfortunately, Judge Sommers hadn’t asked today’s Paris. He’d asked a Paris who existed almost a decade ago. Fresh out of law school, that Paris didn’t have the stomach to stand up to her father. That Paris couldn’t bear the look of disapproval she knew would have flashed across his face. So she’d concocted a job in another city and never told him about her books.

She grimaced. Who was she kidding? Today’s Paris wasn’t any braver. She’d managed to dig herself in deep with this life full of lies. But she’d get back on track soon enough. She had her literary and financial life all mapped out, and she didn’t intend to keep secrets from her dad forever. As soon as she could afford to quit writing the Alexander books, she would. She’d turn to accepted literature. The kind that got reviewed in Sunday newspaper inserts. The kind that won literary awards.

The kind her dad would find respectable.

She tossed back the last of her drink, grabbed Rachel’s still untouched one, and took a gulp.

Rachel’s eyes widened. “Just because I’m the poster girl for step aerobics doesn’t mean I can carry you back to your room.”

“I think I’ve discovered the cure for nerves,” said Paris, raising her glass. “Tiny bubbles.” She hummed, trying to remember the words to one of her dad’s favorite songs, her feet tapping out a subtle little jig.

“Paris.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s about time.”

“They’re going to hate me. What’s that saying? Kill the messenger?”

“Nonsense. Maybe you won’t get Christmas cards, but they won’t hate you. They won’t hate Alexander, either. It’s just a delay, remember? Until we can find the right guy. In the meantime, this will just add to his mystique. Hell, it’ll probably boost sales.”

“Maybe I should—”

“Paris. Go.”

Paris grimaced, but nodded. Walking like a woman condemned, she crossed the dance floor and headed toward the kitchen. On the way, she noticed a commotion near the entrance. Camera flashes illuminated the room like tiny bursts of lightning.

On any other day, Paris would have been lured by the possibility of seeing a big celebrity. But right now, even Harrison Ford couldn’t have waylaid her. She had to get to the phone, pretend to dial, then return to the party and relay the sad news that Mr. Alexander had missed his flight from London.

A thunderous round of applause stopped her dead in her tracks. Curious, she turned and watched as the crowd parted to make way for a man she knew. A man who didn’t exist.

Montgomery Alexander was walking straight toward her.

2

OF COURSE, Paris knew the man couldn’t be Montgomery Alexander. Alexander was a figment of her imagination, created so she wouldn’t have to explain why she was writing books filled with guns and cars and girls wearing next to nothing.

For years, she’d shared with him the kind of adventures she craved. Adventures a politician’s daughter just couldn’t have. In her mind, they’d traveled to exotic islands, danced until dawn, made love on the beach with nothing but the breeze to cover them. Real life couldn’t satisfy her desire for passion and romance, but Alexander had filled that gap.

They’d had long conversations in the moonlight, and he’d listened to her hopes, her dreams. He amused her with his wit and beguiled her with his charm. Yes, she’d made him up. She knew that. But somehow she’d fallen in love with him anyway.

And over the years, she’d spent uncounted delightful hours imagining every luscious inch of him. So how was it possible that now Alexander’s details escaped her? Now, she could see only him, an Alexander bursting free of fantasy and striding toward her with such purpose that her sluggish imagination kicked back into gear, conjuring up all sorts of erotic fantasies about how they could pass a little time together.

He stepped out of the shadows and she swallowed. Oh my.

His walk marked him as confident, almost arrogant, and his firm, humorless mouth was belied by a sparkle in his eyes that reflected compassion and intelligence. Defined cheekbones and a sturdy jaw accented his freshly shaved face. Dark brown waves were slicked back in a devil-may-care style.

Even the forest green suit, Alexander’s standard attire for special occasions, was perfect. Another man might just wear the suit. Not Alexander. He commanded it, as if even clothing couldn’t escape the brute force of his magnetism.

Alexander glanced her way, then said something to a nearby woman, who turned to the crowd with the promise that Mr. Alexander would be right back.

Before Paris realized what was happening, before she could still the flutter in her chest, he caught up with her. Her breath caught as his gaze caressed her, starting at her toes, and she surprised herself by trembling under the scrutiny. She took inventory of her appearance—black heels, little black dress with spaghetti straps, pinned-up hair—and wondered if he approved.

When he reached her face, Paris saw real desire in his eyes and fought hard not to blush. When he leaned in and kissed her cheek, she almost dissolved into a puddle of goo right there.

Her logical half knew she should be throwing a fit, hurling accusations and demanding explanations. Baser instincts urged her to grab the moment, to melt into his arms and taste his kisses. She concentrated on just keeping her balance.

“We shouldn’t keep meeting like this,” he said, his voice straight from her fantasies. “People will say we’re in love.”