He thought he knew her About the Author Praise Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN Copyright

He thought he knew her

Yet he hadn’t considered that she had a ripe figure under those boxy suits she’d always worn. Hadn’t guessed her laughter was so husky and stimulating, or that her smile could do things to...

A tightening in his gut caused his grin to fade. He gripped the metal rail. Peabody was not a woman to him. She was more than that. Women were replaceable. Peabody was essential She had a good, sharp mind and ran his office like a top sergeant.

“I will not mess up a perfect working relationship simply because her laugh.”

He turned around and propped a hip against the railing. The bed snagged his gaze He eyed the thing, concerned He’d had every intention of platonically sharing that puny mattress with Peabody The idea of anything physical going on between them had no more entered his head than if he’d planned to sleep beside his briefcase.

Until now.

Renee Roszel has been writing romance novels since 1983 and simply loves her job. She likes to keep her stories humorous and light, with her heroes gorgeous, sexy and larger than life. She says, “Why not spend your days and nights with the very best!” Luckily for Renee, her husband is gorgeous and sexy, too!

Praise for Renee Roszel.

“Renee Roszel creates wonderful characters who will walk off the page and into your heart.”

—Romantic Times

“She is delightful, eloquent and humorous all in one.”

—Rendezvous

The One-Week Marriage
Renee Roszel

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my aunts

Eva and Anna May,

women of humor and quiet strength

CHAPTER ONE

“MR. PARISH, you really must choose a wife, today.” Izzy Peabody dropped a leather-bound catalog on her boss’s desk. It landed on the polished walnut with a sharp crack. She wasn’t happy about his plan and she didn’t care if he knew it. After all, she was quitting, wasn’t she? Hadn’t she been carrying her resignation letter around in her purse for a month? All she had to do was work up her courage to hand it to him.

“What did you say, Peabody?” Gabriel Parish shouted from the private bathroom in his Manhattan office. He stuck his head out the door and Izzy sucked in an appreciative breath. It didn’t seem to matter how many times she’d seen him in exactly that pose—half shaved and shirtless, his upper torso and broad shoulders displaying delectable muscle—the sight always shook her to her core. Without fear of contradiction, Izzy knew that within the six-foot-three-inch hunk that was Gabriel Parish, any woman would find her fantasy man.

Black tousled hair fell across his forehead as his emerald gaze shifted to fix on her, full of professional curiosity and nothing more. It was agonizing for Izzy to be continually reminded that Mr. Parish didn’t think of her as anything but his faithful right arm—his “Peabody”—not a living, breathing woman who had foolishly fallen in love with her boss.

“I said, you really must take a minute to pick your wife,” she called, grateful she sounded composed.

“My what?” Those breathtaking eyes widened a fraction. She might have smiled at his dubious reaction, if it didn’t make her so miserable. Mr. Parish actually picking out a wife was a ludicrous notion. He had no desire to marry. And why should he, with a continual flow of gorgeous women simpering and wiggling through his life?

Trying to keep on track, she hefted the black catalog. “For the Yum-Yum account. Remember?”

From his quick, disgruntled frown, it was clear that he did. “Oh, right.” Disappearing into his bathroom, he shouted, “In a minute.”

She turned to go.

“Peabody, I forgot a shirt. Would you bring me a fresh one?”

She halted, wincing. That’s all she needed. To be forced into close proximity with the man’s chest. “Right away, Mr. Parish,” she said thinly, pivoting toward the quarters he used for his home away from home. When business—or social—engagements went too late for him to return to his Long Island estate, he slept in his office apartment.

Evidently last night had been one of those late nights. Entering the expensively appointed bedroom, she couldn’t help but notice that his bed was rumpled. She tried not to visualize possible reasons he stayed here last night—or arrived very early—since she knew he hadn’t been entertaining advertising clients. Besides, she reminded herself sternly, it’s none of your business what Mr. Parish does after hours!

Grabbing a fresh shirt from the dresser, she returned through his office to the bathroom. The door stood ajar, but she knocked, hoping not to have to face him until he was fully clothed. “I have the shirt.”

“Well, bring it in.”

She eyed heaven. What had she done to deserve this? “Yes, sir.”

He patted his face dry with a thick, white towel. Izzy inhaled and was struck broadside with his scent, so stirringly male. She swallowed hard, making herself breathe in shallow sniffs to keep his essence out of her head.

The bathroom was large with white marble on walls, countertops, even the floor. Golden faucets, handles and towel racks gleamed as only real gold could.

On the wall above the sink, a large mirror reflected her and her boss in unrelenting brightness. Unfortunately his image was not compromised in the slightest by light that should have exposed every flaw. The stark brilliance emphasized the firm sensuality of his mouth, the glossy blackness of his hair, those devilishly thick lashes and the gemlike quality of his green eyes. Her glance trailed down. When she discovered where her wanderings had taken her, she focused on his chin, warning herself not to stare at his chest. Her heart could only stand so much.

He flung the towel over a nearby rack, the act setting off a bothersome play of muscle in shoulder and arm. He grasped the shirt she held. She hardly noticed until he gave it a little jerk. “Peabody?” he asked. “Are you with me?”

She blinked and let go. “Why don’t you bring in that catalog? We can go over the candidates now and get it done before my eight o’clock meeting with Baxter Sports Equipment.”

