Friday, it seemed, arrived sooner than usual. She'd postponed her other obligations for the day and let it be known that she might be out of the office. By six-thirty on that crisp, clear morning, she was striding down the red-brick sidewalks of Pleasantville, annoyed that Jake hadn't called her to make arrangements.
But that was typical of Jake. If Evan had asked her to reserve the day, he would have called her long before now to make plans. She wasn't sure that Jake would even show up.
A familiar car whizzed by—Evan's elegant beige Mercedes. For a crazy hopeful moment, she wondered if he'd straightened out the complications in France and returned home. That hope, however, was painfully short-lived.
The sedan screeched to a halt on the narrow street, then shifted into reverse and drove backwards—all the way down Main Street
! She glanced in alarm for oncoming cars. The street, however, was vacant. Only a few pedestrians lingered on the sidewalks at this early hour.
The Mercedes stopped beside her, the tinted passenger window hummed as it lowered and a deeply tanned Jake Rowland flashed a brilliant smile at her from behind the wheel. "Mornin', Ms. Devon."
Raw masculine charisma radiated from him like an electromagnetic field. She felt the draw, an almost primal attraction, but she wouldn't succumb to it, not even with a courteous smile. Instead, she glanced around, hoping that no one had seen his little driving stunt. They'd know immediately that the driver couldn't be Evan.
Curious heads had turned, she noticed. Through stiff lips, she replied, "Good morning, Mr. Rowland."
"Hop in."
Her first impulse was to refuse. A ride from Jake had always meant trouble. Like the morning she'd missed the school bus and out of desperation accepted his offer to drive her. He'd taken off down country highways with his radio blaring. "Welcome to Hooky 101," he'd told her. Only when she'd threatened to jump from the car had he taken her to school. She'd missed her first two classes.
"Well?" he prompted, leaning on his forearms against the leather steering wheel. "Are you going to get in, or would you rather meet me at the office?"
That, she realized, would be a disaster. He wore a faded green sweatshirt, a leather jacket and jeans, his brown mane far too long and shaggy, his strong jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked wild, wicked and dangerous—like an outlaw, or a rebel, or a footloose millionaire with the world in his jeans pocket. The latter scared her most of all.
Drawing a breath, Brianna opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat. "Go," she ordered in a low, emphatic tone, her tension mounting as she surveyed the pedestrians on the sidewalks, hoping no one had noticed her climb into his car. She wouldn't want to stir up questions about her absence from the office. "Slowly," she specified as he accelerated through town. "Evan would never speed the way you do." She fastened her seat belt and cast Jake a critical glance. "And you can't go to the office dressed like that."
"You don't like my duds?"
She looked away from the playful sparkle in his vivid blue eyes. He was taking this far too lightly, just as she'd known he would. "Evan wears suits to work. And he shaves. You look like you haven't touched a razor in days."
"Not since Tuesday. But we're not going to the office."
She narrowed her gaze, and Jake's grin deepened the vertical groove beside his mouth. With a quickening in her midsection, Brianna asked, "Where are we going, then?"
He turned down a side street and headed back the way they'd come. "Someplace where we can be private."
A trill of alarm raced through her. She didn't want to be anywhere private with Jake Rowland.
As if noticing her unease, he added, "You can fill me in on some details before I go into the office. Advise me."
She couldn't argue with that. But just how private a place did he have in mind? "You could have called me. I could have advised you over the phone—what to wear, where to meet me…"
"I was out of the country and not sure what time I'd get back."
"A call from the airport would've been better than none."
"Sorry. I'll remember that next time." He cast her a disarming smile, and she lapsed into uncomfortable silence. He turned down her street and pulled up in front of her bungalow. "I thought we'd start with your place."
"My place? Why?"
"Pictures."
"Pictures?"
"Yeah. You know, photographs of people you work with. You could put names to the faces. You probably have albums full of photos from office parties and picnics and whatnot. In high school you never went anywhere without your camera."
