“I can’t do that,” Sam said, sitting in the back of the limousine, staring at Jack Remington, who’d turned from something close to Prince Charming to a detestable frog in the space of five minutes.
“It’s a simple request.”
“I’m not going to spy on your sister’s fiancé. Pretending I’m Arabella Fleming is bad enough, but trying to find out if Peter Leighton has some hidden agenda is out of the question.”
“He doesn’t deserve her.”
“Do you have any concrete proof of that?”
Jack smiled, leaned forward, and took hold of her fingers. “I have no proof at all. I even had the man investigated and came up with nothing. But I do have a gut feeling.”
“Your sister’s in love with him, for heaven’s sake! If you don’t have any proof, leave it alone.”
She pulled her fingers from his grasp. “You know what, Jack?”
“What?”
“My mama wouldn’t have liked you.”
“Why?”
“You’re rich, for one, and she didn’t like rich men. Neither do I, for that matter. Number two, you’re devious. She used to tell me that I should stay away from devious men because they have a tendency to lead good girls astray.”
“I’ve been open and aboveboard in everything I’ve asked of you. There’s nothing devious there. As for being rich, I can’t help what I am.”
He leaned back in the soft black leather and folded his arms across his chest. “All you have to do is dance with him, ask him a few questions, and maybe bat your eyelashes a time or two.”
“No.”
“I’ll give you a thousand more.”
The money was tempting, but she couldn’t.
She shook her head.
“Two thousand.”
“I’m not a spy. Please don’t ask me—”
“Five.”
Her heart seemed to stop. She could pay off most of what she owed Johnnie with five thousand dollars. It wasn’t right, but she was desperate. “All right. Five.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“No,” Sam said. “Sometimes I sell my services a little too easily. I always regret it in the end.”
He leaned forward again, and lifted her hand. His felt warm; hers was freezing. “You asked me earlier if something was bothering me, and now I’m going to ask you. Are you in trouble? Something I might be able to help you with?”
She didn’t know Jack Remington well enough to tell him her troubles. Besides, her foolishness was all too humiliating to talk about. Five months ago she’d confided in a rich man, she’d even asked for his help. In the end, she’d ended up with black eyes and a scar on her jaw. She didn’t like the thought of Jack Remington seeing her as a greedy, moneygrubbing con, but she wouldn’t be seeing him after tonight. His disdain was something she could live with.
“Thanks for asking,” she said, pulling her hand away, “but I don’t have a care in the world.”
Lauren Remington Chasen Lancaster looked radiant. Sam picked her out the moment she and Jack walked through the massive double doors that led into a pink-and-white marble entry. With a devastatingly handsome fiancé at her side, she’d stood at the far end of the room greeting guests, dressed in a gold-colored gown covered with thousands of shimmering amber beads. A Paris original, Sam imagined. More than likely Christian Lacroix. She must have been close to six feet tall and looked more like a voluptuous Amazon princess than a willowy Palm Beach socialite. When she saw Jack, her face lit up like she’d just won a Vegas jackpot.
She threw her arms around Jack’s neck, and he lifted her off the floor, spun her around, and every guest in the room stared, as if showing real, honest emotion was unrefined. Peter Leighton frowned, then instantly wiped the look of discontent from his face and put on a smile.
Too late, Sam thought. She considered herself a good judge of character, and Peter Leighton was definitely a man to be watched. Her feelings about Jack and his gut instinct rose a notch.
Jack caught Sam’s arm and drew her toward his sister. “Lauren, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Arabella Fleming.”
Sam took a deep breath, as the charade began in earnest.
“I hope Jack told you how happy I am for both of you,” Lauren said, “but if he hasn’t, well, I’m just thrilled.”
“Thank you,” Sam said. She held out her hand, but suddenly found herself caught up in Lauren’s sisterly embrace.
“You’re perfect for Jack,” Lauren whispered. “Of course, you don’t look at all like he described you.”
“What do you mean?” Jack said, obviously overhearing his sister. “She’s exactly how I described her. Beautiful.”
