Best of Temptation Bundle

by Tori Carrington

  Paris looked at Alexander. “Wait for me in your room,” she whispered.

  His face registered only confusion. “Where?”

  Paris steered him toward the connecting room. She grabbed the key off the top of the television, and opened the door.

  “Whose room is this?”

  “Yours,” she said immediately, then, “I mean Alexander’s. I always take two rooms. One for me, and one for Alexander. Otherwise, people might talk.”

  “Paris, I—”

  She cut him off. “Please, hurry. I’m already teetering on mortification, here.”

  “That doesn’t even compare to what I’m teetering on the brink of,” he shot back with a grin.

  Paris shook her head. “Men. Might I remind you that you’re the one who gets to hide while I get to be totally embarrassed in front of my best friend?”

  He surprised her with a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose. “Don’t be embarrassed. You deserve this night.” He pulled the door shut behind him before she had a chance to respond.

  Easy for him to say. Paris agreed that she deserved every moment spent with her Alexander. But now her best friend was gearing up to give her the teasing of a lifetime, laced with a liberal number of I-told-you-so’s. And there was no solace in hoping Rachel wouldn’t figure out what had been going on. No matter how hard Paris tried to keep it a secret, the odds were that somehow, someway, Rachel would realize what Paris had been on the brink of doing with…who?

  She stopped dead, as reality took this opportunity to conk her on the head. Was she actually about to sleep with a man whose name she didn’t even know? What was she thinking?

  And what about Rachel? Paris would never hear the end of it from Rachel if she didn’t know his name. She lunged for the connecting door and tried the knob. Locked.

  Rachel pounded again. “Paris, for crying out loud, the Queen doesn’t take this long.”

  “Coming,” squeaked Paris, cringing when she realized how nervous she sounded. A quick glance around the room revealed nothing that would hint at her recent extracurricular activities. Taking a breath, she hurried to the front of the room and unlatched the door.

  Rachel burst in the second the lock released.

  “Finally! I’ve been trying to call you.”

  Paris shrugged. “I stayed out late.” She hurried to change the subject. “What’s the big rush?”

  “You’ll never believe it, not in a million years.” She rubbed her fingers against her thumb. “Know what this is? Cash, moola, greenbacks. Money for you, and money for me.”

  “Either it’s too late or you’re not making any sense.”

  “And it’s going to be so easy, I promise,” Rachel rushed on.

  Paris was on the verge of shaking her friend. “What’s going to be so easy? What are you talking about?”

  Rachel grimaced. “Of course there is one hitch.” She held up her hand as if Paris had moved to protest, when in fact Paris was standing completely still, dumbstruck by Rachel’s frenetic rambling. “But it’s minor, really. We can work it out.”

  “Rachel, focus for me here. Work what out?”

  “You got his number, right?”

  “Whose number?” asked Paris, even as a queer feeling in her stomach suggested that she already knew the answer.

  “From the party. Alexander. He’s essential. We absolutely have to have him.”

  A SMUG GRIN covered about ninety percent of Rachel’s face.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Paris asked, for about the thirtieth time.

  Rachel shook her head. “I told you, it’s true.”

  “A three-book deal? Hardback? This is so…so…amazing. I don’t even know what to say.” She flung herself at Rachel and kissed her on the cheek. The two women linked arms and swung each other around the room, letting loose war whoops every now and then for good measure.

  Paris let go of Rachel, scrambled onto the bed and did a little jig before falling backward onto the mattress. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”

  Rachel smiled. “Yes, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  Paris sat up. “Darn right. It means that after this deal I’ll have enough money to live on while I finish Distant Passages.”

  Rachel shrugged. “If that’s what you want to do.”

  “Of course that’s what I want. It’s what I’ve always talked about.”

  “Always? When we were little girls you wanted to write about spies and secret codes and hidden passageways. Seems to me you’re already doing that.”

