“What are you trying to do, drown me?”

“I’m trying to save you.” He caught her wrists and held her arms wide in self-defense.

She stumbled to her feet, water streaming down her body—her body, because the tight black stuff she had on was virtually transparent. She was like an angry goddess rising from the sea, full breasted and glorious in her rage.

“Are you trying to save me or just make me crazy?” she shouted at him.

“I’m trying to—”

And then he forgot what he was trying to do, because she surged forward and he surged forward, and they came together in an explosion of pent-up desire. Right there in the middle of the bathtub in the penthouse of the Beverly Pacific Hotel.

“Damn,” he gasped, shocked by her slick hands on his bare back. “I never intended—”

“Shut up and kiss me,” she ordered in her throaty voice, “because I did intend.”

So much for that lousy commandment from the boss about clients and bodyguards not getting involved.…

Dear Reader,

I love stories about people trading lives. I like to think, read and write about living in somebody else’s shoes. I’ve never done it, but the concept fascinates me.

That’s what drew me to Trading Places. What would happen if a deserving but everyday woman had a chance to live the life of her boss and exact opposite, a beautiful and notorious adventuress? Would it turn out to be a dream come true or would it be a disaster—perhaps even a dangerous disaster?

Alice gets the opportunity, whereupon things go wrong in bunches: car bombs, threatening phone calls, bullets, ex-husbands she’s never met—you name it. Fortunately, she has Jed by her side; unfortunately, he has no idea who she really is. How will he react when he finds out?

I hope you enjoy reading Trading Places as much as I enjoyed writing it. And I suggest that the next time someone you know well acts…just a little off…you take a closer look.

We see what we expect to see, as Alice learned.

What do you expect?

Ruth Jean Dale

Trading Places
Ruth Jean Dale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

SHARLAYNE KENYON threw back her head and let loose her trademark laugh, deep and sexy and somehow bawdy. “That’s what you want to call my book?” she asked when she could speak again.

Linden Wilbert, fifty-two-year-old head of the small and eccentric New York publishing house that bore his name, regarded this magical creature with a mix of disapproval and fascination. He could well understand the power she wielded over the men in her life and those who wanted to be in her life. Much married adventuress, occasional actress, sometime model and internationally popular personality, Sharlayne was, quite simply, dazzling. She had traveled furtively to Linden’s Long Island estate to discuss her latest incarnation: author.

The book deal, also furtive, had been struck more than a year ago after they’d happened to meet at a cocktail party.

To this day Linden, scion of old money and the ideals of another century, could not fathom why she’d chosen him to pilot her autobiography through the literary shoals. He understood even less his own willingness to publish a tome so at odds with his usual list, which tended to be long on quality and woefully short on sales. All he knew was that he’d surprised himself by leaping at the opportunity.

His only excuse was that publishing the memoirs of one of the most famous—perhaps the proper word was notorious—women in the world appealed to his sense of the absurd.

Now Sharlayne turned her enormous blue-gray eyes in his direction and he melted. She was even more beautiful in person than in photographs or on film. Her face was a flawless oval, the skin creamy and unmarred by lines or dullness. Long lashes framed those incredible eyes, also accented by impeccably arched brows. The straight nose was as perfect as the rest. Full lips glistened pink and tempting.

But her hair—that glorious soft blond mane that was her signature style—had been chopped into a short, curvy cap. It bared dainty ears and gave her an innocence he wouldn’t have imagined possible in a mature woman of her background and age, which he guessed to be early forties, although she didn’t look near it. She herself would only say she was “twenty-nine and holding.” Gazing at her, he could almost believe it.

He refused to let himself think about her famous body. At least, he tried valiantly.

She leaned forward, her expression one of mild alarm. “That’s a very funny title, really,” she said in her throaty voice. “But I like mine better—The Story of My Life by Sharlayne Kenyon.” She lifted graceful hands as if framing a movie shot.

Linden gave her an indulgent smile. “Old hat, Sharlayne. You’ve led an exciting life. You deserve an exciting title.”

She pouted prettily. “Isn’t there any way I can convince you?”

He could think of many, but he’d vowed from the offset not to fall into this woman’s clutches. She’d never have any sincere interest in an aging, balding, boring, widowed publisher. “No way whatsoever,” he said firmly. “Shall we move on to more immediate concerns?”

“Oh, you.” She sat upright, throwing him an exasperated glance. “I’ve almost finished the manuscript, if that’s what you want to know.”

“Really.” He carefully concealed his astonishment. He’d expected it would take her years to write her life story without professional help. He’d offered her any number of collaborators, but she refused to even consider an “as told to” book. She insisted that this was her life and she’d write about it her way or not at all.

She smiled, all sunshine again. “I knew you’d be surprised.” The smile faded. “But there’s a tiny problem.”

“Such as?”

“The media frenzy that awful woman has whipped up.”

“What awful woman?”

Her mobile face registered surprise. “You don’t know? Gina Godfrey, of course. That witch refuses to leave me alone. The other barracudas of the press I can take or leave, but Gina’s out to get me.”

“Ah. Then Gina Godfrey is a journalist?”

“God forbid! She’s head entertainment muckraker for the U.S. Eye. And she’s devoted to making my life a living hell.”

He regarded her kindly. “That sounds almost paranoid, Sharlayne.”

“Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean nobody’s out to get me.” Her brilliant smile flashed again. How did she do that? “The problem is, I’m beginning to think I’ll never finish the book if I don’t find a little peace and quiet. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know how I got this much done.”

“Frankly,” he said, thinking about all the times he’d read her name in newspapers and seen her image on magazine covers in the past year, “neither do I. But peace and quiet aren’t your only problems.”

Her eyes widened. “They’re not?”

“You have several ex-husbands who may not want you to finish the book.”

“Oh, them.” She waved dismissively. “Every single one adores me. At least, the live ones do.”

“Even the senator?”

“Him, especially. He cried like a baby when I divorced him.”

“At his age, he could have been crying from relief. What was he, eighty?”

“Oh, you.” She tossed back her head. “Age is nothing more than a state of mind.”

“Then what’s the state of mind of those near and dear to your most recent husband?”

She somehow managed to frown without marring the perfect smoothness of her forehead. “Oh!” Understanding dawned. “You mean because to John, family had a whole different meaning. But…John’s dead. I didn’t divorce him—he died. I’m a widow. “

“Did it ever occur to you that with him gone, there’s no one to keep his family in check?”

She laughed. “Family? You make him sound like some Mafioso. John was a very classy man.”

“He was also head of one of the biggest crime families in New York. Might you not be in considerable danger, my dear? After all, you promised to reveal the unvarnished truth in your book. That could conceivably make certain parties very nervous.”

“I’ll tell the truth or not publish the book at all,” she said with dignity. “Besides, once it’s out, what can anyone do?”

“Plenty,” Linden said darkly, “but there may be those who’d prefer to stop it from being published at all…as in seeing you get cement overshoes and a quick trip to the nearest deep body of water.”