“Well, she is beautiful. But she’s got red hair, not brown, you said something about her being average height when she’s nearly as tall as me, and, oh, what does it matter. You’re both here.” The smile grew even brighter on Lauren’s face as she linked her arm through Peter’s, drawing him forward.
“Now it’s my turn to introduce my fiancé. Peter Leighton, this is my brother, Jack Remington, and his wife-to-be, Arabella Fleming.”
Peter was nothing but grace and charm. He was tall, slim, with slicked-back black hair that made him look more like a Latin lover than an Australian polo player. He had a heart-stopping smile, drop-dead gorgeous blue eyes, but his palm felt warm and damp when he took hold of Sam’s, and her mama had always told her to beware of sweaty palms. She tried pulling away, but before he let her go, he squeezed her fingers and smiled one of those “we’ll talk later” smiles she’d seen one too many times in Hollywood.
“It’s a pleasure to have the two of you join us,” Peter said. “Lauren has talked of nothing else all day.”
“We wouldn’t have missed tonight for the world,” Sam said, slipping her hand around Jack’s arm, looking at him with all the love she could muster.
“Mother said something similar,” Lauren said. “Of course, she followed that statement with a but and told me she’d met an English lord who’s to-die-for and they were going to spend the weekend at his country estate.” Lauren laughed softly. “Actually, I’m rather glad she’s not here. The lilies would have clashed with her gown, the champagne wouldn’t have been the right year, and my dress, well, she’d tell me I should have gotten it in Milan instead of Paris because everyone, I mean everyone, is buying in Milan this season.”
Jack laughed, the sound echoing around the room. Peter was restrained, typical of most everyone else at the party. He smiled, but the light Sam would have expected to see sparkling in the eyes of a man in love wasn’t there.
“What about Dad?” Jack asked. “He’s not going to make an appearance, is he?”
“Are you kidding? In Palm Beach? He’s worse than you, Jack. I doubt he’ll ever leave Santa Fe. If the two of you would talk more than once or twice a year, you’d know he’s got two or three girlfriends to keep happy and, in Dad’s words, that’s a full-time job.”
Sam listened to Jack and Lauren talking about family and friends, about Pastor Mike, Jack’s ranch manager and the minister who’d officiated at all of Lauren’s weddings. Finally, Jack brought up the subject of Beau. She could feel the muscles tightening in his arm when he mentioned his son, but his words weren’t strained. They were filled with a mixture of warmth, concern, and uncertainty.
Unconsciously, she found herself moving a little closer to his side, keeping her arm linked with his, and liking the feel of his fingers as they drew slow, lazy circles on the back of her hand.
And Lauren—without doing anything special—had made Sam feel like she belonged inside the big, fancy mansion. More importantly, she made her feel like she was a part of her family.
Belonging had never felt so good. Too bad it had to end.
The ballroom was crowded. Suddenly Jack knew how a mustang must feel when herded into the confines of a holding corral after spending a lifetime roaming wild and free on the plains. He never had enjoyed this life. The only thing that made him stay at the party now was the look of happiness he’d seen on Lauren’s face when he’d introduced her to his fiancée—Arabella Fleming—and the obvious delight the two women had found in each other’s company for nearly two hours.
On top of that, being there gave him the perfect opportunity to keep a watchful eye on Peter Leighton. The polo player had an innate charm. Either that, or he was as good an actor as the redheaded seamstress, who was doing a perfect job pretending to be Arabella.
She was lovely. Exquisite. The hotel beauty salon had done its job well. The circles below her eyes had been expertly camouflaged with makeup. Her red hair had been piled on top her head, but a few spiraling strands hung about her face and over her left shoulder. A trio of diamonds dripped from her ears, and a matching necklace rested just below the hollow of her throat. Her gown glistened like new-fallen snow dusted with morning sunlight, and it clung to every gentle curve.