She gazed at him in some surprise—first, because his idea made so much sense, and second, because she hadn't realized he'd noticed her picture-taking back in high school. She felt absurdly pleased that he had. And that he remembered. "I do have a few photos of coworkers."
"Good. Get 'em."
In a more optimistic frame of mind, she trekked up the stone walkway to her front porch. She hadn't expected him to follow her; she assumed he'd wait in the car. But his car door slammed and footsteps kept pace with her.
"Mind if I grab a cup of coffee while you're looking for those photos?" His rough baritone came from close behind her as she unlocked her door. "I came straight from the airport. Just had time for a quick shower and change."
She pushed open the door and paused awkwardly inside. Allowing Jake Rowland into her home seemed a dangerous thing to do. He strolled past her with easy confidence, into her living room with its embroidered quilt on the sofa, braided throw rugs on the oak floor and crocheted doilies beneath the lamps. His towering broad-shouldered form seemed so alien here, so … invasive.
An odd reaction, she realized, since his identical twin had spent many evenings relaxing here with her. She'd never felt tense in her home with Evan. But then, Evan was so predictable. With him, she was safe. In control.
Not so with Jake.
"You do have coffee, don't you?"
With a start, she realized she'd been standing there gawking at him, as if she'd never seen a man within these walls before. "Yes, yes, of course," she replied, sounding a little too breathless. "In the kitchen, next to the coffeemaker. Do you know how to make it?"
"Yes, ma'am," he drawled, his voice soft, his eyes lingering on hers. "I know how to make it."
Anxiety—and something equally uncomfortable—seeped into her blood. Was she imagining the sensuality in those words, in that stare? Feeling suddenly warm, she turned away and unbuttoned her fleece-lined coat. Before she guessed his intentions, he helped her out of it, pulling the coat from her shoulders. Too vividly it reminded her of the previous Friday night … when he'd peeled every last scrap of clothing off her and carried her to his bed.
Did he plan to stay here in her home, alone with her?
"You'll need to get out of that suit," he said. His gaze meandered down the curves of her gray tailored jacket and slim black skirt. A tingling began beneath her skin.
What was he suggesting? Curtly she took the coat from him and hung it in the closet.
"Might as well slip into something more comfortable."
At that, her bottom lip curled in disdain. He hadn't even bothered to be original. Slip into something more comfortable. He'd been watching too many old movies!
She whirled to confront him, a stinging rebuke poised on her tongue. Her gaze locked with his—like bucks locking antlers for battle—and she noticed the expectant twinkle in his gaze. He'd meant to provoke her, she realized, and fully expected her to chastise him.
She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"Jeans," he said, his eyes bright with amusement. "And a sweatshirt, maybe, since we're not going to the office. We'll need at least a full day to prepare me for my role." He turned his back to her and sauntered toward her kitchen. The scoundrel. He knew she felt uncomfortable here with him, and he delighted in getting a rise out of her.
Locking herself in her bedroom, she slipped out of her suit and changed into jeans. Obstinately she chose
a cranberry knit sweater instead of the prescribed sweatshirt. She had to exert control. She'd been charged with the task of turning Jake into Evan, and she meant to do just that.
Flipping through her photo albums, she found one with pictures of co-workers. His idea had been good—she'd identify people he'd run into at the office. But it would take much more than that to prepare him for his role. She also found her employee handbook and a set of training manuals.
With an armload she returned to the living room. Jake sat on the sofa with a cup of coffee between his large bronzed hands. Seeing him there reminded her again of Friday night, when he'd given her coffee after their interlude in bed. After he'd kissed her and touched her and worked her up into an orgasmic frenzy…
"Let's go into the kitchen," she said tersely. The sofa wouldn't be conducive to work.
"I hadn't planned on us staying here." He stood up. "I've rented a place to work for the day."
Warily she asked, "What kind of place?"
"You'll see. It's in the next county, so no one will disturb us or know we're together." He'd surprised her again with his foresight. What, she wondered, was behind it?