“Really, Linden.” She leaned back into the overstuffed flower-patterned chair in his library, her body graceful in simple black.

Simple clinging black.

She tapped perfect fingernails on the chair arm. “On the outside chance that I’ve overestimated my charms, I’ve come up with a scheme—oh, dear, let’s call it a plan. A plan to give me time and space to write while lulling everybody into a false sense of security, you know?”

He felt the first stirrings of concern. “I’m almost afraid to hear this.”

“Don’t be. It’s very simple. I’m going to pay someone to move into my new house in Beverly Hills. Did you know about it?”

“Everybody knows about it. You did take a television crew from a national show on a tour.”

“I did, didn’t I.” She looked pleased. “Anyway, I’m going to pay someone to move in there to impersonate me while I hole up somewhere far away and work in blissful solitude. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of months to finish if I don’t have to fight off the vultures of the press and deal with all life’s other interruptions.”

“Let me get this straight. You think you can find someone to impersonate you, one of the most famous and distinctive women in the world?”

She looked delighted. “Well, aren’t you sweet,” she said, traces of her Arkansas beginnings showing through. “I know it’s a long shot, but with proper prior planning—you’re familiar with the seven P’s?”

“I don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about.” Most of the time, in fact.

“Proper prior planning prevents piss-poor performance. My first husband used to say that. A lot, actually.” She rolled those fabulous eyes. “He said it. He didn’t live by it.”

“Are you telling me you’ve already found someone who can pass as you?”

She nodded, suddenly very serious. “Not a perfect match, of course—that would be asking too much. But she doesn’t have to be a clone or anything. With a haircut, a makeover, a little careful instruction, she can pass for me.” She frowned. “At least from a distance. I’m sure of it.”

“Never.” He shook his head decisively. “You’ll never get away with it.”

She looked hurt. “Why not?”

“Well…people know you.”

“So?”

“So they’ll see right through her, whoever she is.”

“Not necessarily.” All business, she began ticking points off on long, slender fingers. “Number one, I’ll move her into my new house with a new staff. None of them will have a clue.

“Number two, I’ll put out the word that she’s—I mean, that I’m—not feeling well. What’s a disease I can have that isn’t disfiguring or fatal?”

“Why…I don’t know. Mononucleosis?”

“No, that’s catching. Don’t they call that the kissing disease?” She shuddered. “I definitely don’t want anything like that.”

“Oh. Then…there’s always exhaustion. You hear that a lot—celebrities checking into the hospital, suffering from exhaustion.”

“But I’m not checking into a hospital,” she pointed out reasonably. “Think of something else.”

“How about a broken bone?”

She considered, finally shaking her head. “I don’t want to get into casts or anything like that,” she decided. “Been there, done that.”

“I’ve got it!” He snapped his fingers. “Laryngitis. You can’t even talk on the phone.”

Her eyes lit up. “That’s perfect. I can set up this decoy in my house, surround her with strangers—except for Tabitha, of course—and then I’ll be free to hide away and write my book. Simple.”

The mention of her personal assistant produced a grimace from Linden. Why the beauteous Sharlayne had hooked up with the formidable Tabitha Thomas was a mystery, but he knew they’d been inseparable for a decade at least.

“Where will you go?” he asked, then caught himself, realizing that now even he was treating this cockamamy idea as if it might actually work.

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” she said serenely, as though she recognized the precise instant she’d overwhelmed his objections. “Somewhere I can be completely anonymous. A mountain cabin, an isolated ranch—something like that. You wouldn’t have any ideas, would you?”

When she turned that luminous gaze on him, he didn’t have an idea in his head. He licked his lips. “I…might come up with something.” He pulled himself together. “If you really intend to try this—”

“I’m not going to try.” She gave him a reproachful glance. “I’m going to do it.”

“In that case, you must provide this poor woman with some kind of protection.”

“Protection from what?”

“From all potentialities—ex-husbands, any ex-lovers lurking about, kooks who might wander by, everything.”

She considered. “You know,” she said at last, “that might not be a bad idea. You mean, like a bodyguard?”

He nodded.

“This bodyguard could keep people at arm’s length, so they don’t get close enough to notice the switch.”

“He could possibly do that, yes.”

“That’s a good idea, Linden.” Her lovely mouth curved up. “Thank you, darling. As long as the press doesn’t find out that I’ve already signed a publishing contract and that the book is practically finished, there shouldn’t be any problems.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear.”

“Exactly.” She turned on that smile like a neon sign. “This will work. All I’ve got to do is convince my stand-in.”

“Stand-in or stooge?” he wondered aloud. “Sharlayne, I don’t actually believe you’ve found a woman who can pass for one of the most photographed women in the world—and who is also dumb enough to be talked into such a scheme.”

“O ye of little faith,” she said, softly mocking. “Finding her is the least of my problems. In fact, at this very minute she’s in your kitchen, trying to convince your cook to treat butter, which is practically my only weakness, like poison.”

The wink she gave him curled his toes, even as it enlisted him in her mad scheme.

“Cheer up, Linden.” Leaning forward, she cupped one smooth hand around his cheek. “This will work.”

“It won’t. The first person she meets will see right through her.”

She shook her head with absolute certainty. “Not so. And you know why? Because we see what we expect to see. If she’s living in Sharlayne Kenyon’s house and wearing Sharlayne Kenyon’s clothes and jewels and you expect to see Sharlayne Kenyon, that’s exactly who you will see when you look at her.”

She was so sure she almost made him believe it, too.

CHAPTER ONE

How many husbands are too many?

We have it on excellent authority that Sharlayne Kenyon has flown East for a rendezvous with potential husband number seven. Be careful, whoever you are! You could end up as an addendum in the book she keeps threatening to write—you know, the one that will name more names than the telephone book….

Gina Godfrey, U.S. Eye

ALICE WYNN LOVED working for Sharlayne Kenyon.

It was beyond a doubt the best thing that had happened in her thirty-two, mostly hard-luck, years. Not only did she love the job; it paid very well indeed.

That did not, however, mean that Alice was beyond having a little fun at her glamorous employer’s expense. With a dead-on knack for mimicry, which she’d had since childhood, she’d easily perfected a takeoff on Sharlayne that never failed her. It was a wonderful means of relaxing strangers and getting her own way in circumstances such as the one in which she currently found herself.

Mr. Wilbert’s cook, it had turned out, was not interested in listening to special requests from anyone. When Alice made her perfectly reasonable request that butter, cream and all other high-calorie substances be excluded from Sharlayne’s meals, the cook had pinned the interloper with a stern gaze.

“Don’t tell me my business, young woman,” she said. “I’ve been preparing Mr. Wilbert’s meals long enough to know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Alice agreed, aware of the averted gaze of the young kitchen helper chopping vegetables at a butcher block table in the middle of the enormous kitchen. “It’s just that Miss Kenyon has very delicate digestion. She simply can’t handle rich foods—although she loves them, she truly does.”

The cook’s helper said eagerly, “I haven’t seen her yet. Is she really as beautiful as she looks in all those magazines?” She put down her knife and waited with breathless attention.