Izzy nodded, her glance fastened on the golden faucet for safety’s sake. “Yes, sir,” she murmured, turning away. She had no more desire to idle in the bathroom with Mr. Parish than she did to watch him nuzzle the neck of some svelte socialite. With a sudden thought, she faced him. “Unless you’d rather do it at lunch when you have more time to—”

“No,” he cut in. “Let’s get my wife firmed up.”

As she headed for his desk she almost smiled at the irony. “I don’t imagine any wife you’d choose would need much firming up,” she mumbled, grabbing the Celestial Companion and Chaperon catalog, containing employee photographs and vital statistics.

Celestial was a highly regarded New York firm, providing purely respectable escorts. Even so, the idea of her employer hiring somebody to pretend to be his wife—for a trip to a private, tropical island—didn’t sound all that pure or respectable. Where Mr. Parish was concerned, not many women who spent time in his company seemed concerned about keeping a relationship with him particularly pure or respectable.

She winced at the visions that barged into her mind. “I have to quit this job!” she muttered.

Upon reentering the bathroom, she was only slightly relieved to see that he’d slid on the shirt. It wasn’t buttoned. With a curt nod, he indicated the marble counter. “Lay it there so I can look while I finish dressing.”

She did so, her jaws clamped tight. Keep your eyes on the pictures, she admonished silently, but her wayward gaze drifted to his reflection—and his chest.

“Nothing interesting there. Turn the page.”

She jumped and did as he commanded, relieved to notice the next time her errant glance traveled to his reflection he was buttoning the shirt.

“Nothing there, either, Peabody.” The mellow sound of her name glanced off the walls and echoed in her brain. Peabody—Peabody—Peabody! His impersonal tone taunted her, and she reaffirmed her vow to hand him her resignation. Soon! Very soon!

At his bidding, she flipped through a number of pages, each containing four photographs of lovely women, personal information printed under each photo. Izzy didn’t know what Mr Parish might be looking for, but if the ones he’d rejected so far were any indication, he was very choosy. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Wasn’t he a perfectionist in every aspect of his work? Why shouldn’t he be that way even with a wife he would only need for a week?

As she turned another page, her glance caught on her reflection. The harsh lighting was less flattering to her image. She seemed very blah—a blah brown. Her chestnut hair, parted in the middle, was coiled at her nape. Her boxy business suit, a dingy mushroom-colored linen, showed nothing of her figure. Even her eyes were an uninspiring shade of brown. She looked like a common brown wren.

Of course that’s how she’d looked for her three years in Mr. Parish’s employ. The day she walked in to the outer office to apply for the job, and met the matronly executive assistant who was retiring, Izzy realized that Gabriel Parish was looking for a top-notch aide, not a glamour girl.

She’d looked around the crowded reception room, knowing she had hours to wait before her turn to be interviewed. Unobtrusively she’d slipped out to make herself into the image of what she sensed Mr. Parish wanted. When she returned, gone was the makeup, the youthful-chic attire. She’d even knotted her long, flowing curls at her nape. She looked older than her twenty-three years, efficient and drab.

And now, right this minute, the image in the mirror looked both drab and unhappy—not a good combination for her mental health. Izzy was not by nature either restrained or drab. She’d repressed her true self much too long. Though the money was exceptional as executive assistant to the CEO of Gabriel Parish AdVentures, money wasn’t everything. She simply had to get away. Get a life!

“Peabody?”

Her gaze darted to his face. “Uh, yes, sir?” He finished knotting his tie, then indicated a photograph. “That redhead. She looks good.”

Izzy stared at the woman he indicated. She was breathtaking; exotic bone structure, full, pouty lips bowed in a Mona Lisa smile and enough fiery hair to stuff a couch. There was no getting around the fact that Mr. Parish had an eye for feminine beauty. “Sir...” She cleared a quiver from her throat. “Maybe you should pick out two or three, in case she’s not available.”

When he didn’t immediately respond, she glanced at him, startled to see a knowing smile on his lips. Her heart flip-flopped at the sight. The man had a real talent for grinning. But what was the grin all about? “Did I say something funny?” she asked, sounding foolishly breathless.

“I don’t think there’ll be a problem.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, and Izzy realized he was laughing at her naiveté. For her to even be concerned about the woman’s availability was laughable. “Take care of it, Peabody.” Clapping her on the shoulder in a comradely gesture, he strode out of the bathroom. “When the Baxter people get here, send them to the conference room, then buzz me.”

Gulping down several breaths, Izzy got her heart rate under control. “Yes...sir.” She touched the place on her shoulder where his hand had so recently been. Her boss never doubted for an instant that the stunning redhead would accept his deal.

He was right, of course. He would pay her more for one week’s work, pretending to be his wife, than she’d make in a month of dinner and theater dates. Not to mention the wardrobe he planned to purchase for her stay on the island. And last but far from least, he was handsome as sin and a millionaire to boot There wasn’t a woman pictured in the catalog who would refuse his offer. They’d probably agree to go for free.

Realizing she was still massaging the place he’d touched, she dropped her hand, irritated with herself for her stupid preoccupation. Clasping the open volume to her chest, she marched out of the bathroom aiming for the double-doored exit from her boss’s high-rise office.

“Oh, and Peabody?” Reflexively she turned as he came out of his apartment, shrugging on a suit coat. With her efficient-executive-assistant facade in place, she gave him an expectant look. “Yes, sir?”

“Try to get that disapproving-maiden-aunt expression off your face.”

Heat rose up her cheeks. She’d thought he was oblivious to everything about her except the part that ran his office. Especially her face.

