by Patti Berg
His feet were bare, and he walked toward her.
Her heart beat hard, fast, and she felt the blood rise in her cheeks. She waited for him to speak, but all he did was watch her, his gaze settling on her eyes, her nose, her breasts. Finally, he found her eyes again, and a slow, tentative smile touched his mouth.
It was impossible to draw her eyes from his freshly shaved face, or to keep from inhaling the muskiness of his aftershave. She wanted to touch him, to see if his skin burned with the same intensity as hers.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” he said.
Anything, her insides responded, but her sanity stepped in and rescued her. “Ask away.”
But he didn’t speak. He frowned, shook his head as if filled with doubt. He went to the bed, lifted the coat she’d altered, and tried it on. Perfect.
“You do nice work,” he told her.
“Thank you.”
He went to the window, as if he’d forgotten she was there. It seemed her job was over, that it was time to go, but she couldn’t leave. He still had a question to pose. “I thought there was something you wanted to ask me.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Then I suppose you don’t need me any longer.”
“No.”
Reality surfaced. Stick with your dream of a middle-class world, she told herself. Jack’s universe is too far above you.
She got up from the sofa and walked toward the sewing machine, found her jacket, and slipped it on. He didn’t look at her. Instead, he stared out the window at the first stars of twilight, as if deep in thought. She wanted to catch one last long look at his eyes, wanted to hear his voice again. But he’d retreated to his world, and she’d soon be back in hers.
Gripping the handle of the sewing machine, she slipped the strap of her tote over her shoulder and walked to the door.
“Hope your problems go away soon,” she said, trying to sound unaffected by his stance and silence. She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Soon she’d be back in West Palm Beach, looking for a safe place to park her VW and to curl up in the passenger seat to sleep.
That was her world.
Peering over her shoulder, Sam took one last look at Jack Remington’s back. She waited, hoping he’d turn around and smile. When he didn’t, she closed the door behind her. The short walk to the elevator seemed to last an eternity. She pressed the DOWN button, heard the chime and watched the doors open.
“Wait.”
Relief rushed through her. She turned as Jack came down the hall.
“You forgot your tip.”
She laughed. She’d forgotten her much-needed money in addition to her senses. A foolish thing to do, something she wouldn’t let happen again. “I was beginning to think my hints were a little too subtle.”
“There’s nothing subtle about you.”
She watched him pull a hundred-dollar bill from his money clip. He took her hand and pressed it into her open palm. His fingers slid over hers, and wrapped around them. He didn’t let go. Uncertainty clouded his eyes. “There’s something I need to ask you,” he said once more. “Something personal.”
“You’re not going to change your mind again, are you?”
“I should, but…no. Would you mind coming back to the room?”
“You can’t ask me here?”
He shook his head. “Like I said, it’s personal.” He took the sewing machine from her hand and walked at her side, holding the door open for her to enter. He set the case on the floor, and suddenly silence filled the suite as he walked away and paced the room in his bare feet.
A clock ticked somewhere, and she realized it was her own watch ticking off one minute, then two.
Finally, he stopped in front of her. “Remember that problem of mine?”
She nodded.
“I thought of a way to solve it.”
“Great, but why are you telling me?”
“You’re the solution.”
“Me?”
“You.” He stripped another bill from his clip, followed by another and another until she’d counted out a thousand dollars. “I need a woman tonight.”
“You what?”
He frowned, as if she had no reason to be shocked. “It’s a simple enough request.”
She laughed. “I’m a tailor, not a whore.” She slapped the hundred-dollar tip she’d earned against his chest and watched the bill flutter to the floor. “Go to hell, Mr. Remington. That’s where you and every other rich man like you belong.”
She grabbed her sewing machine, threw open the door, and heard it bang against the wall as she rushed down the hall.
A big hand gripped her arm and pulled her to a halt. She tried to slap him, but he had her in too tight a hold. “Stop your struggling and give me a chance to explain.”
“What’s to explain? I heard your request loud and clear.”
“But you put the wrong spin on it. I don’t want a prostitute.”
“Then what do you want?”
“A fiancée.”
The rich definitely had a unique way of looking at things. “Is that what they call it in your world?”
“That’s what they call a woman who’s engaged to a man. I want to hire you to act as my fiancée—just for tonight.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
An elderly couple walked by, their eyes wide at the exchange. The diamond bracelets on the woman’s wrist jangled as she gave Sam’s arm a consoling touch. “Do you need some help?”
“No, thank you.” She tried to calm down, tried to digest Jack’s statement.
“Could we talk about this privately?” he asked.
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
His jaw tightened. “Please.”
She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If you hadn’t said please the answer would have been a flat out no. Since you did say please, I’ll give you five minutes and no more to explain why someone like you needs to buy a fiancée.”
The elderly man’s jaw dropped. The woman beside him grinned, and Sam smiled in their direction. “It’s a little game we play,” she told them, shrugging lightly. “It’s the only way to get him excited.”