  Paris frowned. “Things change. When we were little you wanted to have a big house with a wraparound porch and a swing. That doesn’t sound like any place I’ve ever seen in Manhattan. And I don’t see you getting the urge to move back to Texas.”

  “That’s different. I don’t want a house like that anymore. Really.” Paris thought about arguing, but decided it wasn’t the time. “And wild horses couldn’t get me back to Braemer,” Rachel added. “But you, on the other hand, do want to keep writing the Montgomery Alexander books.”

  “What I want is to write Distant Passages, sell it, and be respectable.” For a brief moment, Paris wondered if the forceful tone of her voice was meant to convince Rachel, or herself.

  “Well, at least you’ll have the clout to sell—” Rachel cut herself off before finishing. “Sorry,” she added.

  “No, I won’t have the clout to sell it. I’m not Montgomery Alexander. But at least as his manager I can convince Brandon to take a look at it. And maybe Alexander’s fabulous agent can help shop it around.”

  Rachel nodded. “Sounds like a plan. After all, he’s got the most amazing agent, if I do say so myself.” She winked at Paris. “But rumor has it his manager is a little loopy.”

  “Go ahead,” Paris laughed, “taunt all you want. Nothing’s going to get a rise out of me today.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re sure?” Rachel pressed.

  Something in Rachel’s voice caught Paris’s attention. “What are you worried about? It’s about him, isn’t it?”

  “Did you get his number? Do you know when he works at the pub? You got his real name, right? We have to get in touch with him.”

  “No, he owns it, no, and why?” Paris crossed her arms over her chest and waited for Rachel’s explanation.

  “It’s not a big deal, really,” said Rachel, her voice lyrical and soothing.

  Paris knew better. “What’s not a big deal?”

  “Just-that-they-want-Alexander-to-do-a-book-tour.” The words tumbled over each other like toddlers in a tiny tots’ gymnastics class. She took a breath. “A short tour. More a publicity jaunt than a book tour. Ellis Chapman was really impressed. Said Alexander’s got charisma. And he thinks we can increase female readership if he does some public appearances and talk shows.”

  Paris imagined Alexander’s chiseled features accented by his enigmatic smile and come-hither eyes. Yes, Ellis had a point.

  The import of Rachel’s words struck home. “Television? Interview shows?”

  Rachel nodded.

  “You agreed to this?”

  “Well, I said I had to check with you, of course, but that I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

  “Not a problem? Rachel, it’s a huge problem. How are we supposed to pull it off? Alexander’s given about fifty on-line and written interviews over the last few years. This guy’s not going to have any idea what Alexander’s said in the past. He’ll forget something and screw up, and the gig’ll be over.”

  “So, other than the interview shows, you’re okay with the idea?”

  Trapped. Paris was trapped like a rat. She tried to back out slowly without getting even more entangled in barbed wire. “No, it’s not okay. I just latched on to the first and biggest of about five-million problems with this plan.”

  On the one hand Rachel had just created the perfect opportunity to spend more time with Alexander. More time doing exa
ctly what they’d been doing. And more.

  But on the other hand—the one that still had a grip on sanity and her career—Rachel had just upped the ante on Paris’s whole scheme. Unless Alexander was one-hundred-percent perfect all of the time, someone would surely catch on.

  “No book tour, no contract. No contract, no nest egg to support you.”

  “If Dearest Enemy, Deadly Friend continues to do okay, I bet they’ll offer another contract.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Paris glared at Rachel, irritated that her friend was right. For years, Paris had been telling herself that she wanted to retire the Montgomery Alexander books and turn to serious fiction. The kind that got reviewed on PBS, won obscure literary prizes and could justify a visiting professor position at some prestigious university. All the trappings of upper-strata respectability necessary to be a card-carrying member of the Sommers clan.

  So far the money wasn’t enough to keep her in food and shelter while she worked on Distant Passages. She needed a job lined up in case the book was a huge flop. Of course, she could go back to being a lawyer full-time to make money, but the hours were too intense if she wanted to get any serious writing done.