She swallowed with difficulty as he settled into the leather chair behind his desk. A dark brow arched as he continued to eye her. “There’s no reason I should be married because a potential client is so eccentric he demands that even the head of his advertising agency be family oriented. That’s pure foolishness!”

He lifted a golden pen, shifting toward a stack of papers on his desk. “I can create an excellent advertising campaign as well single as I could married. As a matter of fact, I can do a better job unmarried—considering how much trouble women are.” He paused to write a word or two then glanced her way. “Right, Peabody?”

Her chin went up at his unintended slap. He didn’t think of her as a woman. She prayed he would assume her physical reaction to the slight was a half nod of agreement, rather than pain.

Didn’t she know better than anyone—except Mr. Parish, himself—that women on the receiving end of his charm and good manners quickly became jealous and possessive, choosing to believe his attention meant more than it did. Izzy had witnessed too many dreadful scenes right there in the office between females he dated. No wonder he thought women were trouble. To him, they were.

This was exactly why he opted to hire a fake wife rather than give any current lady-love hope that his affections were stronger than they were—or ever would be.

“Well, Peabody?” he asked, breaking through her thoughts. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

Yes, I do have something to say, Mr. Parish! she cried mentally. It’s too hard to be close to you day after day—watching you smile that kiss-me-if-you-dare smile, hearing that smoky voice, inhaling that scent that makes me weak, every second knowing you can’t see me as any more human than your cellular phone or your fax machine! I quit! I’m leaving—to—day! Right now! Goodbye and good riddance Mr. Women-Are-Trouble!

She ground her teeth, wishing she could blurt all that out, throw her resignation letter in his face and stalk out of his life. But gazing into his eyes she couldn’t bring herself to do it. And that made her furious with herself. Coward! Sniveling, cringing, lovesick coward!

Straightening her shoulders, she eyed him with as much nerve as she could marshal. She didn’t like the deception he was planning. Just because Mr. Rufus, the elderly founder of the Yum-Yum Baby Food company, chose to live a reclusive life on his own private island, and would never suspect the lie, was no reason to do this shameful thing.

She eyed her boss narrowly. “Would you like me to rent you a couple of kids, too?” she quipped, trusting her sarcasm said it all.

He watched her for a second without any noticeable reaction to her wisecrack. “No,” he said after a heartbeat. “A wife will do.” Turning away, he went back to poring over the papers on his desk. “That will be all, Peabody.”

Dismissed, she wheeled around to escape. Her flight across the plush, jade carpet created no sound; her sensible pumps hardly made an impression. The irony galled. Even his carpet hardly registered her presence. As for Mr. Parish, he thought so little of her it didn’t occur to him that she even had the capacity to crack a joke.

Of course, neither did his cell phone or his fax machine.

Thirteen days after Mr. Parish chose the beautiful redhead, Miss Dawn Day, to be his fake wife, it was time to put the fraud into action.

Sunday morning, May 3, Izzy and her boss stood in La Guardia’s TransGlobal First Class lounge. Any other time the room would have had a relaxing influence, decorated in earth tones, leather and luxuriant green plants. But today, it was obvious that Mr. Parish saw none of it.

“She’s late.” He scowled at his watch. “Did you send James with the limo?”

“Yes, sir.” Izzy closed her notebook, hoping he was through giving orders for the coming week. “I’m sure they’ll be along any second.” She started to put her notebook inside her shoulder bag, then hesitated, glancing at him. “Any other instructions, sir?”

He regarded her with a disgruntled frown. “Did you say something, Peabody?”

“I said, will there be any other instructions?”

“Oh.” His jaw worked. “No.” He shifted to check the door of the lounge. Almost unforgivably, it remained closed.

Izzy opened her purse and deposited her notebook inside. Her hand brushed her resignation letter and she bit down on the inside of her cheek. For the millionth time since she’d written the thing she was racked with indecision. Her fingers curled around the envelope. Now would be a good time to give it to him, her logical side urged. He’d have a week away from you to get accustomed to the idea. He probably wouldn’t even be cross when he returned.

“What about her ticket?”

Izzy jumped, yanking her hand from her purse as though it held a poisonous snake. “Um, uh, I sent it by messenger. She got it. I called and checked.”

Gabriel Parish scowled and Izzy was captured by the picture he made standing there before the large window. He glanced down. Morning sun glinted off the tips of his long eyelashes, then flashed off the gold of his Rolex as he snapped up his wrist.

In an expensive ebony suit and bold black-and-white striped tie, he exuded self-confident masculinity—a sight that would make any female heart flutter. The furtive peeks of other women in the lounge went unnoticed by her boss, heedless of everything except his immediate concerns. But they were glaringly apparent to Izzy. Masking a dejected sigh, she snapped her purse shut. Once again, she couldn’t bring herself to hand him her resignation letter. Not today.

Movement at the lounge entrance brought Izzy’s gaze around to see an incredibly lovely woman burst through the door. Her long, trim legs ate up the distance, even encumbered as she was by impossibly high ankle-strap stilettos. Her chic yellow suit-dress set off her figure and flowing red hair to extraordinary advantage. Izzy’s heart sank to some deep pit as her boss’s hired wife neared, smiling, her gaze riveted on Mr. Parish. If ever there had been a perfectly matched duo in the world, Dawn Day and Gabriel Parish were that duo. It would be easy to believe they were a couple—both tall, intimidatingly perfect—icons for their gender.

“She’s here,” Izzy said, appalled at the dejection in her tone.

“Ah, good.”