“More beautiful,” Alice declared. “And sweet as pie.” Usually. “It’s a joy to work for her except for this one little thing—about her meals, I mean.” She gave the cook an apologetic glance. “She gets really testy when she can’t find anything she can eat. You understand.”

“I suppose.” The cook spoke grudgingly, apparently not in the least bit mollified. She turned her glare on her helper. “Get to work! We don’t have all day here.”

“Sorry.” The young helper picked up the knife and held it poised over a carrot. “Are all the stories about her really true?” she asked Alice.

“Most of them,” Alice said. She switched easily to a deep-voiced near drawl to add, “And you don’t know the half of it, honey. Nobody does.” She winked.

Even the cook had to laugh at the impersonation, and was still laughing when the butler entered. He looked around with a guarded expression, which quickly turned to a frown. “Where is she?” he demanded. “I distinctly heard Ms Kenyon’s voice.”

The laughing girl with the paring knife laughed harder. “You heard Alice,” she said. “She does a great impression of her boss. Do some more, Alice.”

“Well…” Alice glanced at the cook, who was no longer laughing. Better jolly her along a little more. “If you insist. Have you ever heard the story of her first wedding anniversary?”

“Which husband?” the cook inquired.

“First. He was a garage mechanic, the only poor man she ever married. According to legend, he took a gift to his beautiful young wife on their first-week anniversary.”

“One week?” Even the cook was interested now, while the butler, although pretending not to pay the least attention, had an ear cocked to catch everything.

“And a good thing, too,” Alice retorted, “because the marriage only survived about six months.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “Guess what he got her.”

“A diamond?” the kitchen helper guessed.

“Candy and flowers,” the cook predicted.

“Wrong on both counts.” Alice loved this part of the story. “He handed her a pretty box, and when she ripped off the wrappings she found…a blender.”

Alice recoiled in perfect imitation of Sharlayne’s own frequent telling of the tale. “And Sharlayne said, ‘If it’s not something to put on this body, I don’t even want to touch it!”’

Her audience of three roared with laughter, which cut off abruptly. With a sinking feeling, Alice knew before she even turned around that this time she might very well have gone too far. The best job she’d ever had, and now she’d be out on the street because she just couldn’t pass up an easy laugh.

But turn she must. Sure enough, Sharlayne stood in the doorway, beckoning to her like the spider to the fly.

But why was she smiling?

Alice had had an uneasy feeling from the moment almost a week ago when Sharlayne had announced that she and her two assistants were flying East. She didn’t know why, since she frequently traveled with her employer. She just knew she’d been nervous about the whole thing for no good reason.

Now she knew why. She’d had a premonition of doom.

MR. WILBERT LED Sharlayne and Alice into an elegant room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He certainly appeared to belong in these rich surroundings, not too surprising. Sharlayne had said rather calculatingly that he came from old money.

Lots of old money.

Alice spared a glance around, admiring the leather-covered tomes with gilt edgings, the heavy dark furniture, the brocaded draperies. How many of these books had Wilbert’s own company published? How many of the items in this room were family heirlooms?

How long could Alice avoid the inevitable?

Taking a deep breath, she turned—and stopped short at the sight of Tabitha, who was just entering the room. Sharlayne’s personal assistant wore her usual disapproving expression. Alice didn’t take it personally, supposing that the woman simply didn’t want anyone invading her turf.

Was she about to get her fondest wish?

Alice sighed and said a tentative, “Sharlayne—”

“Before we begin,” Linden Wilbert put in, “may I offer everyone a glass of wine?”

“Nothing for me,” Alice said quickly. “I’d just like to get this over with, if you don’t mind.”

“We do mind,” Sharlayne said sweetly. “Thank you, Linden. That would be lovely.” She gestured for Alice to take a seat.

Thoroughly confused, Alice chose a brass-studded leather chair beside a fireplace cold in May. She’d seen Sharlayne lose her temper only once and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Why was she pussyfooting around now? Being the kind of person who’d rather get any unpleasantness over with as quickly as possible, Alice was nonetheless forced to wait until the wine was duly delivered.

Then she said, “I apologize, Sharlayne. I wasn’t making fun of you, honest.”

“No?” Sharlayne’s brows arched above guileless eyes. “Who were you making fun of?”

“No one.” Alice made it a point not to look at Tabitha, who was probably purring by now. “I just wanted to score brownie points with the cook. She wasn’t real happy to hear about your dietary requirements.”

Mr. Wilbert seemed distressed. “I should have spoken to the cook on your behalf, Sharlayne,” he apologized. “She does tend to be testy.”

“I was only trying to get on her good side,” Alice explained, trying not to sound defensive, “but I shouldn’t have used you to do it.” Sharlayne said nothing, so Alice added a resigned, “If you’re going to fire me, let’s get it over with.”

Sharlayne’s eyes widened. “Is that what you think? That I’d fire a good and loyal employee over a little thing like that?”

“Well, actually…yes. I know loyalty is really important to you. I also know I was out of line.”

“As you have been on many other occasions, and I didn’t fire you then, did I? You’ve been doing that takeoff on me almost from the day I hired you.”

“You knew?” And then Alice understood: Tabitha, blank faced and superior, was a stool pigeon.

Sharlayne smiled that dazzling smile. “You should know better than to believe everything you read and hear about me, Alice. I’m not really all that dumb.”

“Lord, if there’s one thing I never thought you were, it’s dumb,” Alice said fervently. “This is a real relief. I owe you big-time. How about I promise I’ll never let myself get carried away like that again, for starters.” She lifted her right hand, palm out, to verify her vow.

“Oh, dear,” Sharlayne said. “That’s not what I want to hear at all.”

“You don’t?”

Sharlayne shook her head.

“Then what?” Alice leaned forward, aware that Tabitha was doing the same. Whatever was going on, she wasn’t a party to it, either.

But Mr. Wilbert was. “Sharlayne, do you really think you should go forward with—”

“Shh.” Sharlayne kept her level gaze on Alice. “I won’t deny it hurt to learn that you, my trusted friend and employee, were making fun of me behind my back.”

“I wasn’t,” Alice protested. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, after all.”

Sharlayne sighed. “I was not flattered. But you see, something’s come up where your knack for mimicry may come in handy.”

“I can’t imagine what.”

“It’s very simple, really. I need some space to finish my book and I can only think of one way to get it.”

“You mean there’s some way I can help? Of course. Name it.”

An almost cunning expression appeared on Sharlayne’s lovely face. “Oh, good,” she said. “That’s what I hoped you’d say. You heard her, Linden. You’re a witness, too, Tabitha.”

Tabitha let out her breath in a short hiss. “What are you up to?” she asked sharply. “What can Alice possibly do for you that I can’t?”

Sharlayne’s smile was beatific. “Alice can be me,” she said. “And now I know she will.”

DINNER WAS ANNOUNCED before Alice could do more than say a thoroughly confused, “Huh?” Sharlayne and Mr. Wilbert ate in the formal dining room; Tabitha had a tray sent to her room; and Alice grabbed a sandwich and took it outdoors to eat on the terrace overlooking a lovely formal garden.

