Nobody Does It Better by Julie Kenner

From the Publisher

For author Paris Sommers, truth has become stranger than fiction. She's fallen in love with a man who exists only in her mind--a man she invented as a pseudonym for the fast-paced, testosterone-laden spy novels she writes. Now the man of her dreams is standing beside her, touching her, loving her... But who is he?

Bar owner Devin O'Malley wanted Paris the first moment he saw her. And he was willing to do just about anything to get her--including becoming novelist Montgomery Alexander, but his deception worked too well. Before long, he'd stolen his way into Paris's bed and into her heart. Was she in love with Devin--or the fantasy he portrayed?

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"Rachel!" Paris Sommers choked on her wine and scrunched lower into the booth. She would have preferred a quiet slide into oblivion, but since that wasn't possible, poor posture would have to suffice.

"I'm serious," Rachel continued. "All we need to do is find you an able-bodied male. You use him for one night. Bingo. Problem solved. Just pick one, already."

Paris scanned the dimly lit Irish pub nestled in the heart of Manhattan. Thankfully, most of the patrons seemed uninterested, studying their pints instead. Some looked up, but then laconically turned away. Only a nearby waiter seemed even the slightest bit intrigued, and Paris caught his eye before he turned back to gathering dirty glasses from an adjacent table.

Pulling herself up, Paris leaned over the polished tabletop until she was nose to nose with Rachel. "Let's lay off the men talk, okay?" She cast a meaningful glance toward the waiter. "People might misunderstand."

"Afraid he'll think you're looking to get laid?"

"Stop it," hissed Paris, knowing he must have overheard. Sure enough, his head tilted just a little so he could watch them. Despite the shadows, Paris swore she saw the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he moved away to wipe down another table.

The muted lighting prevented her from getting a good look at him, but what she could see, she liked. Strong features, a nice smile and just a hint of charisma. Well, that figured. A gorgeous guy looks her way and she's having a ridiculous conversation about getting laid.

She frowned. Rachel Dean might have been her best friend since kindergarten, and her literary agent forthe past six years, but she could still be a royal pain.

"Come on, Paris. Half your characters parade around in tiny bikinis on the arms of virile government agents. You'd think I could say "laid' without you blushing."

"That's why they call it fiction."

"Yet another reason you really do need a man."

"Unlike some people, I have standards."

Rachel pointed to herself and raised her eyebrows.

"Moi? I have standards. Male. That's a standard."

Paris rolled her eyes. Rachel might not be a saint, but she was still a far cry from the sophisticated, experienced vixen she tried so hard to appear to be. "Maybe so, but the mere existence of a Y-chromosome doesn't do it for me." She wanted more. A lot more.

"No. You want Alexander. What would you do if he walked through that door? You'd jump him and have your wicked way with him right in front of us law-abiding bar patrons."

Paris felt the telltale warmth of a blush creep up the back of her neck. Rachel knew her far too well.

"Au contraire, my friend," she said, trying to cover. "I'm much too refined." She pushed her hair out of her eyes and smiled sweetly. "The floor's way too hard."

Rachel downed the last of her beer. "Got news for you, kiddo. It ain't gonna happen. And meantime, your diaphragm's collecting cobwebs."

"Of course it's not happening, because I am not waiting for Alexander," Paris insisted, adding a little extra emphasis, more for herself than for Rachel. Hadn't she told herself over and over to let go of the fantasy that someone as delicious as Alexander would suddenly sweep her off her feet?

Trouble was, Alexander was a rare breed, a hard man to give up. Sophisticated, yet witty. Cold as steel to his enemies. Hot as molten lava with his lover. Fiercely loyal, utterly sexy. A man with the poise of a prince and the coolness of an assassin, Alexander could melt a woman's heart with a well-placed look.

Paris closed her eyes and sighed. No matter how much she wanted him next to her, Alexander was not going to miraculously appear. Not in person. Not in the flesh.

Hadn't she dated enough men to know that?

She took another sip of wine, then studied the deep red liquid. It was just as well, really. She knew exactly what she wanted out of life, had it all mapped out, in fact. Alexander was too suave, too cool, too dangerous to be part of the respectable suburban life she'd get around to eventually.

She twirled the stem of her wineglass between her fingers. True, there was a part of her"a tiny but persistent part"that prodded her to cut loose, to take a walk on the wild side. To get out there and squeeze the Charmin at least once.