And her smile. It was wide and infectious, and her laughter sang through the room. The nervousness he’d sensed in her while an army of workers fussed with her hair, her makeup, and her clothes had vanished. When they’d stepped out of the limousine and walked into Lauren’s mansion, he thought she would hightail it back to the car and order the driver to take her home. Instead, she’d taken a deep breath, whispered “break a leg” to herself, and gracefully floated over the threshold like she’d always belonged to high society.
She was worth every penny he’d paid her. Maybe even more.
He was about to cross the room and ask her to dance, when Peter Leighton stopped beside him, a glass of champagne in hand. “Beautiful woman, your fiancée.”
“Yours, too,” Jack said, not bothering to disguise the animosity in his voice. “Of course, I hear you’ve had a string of beautiful women in your life.”
“In the past, but that’s common knowledge in polo circles. Lauren is my life now—and forever. Too bad you can’t accept that.”
“I’m rather protective where my sister is concerned.”
“Once she’s my wife, you can stop worrying. I make a habit of protecting what belongs to me.”
Jack took a glass of champagne from a tray. Taking a sip, he watched Peter over the crystal rim. He’d had a bad day, he didn’t like Peter Leighton, and an old-fashioned fistfight, like the ones he’d gotten into as a kid, sounded good right about now. “Lauren’s not chattel,” he told his future brother-in-law. “You’ll never own her.”
Peter laughed. “You misunderstand, Jack.”
“I hope so, but let me make something clear, just so you don’t misunderstand me. Lauren’s been hurt before, and I’ll do anything in my power to keep her from being hurt again. For her sake, I’m going to make a big attempt at liking you, but if I hear even one word about you doing something to cause her the least amount of pain, I’ll break you in two.”
Jack saluted Peter with his champagne glass and walked away. His heart was beating dangerously fast, and he needed a way to let off steam. There weren’t any bulls to rope in Palm Beach. There weren’t any broncs to bust, but there was dancing, and he had a make-believe fiancée standing across the room looking like she needed to be rescued.
Sam laughed at the worst joke she’d heard all evening, then put her hand to her lips and stifled a yawn. Pretending to be rich, worldly, and part of the crowd was exhausting work. Lauren, however, made it look easy and fun. Sam assumed that was because she didn’t pretend to be something she wasn’t. Lauren was the most genuine person she’d ever met.
“Jack’s coming,” Lauren whispered, leaning close as if they were schoolgirls checking out the boys.
Sam turned, suddenly feeling wide-awake and happy to be at the ball. It wasn’t hard to find Jack Remington in the crowd. He stood two or three inches taller than most of the other men and looked all-powerful, maybe even invincible. His jaw was set, his eyes heated, and he cut a path through the guests as he headed straight toward her.
“You’ve had my fiancée to yourself all evening,” he said, flashing his sister a slightly off-kilter grin. “I want her now.”
Lauren was genuine, Jack was…Well, Jack was Jack. Straightforward and no-nonsense. Nice qualities in a man, she decided.
Jack took her hand and led her from the ballroom to the terrace, where the air was warm, the humidity high. “Dance with me,” he said, sliding one hand around her until it rested at the small of her back. He drew her tight against his chest, his hips, his thighs. She felt a little like clay, being molded to fit his need. Oddly enough, she liked the feeling.
The music wove through the windows and doors and surrounded them as they moved slow and easy.
“You’re doing a good job,” he said, his lips close to her ear, his cheek brushing against hers.
“I’ve had to wing it a few times. By the way, what’s an Andalusian?”
“A horse. Mostly for show. Why?”
“You didn’t tell me Arabella’s father breeds them. If I’d known, I might have commented on their silky coats or how much fun they are to ride.”
He angled his head to look at her. There was a grin on his face as if he thought the predicament had been funny. “I imagine you carried your end of the conversation without a hitch.”
“I told them my father also raised rattlesnakes and sold their venom.”
Jack’s grin widened.
“I didn’t have a clue what an Andalusian was, but I figured it wasn’t a rattlesnake, and I was bound and determined to change the subject.”