  Now someone had dangled a carrot in front of her nose. She could finish her first important book and get started on another while she still had the security of steady income from Montgomery Alexander. Even with the risks, she’d be a fool to turn down the opportunity.

  She glanced at the door to Alexander’s room, thinking about the delicious perks that would go along with the arrangement. After only one night, Paris wasn’t ready to blurt out her undying love, but neither did she want him to just walk away. She at least wanted to know his name.

  Somewhere between the bar and her room, sometime between the flirting and the kisses, she’d begun to want more from this Alexander than just one wild night of adventure. She wanted to go out, maybe eat dinner and see a movie. Heck, she wanted sex. Normal life stuff.

  Of course, her life was rarely normal. And it seemed to be getting more abnormal by the minute. Alexander might not fit into her long-term plan, but in the meantime, if she couldn’t have normalcy, she’d take this.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Yes!” Rachel punched the sky and whooped. “Okay, so how do we get in touch with our man Alexander? Do you have a phone number?”

  “Call him? Now? What’s the rush? Go home and we’ll track him down tomorrow.”

  Rachel shook her head, sending her hair flying. “No, no. You don’t understand. You have to leave the day after tomorrow.”

  Paris blinked and clutched the edge of the bed. “What? How?”

  “I told you, it’s a short tour. Do you remember Madame Marasky, the one who writes all those psychic detective books?” Paris nodded, not sure what the funny old gypsy woman had to do with Alexander. “Well, she lives in California, so the publicity folks had her booked on a ton of morning radio programs and a few television talk shows. Then she scheduled book signings all up and down the coast. That’s the first leg. Then she was booked to go to Las Vegas for the book and media convention. Only a couple of weeks, but heavy on the public relations.” She paused for a second before rushing on. “Oh, and there’s even a few days in Texas. Maybe we can get your dad to throw one of his killer parties.”

  Paris rubbed her temples. Maybe it was the late hour, but Rachel still wasn’t making any sense. “What does this have to do with me or my dad?”

  “Madame Marasky’s having gallbladder surgery. You’re getting her itinerary. You and Alexander. But you have to be on the ten o’clock flight to Los Angeles the day after tomorrow.” She looked at her watch. “Actually, tomorrow. Because today already is tomorrow, so the day after tomorrow would be too late.”

  The news settled over Paris. A book tour. With radio and television. Wow. She sucked in a deep breath. She just needed to round up her imposter.

  Rachel’s eyes drifted to Paris’s robe. “Throw on some jeans and let’s run down to his bar. Maybe we can catch him cleaning up or something.”

  Paris glanced down at the pattern on the carpet, willing the blood to leave her cheeks and go back to other parts of her body where it belonged. “Um. I—”

  She couldn’t finish. Rachel was her best friend. And best friends make the most notorious teasers.

  “What?” As Rachel stared at Paris, the question in her eyes transformed into curiosity, then speculation.

  Paris hurried to jump in, before Rachel could leap to a conclusion even more bawdy than the truth. “We don’t have to go to his bar.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  Paris hadn’t seen Rachel looking so interested in anything since they’d watched the “Introduction to our Bodies” filmstrip in sixth grade health class.

  Without thinking, Paris turned toward the connecting door. Rachel’s gaze followed, her expression blank. Then she looked at the bed and the tangled bedclothes. Paris knew the second her friend figured it out.

  “He’s next door—” Paris blurted out.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me—” Rachel said at the same time.

  They both laughed.

  “You’re the one who said I should,” Paris reminded Rachel.

  “Well, yes, but I never thought you’d actually listen. Lord knows, even I hardly ever follow my own advice.”

  “If it’s any consolation, nothing’s happened. Yet. Somebody interrupted before we got to the main attraction.”

  Rachel actually had the decency to look embarrassed. But just slightly. “At least I interrupted for a good reason, right?”

  Paris pretended to pout. “Well, your news could have waited until morning.”