Jack grabbed her arm and the sewing machine and dragged her toward his suite, slamming the door behind him after he dumped the sewing machine on the floor. “This isn’t a game, and it sure as hell isn’t foreplay.”
“What is it then?”
“It’s the only thing I can think of to keep from ruining my sister’s party.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“Then let me explain.”
“Please do. I like a good story.”
She wanted to appear calm. She was anything but.
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you can make my sister believe you’re my fiancée.”
“Do you like to play jokes on your sister?”
“No, I like to make her happy. That’s why I need a fiancée. Just for tonight.”
“Do you have a real fiancée?”
“I did.”
Sam sat on the sofa, crossed her legs, and dangled one shoe from the toes of her foot. “What happened to your real fiancée?”
“We had a misunderstanding.”
“She isn’t by any chance the person you were talking to right before I knocked on your door? The one who thinks you’re a son of a bitch?”
“You heard that?”
“I imagine everyone on this floor heard it.”
“Look, my sister has never met Arabella. She doesn’t know what she looks like. You’re an actress—”
“But you forget, I’ve never played anything but a corpse. On top of that, I’ve never been to a ball, never socialized with rich people.”
“You can do it. Rich people aren’t any better than anyone else.”
That’s an understatement, Sam thought.
“Why don’t you just tell your sister that Arabella dumped you?”
“I ca
n’t. Lauren’s happy for the first time in years. She’s excited about meeting Arabella, and I don’t want to do anything to spoil tonight.”
“What if someone recognizes me?”
“Have you been to any Palm Beach parties lately? Do you play polo or go yachting?”
She shrugged. “Not recently.”
His brow rose. “Ever?”
“No.”
“Well, Arabella certainly hasn’t either, so I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”
She sighed, not feeling the least bit comfortable with his proposition. She went to the window, looking at the big round moon shining on the dark gray water. This was her chance to act—really and truly to act. On top of that, this was her opportunity to see how the rich and famous lived. Plus, she could make some desperately needed money. But…She faced him. “I can’t do it.”
“Why?”
“I’m not rich.”
“I told you that doesn’t matter.”
“You don’t understand. I have nothing to wear.”
His gaze trailed deliberately over her body. Heated eyes settled on her lips, then slowly moved to her eyes. “Is that all that’s bothering you?”
“That and the fact that I don’t feel comfortable deceiving your sister.”
He smiled, a true, deep smile that eased her fear about the masquerade she was embarking on.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For caring about my sister’s feelings.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the stack of bills he’d offered her before. “I’ll explain everything to my sister in a few days. She won’t hold it against you. I promise.”
She stared at the money in his hand. It seemed wrong to take it, wrong to lie to his sister. Still, a thousand dollars would help get Johnnie off her back. He might even extend the loan.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” she said, plucking the bills from his palm. “But you’d better tell your sister the truth soon—tomorrow even. Playing your fiancée for a night is one thing, but I don’t want you calling me next week and asking me to be your wife for a day.”
His laughter filled the room. “Trust me. That’s not about to happen.”
She bit her lip, frowning at the grin on his face. “There’s still the problem of what to wear.”
“That’s the least of your problems.”
He checked his watch, then lifted the phone. “In less than an hour you’ll look like a princess. Think you can act like a pampered socialite, too?”
Doubt clenched at her stomach, but there was no reason to let Jack see her anxiety. “As you said, I’m an actress, Jack. Just give me a few directions, and I’ll do the rest.”
three
“I can’t do that,” Sam said, sitting in the back of the limousine, staring at Jack Remington, who’d turned from something close to Prince Charming to a detestable frog in the space of five minutes.
“It’s a simple request.”
“I’m not going to spy on your sister’s fiancé. Pretending I’m Arabella Fleming is bad enough, but trying to find out if Peter Leighton has some hidden agenda is out of the question.”
“He doesn’t deserve her.”
“Do you have any concrete proof of that?”
Jack smiled, leaned forward, and took hold of her fingers. “I have no proof at all. I even had the man investigated and came up with nothing. But I do have a gut feeling.”
“Your sister’s in love with him, for heaven’s sake! If you don’t have any proof, leave it alone.”
She pulled her fingers from his grasp. “You know what, Jack?”
“What?”
“My mama wouldn’t have liked you.”
“Why?”
“You’re rich, for one, and she didn’t like rich men. Neither do I, for that matter. Number two, you’re devious. She used to tell me that I should stay away from devious men because they have a tendency to lead good girls astray.”
“I’ve been open and aboveboard in everything I’ve asked of you. There’s nothing devious there. As for being rich, I can’t help what I am.”
He leaned back in the soft black leather and folded his arms across his chest. “All you have to do is dance with him, ask him a few questions, and maybe bat your eyelashes a time or two.”
“No.”
“I’ll give you a thousand more.”
The money was tempting, but she couldn’t.
She shook her head.
“Two thousand.”
“I’m not a spy. Please don’t ask me—”
“Five.”
