leaned back in the booth, his eyes widening. "Up to something? Why on earth would you think that?" She quirked an eyebrow, and was rewarded with his chuckle. "Fair enough. I'll grant that you've got a few good reasons."
He took her hand, and she glanced down at their casually intertwined fingers. The touch lacked the earlier erotic caress, but the contact affected her all the same. She took a shaky breath and looked back up into his eyes.
"Really, Paris ," he continued, the sparkle in his eyes matching the smile on his mouth. "I'd like to know. Why was I necessary?"
I? He spoke as if he really was Montgomery Alexander. Paris couldn't shake the feeling that she was having a drink with a man she had known for years, not just hours. A man she'd dreamed about forever.
Of course he wasn't Alexander, and for a second she thought she should argue with him, pursue uncovering whatever he was up to, at least for the sake of appearances. But the desire to share her secret with this enigmatic, fascinating man overwhelmed her. And that confused her even more than the fire that consumed her every time he looked her way.
"There were lots of reasons," she said, pulling her hand away and focusing on her words. She started to tick them off on her fingers. "I've always wanted to be a writer, but my dad never took my writing seriously. I love him to death, but it's no secret that a lot rides on the family name. He's a federal judge in Houston , the fifth in a long line of judges, with various other relatives owning companies, performing heart surgery, politicking."
Paris heard his slight cough as she switched hands to offer more reasons. This talking was good. It proved his proximity hadn't killed her ability to form a coherent sentence.
"Does your mom know?"
"She died when I was three. I think that fueled Daddy's zest for watching out for his little girl. And mine for not wanting to disappoint him." She shrugged. "That's why I went to law school—Daddy wanted me to. But I came here for school, to
New York
I mean, and I wrote whenever I wasn't studying. About the time I graduated, I sold a story to Desperado, the men's magazine."
"Let me guess. You published under a pseudonym, figuring your dad wouldn't find out. Desperado also publishes pulp paperbacks, and they wanted one from you. And then another, and it snowballed."
"You're good. If you're wondering, the story ends with the good daughter telling Daddy that she's opening her own law firm. She moves back to
Texas
, but settles in Austin . She figured that was near enough to Houston to keep Daddy happy, but far enough for a little distance. And, surprise, surprise, she soon lands a major client, up-and-coming author Montgomery Alexander. Eventually, she becomes his manager. Daddy's proud, because she's doing well, but he's a little bit miffed that she spends so much time promoting the author of 'those kinds' of books."
Paris took a long sip of the drink before continuing. "So I've got myself stuck. I don't want to tell him because of his reaction to the books themselves, and I can't tell him now because it's ballooned so much."
"Does it bother you?"
Paris studied the pattern in her cocktail napkin, only half noticing that it required significant effort to see only one, not four, designs. "Daddy not knowing?"
"Nobody knowing."
"Some people know," Paris replied, feeling like a schoolgirl trying to argue her way out of a failing grade in a subject she'd never studied.
"Who?"
"Well, Rachel. And now you."
"Oh, yeah, lots of people know." She heard the sarcasm.
"I didn't say lots. I said some people. You're 'some people.'" Two, actually. Montgomery Alexander and Mystery
Man.
His dimple appeared. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
She smiled at him, then sighed. "It doesn't matter anyway, because I won't be writing these books forever. I'm working on an epic novel. Very literary. Very Oprah."
"Does Brandon know?"
"That I'm writing a literary novel?"
"That you write these
He took her hand, and she glanced down at their casually intertwined fingers. The touch lacked the earlier erotic caress, but the contact affected her all the same. She took a shaky breath and looked back up into his eyes.
"Really, Paris ," he continued, the sparkle in his eyes matching the smile on his mouth. "I'd like to know. Why was I necessary?"
I? He spoke as if he really was Montgomery Alexander. Paris couldn't shake the feeling that she was having a drink with a man she had known for years, not just hours. A man she'd dreamed about forever.
Of course he wasn't Alexander, and for a second she thought she should argue with him, pursue uncovering whatever he was up to, at least for the sake of appearances. But the desire to share her secret with this enigmatic, fascinating man overwhelmed her. And that confused her even more than the fire that consumed her every time he looked her way.
"There were lots of reasons," she said, pulling her hand away and focusing on her words. She started to tick them off on her fingers. "I've always wanted to be a writer, but my dad never took my writing seriously. I love him to death, but it's no secret that a lot rides on the family name. He's a federal judge in Houston , the fifth in a long line of judges, with various other relatives owning companies, performing heart surgery, politicking."
Paris heard his slight cough as she switched hands to offer more reasons. This talking was good. It proved his proximity hadn't killed her ability to form a coherent sentence.
"Does your mom know?"
"She died when I was three. I think that fueled Daddy's zest for watching out for his little girl. And mine for not wanting to disappoint him." She shrugged. "That's why I went to law school—Daddy wanted me to. But I came here for school, to
New York
I mean, and I wrote whenever I wasn't studying. About the time I graduated, I sold a story to Desperado, the men's magazine."
"Let me guess. You published under a pseudonym, figuring your dad wouldn't find out. Desperado also publishes pulp paperbacks, and they wanted one from you. And then another, and it snowballed."
"You're good. If you're wondering, the story ends with the good daughter telling Daddy that she's opening her own law firm. She moves back to
Texas
, but settles in Austin . She figured that was near enough to Houston to keep Daddy happy, but far enough for a little distance. And, surprise, surprise, she soon lands a major client, up-and-coming author Montgomery Alexander. Eventually, she becomes his manager. Daddy's proud, because she's doing well, but he's a little bit miffed that she spends so much time promoting the author of 'those kinds' of books."
Paris took a long sip of the drink before continuing. "So I've got myself stuck. I don't want to tell him because of his reaction to the books themselves, and I can't tell him now because it's ballooned so much."
"Does it bother you?"
Paris studied the pattern in her cocktail napkin, only half noticing that it required significant effort to see only one, not four, designs. "Daddy not knowing?"
"Nobody knowing."
"Some people know," Paris replied, feeling like a schoolgirl trying to argue her way out of a failing grade in a subject she'd never studied.
"Who?"
"Well, Rachel. And now you."
"Oh, yeah, lots of people know." She heard the sarcasm.
"I didn't say lots. I said some people. You're 'some people.'" Two, actually. Montgomery Alexander and Mystery
Man.
His dimple appeared. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."
She smiled at him, then sighed. "It doesn't matter anyway, because I won't be writing these books forever. I'm working on an epic novel. Very literary. Very Oprah."
"Does Brandon know?"
"That I'm writing a literary novel?"
"That you write these
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