Man Trouble

by Melanie Craft

  “Yes,” she said. “You knew who I was before you kissed me. How dare you! You were mocking me!”

  Jake laughed. He couldn't help it. She apparently didn't see any irony in accusing him of mocking her. She was sitting there straight-backed, outraged, glaring at him as if she were a nun whose bottom had just been pinched, and Jake was glad. She deserved a dose of her own medicine. He didn't appreciate being the only fool in a group of two.

  “Actually, Ms. Shaw,” he said, “if you want to get technical about it, I didn't know who you were when I kissed you, and I still don't.”

  “You know what I mean,” she snapped. “When did you figure it out? Just now? Or have you known since this morning?”

  Jake shrugged. No point in easing her mind. Let her work herself into a lather, worrying that he had been laughing at her all day. The more upset she was, the better his chances of getting the truth out of her. “If you're not from the press—which I find hard to believe—then who the hell are you? A history professor? A novelist? Or just a girl with a wig collection who likes to travel?”

  “I'm a history professor,” Molly Shaw said. “I told you. I specialize in—”

  “The eighteenth-century Caribbean,” Jake said dryly. “Yes, I know. You told me. At length.” His tone of voice conveyed his opinion of her stuffy curriculum vitae. She bit her lip and looked away.

  “And Sandra St. Claire?” he asked. “I know that she exists, because I've seen her book in the gift shop. Did you have a specific reason for impersonating her, or did you just feel a sudden urge to liven up your life by pretending to be someone else?”

  None of it made any sense to him. Only a lunatic would behave like this, but his instincts told him that Molly wasn't crazy. Quirky, yes. A little volatile, sure. But sane. So what the hell did she think she was doing?

  She sat silently, staring into the distance. Her lips were pressed together, and he saw her blink hard, several times.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Molly turned sharply to face him. Her eyes were wide and bright with suppressed tears. “I am Sandra St. Claire,” she said in a tremulous voice.

  Oh, shit, Jake thought, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Had he misjudged the situation? He had never actually met a lunatic, after all, so how would he recognize one if he did? He remembered that on the news, the neighbors of the serial killer always said some version of the same thing. He seemed like such a nice man. So normal. Who would have guessed that he was burying bodies under the rosebushes?

  Molly Shaw took a deep breath. “I am Sandra St. Claire,” she said again. She sounded as if she were talking to herself, as much as to him. “And I am not boring.”

  “Of course you are,” Jake said soothingly. “Sandra, that is. Not boring. Definitely not boring.”

  “I'm serious,” she said. “I wrote Pirate Gold. But it's a secret.”

  Jake nodded pleasantly. She was definitely a nutcase. He tried to remember if he had seen anything sharper than a butter knife in the picnic basket. He didn't think so, but he wasn't sure. She was small, and he could overpower her if he had to, but it would not be pretty if she got her hands onto something with an edge.

  She sighed. “I shouldn't have told you. The press was after me for months, but they never found me, because I never told anyone. Only Carter. And now, you.”

  Great, Jake thought. Carter. And now, me. Who was Carter, and what had happened to him? He had an uneasy moment until he remembered that Carter was her friend, the little man in Bermuda shorts. He was not buried under anybody's rosebushes. That was a good sign, at least.

  “If the truth gets out, I'll lose my job,” Molly Shaw said urgently. “My life will be ruined. So, please, would you promise not to tell anyone about this? It has to be completely confidential. Completely.”

  “Absolutely,” Jake said immediately. “Your secret is safe with me. And we should probably be getting back to the resort now, don't you think?”

  Mercifully, there was no sign of Carter when Molly returned to the cottage, disheveled and miserable. She didn't know how she would explain that the project was over, that it had failed horribly, and that it was all her fault.

  She collapsed onto the couch and dropped her head into her hands. If only she had never gone to the plantation ruins! Who would have guessed that Jake would show up there? But he had, and that encounter had ruined everything. If he had never met Molly Shaw, he would never have seen through the Sandra disguise. She still didn't know when he had figured it out. On the beach? Was that why he had accepted her invitation to lunch? Or had it been up at Falcon's Point, when she stupidly mentioned his golf course? What had she been thinking? Her ego had inflated as quickly as her cleavage, and this was the price of arrogance. She had actually begun to believe that she had a knack for the flirting game. She should have known better.