Her heart seemed to stop. She could pay off most of what she owed Johnnie with five thousand dollars. It wasn’t right, but she was desperate. “All right. Five.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“No,” Sam said. “Sometimes I sell my services a little too easily. I always regret it in the end.”
He leaned forward again, and lifted her hand. His felt warm; hers was freezing. “You asked me earlier if something was bothering me, and now I’m going to ask you. Are you in trouble? Something I might be able to help you with?”
She didn’t know Jack Remington well enough to tell him her troubles. Besides, her foolishness was all too humiliating to talk about. Five months ago she’d confided in a rich man, she’d even asked for his help. In the end, she’d ended up with black eyes and a scar on her jaw. She didn’t like the thought of Jack Remington seeing her as a greedy, moneygrubbing con, but she wouldn’t be seeing him after tonight. His disdain was something she could live with.
“Thanks for asking,” she said, pulling her hand away, “but I don’t have a care in the world.”
Lauren Remington Chasen Lancaster looked radiant. Sam picked her out the moment she and Jack walked through the massive double doors that led into a pink-and-white marble entry. With a devastatingly handsome fiancé at her side, she’d stood at the far end of the room greeting guests, dressed in a gold-colored gown covered with thousands of shimmering amber beads. A Paris original, Sam imagined. More than likely Christian Lacroix. She must have been close to six feet tall and looked more like a voluptuous Amazon princess than a willowy Palm Beach socialite. When she saw Jack, her face lit up like she’d just won a Vegas jackpot.
She threw her arms around Jack’s neck, and he lifted her off the floor, spun her around, and every guest in the room stared, as if showing real, honest emotion was unrefined. Peter Leighton frowned, then instantly wiped the look of discontent from his face and put on a smile.
Too late, Sam thought. She considered herself a good judge of character, and Peter Leighton was definitely a man to be watched. Her feelings about Jack and his gut instinct rose a notch.
Jack caught Sam’s arm and drew her toward his sister. “Lauren, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Arabella Fleming.”
Sam took a deep breath, as the charade began in earnest.
“I hope Jack told you how happy I am for both of you,” Lauren said, “but if he hasn’t, well, I’m just thrilled.”
“Thank you,” Sam said. She held out her hand, but suddenly found herself caught up in Lauren’s sisterly embrace.
“You’re perfect for Jack,” Lauren whispered. “Of course, you don’t look at all like he described you.”
“What do you mean?” Jack said, obviously overhearing his sister. “She’s exactly how I described her. Beautiful.”
“Well, she is beautiful. But she’s got red hair, not brown, you said something about her being average height when she’s nearly as tall as me, and, oh, what does it matter. You’re both here.” The smile grew even brighter on Lauren’s face as she linked her arm through Peter’s, drawing him forward.
“Now it’s my turn to introduce my fiancé. Peter Leighton, this is my brother, Jack Remington, and his wife-to-be, Arabella Fleming.”
Peter was nothing but grace and charm. He was tall, slim, with slicked-back black hair that made him look more like a Latin lover than an Australian polo player.
He had a heart-stopping smile, drop-dead gorgeous blue eyes, but his palm felt warm and damp when he took hold of Sam’s, and her mama had always told her to beware of sweaty palms. She tried pulling away, but before he let her go, he squeezed her fingers and smiled one of those “we’ll talk later” smiles she’d seen one too many times in Hollywood.
“It’s a pleasure to have the two of you join us,” Peter said. “Lauren has talked of nothing else all day.”
“We wouldn’t have missed tonight for the world,” Sam said, slipping her hand around Jack’s arm, looking at him with all the love she could muster.
“Mother said something similar,” Lauren said. “Of course, she followed that statement with a but and told me she’d met an English lord who’s to-die-for and they were going to spend the weekend at his country estate.” Lauren laughed softly. “Actually, I’m rather glad she’s not here. The lilies would have clashed with her gown, the champagne wouldn’t have been the right year, and my dress, well, she’d tell me I should have gotten it in Milan instead of Paris because everyone, I mean everyone, is buying in Milan this season.”
Jack laughed, the sound echoing around the room. Peter was restrained, typical of most everyone else at the party. He smiled, but the light Sam would have expected to see sparkling in the eyes of a man in love wasn’t there.
“What about Dad?” Jack asked. “He’s not going to make an appearance, is he?”
“Are you kidding? In Palm Beach? He’s worse than you, Jack. I doubt he’ll ever leave Santa Fe. If the two of you would talk more than once or twice a year, you’d know he’s got two or three girlfriends to keep happy and, in Dad’s words, that’s a full-time job.”
Sam listened to Jack and Lauren talking about family and friends, about Pastor Mike, Jack’s ranch manager and the minister who’d officiated at all of Lauren’s weddings. Finally, Jack brought up the subject of Beau. She could feel the muscles tightening in his arm when he mentioned his son, but his words weren’t strained. They were filled with a mixture of warmth, concern, and uncertainty.
Unconsciously, she found herself moving a little closer to his side, keeping her arm linked with his, and liking the feel of his fingers as they drew slow, lazy circles on the back of her hand.