What in the world was Sharlayne up to now? “Alice can be me,” she’d said, yet that must surely be a joke. No one could be Sharlayne Kenyon, but most especially not Alice Wynn.

For openers, Alice was relatively unsophisticated. A registered nurse, she’d spent nearly a decade caring for an invalid grandmother in her small Nebraska hometown. Only after her grandmother’s death had she been free to look around for a job—and a life—of her own.

Hooking up with Sharlayne had been a stroke of good fortune. Alice had gone to visit a distant cousin in California, and when she’d happened upon an automobile accident, had gone to the aid of the injured. One of the victims was Sharlayne, who’d suffered a broken leg and a terrible scare: she’d thought at first that her face might be scarred.

In her matter-of-fact way, Alice had reassured Sharlayne. When Sharlayne was released from the hospital, she’d hired Alice to tend to her at home on a temporary basis. That had quickly evolved into full-time employment, with Alice in charge of meal planning and the general health of the household. She’d set up an exercise schedule and saw to it that Sharlayne, who had couch potato tendencies, stuck to it. From the beginning, Sharlayne had also used her new employee for general gofer duty, which hadn’t bothered Alice in the slightest. She hadn’t spent ten years fetching and carrying for a crotchety old lady for nothing.

The job was fun, the surroundings elegant, but the biggest plus was a generous salary that helped defray the staggering hospital bills for Grandma’s final illness. With a light finally visible at the end of her personal tunnel, Alice settled in for a long run.

She’d never imaged being so close to so much glamour. For a little girl from Nebraska, it was dazzling. Through Sharlayne, Alice had met many beautiful people, among them a gardener with whom she’d had a brief but passionate affair. Strangely enough, perhaps, she’d never met any of Sharlayne’s rich and famous ex-husbands, although she’d heard many stories about them.

Yes, she definitely owed her boss. The method of repayment, however, eluded her.

When Sharlayne summoned Alice later that night, she went with some trepidation. Again, she entered the library to find the same three waiting for her. She sat down without invitation, her knees suddenly rubbery.

Sharlayne’s smile would set a garden statue at ease. “I’m sure you’d like an explanation,” she said gently.

Alice nodded.

“You know I’ve been trying to finish my book,” Sharlayne said. “It’s going quite well, actually, when I can find the time to work on it. That’s where you come in.”

Alice waited.

“I want you to pretend to be me so I can slip away to some hiding place and finish the manuscript,” Sharlayne said, as if proposing nothing out of the ordinary. “That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Alice and Tabitha said in unison.

Tabitha threw in a scathing glance. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I’m deadly serious,” Sharlayne said calmly.

“Nobody,” Tabitha said flatly, “will ever believe this Plain Jane is you.”

Alice sputtered, searching for words to defend herself that didn’t come. She’d be the first to admit she was no Sharlayne Kenyon but neither was she a Plain Jane.

“When I get through with her,” Sharlayne said with total confidence, “her own mother will believe she’s me. It’s not that big a deal, Tabby.”

Tabitha huffed and puffed, muttering “Hopeless” and “Ridiculous” and “Insane.”

Sharlayne laughed. “No, seriously.” She turned back to Alice, who sat speechless with astonishment. “This will work,” she said. “How tall are you?”

“F-five-eight.”

“Me, too. Our bodies are also basically the same. They should be—we do the same workout every day. I’m a bit more buxom—”

“An understatement,” Alice observed, looking pointedly at Sharlayne’s generous cleavage.

“That’s why God invented push-up bras, dear.”

“But—but—you’re blond.”

“Ever hear of bleach?”

This suggested she probably wouldn’t be swayed by the fact that Alice’s hair was twelve inches longer. That’s why God invented scissors. “Our eyes aren’t exactly the same color,” she stated as though she’d finally settled upon a valid difference.

“That’s true. Yours have less gray in them. But nobody will notice that unless they see the two of us together, which they won’t. Blue is close enough.”

“Okay, then—” Alice began again, grasping for straws. “My nose is shorter.”

“Again, unless we stand side by side, who’s to know? Besides, makeup will go a long way toward negating that.”

“Sharlayne.” Tabitha’s tone was agonized. “This is insane. She’d never get away with it.”

“She will if I put out the word I have laryngitis,” Sharlayne said triumphantly. “If I set her up in the New York apartment, there could be a problem. But we won’t do that. She can move into the new house in Beverly Hills, where nobody’s met me. You’ll be with her, of course. Everyone knows that where I am, you are, too, Tabby.”

“No!” Tabitha turned on Alice in a fury, as if the situation were her fault. “I should be with you, Sharlayne, wherever you’re going.”

Sharlayne shook her head. “Impossible. If you’re not with her, nobody will accept that she’s me.” Leaning forward, she squeezed Tabitha’s hand. “You’ll do this for me, dear. I can’t imagine you’d ever let me down.”

The uncharacteristically mute Linden said into the sudden silence, “I’m beginning to see how this could actually work.”

Alice turned to him, wide-eyed. “You can?”

He nodded. “There are certain basic similarities. If no one gets close enough—”

“Aha!” Alice gazed at everyone triumphantly. “There are always people around you, Sharlayne. How could I keep them away?”

“You won’t have to. I’m going to hire a bodyguard to run interference for you.”

“A bodyguard! I couldn’t put up with a bodyguard. Besides, how do you know you can trust him to keep the secret? Something like this could be worth a lot of money to a scandal sheet like the U.S. Eye.”

“He can’t sell information he doesn’t have. He’ll think he is guarding me, of course. Everybody will. You’ll put on that act you do so well for the help, then lay low until I finish the manuscript and come back. You’ll have the run of the whole house, the pool, the tennis courts—everything. You’ll live in the master suite and be queen of all you survey. It will be the experience of a lifetime.”

“She’ll never pull it off,” Tabitha reiterated.

“Damn it!” Alice was getting sick and tired of hearing that. She glared at Tabitha. “If Sharlayne thinks I can—”

“I know you can,” Sharlayne said quickly. “Do this, Alice. When it’s over, I’ll be very grateful.”

“You will?”

“So grateful that I’ll pay off the rest of your grandmother’s medical bills.”

Alice was stunned. She had no idea Sharlayne was even aware of those bills. “Be careful,” she said a bit uneasily. “You’re talking big bucks.”

“I’m aware of that. I know your debts to the penny.” She leaned forward, hand outstretched. “Let’s cut to the chase. Is it a deal?”

Alice looked down at the sleek hand, with its faultless manicured nails, then at her own competent hand, which resembled a paw next to all that perfection. Ever since she’d met this woman, she’d wondered what it would to like to be so beautiful, so famous, so sought after. Now, out of the blue, she had a chance to find out. Even so…

Tabitha gave a grunt of disbelief. “I’m warning all of you, this is a ridiculous idea. It will never work. Alice won’t be able to carry it off and disaster will—”

“It’s a deal,” Alice said abruptly, tossing in a hostile glance for her nemesis. “If you think it can work, Sharlayne, I’m willing to give it the old college try.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

Sharlayne’s relief was palpable, and a shock to Alice. Somehow she got the feeling that something else was going on here, but what could it possibly be?