The sound of Mr. Parish’s voice drew her gaze to his face. His troubled frown gone, he smiled at the woman. Behind the new arrival trailed James, Mr. Parish’s driver. A tiny frown rode his sandy brows, no doubt due to worry that he might be in trouble for getting Miss Day there so late.

The redhead held out a perfectly manicured hand. “Mr. Parish? I’m Dawn Day.” Her voice was soft and low, every bit as alluring as her face and figure.

Reaching deep inside herself for the willpower to keep her expression composed, Izzy studied her from a few steps behind her boss.

“I’m sorry about the delay. I had a slight problem, but it’s nothing to concern you.” She placed a hand on her cheek, then seemed to realize what she’d done and dropped it. Izzy thought the jerky move odd and looked closer at the woman’s face.

Mr. Parish took her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dawn.” His smile was so dazzling it could have made angels cry. Obviously he was pleased with what he saw. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

Dawn smiled again, then winced slightly. Her hand fluttered to her cheek, then darted away.

“Is anything wrong?” Izzy asked, moving to get a closer look.

Dawn’s big, blue eyes found Izzy and her smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Why...no. What could be wrong?” The faintest edge of trepidation in her voice heightened Izzy’s concerns.

Dawn shifted her gaze to Mr. Parish. “I have my boarding pass.” She held it up. “So all is well.”

He lifted it from her fingers, slipping it into his pocket with his own. “It should just be a few minutes.” Taking her arm, he added, “Why don’t we sit?”

As Mr. Parish led his striking companion toward a seating area that looked more like a man’s cushy den than a waiting room, Izzy noticed what appeared to be a slight puffiness along the redhead’s otherwise perfect jawline. Once again the woman tentatively touched the place. Izzy had the impression Mr. Parish’s fake wife might be in some pain.

James touched Izzy’s shoulder. “When do I pick them up again?”

She didn’t look his way, but continued to survey Dawn’s profile. “A week from today. Five o’clock in the afternoon ”

“Should I leave now?”

“Wait until they take off.” She glanced at the driver. He was young, nice-looking, new at his job and trying hard. “Once, last year, the plane was taxiing down the runway when something went wrong with the engine and the flight had to be postponed. Mr. Parish doesn’t like to dawdle at airports when he can go work at his office for a few hours. So, never leave until the plane disappears into the distance.”

James nodded, looking solemn.

She smiled at him, feeling for the young man. Their employer could be intimidating. Touching James’s hand in a friendly gesture, she added, “If you have questions, ask me.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she was sorry. Ask me? How could you have said such a thing, dummy? she admonished inwardly. Remember, you’re quitting!

The chauffeur’s frown evaporated and he looked almost at ease. She supposed her tiny fib was worth it if she reduced James’s stress level. He was a wiry, high-strung man, taking everything too seriously.

“I don’t think that lady feels good,” James whispered.

Izzy had gone back to studying Dawn’s face, so the chauffeur’s remark snagged her attention. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“She kept touching her face and popping aspirin. She spotted me watching her in the rearview mirror and almost snapped my head off. Told me to mind my business and drive.”

“Oh, dear.” Izzy was beginning to have a bad feeling. The three summers she worked in her father’s dentist office hadn’t been wasted. Izzy had seen a lot of dental problems walk in the office door. Dawn Day might be an icon of female beauty, but if Izzy didn’t miss her guess, behind those ravishing lips lurked trouble. “If she has what I think she has, she’s going to need medical attention,” Izzy murmured, more to herself than to James.

“If you want my opinion, I think she’d rather die than give up this trip.”

Izzy glanced thoughtfully at the chauffeur. She wouldn’t blame Miss Day if she’d crawled to the airport on broken arms and legs. Mr. Parish was making it worth any woman’s while to take this jaunt. Not to mention the added bonus that he would be there. Nevertheless, if the woman had an abscessed tooth, as Izzy suspected, she couldn’t go. Abscesses usually made themselves known at an earlier stage than Miss Day’s. Though, a few people never realized they had a problem until the swelling began. They might think it was nothing—just a little ache that would pass—but in a few hours the pain would be excruciating. Miss Day needed a root canal—today! Or by tomorrow morning she wouldn’t be able to endure the agony, no matter how spectacular the perks.

Mr. Parish’s deep laugh rang out, drawing Izzy’s gaze. The woman’s throaty giggle was almost too far away to detect. But as Izzy watched, the redhead’s fingers moved tentatively across her jaw. It was clear her self-prescribed aspirin treatment was doing little good.

Fine, she thought dourly. This is just fine! It was too late to hire anybody else from the agency, still Izzy had no choice. She had to confront the woman. If she allowed her to go, she would never forgive herself.

She looked grimly at James. “I have to do something. The poor thing has no idea what she’s in for.”

He shrugged. “I don’t envy you, ma’am. She’s not as sweet as she looks. Be careful she doesn’t scratch out your eyes for your trouble.”

Izzy surveyed the chauffeur narrowly, battling to hold on to a resolve that was trying to scurry into hiding. “Thanks,” she quipped wryly. “You’re a huge help.”

Squaring her shoulders, she headed toward her boss and his pretty companion. To keep up her nerve, she told herself this was right. Fate had taken a hand to keep her boss from perpetrating this fraud. Miss Day’s abscessed tooth might seem like a calamity now, but it was for the better. Really!

Still, how was she going to get Miss Day to admit she was in pain? The redhead had already denied she had any troubles at all.

