Best of Temptation Bundle

by Tori Carrington

  Paris whipped around to face her father. “No way. Really?”

  “What did you think?” asked Devin. He saw Paris stiffen, and he resisted the urge to take her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.

  The judge pulled at his chin. “Not my cup of tea, really,” he said. Paris’s shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes. “But,” the judge went on, “it was quite a bit more entertaining than I had imagined. Well-written, the characters weren’t flat. Moved quickly. It wasn’t…” He seemed to be searching for an appropriate word.

  “Trash?” Devin suggested.

  “Ah, there you go,” said the judge, giving Devin a chummy pat on the arm. “It wasn’t complete trash.”

  “Trash? Complete trash?” Paris repeated, looking from Devin to her father and then to Devin again.

  Devin laughed, and Paris glowered at him.

  The judge squeezed her shoulders. “Calm down, honey. The author over here is laughing. I don’t think I’ve offended your client.” He cocked his head toward Devin.

  “I’m not offended in the least,” Devin said, sure that Paris was seething.

  “There. You see. You never expected me to love his stories, did you?”

  Paris sighed. “No, Daddy. I never did.”

  “Well, then. Why don’t you two go join the party. Larry was looking for you earlier. I imagine he’ll want to claim a dance.”

  “Larry?” Devin asked, as they walked away.

  “We went to high school together. He’s a federal prosecutor, and he just got appointed to head up the racketeering division. He’s the youngest person ever to have that job.”

  Great. His competition was Larry the child prodigy. “Yeah. They asked me to do that, but I told them I really couldn’t fit it in. What with my busy schedule and all.”

  Paris bumped him with her hip, laughing. “You behave.”

  “Make me,” Devin teased, longing to pull her close to him, but remembering that he was in Alexander-mode. He crooked his arm and offered it to her, pleased just to have her by his side. They strolled through the stone-paved backyard, shaking hands and making small talk with the guests, who ran the gamut from staid professionals to multi-pierced college students. The party was a welcome home for Paris, but it was also the last stop on Alexander’s whirlwind tour, so fans and booksellers and the media were noshing with judges and CEOs.

  “This is an amazing house,” Devin said, grabbing a seat on a marble bench next to the Koi pond. “Did you grow up here?”

  “Pretty much. We moved here from our ranch after junior high.” She waved her arm to encompass the magnificent, landscaped backyard. “This was just dirt and grass when we moved in.” Now it was a paradise. Ivy crept up the fence, roses climbed trellises, cobblestones wound a path through sections of the garden.

  Strings of ornamental lights laced the trees, and their soft glow accentuated Paris’s hair and skin. “You’re beautiful,” Devin said, particularly enjoying the way the crisscross halter of her silk dress accentuated her breasts.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” Paris said, her voice light.

  Devin ached to kiss those lips, to taste her again. It had been over two hours since he’d held her close and kissed her, and that was two hours too long. “Paris, tell your father. Tonight. Follow your heart. Do it while we’re here. He seems like a nice man, surely it won’t be the explosion you think.”

  He felt her stiffen, and regretted pushing her.

  “You tell me to follow my heart, but that’s just the same as Daddy. He says to do one thing, and you say to do another.”

  “No, it’s not the same,” he said, more sharply than he intended.

  Rachel sauntered up the walk, a fellow who looked as though he’d stepped off the cover of Esquire on her arm.

  “Larry here asked to come see the lady of the hour.”

  “I thought we could have a dance, catch up on old times,” said the child prodigy turned cover model.

  “I, um,” Paris looked from Devin to Rachel.

  “Come, dance with me,” Rachel insisted, holding out her hand to Devin.

  He hesitated, seeds of jealously starting to take root.

  “Come on. Let the kiddies chat. I don’t bite. Not hard, anyway.” She turned to Paris. “May I borrow him?”

  Before Paris could answer Devin found himself on the dance floor.

  “Well, you’re tense as a board,” Rachel said. “Feeling a little competitive, are we?”