“Do you know anything about rattlesnakes?”
“Enough. They give you a little advance warning that danger’s coming and then they strike. You know what, Jack?”
“What?”
“With the exception of your sister and a few others, I feel like I’ve been slithering around with a bunch of rattlesnakes all night, and the one with the biggest rattle is your future brother-in-law.”
“I take it spying on him hasn’t been all that difficult?”
“I despised him right from the start.”
“You danced with him, though. I watched you.”
“I promised you I’d bat my eyelashes, and I did. You know what it got me?”
“What?”
“His hands on my butt when we were dancing. He also did some very slow maneuvering toward a palm tree and a dark corner of the room.”
She felt Jack’s fingers tighten around hers, saw the tensing of his jaw. “What did you do?”
“Told him I have a doctor friend who specializes in turning Australian playboys into eunuchs.”
Jack laughed. “I told him I’d break him in two if he hurt Lauren.”
“You could do it, too,” she said, casually running one hand over the muscles in his arms, like a real fiancée would do with the man she loved. “Unfortunately, I think threats roll right off Peter’s back. I don’t like him. I don’t like worrying that he’s going to hurt Lauren by doing something no one would ever expect.”
“Why do you care what happens to her?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She put her cheek next to his, enjoying the closeness. “She’s different from what I imagined. All the things I’ve read about her being wild, about going to nude beaches with married men, about…well, you know, the tabloids say things that aren’t very flattering. But she’s not like that at all.”
“Do you believe everything you read?”
“I read that you’re worth close to a billion dollars. I could easily believe that.”
“Believe it if you want. I don’t make a habit of divulging my financial status to the tabloids or anyone else. I keep my private life secret, too. Lauren, on the other hand, hangs around with people who like having their names in the news. She can’t control what they say about her, and she’s given up caring. The only thing that’s important is what her family believes about her.”
“Want to know what I think?”
He nodded, his lips accidentally brushing over her cheek, an action that meant nothing, but made her toes tingle all the same.
She took a breath and attempted to swallow the anxious lump in her throat. “I think she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.” Her heart fluttered as his lips trailed along her jaw, hesitating at her scar. He kissed the raised stretch of skin, and she nearly forgot what she’d wanted to say.
Don’t pay attention to what he’s doing, she told herself. It’s all an act. A charade. “You know, Jack,” she whispered, “if I was really your fiancée, I’d consider myself extremely fortunate to have Lauren as a sister-in-law.”
He didn’t respond, not in real words, but she heard some kind of muffled agreement vibrating against her neck, as his fingers moved along her spine, sliding over skin that the low-cut gown didn’t cover. What she was wearing was far more daring than anything she ever would have picked, but right now, she liked the idea that she could feel the warmth of his hand on the small of her back, pulling her closer to his chest, so close she could feel the rhythm of his heart beating against hers. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so right in someone’s arms.
She slid a hand across his shoulder, around his neck, and found herself playing with the ends of his hair. She inhaled the musky scent of his aftershave, surprised by the quiver that raced through her insides. She pressed her lips against the warmth of his neck, and heard him draw in a long, deep breath.
What on earth are you doing? she asked herself. This is pretend, nothing more.
Slowly, she drew her fingers away, resting them once more on his shoulder, the safest, sanest place to touch. She inched away, but he pulled her back.
“The music’s slow and easy,” he whispered, his breath soft against her ear. “And lovers are supposed to dance so close that a casual observer might think their bodies were fused together.”
She swallowed, trying to retain some measure of sanity and confidence. “We’re not lovers.”
“Maybe not, but I’m thoroughly enjoying the masquerade.”
Whispered words and warm breath turned to heated lips against her ear, moving ever so slowly along her jaw, to the corner of her mouth.
She was in trouble now, and she didn’t care at all.
She closed her eyes and found herself opening up to him as he kissed her, holding her tight as he swayed with the sultry music.