She'd struggled hard to keep that part under control, and she didn't intend to blow it. A man like Alexander would throw a real kink into her carefully thought out plans. So it was for the best that he'd never appeared on her doorstep.

At least, that's what she kept telling herself.

Rachel leaned back in the booth and snorted. "Well, if you're not waiting for an Alexander to sweep you off your feet, then what the devil are you waiting for?"

"Nothing. I date. I date nice men, the right kind of men." Men who did absolutely nothing for her. No heart pounding. No toes curling. No…anything.

"The kind Daddy would approve of? Let me give you a clue, my friend. You date boring men. And you don't even do that very often. Actually, considering the men I've seen you go out with, it's just as well your diaphragm's a little dusty."

She glared at Rachel. "For your information, I don't even own one."

"Maybe you should. You need a little adventure in your life."

Paris wasn't about to confess that she'd been thinking almost that very thing. "I have adventure. I'm practically drowning in adventure." What she really wanted was passion. Just one taste of the stomach-churning, kneeswobbling, lose-all-control kind of passion she imagined with Alexander. One moment of reality to fuel her imagination and tide her over for the rest of her life.

"You've got adventure, sure. But it's in your head. I'm talking reality."

"You're talking nonsense," Paris said, more harshly than she intended. "Could we get back on track? I didn't force myself onto a plane, leave my goldfish with a neighbor, and come all the way from Texas for Introduction to Dating 101." She took the last gulp of wine and leaned back, then saw the cute waiter out of the corner of her eye, staring right at her. And soaking up every word.

Great. Just great. When his smirk transformed into a fullblown smile, the heat in her cheeks rose in proportion to his expanding grin. Her stomach lurched as mortification swept over her. Half of her wanted to ask him out just to show Rachel up. Her more practical half wanted to scold him for eavesdropping on a rather embarrassing conversation.

She chose a middle ground. "Could you bring us some water?"

"Sure thing." His deep voice held just enough of a New York accent to add flair without stealing attention from the rest of him. As he leaned over to clear their empty glasses, Paris inhaled his cinnamon-musk scent, a nice contrast to the smell of beer and tobacco that wafted through the pub. The dark stubble on his face contrasted with honey-colored waves to give him a wild, bohemian quality. His hair was the kind a woman's fingers, and her kisses, could get lost in.

His profile danced on the edge of her memory, just inches out of reach. Why did he seem so familiar? She knew she'd never seen him before, yet his appearance called to her. His features were angular, with high cheekbones and a well-defined jawline. The tip of his nose bent just a little, as if broken in a reckless youth.

He moved away, weaving his way through the tables. Then it hit her"that chiseled face, the sensual mouth, his bad-boy-playing-at-respectable air. Could it really be?

"Waiter!" she called, desperate for another look. When he turned and stepped into the light, Paris quelled a gasp. She'd been right. In her mind, she could picture every line, every angle, every contour of Alexander's face. Except for the dark blond hair, this waiter could be Alexander's twin.

"Miss?"

With a start, she realized she'd been staring, her mouth hanging open like an idiot. At least she'd refrained from drooling.

She grappled for something to say, then noticed the empty bowl that had earlier held cashews. "Um…could we also get something to nibble on?"

Her cute waiter nodded. "No problem."

Devin O'malley tried to get a grip on himself. He rarely noticed women. For years he'd been too immersed in his business to bother. Of course, that didn't stop the women from noticing him, and if they made the first move, Devin had no qualms about reciprocating. He'd entertained plenty like the brunette named Rachel, in and out of his bed, usually converting their casual talk about sex into low-pitched moans and desperate pleas once the lights went out.

Yet he'd never once experienced such a tug of pleasure just from watching a woman like the petite blonde with the deep brown eyes. And it had been ages since he'd puzzled over how to ask a perfect stranger out on a date.

But he was wondering about how to ask this one. Paris. The name seemed to fit, even though she lacked the exotic appearance he'd expect to accompany that name. She wasn't a classic beauty. Each of her features, standing alone, boasted some flaw. Brown doe-eyes spaced a little too far apart, untamed eyebrows a shade darker than her neatly pinned golden curls, a nose that was just a little crooked, a too-small mouth that didn't do justice to the perfectly shaped, full lips.

Empirically, her features were flawed. As a whole, her face was striking. It had certainly struck Devin. She was every fantasy he'd ever had rolled into one woman. And then some.

Her friend said she needed a man. Well, he intended to apply for the job.