“SHARLAYNE.” Linden took her hand between both of his, forgetting that she was more than an hour late for breakfast. “You’ve never looked lovelier.”

She smiled and patted his cheek, her touch lingering. “How sweet of you to say so.”

“Hardly sweet.” He drew her toward the table set up in the sunroom—at 11:00 a.m., to the cook’s horror.

Sharlayne settled gracefully into the chair he offered. “Did you sleep well?” she inquired, dropping the linen napkin into her lap.

“Not particularly. I was thinking of your double.”

“Alice kept you awake?” She reached for the silver coffee carafe and poured for both of them, an almost smile tilting those bewitching lips.

He would not be put off. “I’m not sure Alice understands what she may be getting into. I’m not sure you understand what we may all be getting into.”

Sharlayne’s beautiful face remained clear and untroubled. “You worry too much, Linden,” she scolded, simultaneously teasing and enticing. “None of us is getting into anything except a little plot to deceive the media and the busybodies of the world. It’s a little game, that’s all.”

“Be that as it may.” He offered her the basket of fresh croissants, now grown cold. “With your permission, I’ll arrange for the bodyguard right after breakfast. When do you want to leave for your hideaway?”

She considered. “Next Friday,” she finally decided. “That should give me time to remake Alice and get her set up in the new house.”

“All right. I’ll handle the arrangements.”

“No one is to know I’m not really being guarded,” she said quickly. “You understand that? Not the bodyguard, not the agency—just you and me, Alice and Tabitha.”

“I understand.” But he didn’t like it. “I only hope you understand what you’re doing.”

“Trust me, darling.”

When that dazzling smile fell upon him, what else could he do?

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Linden dialed 1-800-HERO and waited patiently for the voice to announce, “S. J. Slade Insurance Agency,” then asked for Samantha Spade Archer.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Archer doesn’t speak to anyone,” the woman said, sounding stunned that anyone would suggest otherwise. “Her daughter might be able to help you.”

“I don’t think so,” Linden said. “Mrs. Archer is a personal friend. Please tell her that Linden Wilbert is in need of a bit of insurance.”

“If you say so, sir.” She obviously didn’t believe him.

Mere moments later, Sam’s husky voice exploded in his ear. “Linden, as I live and breathe. Long time, no hear, sweetheart.”

“Too long.” He found himself smiling. He could picture the elegant Samantha, dressed in ankle-strap heels and tight little forties suits worn with pearls. “Tell me, how’s Mr. Samantha Spade?”

Her throaty laughter sounded indulgent. “That’s Mr. Wil Archer to you, buster—and he’s fine. So are the daughter and son-in-law and grandson.”

“Delighted to hear it.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the reason for this call.”

“True. I’m in need of your professional services.”

“Looking for a little insurance, are you?”

Insurance: her euphemism for bodyguard. Sam carried discretion to new heights.

“Not me,” Linden said. “A friend of mine. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? Sharlayne Kenyon?”

Sam gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah, I’ve heard of her. Who hasn’t? So what’s the story?”

“She needs someone to run interference for her,” he said. “Someone to keep the press at bay, to hold back the throngs—that sort of thing.”

“Sounds like she needs a press secretary, not one of my highly trained operatives.”

“She wants someone she can count on in an emergency,” he improvised. “Not that she expects an emergency, but you know how it is with a woman as famous as this one.”

“Yeah,” Sam said dryly, “I know how it is. When do you need this glorified errand boy?”

“Now, Sam, don’t talk that way. Sharlayne is a highly strung, artistic individual. She’s exhausted and needs peace and quiet, which is what she’s hoping your guy will help her get. Can you do anything for me?”

A long silence followed. Then she said, “Of course, sweetheart. Just tell me when and where and I’ll have your man standing by.”

THE QUESTION WAS, which man?

Samantha Spade sat at her desk, staring at two folders before her. The agency was overextended already. Business was booming and she didn’t have a whole lot of choice here.

Two operatives were available. One had just returned from a harrowing assignment that required him to spend several days piloting a desperate senior citizen through Florida swamps in an ultimately successful attempt to avoid his vengeful heirs, eager to collect sooner rather than later.

The other was brand-new, bright eyed and bushy tailed; he had just signed on and trained and was waiting for his first assignment.

She flipped open his folder. Jed Kelby, thirty-three. Heir to a winery in California’s Napa Valley. Six years an officer in the U.S. Marine Corps. Might have made a military career if his father hadn’t died, requiring his presence at home. When his younger brother had stepped forward to take over Kelby-Linus Wines, Jed had looked around for something to do that might offer a little adventure.

Samantha, who’d known the senior Kelby in the wild days of her youth, had been taken aback when Jed knocked on her door one day and asked for a job. Not that she’d found anything wrong with his credentials; far from it. The tall—six foot two—Jed, with his straight, short dark hair and piercing eyes, was a true poster Marine. He was eager for the opportunity and ready to work hard to deserve it.

Still, she’d had reservations that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Maybe it was that he seemed too good to be true, too much a straight arrow. People in Sam’s business sometimes had to stretch a point or two, without being told officially that they should. If she had one real concern about Jed, it was that he might be too much by the book and not innovative enough to protect his life and that of his charge.

Would it be fair to make his first charge a man-eater like Sharlayne Kenyon?

“YOU’VE BEEN ASKING for it, sweetheart, and you’re about to get it—a chance to prove yourself.”

Jed’s pulse picked up, but he held himself at ease. “What’s the job?” he asked casually, as if it didn’t matter.

“Guarding a beautiful woman.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Someone everybody knows. You have heard of Sharlayne Kenyon?”

“Jeez.” He sucked in his breath. “What is it? Kidnapping threat? Blackmail? Stalker?”

Samantha laughed, but he didn’t think she looked entirely comfortable. “None of the above. She’s tired. She wants someone to fend off the press and public so she can get some rest.”

“She wants—” He stared at his boss, in the grip of bitter disappointment. “You’ve been saving me for this?”

“You might be the only man in America who’d object to being cooped up with Sharlayne Kenyon for a few weeks. Just don’t get too cocksure, okay?”

“Cocksure about what?”

“About your ability to treat her like just another client. Of course, that’d be a stretch for you, since she’ll be your first client.”

“If that’s your subtle way of telling me to keep my hands off, save your breath. I’m a professional.” He grimaced. “Okay, a new professional, but everybody starts somewhere.”

Sam nodded as if satisfied…or resigned. “Just remember the rules according to me. Thou shalt not get involved with thy client. It can get thee both killed.”

He gave her a thumbs-up. “I got it, Boss. Don’t give it another thought.” He grinned, determined to make the best of the task. “From what I hear, she’s too old for me anyway.”

Samantha’s great guffaw rocked the room. “Oh, you fool!” But she said it affectionately. “You don’t know women like this one. She’ll chew you up and spit you out if you’re not careful.”

