Trading Places

Alice herself wasn’t sure what she’d learned. Sharlayne had bombarded her with information and instructions, including the art of makeup. Although Alice had painted her eyes, modified her lip line, shadowed her nose to make it appear longer and allowed Sharlayne to change the shape of her brows, she’d never done everything all at once.

This would be the acid test.

With trembling hands, she reached for the jar of Sharlayne’s custom-blended foundation. Picking up a sponge, she looked herself in the eye, took a deep breath and began.

Thirty minutes later, she was so racked with nerves that she really couldn’t see the forest for the trees: all the parts that went together to create Sharlayne Kenyon. Everything about Alice gleamed and glowed with color and new shapeliness, but did it add up to success?

She shifted on the bench and fixed a plaintive gaze on Sharlayne. “Well?” She held her breath.

Sharlayne looked…stunned. Stepping forward, she put her hands on Alice’s shoulders and turned her back to face the mirror. What Alice now saw was two Sharlayne Kenyons—two. For a moment, she didn’t know which one was her.

Sharlayne said in a strangled voice, “I’m the one who thought this would work, and even I don’t believe it.”

“Neither do I,” Alice gasped. “I never dreamed—!”

“I realized there were a lot of similarities.” Sharlayne had pulled herself together, although she still appeared rattled. “Do you suppose we’re twins separated at birth?”

Alice laughed. “Not likely, since I’m thirty-two and you’re—”

“Older. A tiny bit older.” Sharlayne grinned at her own intervention. “Actually, when I look closer I can see the differences. Your upper lip is longer…see?” She pointed to her own mouth. “Your nose is shorter, your cheeks fuller. That’s why I showed you how to contour. Your neck’s shorter, too.” She preened her head from side to side to demonstrate.

“I see it when you point it out,” Alice agreed. “Without all the camouflage we don’t look that much alike at all.” She rose. “Now what?”

“Now you get dressed. Wear that.” Sharlayne pointed to garments laid out on the silk-draped canopy bed and strappy high-heeled sandals sitting on the floor.

Without a word, Alice stripped off her jeans and T-shirt. Beneath them she wore a thong—which was driving her crazy—and a demibra of lace and satin, artfully constructed to make the most of her assets. The underwear was new, selected and purchased by Sharlayne.

“You can wear my clothes and my shoes,” she’d said. “You can even wear my jewels. But no way will anybody wear my undies. Since you have a penchant for cotton underwear and no one on the planet would believe Sharlayne Kenyon would wear such a thing—”

“But no one will see my underwear,” Alice had protested. “What difference does it make?”

“Plenty,” Sharlayne snapped. “You’ll know and you won’t feel like me in cotton underpants—trust me. Besides, what if you got hit by a car? Then everybody at the hospital would see. It would ruin my reputation.”

“I’m not going to get hit by a car.”

Sharlayne had got that sneaky gleam in her eyes. “There are other occasions to show one’s underwear. You could have a mad passionate affair with your bodyguard.”

“I had a mad passionate affair with one of your gardeners. Remember that? It didn’t work out so well. I won’t be trying that again any time soon.”

“José was cute,” Sharlayne said, “but the language thing was a problem. I’m still not sure if he was kissing you off or inviting you to go back to Mexico with him.”

“Whatever. I was sorry I ever got involved.” Alice stepped into white jeans and hauled them up over her hips. She had to take a deep breath to get them snapped, then to pull up the zip.

She’d never worn anything so tight in her life. “Good grief,” she gasped. “How do you move in these?”

“They’re denim. They stretch.”

“I hope.” Alice tugged the black T-shirt over her head. Short and just as tight as the jeans, it reached only to a couple of inches above the waistband, baring her navel.

She stared in the mirror at her exposed bellybutton. “You’re kidding,” she said faintly.

“You know better. You’ve seen me practically every day for two years. You’ve seen me wear that, as a matter of fact.”

“Yes, but…I don’t know.” Alice shook her newly blond head.

“Good,” Sharlayne said approvingly. “That petulant look is dead-on. Hurry up, put on the shoes. Your bodyguard should be arriving any minute and you’ll have to greet him.”

Alice’s stomach clenched into a knot of terror. “Sharlayne, I don’t know—”

“The hell you don’t! Put on those shoes!” Sharlayne pointed with a stiff finger. “Then put on that ruby tennis bracelet and the diamond earrings I laid out for you.” The roar of an automobile engine interrupted and she frowned. “What the…?”

Alice, closer to the second-story windows, walked over to peer out. “It’s an old pickup truck,” she reported.

“Probably a delivery,” Sharlayne grumbled, coming to check for herself. “Tabitha must have authorized it.”

The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. And what a man: slim hips and shoulders to die for. When he looked up unexpectedly, both women leaped back as if caught doing something they should be ashamed of.

They faced each other, wide-eyed.

Sharlayne said, “The bodyguard. Got to be.”

“Do you think so?” Alice whispered, wondering how she got so lucky.

“I’m sure of it.” Sharlayne grinned. “Maybe I should hang around and send you off to finish my book.”

“Maybe you should,” Alice agreed, wondering if what she felt beneath her feet was really quicksand.

“Go on, Alice,” Sharlayne scoffed. “I mean, Sharlayne. That guy’s a real hunk and his only interest in the next several weeks will be guarding your body. Let him earn his money. Remember, you’re me, so don’t pull any of that fainting-virgin stuff. I’m not suggesting you do anything you really don’t want to, but in public ask yourself, ‘What would Sharlayne do?”’ She turned toward the door with a wink. “Then don’t do anything I wouldn’t, okay?”

Alice groaned. That certainly left a lot of leeway.

A FIFTYISH WOMAN with the charm of a goatherd let Jed into the old villa. He automatically catalogued what he’d seen so far: a tall brick fence, an enormous and elaborate wrought-iron gate at the street entrance to the property, a long curving drive leading up to the white-walled, red-tile-roofed mansion nestled among palms and flowering shrubbery.

All very substantial and prosperous. A nice place to visit, but he wouldn’t want to live here.

The woman, a stereotypical old-maid school-teacher if he’d ever seen one, offered her hand. “I am Tabitha Thomas,” she said in a chilly tone. “I am Ms. Kenyon’s personal assistant.”

“Jed Kelby.” He took her hand in a firm but brief grip. “S. J. Spade Insurance Agency.”

“The bodyguard.”

He grimaced. The agency preferred insurance agent or security expert or even personal security consultant. Nevertheless, he said, “Yes, ma’am.” He glanced around the majestic entryway, noting the antique tile, the Moorish shapes of windows and doors. “Is Ms. Kenyon available?”

“She’s—”

“Right here.”

The low timbre of the new voice sent shudders of anticipation down Jed’s spine. He was watching Tabitha and therefore caught the look of shock that touched her face before it was quickly gone. For a moment he couldn’t be sure of the identity of the newcomer, but then he turned, bracing for this first encounter with his employer.