  It didn't matter, either way. Jake knew the truth, and he was laughing at her. He had kissed her, not because he was attracted to her, and not because she had successfully seduced him. He had done it because he had guessed the truth, and wanted to humiliate her before he confronted her. And the way he had kissed her…and the way she had kissed him back…her breath caught in her throat, just thinking about it. He had used some kind of unethical playboy billionaire trick to coax that response out of her, damn him. He didn't kiss like a normal man, and Molly thought that she had kissed enough normal men to know something about it. She thought of Greg Ackerman, in high school. In retrospect, he had kissed like a Labrador retriever, but he had been on the football team, and he had eyes like Paul Newman. If a series of clandestine Saturday night make-out sessions qualified him as a boyfriend, he had been her first. In college, she had given up her taste for handsome jocks at about the same time that she had declared her history major. After that, she had dated a series of scholarly types, and had brought the very best ones home to meet her father. But of all the earnest academics that she'd kissed over the years, not a single one, not even the few that she'd slept with, had made her feel as if she had been turned inside out and then stuffed back into her own skin. She wondered what it meant. Was there something unusual about Jake Berenger, or should she simply have been kissing businessmen all along?

  The doorbell chimed, and Molly lifted her head. Now that the heat of the moment was fading, she was starting to think that it had been really stupid to confess her secret to Jake. He had sworn on his honor not to tell anyone that she was Sandra St. Claire, but still, it would have been much safer to let him think that she was just a lunatic pretending to be a famous novelist. Why had she told him the truth?

  It wasn't a real question, because she already knew the answer. Even if Jake Berenger would never be physically attracted to the real Molly Shaw, at least he would know that she was more than she seemed to be. He might not think much of her academic credentials, but he could never again dismiss her as frumpy, stuffy, or boring. Well, frumpy, maybe. But not stuffy. Or boring. I wrote a best-selling novel, she thought with sudden, defiant pride. How about that?

  The door to Elaine's room opened, and Molly hurriedly straightened her clothes and smoothed the wig.

  “My goodness,” Elaine said when she saw Molly sitting on the couch. “You're back. And your makeup is ruined. Why? No, no, tell me later. I'm expecting Ingrid for tea. I told her to come alone, but if I know that guru of hers, he'll find a way to join us.” She paused, one hand on the doorknob. “It's good that you're here, actually. Do me a favor, dear, and play along.”

  Molly had no time to protest before Elaine flung open the door.

  “Ingrid!” Elaine cried. “How delightful to see you.” There was a chilly pause. “And Mr. Guru, too…what a surprise. I'm amazed that such a spiritual person as yourself would be interested in afternoon tea.”

  “The Spirit is always within us,” said Rama Guru, escorting Ingrid into the room. “Even at teatime. Namaste, Sandra. I see that our karma has brought us together again.”

  “Indeed it has,” Elaine said, looking sp
eculatively at Rama Guru, who was looking at Molly. She smiled. “Well. Shall we all have tea?”

  Molly excused herself to make a quick trip to the bathroom to repair her lipstick. When she came out, Ingrid was sitting silently on the couch next to Elaine. Elaine was gazing coldly at Rama Guru, who was perched on the ottoman, his legs crossed in the lotus position. A napkin was spread over his lap, and he was eating a scone with jam. One cucumber sandwich sat on Ingrid's plate, but she had not touched it.

  “Sandra, dear,” Elaine said, “have a seat. There.” She pointed to the chair closest to Rama Guru. “I'll pour you some tea. Ingrid was just telling me that she's moved out of her home in New York, which seems like a shame. You've always been fond of New York, haven't you, Ingrid? And you have so many ties there.”

  “One must strive to be free of earthly ties,” Rama Guru remarked. “Only then can one know the joy of Ultimate Unity.”

  “What an interesting notion,” Elaine said. “Some of us consider earthly ties to be quite valuable. Especially ties to husbands. Ingrid, I hear that Michael has taken your departure very badly.”