  Rachel laughed. “If it had occurred to me that there was even the remotest possibility that you would be doing what you were thinking about doing, I would have waited. And waited. And waited.” She winked. “And then I’d have waited a little more.”

  Images of the way the evening didn’t turn out flashed through Paris’s mind. “Oh, oh my gosh.”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. “What?”

  Paris ran her hands through her hair, trying to avoid the reality that was creeping toward her. “I was actually going to go to bed with a man I’d just met.”

  “No, no, no. A cute man you’d just met.”

  “Not cute. Gorgeous.”

  Rachel nodded. “I’ll give you that one. And you have a lot in common.”

  “Well, yes. We have him in common.”

  Rachel raised an eyebrow. “And you like him, right?”

  Paris remembered the way his hands had raked over her body, hearing again all the things he’d whispered in her ear. Her body flushed with the memory. He’d been right there for her. Touchable. Kissable. Real.

  She knew the smile she flashed Rachel was one of complete satisfaction. “Oh, yeah. He’s wonderful.”

  Trouble was, she didn’t exactly know who he was.

  5

  DEVIN FELT LIKE a grinning idiot, unable to wipe the smile off his face. Paris completed him, made him feel like a whole person. They’d been together almost nonstop since the party began, and he still hadn’t soaked up enough of her. No woman had ever affected him so much or so quickly.

  He fought the urge to burst through the connecting door, interrupt her meeting and whisk Paris away to some white sand beach. Anyplace but here, where they each had their predetermined roles to play.

  But that was impossible. In a few minutes, Rachel would leave, and Paris would knock on the door. Devin would go in, they’d make love, then morning would come, along with orange juice, muffins and the moment of truth.

  And what then?

  Devin stood in front of the mirror, challenging his reflection to come up with a way to get the money he needed without scamming Paris. His reflection failed.

  All you have to do is remind her of what a great Montgomery Alexander you make and what a huge favor you did for her. You hand Paris her checkbook and tell her to writ
e. And if she doesn’t, you drop the bad news. Simple.

  Devin wasn’t sure if the voice in his head belonged to his father, Jerry, or himself. All he knew was that whoever was speaking was going to be sorely disappointed.

  Then just forget the money and stay with her.

  Now that was an intriguing idea. Everything about Paris fascinated him—and not just sexually. Something about her recharged him. Her wit, her gentleness, her mystery. Even the odd dichotomy between her wild-ride books and her staid and proper family. This was a woman with a lot of layers. And he wanted to peel away each layer until he knew all of her.

  The heavy connecting-room door drew his attention. He could burn it, break it, somehow get through it. No problem.

  If only that door was the only thing between him and Paris.

  Fat chance, buddy. You’ve got some serious competition.

  That was an understatement. If he had any hope of something developing between him and Paris, he’d have to compete against her fantasy, his performance of her dream man, and the public image of a suave, sophisticated, mysterious author. He’d have to compete against Montgomery Alexander.

  Devin groaned. He didn’t stand a chance.

  He took a tentative step toward the door to the hallway, urging his leaden feet to do the right thing and carry him away.

  Paris had been willing to give herself to Montgomery Alexander, not Devin O’Malley. The man she wanted to make love with was suave, sophisticated, a witty raconteur, a man who could dine at the White House or in a foxhole. Montgomery Alexander could probably quote Yeats while smuggling encrypted messages across the Serbian border.

  Contrast that with Devin O’Malley, for whom a good week meant no screwups with payroll or inventory, no employees calling in sick, and no Carmen and his mob cretins breathing down his neck. Hardly the epitome of the man Paris wanted.

  He was stuck in a dilemma. He couldn’t go through with his blackmail scheme and still look himself in the mirror. But neither could he stay with her, pretending that two such different people actually had a chance.

  So he left, slipping into the hallway and pushing the button for the elevator before he could change his mind. All the while he half hoped she’d poke her head out the door and catch him. But of course she didn’t. It wasn’t meant to be.