An idea flashed into Izzy’s brain and she walked around between the big leather chairs in which Mr. Parish and Miss Day were seated. “May I get you anything?” she asked, then pretended to be caught by the sight of something unsightly on the redhead’s face. “Oh—there’s a smudge...” She drew a clean handkerchief from her purse and skimmed it across Miss Day’s puffy jaw. “There—”

A shriek split the air as Dawn lurched from the chair. Stumbling away, her hand went to her jaw. “Why—why you witch!” she screamed, her blue eyes filling with tears. “That hurt!”

Mr. Parish abruptly stood, his confused gaze going from his hysterical companion to Izzy. “What the hell?”

Dawn moaned, tears spilling from her eyes. “Oh—it hurts! That witch did it on purpose!”

“Did you pinch her, Peabody?”

“No, sir.” Sick at heart, Izzy watched as the redhead crumpled back into her chair. Reduced to a miserable heap, Miss Day covered the lower half of her face with both hands, moaning and rocking back and forth.

Izzy placed a solicitous hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. But you must get that tooth looked at right away.”

The redhead glared at Izzy, her eyes glittery and wild. “I’m fine, I tell you! Mind your own business.”

“You’re ill?” Mr. Parish sat down in the chair next to Dawn, his expression worried.

“I’m afraid she has an abscessed tooth, sir,” Izzy said quietly.

“That’s not true! You’re a liar!” Dawn cried, then moaned at the pain her yelling caused. She slumped back, her face ashen.

“We’re ready to board, Mr. Parish.”

Izzy’s gaze shot to the newcomer. An attractive flight attendant stood nearby, her features closed in concern.

“May I be of help?” she asked.

Mr. Parish stood. Frowning, he shook his head. “We can manage.” He motioned to James. When the chauffeur scurried up, his boss indicated Miss Day. “Drive her to my dentist. His private number is programmed into the car phone.”

“But it’s Sunday, sir,” James said.

“He’s a close friend. He’ll see her.” Solemnly he offered the redhead his hand. “I’m disappointed, Dawn. But I can’t allow you to make the trip in your condition.”

Slouched dejectedly in the big chair, she looked at him, her eyes awash with pleading and suffering. “I—I need this job.”

Izzy watched her boss’s jaw harden, a clear indication that he was as disturbed as she. He bent to take her fingers in his. “I’ll compensate you for your trouble, Miss Day. Now see about that tooth.”

When Mr. Parish helped her to her feet, he handed her over to James and sent them on their way.

The first-class passengers began boarding. Izzy stared at her boss, watching him watch his counterfeit wife disappear—along with his chance at the Yum-Yum Baby Food account. So tall and grim, he was a striking vision, even in defeat.

Although Izzy had been against this ploy from the beginning, she felt a twinge of sadness. Her boss had gone to incredible lengths to get the account. Seeing his chance walk out the door along with Miss Day had to be excruciating. “I—I’m sure you’ll realize that—in the long run—this is best, sir.”

He shifted to glower at her. He was furious. Gabriel Parish wasn’t a man who took kindly to losing. He lived for the stimulation of the quest and reveled in conquest. The money he made was a mere by-product. Mr. Parish had to be suffering the tortures of the damned, seeing this challenge slip through his fingers.

A part of her rejoiced that her boss would not be traveling to an idyllic tropical island with Dawn Day, and she felt a pinch of guilt. Well, fate had spoken. It was time to move on.

She cleared her throat, forcing herself to meet his angry gaze. “I’ll see about getting your bags off the plane, sir, but I’m not sure if—”

“No.” He grasped her elbow. “Peabody, you are going to be my wife for a week.”

CHAPTER TWO

HIS wife?

It wasn’t as though she’d never had that fantasy.

But for only a week?

It seemed Mr. Parish and Madam Fate had something in common that Izzy would never have anticipated. Both had a genius for diabolical pranks. Suddenly she had the very thing she’d fantasized about for so long—Gabriel Parish as her husband—yet she didn’t really have him at all.

By the time the shock of being dragged onto the plane wore off, Izzy and her boss were thirty thousand feet above the Eastern seaboard, winging south toward Miami. From her window seat, she blinked, coming fully back to reality. She glowered at the man beside her. He was on the phone. His deep chuckle filled the cabin. Izzy saw people turn and smile. His laughter was contagious. People around him caught it like the flu—only with more palatable results.

However, there was nothing palatable going on from where Izzy sat. She had a feeling she was the only person in the half-filled first-class section who wasn’t smiling. As her boss talked business with one of his advertising clients, he happened to catch sight of her frown and winked nonchalantly. As if he thought that would make it all better! How dare he drag her onto a plane, without even a toothbrush, expecting her to spend the week lying for him.

He hung up. “Okay, Peabody,” he said, drawing her glance. “I know you’re not crazy about this.” She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand, halting her. “Neither am I, but we can make this work.” He shifted to better see her. “Don’t forget, you’re getting a new wardrobe out of the deal, and I’ll pay double overtime.” His grin was sunny, meant to charm the daylights out of her.

But to Izzy that smile was pure cruelty. He knew no flesh-and-blood woman could withstand it—fiendish, manipulative beast! However, since he didn’t think of Izzy as a woman, she had no plans to quiver and sigh and melt like one. Lifting her chin, she muttered, “It didn’t cross your mind that I believe this ruse is unfair and that I might refuse to have anything to do with it?”

His smile didn’t dim, but somehow became wry. She realized the change was in his eyes, which narrowed slightly. “It crossed my mind.”

“And then flitted right out?”