“Naw,” he scoffed, “not me. I’m not a skirt chaser.”

“No,” she agreed, “what you are is an idiot if you try to match hormones with an adventuress like Sharlayne Kenyon. But what the hell. Boys have to grow up someday.”

She opened the file, all business again. “Now, here’s the deal…”

CHAPTER TWO

Sharlayne update:

Sharlayne Kenyon’s gone into hiding at her glamorous new digs in Beverly Hills, where, according to the smart money, she’s working on her autobiography. Half the rich and/or handsome men in California are expected to head for the hills, should this prove to be true….

Gina Godfrey, U.S. Eye

JED CALLED HOME Thursday before leaving for Los Angeles. He’d be driving down from the agency headquarters in San Francisco in his old Ford pickup, only a six-or seven-hour trek. Before he left, he figured he should tell his family where they could reach him.

His brother, Steve, answered. After the usual chitchat—they needed rain, Mom was still flitting around Europe with Aunt Margaret, their sister Dana was expecting her second kid in the fall—Jed finally got around to the reason for his call.

“Hey, great, man,” Steve said enthusiastically.

“I know you’ve just been waiting for that first assignment. Who and what?”

“I’ll be guarding Sharlayne Kenyon.”

“Say that again?”

“Sharlayne—”

“Jeez! You mean the one who’s been married about a dozen times? The one who’s been in movies and magazines and—”

“That’s the one, all right,” Jed confirmed dryly.

“You always did have all the luck.”

That surprised Jed, who didn’t think he ever had any luck. “How so?” he challenged.

“You’re gonna be guarding one of the most famous bodies in America. That’s not luck?”

“I’m guarding it, not making moves on it.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Steve, she must be ten years older than I am.” He figured the photos in his briefcase must have been taken fifteen years ago and extensively retouched.

“Fifteen years older and twenty years smarter,” Steve shot back.

“You think so? Look, little brother, guarding some flighty celebrity isn’t my idea of a plum assignment.”

“Everybody’s got to start somewhere, my man.”

“That’s what I figure, so I intend to make the best of it. The body of Sharlayne What’s-Her-Name will be guarded like never before, but that’s all—guarded. This is strictly business.”

“Knowing you, I believe it.” Steve sounded disgusted. “Good old straight-arrow Jed.” He sighed. “If it were me…”

“It’s not. If you need me, use my cell phone number. I’ll be at her place in L.A.—Beverly Hills, Bel Air, wherever.”

“Okay. Have a good time.”

“Fat chance. This is work.”

“Speaking of work…” A pregnant pause followed, and then, “We really could use you around the old homestead, Jed. If bodyguarding doesn’t pan out, you can always come home.”

“It’ll pan out. Give my love to Dana.”

“Will do, and you give my love to Sharlayne Kenyon.”

Jed hung up on a long, low whistle.

Steve must be losing it, he thought, tossing his sea bag into the back of the pickup. What did his brother know about this Sharlayne Kenyon that Jed didn’t? He’d seen pictures of her, read her file. She was just another glossy blonde.

Wasn’t she?

ALICE SAT AT the makeup table in the master suite of Sharlayne’s Spanish-style villa in Beverly Hills. Practically in a state of shock, she stared at her reflection in the lit mirror.

Her own face stared back at her, bare of makeup but topped with Sharlayne’s hair: a pale baby blond in a sexy, short cut. Sharlayne, who was also reflected in the mirror, tugged at a strand, testing the texture between her fingers.

“Well?” Alice inquired breathlessly.

“Not bad,” Sharlayne responded grudgingly. “Your hair’s finer than mine—less body. But Kathy did a great job, I have to admit.”

“It went just the way you said it would,” Alice said. “I asked for your hairdresser when I made the appointment, then gushed all over her about how much I loved your hair. I asked her to do mine exactly the same and this is the result.”

“And since you went in sans makeup, she’ll never put two and two together,” Sharlayne said with satisfaction. “Okay, time to complete the transformation. Show me what you’ve learned in the past week.”

Alice herself wasn’t sure what she’d learned. Sharlayne had bombarded her with information and instructions, including the art of makeup. Although Alice had painted her eyes, modified her lip line, shadowed her nose to make it appear longer and allowed Sharlayne to change the shape of her brows, she’d never done everything all at once.

This would be the acid test.

With trembling hands, she reached for the jar of Sharlayne’s custom-blended foundation. Picking up a sponge, she looked herself in the eye, took a deep breath and began.

Thirty minutes later, she was so racked with nerves that she really couldn’t see the forest for the trees: all the parts that went together to create Sharlayne Kenyon. Everything about Alice gleamed and glowed with color and new shapeliness, but did it add up to success?

She shifted on the bench and fixed a plaintive gaze on Sharlayne. “Well?” She held her breath.

Sharlayne looked…stunned. Stepping forward, she put her hands on Alice’s shoulders and turned her back to face the mirror. What Alice now saw was two Sharlayne Kenyons—two. For a moment, she didn’t know which one was her.

Sharlayne said in a strangled voice, “I’m the one who thought this would work, and even I don’t believe it.”

“Neither do I,” Alice gasped. “I never dreamed—!”

“I realized there were a lot of similarities.” Sharlayne had pulled herself together, although she still appeared rattled. “Do you suppose we’re twins separated at birth?”

Alice laughed. “Not likely, since I’m thirty-two and you’re—”

“Older. A tiny bit older.” Sharlayne grinned at her own intervention. “Actually, when I look closer I can see the differences. Your upper lip is longer…see?” She pointed to her own mouth. “Your nose is shorter, your cheeks fuller. That’s why I showed you how to contour. Your neck’s shorter, too.” She preened her head from side to side to demonstrate.

“I see it when you point it out,” Alice agreed. “Without all the camouflage we don’t look that much alike at all.” She rose. “Now what?”

“Now you get dressed. Wear that.” Sharlayne pointed to garments laid out on the silk-draped canopy bed and strappy high-heeled sandals sitting on the floor.

Without a word, Alice stripped off her jeans and T-shirt. Beneath them she wore a thong—which was driving her crazy—and a demibra of lace and satin, artfully constructed to make the most of her assets. The underwear was new, selected and purchased by Sharlayne.

“You can wear my clothes and my shoes,” she’d said. “You can even wear my jewels. But no way will anybody wear my undies. Since you have a penchant for cotton underwear and no one on the planet would believe Sharlayne Kenyon would wear such a thing—”

“But no one will see my underwear,” Alice had protested. “What difference does it make?”

“Plenty,” Sharlayne snapped. “You’ll know and you won’t feel like me in cotton underpants—trust me. Besides, what if you got hit by a car? Then everybody at the hospital would see. It would ruin my reputation.”

“I’m not going to get hit by a car.”

Sharlayne had got that sneaky gleam in her eyes. “There are other occasions to show one’s underwear. You could have a mad passionate affair with your bodyguard.”