They drove an hour northwest, down hilly two-lane highways through Amish country, past neat farms and rolling woodlands bright with the crimsons, yellows and golds of autumn. Brianna made the most of their time by reading aloud from a training manual, tutoring him on insurance lingo.
She wasn't sure he was listening. He seemed distracted by every quaint Amish buggy and horse that clip-clopped along the highway, every sparkling expanse of river, every picturesque barn and hilltop that caught his eye.
Reining in her own wandering attention, she returned to the training manual. Today was a workday, and even though she was following Cy Rowland's orders to prepare Jake for his role, she felt guilty for enjoying the break from the office. Intent on putting in an honest day's work, she reprimanded Jake, "This is important for you to learn."
"I'm listening. But it's been years since I've driven these back roads. I can't help looking around." He stretched his muscles, as if just now rising from bed.
"Besides, I'm not awake yet. Didn't get much sleep on the flight back from Mexico."
"Mexico!" she exclaimed, again distracted in spite of herself. "What in heaven's name were you doing in Mexico?"
"Running across Xinantecatl." With a glance at her, he explained, "A dormant volcano. Ever been there?"
A volcano! He'd spent Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday racing across a volcano? "No," she replied faintly, "not any time recently."
"Southwest of Toluca. At fifteen-thousand feet above sea level, the air's too thin for anyone to run very far or fast. I barely finished a mile. But that's all it took." He flashed a buoyant smile. "I won the bet."
A bet. He'd done it on a bet. His brother was being held captive by French authorities and his family's company was facing disaster, yet he'd found time to jog across a volcano. To win a bet.
She couldn't help asking, "Who bet you couldn't?"
"Ry Alexander. An old college buddy of mine. He and his wife, Sunny, happened to be vacationing near there."
The names rang a bell. Something to do with high society and big money. "You're not talking about Ryan Alexander, are you? The Ryan Alexander, of Alexander Computer Technologies?"
"You've heard of him?"
"Of course I've heard of him. Who hasn't? He and his wizards revolutionized cyberspace."
"Yeah, that's Ry. A computer nut from way back. Just doesn't know which side of a wager to bet on." Again he gave a victorious grin, much like the ones she remembered from high school after his football triumphs.
How different their lives were, his and hers! His triumphs meant cocky grins and bragging rights. Hers meant a roof over her head and a community in which to set down roots. She'd rarely left Ohio, while the world itself was his playground. She planned her life around her work. He lived minute by minute, not having to work at all. Not having to strive or plan. Or care.
It frightened her, thinking of him in that limitless way. The image came to mind of a helium balloon she'd been handed as a child—bright and glistening in the sun. She'd lost hold of its string and it rose from her hand, far above her reach. Aimlessly it drifted, higher and higher, twirling with every playful breeze, until it was just a speck in the sky. And then … gone.
Did he ever get lonely, she wondered of Jake, scaling the boundless heights, twirling with every playful breeze?
Shaking herself out of the melancholy she'd somehow drifted into, she decided it was up to her to bring him down to earth and anchor him for as long as this project took. Once again, she began to read from the manual.
Jake interrupted her by stopping at an Amish pie stand, filling the car with the fragrance of cinnamon and spice, making her mouth water. He also bought fragrant, warm homemade bread, fresh deli meats and coffee.
When he returned to the driver seat, she railed at him, "This is a workday, Jake, not a vacation. If anyone is going to believe that you're Evan, you'll have to at least learn some insurance terminology, clean up your appearance and adopt a more serious attitude."
He frowned as he shifted the car into gear. "You seem to doubt that I can play Evan."
"Play Evan?" she repeated. So it was just a game to him. "We're going to need a major miracle." She might have been imagining it, but she thought she saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel.
"Since you're the expert on the subject of my twin," he replied flatly, "go ahead. Transform me."
"Okay," she said with a nod. "Stop at a barbershop in the next town. You need a cut and shave."