How long they kissed was anyone’s guess. She was too dizzy to keep track. They might have danced through one song. Maybe two, but the music had been little more than a blur. All she’d concentrated on was the fire in his kiss, the passion, the way his hand cradled her neck as his fingers teased the wisps of hair that had escaped the hairdresser’s fancy coif, and the heat in his eyes when she’d braved a glimpse to see if he kissed with his eyes opened or closed.
They were definitely open, and they were gazing steadily at her face. He smiled, then whirled her around the room.
Pretending to be in love had never felt so right and so wrong at the same time. She’d been mad to go through with this charade. Foolish.
He did some kind of fancy dip, holding her tight as he bent over her, then pulled her back. Her breasts grazed over the silky tux, brushed the pearl buttons on his shirt, and desire like she’d never known in her entire life rippled through her insides.
Try as she might, she couldn’t control the feelings. She didn’t want to feel anything in his arms. Didn’t want his kisses to turn her to mush. Didn’t want to suffer when the night was over.
“Stop,” she pleaded, backing away from his lips, from the touch of his beating heart.
He looked down at her, his eyes dark with hunger. “Don’t pull away, Ara—” His hand pressed at her back, pulling her close again, and she found herself powerless in his arms. “I can’t call you that. Not anymore. You don’t look like Arabella, you don’t act like her or feel like her.” He swirled her around, across the terrace, to a place far away from anyone else.
They were behind a tall potted palm, and he backed her against a wall. The stone was cold against her skin, but the fingers he was tracing over her cheek were on fire. “Who are you?” he asked, his words slow, deep.
“An actress.”
“Why all the mystery? You know my name. I want to know yours.”
She swallowed the crazy knot of desire that had crept into her throat, and pretended his kiss, his eyes, his touch had no effect on her. She couldn’t let him know that he’d stirred feelings in her. This was all an act, nothing more. If he called her by name, it would seem all too real—and she’d hurt even more when it was over. “There’s no mystery, Jack. I can bluff my way through most situations, including calling someone by the wrong name. You, on the other hand, don’t have a poker face. If you knew my real name, you might spill it in front of your sister and blow everything.”
He kissed her cheekbones, gazing deep into her eyes. “Then I’ll call you Whiskey.”
“Whiskey?”
“Some men might call you Red, or Curly,” he said, wrapping a spiraling strand of her hair around his finger. “Personally, I like your eyes, especially now, when they’re warm and glowing. You’ve got eyes that could intoxicate a man.”
“You aren’t trying to butter me up so I’ll help you out with some other foolish scheme, are you?”
“I’m not thinking about much of anything, except what’s going on right now between you and me.”
“There’s nothing going on.”
Again he kissed the corner of her mouth, and with every ounce of willpower she had, she fought the urge to give in to him.
“Jack, this isn’t right.”
“It might not be right, but it feels damn good.”
“Stop, Jack. Please.”
The moment she said stop, he drew back, and sighed. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t pretend you care for me when it’s only a farce. Don’t—”
Sam’s protest came to a skidding halt when a familiar man slipped into view.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Jack spun around, and Sam thought for sure her heart had skipped a beat when she recognized Chip Chasen standing behind Jack in a tux she’d altered for him earlier in the week. “Good evening, Jack,” he said. “Good evening, Arabella. You’re the talk of the party, and I’ve been anxious to meet you.”
Forcing a smile, Sam held out her hand and Chip, one of Mr. Antonio’s worst tippers, kissed her knuckles. He studied her with a frown on his face as if trying to remember where he’d seen her before.
“Arabella,” Jack said, “I’d like you to meet Chip Chasen.”
“I believe we’ve met somewhere else,” Chip said.
“I don’t think so,” Sam tossed back, maybe a little too fast.
“She’s firmly entrenched in Denver society, Chip,” Jack said, coming to her rescue. “You’re Cape Cod and Palm Beach.”
“I’ve been to Denver a time or two. Do you know—”
“It’s a big city,” Jack interrupted firmly, then changed the subject. “What are you doing at Lauren’s party? I didn’t think the two of you were on speaking terms.”