“I had a mad passionate affair with one of your gardeners. Remember that? It didn’t work out so well. I won’t be trying that again any time soon.”

“José was cute,” Sharlayne said, “but the language thing was a problem. I’m still not sure if he was kissing you off or inviting you to go back to Mexico with him.”

“Whatever. I was sorry I ever got involved.” Alice stepped into white jeans and hauled them up over her hips. She had to take a deep breath to get them snapped, then to pull up the zip.

She’d never worn anything so tight in her life. “Good grief,” she gasped. “How do you move in these?”

“They’re denim. They stretch.”

“I hope.” Alice tugged the black T-shirt over her head. Short and just as tight as the jeans, it reached only to a couple of inches above the waistband, baring her navel.

She stared in the mirror at her exposed bellybutton. “You’re kidding,” she said faintly.

“You know better. You’ve seen me practically every day for two years. You’ve seen me wear that, as a matter of fact.”

“Yes, but…I don’t know.” Alice shook her newly blond head.

“Good,” Sharlayne said approvingly. “That petulant look is dead-on. Hurry up, put on the shoes. Your bodyguard should be arriving any minute and you’ll have to greet him.”

Alice’s stomach clenched into a knot of terror. “Sharlayne, I don’t know—”

“The hell you don’t! Put on those shoes!” Sharlayne pointed with a stiff finger. “Then put on that ruby tennis bracelet and the diamond earrings I laid out for you.” The roar of an automobile engine interrupted and she frowned. “What the…?”

Alice, closer to the second-story windows, walked over to peer out. “It’s an old pickup truck,” she reported.

“Probably a delivery,” Sharlayne grumbled, coming to check for herself. “Tabitha must have authorized it.”

The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. And what a man: slim hips and shoulders to die for. When he looked up unexpectedly, both women leaped back as if caught doing something they should be ashamed of.

They faced each other, wide-eyed.

Sharlayne said, “The bodyguard. Got to be.”

“Do you think so?” Alice whispered, wondering how she got so lucky.

“I’m sure of it.” Sharlayne grinned. “Maybe I should hang around and send you off to finish my book.”

“Maybe you should,” Alice agreed, wondering if what she felt beneath her feet was really quicksand.

“Go on, Alice,” Sharlayne scoffed. “I mean, Sharlayne. That guy’s a real hunk and his only interest in the next several weeks will be guarding your body. Let him earn his money. Remember, you’re me, so don’t pull any of that fainting-virgin stuff. I’m not suggesting you do anything you really don’t want to, but in public ask yourself, ‘What would Sharlayne do?”’ She turned toward the door with a wink. “Then don’t do anything I wouldn’t, okay?”

Alice groaned. That certainly left a lot of leeway.

A FIFTYISH WOMAN with the charm of a goatherd let Jed into the old villa. He automatically catalogued what he’d seen so far: a tall brick fence, an enormous and elaborate wrought-iron gate at the street entrance to the property, a long curving drive leading up to the white-walled, red-tile-roofed mansion nestled among palms and flowering shrubbery.

All very substantial and prosperous. A nice place to visit, but he wouldn’t want to live here.

The woman, a stereotypical old-maid school-teacher if he’d ever seen one, offered her hand. “I am Tabitha Thomas,” she said in a chilly tone. “I am Ms. Kenyon’s personal assistant.”

“Jed Kelby.” He took her hand in a firm but brief grip. “S. J. Spade Insurance Agency.”

“The bodyguard.”

He grimaced. The agency preferred insurance agent or security expert or even personal security consultant. Nevertheless, he said, “Yes, ma’am.” He glanced around the majestic entryway, noting the antique tile, the Moorish shapes of windows and doors. “Is Ms. Kenyon available?”

“She’s—”

“Right here.”

The low timbre of the new voice sent shudders of anticipation down Jed’s spine. He was watching Tabitha and therefore caught the look of shock that touched her face before it was quickly gone. For a moment he couldn’t be sure of the identity of the newcomer, but then he turned, bracing for this first encounter with his employer.

He had no idea why until he saw her standing there—posing there, actually—in the arched doorway. Pictures of Sharlayne Kenyon didn’t do her justice, had not prepared him for the reality. Blond and beautiful and sleek and sexy would do for starters. She simply took his breath away, which annoyed the hell out of him.

This was business, damn it. He wouldn’t let her distract him from his duty.

He stepped forward, thrusting out his hand in a businesslike manner. “Ms. Kenyon? I’m Jed Kelby. The agency sent me.”

She batted those clear blue eyes. “Ms. Kenyon?” She duplicated his questioning tone. “Are you suggesting you’re not sure?”

Tabitha Thomas stirred. “Not to worry, Mr. Kelby,” she said with perfectly flat inflection. “She often has this effect on strangers.”

“Yeah, well…” Jed almost felt left out of the conversation, for some reason. “I’ve only seen pictures.”

A fast smile tilted Sharlayne’s lips. “I shouldn’t tease you,” she said. “I’m really quite relieved you’re here. Please, come into the living room, where we can talk.” She half turned. “Tabitha, could you send Juan to make drinks. It is almost cocktail hour.” She tossed Jed a mischievous glance.

“Not for me,” he said quickly. “I don’t drink on the job.”

“But you’re not on the job yet.” She gave him a pretty pout. “You don’t officially start until tomorrow.”

He simply shook his head: no.

“Wine, then.” Those soft lips set in a stubborn line. “Surely you can have a glass of wine. We—I’ve just put in a case of fabulous Kelby-Linus chardonnay—” She stopped short, her beautiful eyes widening. “But—are you connected to those Kelbys?”

This wasn’t going the way he expected. He didn’t want any personal relationship with this woman. Neither did he want to lie to her, so he simply said, “Yes.”

“Then that’s what we’ll have,” she said happily, clasping her hands with pleasure. A bejeweled bracelet encircled her wrist, and her nails were long and gracefully shaped. “If you please, Tabby?”

Tabitha’s mouth turned down at the corners, but she nodded and walked briskly away. There was nothing for Jed to do but follow Sharlayne wherever she might lead.

ALICE THOUGHT she might faint, she was so anxious about this first test of her false identity. Tabitha hadn’t helped, either. The woman had made no secret of her dislike for Alice, but to snipe in front of the bodyguard was completely uncalled for.

Then there was that bodyguard himself. If she’d sat down to outline her ideal man, she’d probably have come up with Jed Kelby.

In the first place, he was tall. She liked tall. Tall, dark and handsome, just like the stereotype. Great, athletic body; easy way of moving, erect posture that hinted of a military background.

If all that wasn’t enough, he had close-clipped black hair and clear hazel eyes that showed a changing pattern of green and gold. The guy was, quite simply, a knockout. And that body…

She picked up two glasses of wine and offered one to him. “Cheers,” she said, sipping.

“Cheers.” He barely sipped the wine before setting the glass on the huge carved wooden coffee table. Apparently, he really didn’t intend to drink on duty.

To hell with that. Alice needed all the courage she could get, however false. She took another swallow. “Did you have a nice drive?” she asked.