"I can shave at home."
"Someone from work might see you when we return to town this afternoon. They'd know that you weren't Evan. Evan always keeps himself well-groomed. Even on his days off, he maintains the image of a community leader."
"Should I genuflect any time soon? Fall to my knees, sing a few hymns?"
She ignored his sarcasm, insisted he stop at a barbershop and ushered him to the barber chair. The beefy man with an overgrown mustache grunted and went to work with his shears. Jake watched through the mirror in stoic silence.
"Shorter in the back," Brianna judged, secretly hating to see the thick, glossy brown waves fall to the floor. "It shouldn't touch his collar," she justified. "Oh, and a little more layered on the sides."
"I'm not shipping off to boot camp," Jake muttered as the barber cut away inches from his tousled mane.
"We want a neat, groomed look," she explained. "One that shouts, 'Executive.'" The barber sent Jake a commiserating glance—one that groaned, "Women."
When he'd finished, Jake looked much more like Evan. Except, of course, for the faded jeans, sweatshirt and brown leather jacket … the subtle arrogance in his nonchalant manner … the devil-may-care glint in his sea blue eyes…
Would anyone believe he was Evan? Incredible to think that she had, last Friday night. But his hair had been wet from a shower, she remembered, and his personality muted by the shock of her unexpected appearance. How else could she have confused the two?
She paused on the curb outside the barbershop as Jake stepped down onto the street. With a hand on his shoulder, she stopped him and examined his profile. "Evan wears a more definite part," she reflected, giving in to the urge to touch his newly shorn hair. The silken strands flowed through her fingertips as she rearranged a critical lock here and there. "Yours seems to have more golden highlights," she murmured. "We might have to—"
"Forget it." With a smooth quarter turn, he faced her, almost eye level and much too near. "How's my shave?" he whispered. Then he nuzzled his chin against the side of her neck.
With a gasp she flexed her shoulder to fend him off, trapping his jaw against her collarbone. His nearness submerged her in sensation: the virile scent of his hair and skin, the slightly abrasive rub of his jaw, the warmth of his breath as it steamed against her throat.
He drew back only far enough to read her eyes. "T
hink it's close enough?"
Thoroughly shaken, she pulled away, gave his solid chest an ineffectual shove and stalked past him to the car. She felt dazed and rattled and miffed at herself as well as him. She'd had no business playing with his hair. She should have known better than to touch Jake Rowland at all.
But if truth be told—which it never would—she had been thinking about how his shaven face would feel against her skin. Actually, she knew how it would feel. She'd felt it last Friday night.
Sliding into the passenger seat of the Mercedes, she slammed the door, compressed her lips and balled her hands in her lap. Jake settled himself behind the wheel. They drove for miles without speaking. She longed to talk it all out, defuse some of the tension, but she couldn't find the words.
His gruff voice broke the silence. "That wasn't the first time I touched you." His gaze remained on the road. "It wasn't the first time you ran your hands through my hair."
Her heart lurched, and she pressed herself deeper into the soft leather seat. She wasn't ready to talk, after all.
Apparently he was. "Friday night we—"
"Can't we get past Friday night?" She pivoted in her seat to confront him. "It was a mistake, a misunderstanding. Let's leave it where it belongs—in the past."
"But it's not in the past."
She opened her mouth to argue, but honestly couldn't. Their sexual encounter wasn't in the past—at least, not for her. It had colored every moment since, both waking and dreaming, with hues and flavors of him. Of his love-making.
"I don't want to talk about what happened between us," she vehemently declared. "Not now, not ever."
He squared his jaw and kept his eyes on the road.
"And there's another thing I'm going to have to insist on," she said, "if I'm going to work with you."
"Such as?"
"No practical jokes. I won't tolerate them. And don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about." She barely noticed that they'd pulled off the highway and onto a shady graveled drive. "Since high school, you've done your best to make my life miserable for your own amusement."
HIS DOUBLE, HER TROUBLE Page 6