  “What? No,” Devin said, far too quickly to fool someone as sharp as Rachel.

  “Uh-huh,” Rachel said, as she twirled into Devin’s arm. “So, have you told her?”

  “Told who what?” asked Devin, figuring that if she was going to drag him away from Paris, the least he could do was make her work for her information.

  “You’re a man in love, my friend. Have you told her yet?”

  That one was out of left field, although he should have seen it coming. He’d spent some time with Rachel over the past week, at least enough to learn she didn’t pull any punches. If what Paris said was true, Rachel didn’t have the strongest grip on her own love life. But when it came to looking out for her best friend, Rachel was as loyal as they came.

  Devin also knew that she wouldn’t settle for a half-truth, at least not where Paris was concerned.

  “No,” he said, “I haven’t told her.”

  “Then you do love her.”

  “Are you blind?” he asked, grinning. “Of course I love her.”

  “You should tell her.”

  Devin took Rachel’s arm and led her off the dance floor. “Is Paris blind?”

  “No, but she can be…nearsighted. Especially now.” She waved her arm to encompass the house, the party. “And especially here.”

  “Why the sudden burst of matchmaking energy?”

  Rachel tilted her head. “Honestly? Because I like you. I think you two are a match. And I think you’re good for her, not one of these stuffy old dudes her father’s drooling over.”

  “The child prodigy doesn’t look stuffy.”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. “Who?”

  Devin pointed back to the dance floor, where Mr. Federal Prosecutor held Paris in his arms. “Him.”

  “Larry? Nah, he’s okay, but he’s not right for Paris. Besides, they’ve known each other since high school. If it was going to happen it already would have.”

  Devin looked again. Rachel was right. Paris was moving on the floor with Larry, but she wasn’t dancing with him. Not the way she’d danced with Devin before. She didn’t look bored, but neither did she look enraptured. As Larry spun her around, Paris looked in Devin’s direction. When their eyes met, she smiled, and Devin went to mush.

  “So you think I’ve still got a shot, here?”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re perfect for her,” said Rachel. She stepped forward and crooked her finger, urging him to bend down. “But more than that,” she whispered, “I figure if my goofy best friend who makes up fantasy men can find Mr. Right, then there’s still hope for me.”

  Devin knew she was joking around, but he remembered what Paris had told him about Rachel’s less-than-stellar track record with the opposite sex. He hooked a finger under her chin, tilting her head up and brushing a soft kiss across her temple. “Rach, there’s definitely hope for you.”

  She blushed, a first as far as Devin could tell, then looked down. “Thanks,” she whispered. When she looked back up, she smiled, and he thought her eyes might have been a little misty. “I told Paris she got the last good guy in New York. Looks like I was right.”

  He waved his hand to indicate the party. “Plenty of fish here in Texas.”

  She laughed. “A cowboy? No thanks. I’m a city girl, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Devin was still chuckling at Rachel’s last words as he circled the dance floor in search of Paris. He thought about what else Rachel had said, and decided that she was right on target. Paris needed to know how he felt. She needed to he
ar it out loud before she convinced herself that she meant what she’d said about their three-week-only deal.

  He avoided getting sucked into another conversation with a group of party guests by slipping behind the built-in barbecue. As he reached the edge, he heard Paris’s voice. Devin eased back into the shadows.

  “What I wanted to tell you, Daddy, is that I’m writing a book,” Paris said. Devin sucked in his breath. Was she about to tell her father the truth?

  “Well, good for you, sweetie. What kind of book? Nonfiction?”

  “No. Well, not exactly.” Devin heard her take a breath. “It’s…oh, hell…I haven’t written much of it yet, but it’s this saga. It starts in Ireland, and goes all the way through the Civil War to the Depression.”

  “Well, that sounds fascinating. I’m surprised you have time to write, traveling as much as you do.”

  “It’s not easy.”

  “Have you thought about settling down?”

  “I’ve thought about it,” she said.