“Yes.”

She eyed heaven and turned toward the window. Outside the sun shone on fluffy clouds below them, the image of a snow-covered landscape in some arctic wonderland. “You take me for granted, Mr. Parish,” she said. “I don’t like that trait in you.”

“Are you bucking for a raise, Peabody?” Amusement rode his words.

She twisted to scowl at him. “Everything is not about money, sir.”

“Reverse psychology.” He nodded. “Good strategy. What about five percent?”

She gaped, anger welling inside her. “What?”

He chuckled. “Okay, seven.”

With an exasperated moan she lay back and closed her eyes. “I don’t want a raise, Mr. Parish. I simply can’t abide the idea of lying to that nice man.”

“If you like him, you’ll go along with my plan.”

She peered at him from behind her lashes. “Excuse me?”

“He needs me, Peabody.” Mr. Parish leaned closer. Reflexively she fumbled for the controls, pressing her seat back to recline. With her retreat, his grin grew crooked. “There, you see? You’re acting like a wife, already.”

She frowned. “Your attitude about marriage alone should disqualify you!”

“My attitude about marriage shouldn’t come into it.”

“Well I shouldn’t be here, but I am.” She wasn’t sure if her argument held a scrap of logic. With Mr. Parish leaning over her, his face inches above hers, her brain was misfiring. Frantically she pressed her seat button, but nothing happened. She was as far back as she could go.

“Are you telling me life isn’t fair, Peabody, and that we must play the hand we’re dealt?”

She had no idea if that’s what she meant, but decided it sounded good and nodded.

The humor in his expression reminded her of a father tolerating a pampered child. “You don’t think I’m playing the hand I was dealt?”

“Yes, I do,” she retorted. “But they used to shoot cardsharps for playing a hand the way you’re playing yours.”

“You think I’m cheating?”

“Think?” She was amazed he could even ask the question.

“I’m not, Peabody. I can’t.”

“No?” She eyed him with distrust, curious to see how he thought he could weasel out of admitting he was a scoundrel. “I doubt that.”

His grin was cocky and sexy. “You can embezzle from a company and cheat on a spouse, Peabody. There are as many ways to cheat as there are people. But you can’t cheat on inspiration.” He watched her speculatively. “Quality can’t be faked. Married or not, I’ll give old Rufus quality work.” He nudged her, a brief, teasing gesture. “Tell me honestly, do you believe I have any intention of cheating the man?”

She stared at him. How did he do it? Deep down, she knew if he got the Yum-Yum account, he would work a miracle—conceive a campaign that would elevate baby food above the mundane and make the hawking of it an earth-shattering event.

Gabriel Parish was gifted that way. She’d seen it happen too many times to doubt his ability. It was almost scary. Defeat washed over her, and she opened her mouth to admit he was right. He wasn’t cheating, wouldn’t cheat. He was merely playing his hand—his own way. His motto was Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained and this was simply another venture to him. The method be damned.

Yet, in a sudden flash of insight she couldn’t make the admission. Wouldn’t. No matter how pretty the words he used to justify it, he would still be lying about being married, and she would have to join him in his lie. Forcing herself, she met his gaze. She had to be firm. “I won’t do it, Mr. Parish.”

He watched her for a minute, his nearness making her too aware of him. The seconds dragged by.

She glared.

He smiled.

She grew panicky. If she looked into those eyes for another second she would agree to anything he asked. “Would you...” She swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat. “Would you back off, sir?”

One dark eyebrow rose a trifle. He turned away to steeple his fingers before his face. He seemed to fall into deep thought. Izzy wondered about what.

Her boss had a keen, unorthodox mind. At thirty-five, he was called “the young genius of promoting” in New York’s fast-paced advertising world. His career was his family, his passion, his children, his wife and his love. In the three years she’d been part of his breakneck-take-no-prisoners world she’d never complained, never objected. She had a feeling he wouldn’t take her rejection well. She was tampering with his whole existence.

Staring out her window, she heaved a sigh. Quite possibly she wouldn’t have to hand him her resignation letter after all.

Renewed yearning swelled in her breast. If Mr. Parish only knew how badly she wanted to be his wife. His real wife. Someone he loved, someone he could come to for comfort and happiness. But a sham wife? She couldn’t go through with it—being near him, braving false endearments and displays of affection.

The idea was too painful to bear.

She breathed deeply in an effort to remain composed. This was no time for silly tears. After staring out the window for what seemed to be a hundred years, it began to nag her that Mr. Parish continued to say nothing. Her nerves tightened like overwound clock springs, and she felt close to screaming. Why didn’t he just say, “You’re fired!” and get it over and done? She wanted to look at him, gauge his expression, his posture, his demeanor, but she didn’t have the nerve.

After ten more agonizing minutes, she knew if she didn’t do something she would jump up and start screaming. That sort of behavior would only get her sent to a home for the mentally disturbed or a cell in airline prison.

She peeked at her boss. It startled her to see that he’d reclined his seat and appeared to be sleeping. Sleeping? The sight did unruly things to her. His hawk-like features were riveting and seductive, even in repose.

But sleeping? This wasn’t the way she’d expected her driven, aggressive boss to react. She’d expected reasoning, cajoling and endless charm—until she finally surrendered, a trembling, simpering nitwit. It was out of character for him to give up. And he never napped on trips. He always had his briefcase open, working on his pitch. Baffled, she leaned toward him and waved a hand over his eyes.

“Are you trying to get my attention or do you think my face is hot?”