"Pass me some nuts, would you, Jerry?" Devin asked as he slipped behind the mahogany and brass bar.

"We're out. Want me to run to the back?"

"I'll do it," he said, actually grateful no one had bothered to stock the bar. He needed a few minutes to get his head in order. To plan his attack.

A large room with high ceilings and bare walls, the stockroom was a hodgepodge of electronic gadgetry and miscellaneous supplies. Devin found the cashews under a stack of misprinted menus and grabbed a box.

"Larry? Federal prosecutor Larry? He doesn't have any magnetism. No one will buy that he's Alexander." Devin almost dropped his bundle. That smooth voice belonged to her.

"Well, I'll be," he mumbled. He'd forgotten that the room shared a thin wall with booth twelve.

"He's perfectly fine," Rachel replied.

"People have an image of Montgomery Alexander. Not just anyone can step into his shoes."

Whoever this Alexander guy was, Paris sure seemed taken with him. The lucky bastard.

Devin took a deep breath. What the hell was he doing, eavesdropping on a woman he didn't know and envying a man he'd never met? "Dev, you're a basket case," he muttered.

"You can say that again."

Jerry's whisper carried, and Devin spun around, a finger to his lips.

"Don't worry," Jerry assured. "The sound only comes in. Don't ask me why. I just."

Devin held up his hand. The women were talking again. "So you're okay with the idea?" Rachel asked. "All we have to do is find the right guy?"

"No, I'm not okay with it." That was Paris. He pictured her with slightly raised eyebrows, like a woman scolding a small child. "Even if he looked perfect, how can we be sure this guy would keep the secret? Besides, it's not right. It'd be like we were scamming everyone."

"Scamming? Honey, what do you think we're doing now?"

"Nothing," Paris insisted. "Montgomery L. Alexander is just a pen name. My pen name."

"Well, I'll be damned," whispered Jerry. "Who woulda thought Montgomery Alexander was a broad?"

The knot in Devin's stomach loosened and his heart picked up its tempo. He caught himself smiling and almost laughed out loud. There was no Alexander. It was just a pseudonym.

His reaction bordered on absurd, and he knew it. She didn't know him from Adam. Just because there was no Alexander didn't mean she was going to rush into Devin's arms and smother him with kisses. So what difference did it make if this Alexander guy was out of the picture? None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

Didn't matter. The logic center of his brain must have taken a vacation and left the lust department in control. All he could think was thatAlexander's untimely demise left one less person in the world to compete with for her attention.

Now he just had to figure out how to get her attention. "Okay," Rachel finally said, and Devin imagined her leaning back into the worn red leather booth, gathering steam for her next attack on Paris's logic. "But there's a drawing of Alexander on the back of your latest book. There've been articles, and web-pages, and on-line interviews. There are even women who swear they've slept with the man. You didn't expect that, and neither did I. But that's what we're dealing with now."

"I should just "fess up and tell the truth at the party." Paris said, sounding as if she'd prefer to have a root canal.

"And ruin everything? Hardback book deal. Remember? Money, publicity, the whole nine yards. Remember? You know Cobalt Blue's only going to make an offer if Alexander comes through at the party tomorrow."

"I know. I know. Besides, I'm just babbling. You know I can't tell the truth. Not now. I'm in too deep."

"So, let's go out and find us an Alexander." There was a pause. "What? Oh, no. You're not going to say what I think you're going to say."

"But it's true," Paris insisted. "Not just anyone can be Alexander. He's special. He's unique."

"Hello? Anybody home? He's made up. Or are you going mental on me?"

Paris laughed. "Haven't I always been?" "Well, I'll give you that."

Devin heard shuffling. "But what about the party?" Rachel asked. "We need time to find the right guy."

"Maybe we could say he missed his plane from London." Although her voice was muffled, Devin could just make out what Paris said. "As his personal manager, I guess little ol' me will just have to break the bad news."

Her voice barely penetrated the wall, and Devin realized they were leaving. The urge to see her again overwhelmed him, and he was on his feet and out the door before the echo faded. He burst into the dining area just as the front door swung shut.

"Damn, damn, damn," he spewed, startling an old man munching pretzels at the bar. Without stopping to consider, he sprinted for the door, opened it and stepped into the heavy August heat. Paris stood across the street, about to slip into a taxi.

For a moment, she seemed to look right at him. Without thinking, he took a step toward her. Her mouth twitched in what could have been a smile, then she ducked in, slammed the door and was gone.