He nodded brusquely. “Why do you need a personal security specialist, Ms. Kenyon?”

She blinked in surprise. “Why…I don’t know. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

He frowned. “Are you in any kind of danger?”

“Not at all.” She got hold of herself then, and switched back to the official line. “That is, unless you call the press a danger. To be perfectly frank, I’ve become such a media target that sometimes I feel I’m in danger just appearing in public.” That much was true; she had no idea how Sharlayne stood the constant scrutiny and interference.

He shrugged, broad shoulders moving beneath navy-blue knit. “Guess it goes with the territory,” he said without so much as a trace of sympathy. “I understand you’ve only recently moved into this house.”

“That’s right. A few days ago, as a matter of fact.”

“Then the first order of business is for me to check out your security system.” He stood up abruptly. “If you’ll tell me where to stash my gear—”

“Wait a minute. Not so fast.” She frowned. “There’ll be plenty of time for that. Let’s talk about the rest of it.”

His dark brows rose. “What rest of it?”

“How we’re going to…relate to each other.”

“You lost me,” he said. “You’re my employer. I’m here to do the job you hired me for—protect you.”

“That’s all well and good, but I don’t want anyone to know I’ve hired a bodyguard. That would be like inviting every crackpot in town to take a shot at getting through my security.”

“Okay. Then we won’t tell anyone.”

“Exactly. But sooner or later someone will wonder who the handsome man living in my house might be.” She gave him her best come-hither look, which obviously wasn’t all that good, judging by his lack of response.

If he noticed the compliment, he failed to let on. “Okay, tell ’em I’m your cousin. I don’t care.”

“Really, Jed. Do you think anyone would believe that?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because I’m Sharlayne Kenyon, silly.” She drained her glass. “If someone asks, you’re my new boyfriend. Since I’m between close personal friends at the moment, they’ll believe that. Can we use your real name?”

“Sure. Why not? But I don’t think the boyfriend story will fly.”

“It’s the only story that will fly. With it we can spend every minute together and no one will think anything about it. You see? It’s the only way.”

“I see you think it’s the only way. I’m not so sure.”

She patted his strong jaw. “Lighten up, Jed. This will be a walk in the park for a man in your line of business. I wouldn’t want to think you’ll find it too difficult to pretend to have…feelings for me.”

“I never lighten up on the job,” he said. “Your safety is my only concern.”

Was that a challenge?

ALICE MADE IT all the way into Sharlayne’s master suite and collapsed on the chaise longue before succumbing to a bad case of shakes. “I’m dying!” she gasped. “That’s the scariest thing I ever did. I kept waiting for him to stand up and shout, ‘Imposter!’”

Sharlayne and Tabitha regarded her with varying degrees of sympathy: none from Tabitha and very little from Sharlayne.

“Brace up,” Sharlayne said. “He bought it, didn’t he?”

“Apparently, although he did give me a start or two.” Alice pulled herself together sufficiently to stare at her employer.

“My God.” She gaped. “Is that a wig?”

Sharlayne touched the nondescript brown head covering and frowned. Her face was free of makeup and she wore sensible shoes and a dress that actually fit like a dress, not a banana peel. “Awful, huh?”

“Not really. In fact, you look a lot like me.”

“I guess that’s the point.” Sharlayne turned her laser gaze on Tabitha. “What do you think? Did she do all right?”

Tabitha’s lip curled. “She barely got by. If she’d been trying to fool anyone who actually knew you—”

“That won’t happen,” Sharlayne cut in impatiently. “Now, both of you listen. Wilbert’s waiting for me at the service entrance. If you have any questions, this is the time to speak up.”

Alice asked quickly, “Where will you be?”

“That’s strictly top secret.”

“But what if I have to get in touch with you?” Alice felt a touch of panic at the prospect of being completely stranded and on her own.

“Tabitha will always know where to find me. She’ll also handle all the credit cards. Anything you want, up to but not including a mink coat, go to her.”

That didn’t sit well. Not that Alice had a hankering for a mink coat; she just didn’t have a hankering to go begging to Tabitha. “I don’t like it,” she said unhappily.

Tabitha said with malice aforethought, “Too bad. That’s the way we’ve worked it out.”

“Easy.” Sharlayne gave her senior assistant a warning glance. “Try to get along, will you? We want Alice to enjoy this experience, after all.”

“She’s already enjoying it too much.” Tabitha’s gaze was malevolent. “Flirting with that bodyguard—”

“Great!” Sharlayne looked delighted. “That’s exactly what I want her to do—act just like me.” She smiled at Alice. “Relax, honey. You did just fine or Tabitha wouldn’t be so annoyed.”

“This time,” Alice conceded. “But when I run into someone who already knows you—and I inevitably will—all the artful makeovers in the world…all the designer clothing and glittering jewels and fabulous surroundings…won’t get me through. I have to admit, I figured this could be fun—”

“Not to mention profitable.”

“That’s true.”

“Well, stop worrying about it,” Sharlayne said as if her mind had already turned around in another direction. “Do the best you can. Any time you can gain for me will help. I’m going to finish that book if it kills me.”

“Okay,” Alice said, “but this seems even crazier now that we’re into it.”

“Alice, listen to me.” Sharlayne leaned down to peer into eyes nearly identical to her own. “People see what they expect to see, not what’s actually there. If they expect to see Sharlayne Kenyon, they will.”

“But what if—”

“Alice, you’re whimpering.” Sharlayne straightened, her manner stern. “Let me remind you what’s at stake here—a brilliant tome detailing my brilliant life, and a debt-free future for you. Isn’t that worth a little stress and strain?”

“I suppose, but what if I’m found out? What if—”

“Hush and listen to me. You’re also getting a chance to live a fantasy most women would kill for. A mansion, a good-looking man at your beck and call, servants, a good-looking man, designer clothes, a good-looking man—”

“Okay, I catch your drift. A good-looking man.” Alice, who had never in her life been free of money worries or had any male, good-looking or otherwise, at her beck and call, was putty in Sharlayne’s hands. But one question still remained. “Why do I even need a bodyguard, good-looking or otherwise?”

“You don’t,” Sharlayne said calmly. “Let me explain this one more time. He’s just around to keep people away, so they won’t get wise to the switch.” She glanced around the bedroom, clearly impatient. “Now, I really have to get out of here. Last chance for questions.”

Her words reminded Alice of the part of the wedding ceremony where the minister asks if anyone present knows why this couple should not be joined together. This was definitely a now-or-never moment.

She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.

Sharlayne said, “Good. In that case—ta-ta, ladies. Tabitha, keep me posted. Alice, enjoy yourself.” With a final conspiratorial wink, she was gone.

Alice turned to Tabitha, who was staring at the door through which her boss had disappeared. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered. “Nobody with a grain of sense or an eye in his head would ever accept you as Sharlayne Kenyon.”

“You better be wrong,” Alice said, “because if you’re right, we’re both up the proverbial creek without a paddle.”

This time, she didn’t flinch before Tabitha’s glare. She was, after all, Sharlayne Kenyon.

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