  Ingrid poked at her sandwich. “Gurudev says that one must choose one's own path.”

  “Does he. How nice to hear that Mr. Guru is so supportive of independent thinking. Where did you say that you're living now, dear?”

  “Malibu. At the Temple of Light colony.”

  “I see,” Elaine said.

  “It's really beautiful,” Ingrid added. “It has a private beach. I asked Michael to come with me, because I thought that he should join me on my spiritual journey, but he said no.”

  “Yes,” Elaine said dryly. “I imagine that he did. It could be rather difficult to run a major brokerage house from the Temple of Light in Malibu. That sort of return address does tend to shake client confidence a bit.”

  “There are so many closed minds,” Rama Guru said sadly. “So many seekers after false joy. Money can never be the Way to the Light.”

  Ingrid was nodding in agreement, and Elaine fixed her with an inquiring stare. “Really? Ingrid, I don't understand. I thought you were still working. What about the Revlon campaign? And didn't I just see you in the November issue of Harper's Bazaar?”

  “Oh, it's not making money that's a problem on the Way to the Light,” Ingrid said self-righteously. “It's keeping it, hoarding it. That's the kind of thing that divides you from others and makes you lonely in your prison of wealth. That's why it's better to share it with Gurudev and the other seekers at the Temple. That way, we're all One. Michael just doesn't understand that kind of joy.”

  “Yes, I'm sure that he finds the whole concept totally incomprehensible,” Elaine said. “It's amazing, really. Who would ever have guessed that the Way to the Light would be right down Pacific Coast Highway?”

  Molly piled her own plate with tiny sandwiches, and she had eaten her way through the smoked salmon, the cucumber, and the egg salad by the time she heard enough to deduce what was going on. If Elaine had facilitated the marriage between Ingrid and the forlorn Michael, then a lurid divorce would not be good for her reputation. She was determined to recover her client.

  Poor Ingrid, Molly thought. She was beautiful, but not exactly bright, and now she had two pseudo-gurus fighting over her like dogs over a meaty bone. Given the choice, Molly had to side with Elaine. At least she wasn't trying to rob the girl. And if Michael really did love his dim-witted wife, maybe Elaine's intervention would do some good.

  “…has been working on her next novel,” Molly heard Elaine saying to Rama Guru as she tuned back in to the conversation. “She's already received a very large advance for it. Sandra, dear, did you ever expect to become so rich at such a young age?”

  Molly stared at her, confused. Nothing that Elaine was saying was true. She wasn't working on a novel, she had no advance, and although she was making a nice bit of money from Pirate Gold, she wasn't anywhere close to rich. What was Elaine doing? She didn't know, but she guessed that she was about to find out.

  She smiled at Rama Guru. “I never expected to become so rich,” she said. “It's a…uh…miracle of karma. Lucky me.”

  Rama Guru gazed warmly at her. “Sandra, you have indeed been blessed. But you are also in terrible danger.”

  “I am?” Molly widened her eyes. “Oh, dear.”

  “Your blessings mean the Spirit has chosen you, my child. But this wealth is a test, and unless you take great care, it will prevent you from ever finding the One True Path to Joy.”

  “Oh, no,” Molly said. “I'd hate for that to happen. Whatever shall I do?”

  “It is possible that I can help you,” Rama Guru said solemnly. “Tell me, my child, exactly how blessed have you been?”

  Molly glanced at Elaine, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod. “Very blessed,” Molly said. She looked at Elaine again. Elaine was still nodding. “Very, very blessed,” Molly continued. “You could say that I have recently received millions and millions of blessings.”

  Elaine smiled with satisfaction and sipped her tea.

  Rama Guru's eyes were fixed on Molly. “Sandra, I can feel the Spirit within you. But you are lonely, are you not, my child? It would be my honor to help you find the Way of Truth.”

  “What a kind and generous offer,” Elaine exclaimed. “Sandra, dear, I think that you should discuss your loneliness with Mr. Guru. Go and take a walk on the beach. Together. Now.”