She jerked back, her heart rate skyrocketing in surprise. “I—I thought you were asleep.”

His thick lashes lifted to a sexy half-mast, and he glanced at her. “I was thinking.”

“Something good, I hope.” She bit her tongue. If she’d chosen that reply from a compiled list of The Ten Most Inane Things To Blurt she couldn’t have done worse.

“I was thinking about you.” He didn’t smile, merely observed her. No doubt his observation included the reddening of her face.

She sat, frozen, wishing she had that list of the ten most inane things to blurt, since they had to be better than any response she was coming up with. Apparently her blush was answer enough, because he grinned. “You never knew I thought about you?”

She shook her head.

“I do.” He squeezed her wrist. “I didn’t mean to take your feelings for granted. I’m sorry.”

She tingled where he touched her. Then she began to tingle all over. Very carefully she removed her arm from his fingers. Contact with the man didn’t help her mental processes. She rubbed the place where his hand had been and lifted her chin, preparing to tell him his apology was accepted, that she forgave him for his insensitivity. When she opened her mouth nothing came out except a little squawk. She swallowed.

“Are you angry with me?”

She shook her head.

“Good.” He closed his eyes. “That’s a load off my mind.”

She stared at him so long her eyes began to feel prickly. “What are you going to do about the Yum-Yum account?” She realized with horror she’d asked that question out loud.

He didn’t respond, just lay there, those sinful lashes curling outward across high, handsome cheekbones.

Had he actually fallen asleep this time? She doubted it, but decided he’d speak when it suited him.

After another few moments, she faced the fact that gazing at him was not the most productive way to spend her time—especially if she planned to stick to her guns about not helping him perpetrate the fraud against Mr. Rufus.

Her thoughts drifted to the few times she’d spoken with the venerable gentleman over the phone. He was always so good-natured and—well, sweet was the only word she could think of that fit.

Hugo Rufus’s Yum-Yum Baby Foods had been around since the fifties. He’d been relying on the same advertisements for years. They’d grown stagnant, dated, not changing with the times. Izzy recalled what Mr. Parish had said only a few moments ago. “He needs me.” She’d let his assertion slip by, barely registering. At the time, she’d been too flummoxed by his nearness to think clearly. She chewed the inside of her cheek, recalling his assertion. He needs me.

Izzy wondered if dear Mr. Rufus’s fortunes might be in jeopardy? If his private island was mortgaged to the hilt? She turned worriedly toward the window, seeing nothing of the celestial tableau outside. Was Mr. Rufus’s advertising search a last-ditch effort to save the stodgy company from going under?

Today’s crop of hep-short-attention-span-tell-me-quick-and-loud-or-forget-it Generation-Xer parents needed to get snagged into hearing about Yum-Yum, or the company could die.

She glanced at her boss. He lay there like some sleeping Norse god with really great lips. Her gaze trailed over him, refusing her demands to look out the window.

She’d seen her boss’s preliminary ideas for the Yum-Yum campaign, heard the jingle he would have proposed. Patterned for an MTV generation of young parents, what she’d seen was catchy and eye-grabbing. He’d even managed to talk one of today’s fastest rising rock groups into being featured in the promotion. The concept was outrageous yet darling—every member of the group happened to be the father of a baby under the age of one. The infants would also be featured. From what Izzy knew of the concept, if that ad campaign didn’t sell Yum-Yum Baby Food, nothing on this earth would.

Tom, she glanced at her boss again. If she let herself be totally honest, Gabriel Parish very well could be Yum-Yum’s last chance. What if the company went belly up? Thousands of jobs could be lost. Could she forgive herself if she didn’t help? Even if it required a tiny lie? She winced. Okay, a pretty big lie?

Why did she suddenly have to believe, with pulse-pounding certainty, that Hugo Rufus needed Gabriel Parish—married or not! Little lies, big lies, whatever it took. He needed what Gabriel Parish could give him as urgently as Dawn Day had needed dental help.

With no desire to examine her decision for potential flaws in logic, she placed her hand on her boss’s wrist. Realizing what she’d done, she snatched it away. “I—I’ll do it, sir.”

One corner of his mouth twitched briefly. “I know, Peabody.”

He never even opened his eyes.

Izzy’s idea of shopping for clothes was to go into a discount store where harried employees hardly had time to point out the dressing rooms, let alone turn the purchase of a shorts outfit into a catered affair.

Of course Izzy had never been to Tant Mieux, an exclusive boutique in downtown Miami. Perched awkwardly on a costly Louis XIV chair, she was offered all manner of delectable finger food, as emaciated models breezed by in designer ensembles. Izzy wasn’t surprised to see the models flapping long, fake eyelashes at Mr. Parish, while smiling suggestively with collagen-pumped lips.

Neither was she surprised that the gaunt nymphs treated her as though she were a smudge on the brocade upholstery. Something to wrinkle one’s nose at, then quickly turn away. Clearly her gray, knee-length suit and gum-soled walking shoes were not on the cutting edge of haute couture.

“Yes,” Mr. Parish said, drawing Izzy’s attention. “We’ll take that one, too”

She glanced at the model posing before her boss. The vixen’s expression was so come-hither that Izzy didn’t know whether Mr. Parish had purchased the model or the mauve shorts set with matching platform sandals, feathered beanie and color-coordinated polo mallet.

“I hope out back they’re not dyeing a horse to match that outfit,” she mumbled. For the past two hours she’d sat quietly as her boss made selection after selection. But this purple job was too much! She couldn’t be silent any longer.