  “Larry still adores you. Of course, Anson and Michael are waiting in line.” Devin felt a wave of dislike for Larry, Anson and Michael. “You could do worse than a doctor or a lawyer.” The wave increased to tsunamic proportions.

  “I know, Daddy. And Larry’s a great guy…”

  “Well, you’re not getting any younger.”

  “Daddy,” Paris said. “I’m barely thirty.”

  “Still. Are you seeing anyone seriously?”

  Devin held his breath.

  “No,” Paris finally whispered, thrusting the knife into Devin’s heart.

  “No one,” she said, twisting it.

  Devin closed his eyes and fell against the rough brick surface. Anger, disappointment, despair battled for attention in his stomach. Disappointment won. He couldn’t be angry at her, not really. She’d told him the ground rules on day one. He’d just been arrogant and foolish enough to think he could change her mind.

  Fat chance, Devin. Look around you. You think Larry, Curly and Moe had to work their way through night school? Do you think their fathers had to pull cons to put food on the table?

  He couldn’t ignore the truth. She was a diamond, and he was coal.

  Devin slammed the palm of his hand against the barbecue pit. Dammit, this wasn’t a problem he could blame on his upbringing. Those guys weren’t any better than him. He had to face that there were just some things that couldn’t be had. Rachel was wrong. He wasn’t the man for Paris. He’d fought bitterly to get an education, to make enough money to open his pubs, to have a good life. But none of that changed one important fact. Paris had only wanted him for three weeks. Three weeks of having her fantasy, of having Alexander, before she got on with her life.

  And no matter how worthy he was, if she didn’t think so, it was as good as over.

  “AND NOW, the man of the hour, Mr. Montgomery Alexander,” announced the bandleader.

  Paris turned around to look for Devin, then winced when she saw him slip out from behind the brick grill and step to the podium. Had he heard everything? She took a step toward him. She needed to explain, to apologize. To say something.

  Too late, of course. Devin stepped onto the platform and took the microphone.

  “Mr. Alexander, Mr. Alexander!”

  Paris couldn’t see the man at the front of the crowd scrambling for attention, but from Devin’s scowl, she guessed that something wasn’t right.

  “Mr. Alexander, isn’t it true that there are going to be some revelations about you and your books? Very soon?”

  Devin took a step backward, as if he’d just taken buckshot in the stomach. What was going on? Paris watched Devin skim the crowd until he found her. She raised her shoulders in a silent query.

  Devin stared down the obnoxious little man. “Yes,” he said, “some things will be revealed soon that I think will surprise my fans.”

  What revelations? What was he talking about?

  “In the meantime, you’ll just have to wait and see. Thank you for coming. Good night.” He stepped off the platform.

  Paris looked at her watch. He was supposed to speak for half an hour. Barely two minutes had passed since he hit the podium. Now he was striding through the crowd, heading in the opposite direction from her.

  The second she cleared the side of the house, Paris broke into a run, planning to cut through the kitchen and head him off in the entry hall.

  Rachel slammed breathless through the front door just as Paris reached the entry.

  “Where is he?” Paris asked, winded. She had the feeling she already knew.

  “Gone. He just pulled away in one of the hired cars.” Rachel took a breath and looked at Paris. “So what was that all about?”

  Paris shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Were we wrong about him? You don’t think…?” Rachel trailed off, but Paris knew what she was considering.

  “That he’s planning to announce my secret? To blackmail me? No way. I don’t think that. This revelation could be anything. Joshua’s new partner, Vivian. The book deal. Maybe he’s dyeing his hair back to blond. Anything.”

  Rachel nodded. “I know. I don’t really believe it either. But what’s going on? What’s he talking about?”

  Paris shook her head. “All I know is that Devin wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”

  “He left,” Rachel pointed out.

  Paris looked at the floor. “That’s my fault. I hurt him first.”

  PATRICK SOMMERS slid a cup of coffee across the breakfast bar to Paris. “You’ve been moping about for four days, honey. Are you sure you won’t tell me what’s wrong? Did he fire you?”

  Paris shook her head, sniffed and blew her nose.