  Duh, Molly thought, annoyed with herself for taking so long to figure out Elaine's plan. She was trying to get rid of Rama Guru so that she could work on Ingrid, and Sandra was the bait to lure him away. Well, fine. The more that Molly saw of Ingrid's guru, the more she disliked him. She was beginning to think that it was her ethical duty to help Elaine deprogram—or at least reprogram—the girl.

  “It's true,” she said, looking at Rama Guru with what she hoped was a pathetic expression. “But I can't talk about my pain in front of other people. Only with you. I feel a special connection to you. Is it okay for me to say that?”

  Rama Guru nodded. “Of course, my child.” He looked thoughtfully at Ingrid, then back at Molly. He smiled and stood up, apparently having decided that potential gain of Sandra was worth the risk of leaving Ingrid unguarded for a short time. “Come,” he said, “together, we shall walk.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Alunatic?” Cora Berenger repeated, staring at Jake. “What do you mean, the professor is a lunatic? Darling, you sound like a lunatic. You're raving. And you have pink lip gloss on your shirt.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “The Kopplesons were very sorry to miss you at lunch, but Amanda was thrilled to hear that you'll be teaching her to scuba dive.”

  Jake exhaled sharply. “Listen,” he said. “This is important. Remember Molly Shaw? The professor who you thought was such a nice girl? Well, your ‘nice girl’ has been dressing up in a wig, and”—he gestured graphically—“padding! And going around the resort telling people that she's Sandra St. Claire.”

  Cora was sitting on the terrace of the villa, under the shade of a bougainvillea-covered trellis, drinking tea as she watched her son pace back and forth in front of the table.

  “Good heavens,” she said, putting down her cup. “You're serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “The woman who we thought was Sandra St. Claire has been Molly Shaw all along? Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “But…how odd. Why would she do a thing like that?”

  Jake stopped in his tracks. “Why?” he repeated. “I told you, she's a lunatic. She believes that she actually is this novelist. She was dressed up as Sandra when I figured out the truth, and she got very upset when I confronted her. I had to soothe her—”

  “Soothe her?” Cora inquired. Her eyes moved over the pink smudges on his shirt. “How did you manage that? And how exactly did you figure out that Sandra was Molly Shaw?”

  “That's beside the point,” Jake growled. “I managed to get her back to the resort without a serious inci
dent. She's in her cottage now, and I don't know what the hell we're supposed to do about this. I'm a developer, not a shrink. This is outside my field of expertise.”

  “Darling, I'm finding this all a bit hard to believe. I talked to Molly Shaw for quite a while last night, and I thought that she was a nice, intelligent, and perfectly sane woman.”

  “So did I,” Jake said darkly. “They're tricky, these crazy people. They fool you. You should have heard her. She told me this nutty story about how she really is Sandra St. Claire, but nobody knows the truth, and the media has been after her for months, but they never discovered her true identity, and it's all a big secret that I can't ever tell anyone.”

  “Hmm,” Cora said thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

  “It isn't interesting,” Jake exclaimed. “It's sick. We can't let this woman prance around Gold Bay telling people that she's a famous novelist. I see a mess coming, and it's the size of a train wreck. What happens when the real Sandra hears about the vacation she never took? And what if Molly Shaw gets tired of playing with her wig and high heels and really goes wacko? We know that she's mentally unstable, and that makes us legally liable. We need to get her out of here. Fast. But quietly.”

  “Darling, sit down,” Cora said. “Watching you going back and forth like that is giving me a headache. I feel like I'm at a tennis match. Have a cup of tea.”

  “I don't want a cup of tea,” Jake said. “I hate tea. What I want is to get this crazy woman out of my resort before she causes me serious trouble.”

  “It's possible that she isn't crazy.”

  Jake sighed. “You weren't there,” he said, “so you don't understand, but take my word for it, she's—”

  “Do you know anything about Sandra St. Claire?” Cora asked. She reached for the tea strainer, held it above her delicate porcelain cup, and poured slowly from the antique silver teapot.

  “You mean the real one?”

  Cora smiled mysteriously. “If there is a real one. I did a little research when I saw Sandra's name on the reservation list. Sit down, and I'll tell you what I know.”