Chip took a swallow of his drink. “We made up years ago. I loved her once, she loved me, and even though she took me for half of what I’m worth, divorce didn’t wipe out all the old feelings.”
“You and Lauren were married?” Sam asked.
“For six not-so-blissful months. I might as well tell you the honest truth, before Jack puts his own spin on things. I liked to bet on the horses. In fact, I preferred horses to marriage—then, and now. Statistics-wise, I’m husband number one. Number two was killed in a boating accident a week after their divorce, and”—he leaned close to Sam, and she could smell the whiskey on his breath—“from the gossip I’ve heard tonight, number three might die at the hands of Jack Remington, even before the wedding takes place. Lauren’s hell on husbands.”
He was drunk. His words were slurred, his eyes red, and the face Sam had once thought was semihandsome now looked tired and old.
Chip continued to stare at her, and then his eyes widened. “I’ve got it. You look like the woman who altered a suit for me this week. Odd coincidence, isn’t it? Of course, you couldn’t be her, could you?”
“I could,” Sam said with a confident smile, “if I was a good enough actress.” She felt Jack’s fingers tighten around her arm, and she quickly gave him a wink.
Chip took a drink of whiskey. “You’d have to be one hell of an actress, because those people from West Palm Beach just don’t fit in here.”
“Those people?” she asked. “Who exactly are those people?”
“I assume you have them in Denver, too. Poor people, illiterate people, ones without much education.”
“Oh, you mean the ones who cook your food, clean your house, wash your clothes and tailor them, too, because you’ve never learned the simple, basic skills of taking care of yourself?”
Chip laughed. “Sounds like you have an affinity for those people.”
“I’ve known a few of those people in my life. Strip away the money you were fortunate enough to be born with and your pompous arrogance, and you could fit in quite nicely. No, I take that back. You’d still be a wimp unable to take care of himself, which means you wouldn’t last more than a week or two on the other side of the bridge. You’d be pulp, Mr. Chasen. Dog meat. Now, if you don’t mind,” she said, clutching the skirt of her gown so she could make a hasty retreat, “I need some fresh air, and I’m not going to find it here.”
She rushed down the marble steps and across the lawn toward the beach. Tears spilled from her eyes, and for once she didn’t try to hold them back. She was one of those people, and she always would be. Going to the ball for one night didn’t change anything. She could scratch and claw her way out of the hole her life had been since the time of her birth, but she’d always be one of those people. Tonight, after getting an up-close glimpse of how crude and obnoxious some rich people could be, she finally realized that being one of those people was okay.
“Wait.” Jack’s voice hit her from behind, but she didn’t stop until his hand wrapped around her arm.
“Where are you going?”
“Home. Back where I belong.”
“You belong here. With me.”
She jerked around. “Why, because you paid me to be here? If that’s the reason, you can keep your money.”
He shook his head, and smiled when he took hold of her hands. “No, because I don’t know what you’re going to say or do next. Because you’re not a stereotype or a hanger-on. And, to be quite honest, because you make me feel good.”
“Well, maybe I make you feel good, but you don’t make me feel anything but anger. You didn’t even stick up for me back there.”
“You were doing fine on your own. It’s not every day someone puts Chip Chasen in his place.” He wiped away one of her tears with his thumb. “You know what, Whiskey?”
“What?”
“It was a sheer pleasure watching you at work. Seems to me those Hollywood people underestimated your talent.”
“I wasn’t acting. That was me, the real me, impulsive and quick-tempered. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”
“I’d be disappointed if you were.” He touched her cheek, and for the first time she noticed his fingers weren’t soft and smooth, but callused, used to hard work. “Come on back,” he urged.
She shook her head. “It’s been a long day, and Chip’s right. People like me don’t belong here. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather go home.”
“Then I’ll take you.”
She started to say no, but he put a finger to her lips and silenced her.
“Do me a favor, Whiskey. Just this once, don’t argue with me.”