  She’d flat out lied to Devin. She’d promised him, promised, that she’d follow her heart, and then she’d gone and chickened out. She did love writing the Montgomery Alexander books.

  And she loved Devin.

  For days now, she’d been seeing him around every corner, hearing him every time the phone rang, running to the door every time a car drove up. And each time he wasn’t there, her heart broke a little more.

  Well, it stopped right now. She was going to do everything she could to get him back. Everything.

  And Paris knew where she had to start.

  “Daddy?”

  He lowered his paper and looked at her. “Yes, sweetheart?”

  “About that book I told you I was writing…”

  When she’d told him the whole story, Paris had to admit she was impressed. Her father hadn’t interrupted, and now he just sat there, quiet and pensive. And although quiet didn’t necessarily mean all was well, from Paris’s perspective, quiet was a heck of a lot better than ranting and raving.

  “Daddy? Are you going to say anything?”

  The judge clasped his hands and rested his chin on his steepled fingers. “I thought perhaps you were hiding something. I never dreamed you were writing those books. I thought you were in love with Mr. Alexander.” He shook his head. “I mean, Devin.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess you get two for the price of one.” She bit her lower lip and tried to read his face. “Are you okay with this?”

  Judge Sommers stood up and poured himself a cup of coffee. He kept his back to Paris, staring out the window that overlooked the front drive. Paris shifted on her stool, anxious for him to say something, anything.

  “Did I ever tell you why we named you Paris?” he finally asked, looking back over his shoulder at her.

  Paris shook her head.

  “We were dating, your mother and I. It was May. And your mother decided she wanted to see the Eiffel Tower. She was working in a secretarial pool, and I was in law school. She took her savings, and I took my schoolbook money, and we went to Paris. Just like that. That’s where you were conceived. We were married the day we got back.”

  “No way. Who are you and what have you done with my father? That doesn’t sound like you at all, Daddy.”

  He turned to face h
er, the tiniest smile playing at his mouth. “No, but it sounds a lot like your mother.”

  Paris’s eyes welled. “Really? I always wanted to be like her. I thought you wanted me to. She’s always seemed like this perfect person. The best hostess, the best wife, the best mother. Always doing the right thing, you know? The smart thing. Watching out for the family name. For you.”

  “She was all that and more.” He took Paris’s hand. “Your mother understood how important it is to sometimes just follow your heart.”

  “So you approve?”

  “Approval is a big step for an old man at breakfast. Let’s just say I understand. I can’t argue too much with your mother’s methods. After all, it got me you. And you’re very much like her. I just want you to be secure.” He smiled. “And happy. I want you to be happy.”

  She laughed, harshly, at her own stupidity. “Devin makes me happy. Why couldn’t I have just told him that a couple of days ago?”

  “You wouldn’t have believed it yourself then.”

  Paris put down her mug. “Oh, Daddy. What am I going to do now?”

  He stood behind her, stroking her hair like he had done so many times when she was a little girl needing comfort in the dark. But this wasn’t the kind of problem a night-light would solve. “Anything you have to.”

  The ringing phone interrupted her brooding.

  Devin!

  Paris lunged for it, scooping up the handset. “Devin?”

  “Ms. Sommers?” The coarse voice sounded nothing like Devin’s low, sultry tones.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “I must see you. I’m Devin O’Malley’s father.”

  12

  “PLEASE, CALL ME COURTLAND.”

  She regarded the old man perched in a wheelchair. He was wrapped in a flannel robe, an ashtray in front of him on the table, with an unopened package of cigarettes resting nearby. Courtland glanced down at the package often, as if it taunted him.

  She’d rushed to the Houston airport only minutes after he’d called, taking only her purse and leaving her suitcases with her dad. She’d had to change planes twice—which meant enduring three takeoffs—before finally landing in New Jersey and taking a taxi to Mr. O’Malley’s nursing home. But she’d endure just about anything for a chance to get Devin back. “I would have known you were Devin’s father even if you hadn’t told me. He looks just like you.”