Mr. Parish glanced her way, hiking a brow. “You have a problem with it?”

“To which? A mauve horse or the outfit?”

He leaned her way. “With your brown eyes, you’ll look lovely in mauve,” he assured with a grin.

Taken off guard by the mention of her eye color, she murmured, “I—I didn’t know you ever noticed the color of my eyes.”

“I checked in the limo on the way over.” He glanced away, toward the next model swaying toward him.

“You didn’t have to go to all that bother, sir, I could have memoed you on it.” Izzy knew she had no right to feel affronted, but she did. After working for him three whole years, he’d only noticed her eyes because he’d made a point to on the way over!

He glanced at her. “Should I memo you on the color of mine? It’s something my wife should know about me.”

She swallowed several times. She would never be able to forget those eyes, no matter how she might try. “No, sir. I—I’ll catch a look later.”

He faced her fully, and leaned so close that she could have kissed him with hardly more than a pursing of her lips. “No time like the present. What do you see?”

Her body reacted violently to his soft question. She felt herself going hot and cold, and blood pounded in her temples. She fought the urge to tip her head forward just enough—just enough...

Fighting the impulse with all her might, she sank back in the seat, praying she looked more composed than she felt. “Green...I’d say...green.” Her voice sounded breathless and husky. “I’ll jot it down so I won’t forget.” She made herself look at the mauve-clad model, wiggling toward the exit. “On the subject of that last outfit, I don’t want the hat or the shoes—or the mallet.”

“Loosen up, Peabody.” He winked, still much too close for her peace of mind. “You might like it.”

She frowned, fighting the erotic effect of his suggestion. “My idea of loosening up does not include breaking an ankle in those shoes. And I don’t think the birdies gave those feathers voluntarily!” She paused, then added, “I’m rethinking the mallet.”

He chuckled, taking her veiled threat as a joke. “You’re tired.” Turning to the hovering proprietress, he said, “That will be enough. Have everything sent to my hotel this evening.”

Izzy was mortified. Though every item of clothing he’d purchased was hugely expensive, many were more suited for a mistress than a wife. At least not a wife about to meet the conservative Mr. Hugo Rufus.

Izzy knew she didn’t have a chance at winning an argument with her boss, so she decided to use a little trickery of her own. “Uh, Mr. Parish?”

He turned, his expression one of a man satisfied with the business of the day.

“I think I should stay a while. I’m sure a few things will need alterations.”

“Of course.” He stood, checking his watch. “Forgive me, Peabody. They are your clothes, after all. You should feel comfortable in them.”

She gritted her teeth. And I’ll have tons and tons of places to wear them, too! she threw back mentally. I go to so many coronations and White House garden parties!

“I need to get some work done. Take your time. I’ll send the driver back to wait.”

“Thank you.” She hoped her anxiety over what she planned to do didn’t show in her voice.

Once he was gone, she counted to ten, working up her courage to face the shop owner. With hands clasped nervously, she spun around. “I’m going to have to make some changes in Mr. Parish’s selections.”

The proprietress remained poised, with hardly a flicker of an eyelash to show either surprise or dismay. No doubt many husbands preferred to dwell in their own misguided fantasy that their wives adored their taste. Not that Gabriel Parish wasn’t discriminating. But he was a man—a bachelor. And hardly conservative! If they were taking an extended vacation on a yacht with Jack Nicholson and other glittery Hollywood types, the choices would have been appropriate. But not for a visit to conventional, family-oriented Mr Rufus.

“Shall we begin, Miss?” the unruffled shop owner inquired.

Izzy struggled to keep her gaze from wavering in embarrassment. It was evident the woman recognized that Izzy wasn’t Mr. Parish’s wife. No doubt the fact that Izzy called him “Mr. Parish” was a big hint.

This was an awful moment—one of many Izzy knew she’d have to endure now that she’d promised to go through with this farce. She hoped she hadn’t done a very stupid thing—that her foolish desire to be near her boss hadn’t run roughshod over her sensible need to leave him—rationalizing a reason for staying.

Riddled with guilt and self-doubt, she forced a smile. “Let’s start with that purple polo and poultry outfit.”

The flight to Tranquillity Island was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Izzy was exhausted from the long, trying day. She hadn’t finished making wardrobe changes and fittings at Tant Mieux until nearly eight. Seamstresses had stayed late, a clear indication that the bill had been substantial enough for special considerations.

Izzy brought most of the selections back with her, but the things that needed a bit more altering arrived at nine-thirty.

She took a shower before remembering the nightgowns were lost somewhere in the mountain of boxes and sacks piled around her room. The hotel’s white terry robe hanging in her closet caught her eye, saving her from having to dig in all that stuff, wrapped in a bedsheet.

Wearing the robe and matching slippers, she began to towel-dry her hair. A knock at the door brought her head up, then she remembered. Mr. Parish sent a hotel employee out to purchase suitcases for her. No doubt they had arrived. Wrapping the towel around her hair, she peered through the peephole. Unable to see anybody, she cracked the door as far as the security latch would allow. “Hello? Who’s there?”

The knock boomed again, this time from behind her. She spun, startled. The sound came from the door that adjoined her room with Mr. Parish’s.

“Peabody?”

“Yes, sir?” She wondered what he might want her to do at this hour. She wasn’t exactly dressed for dictation.

“I’ve ordered some food. I thought you might be hungry.”

Stunned, she sank against the door. It clicked shut. “Food?”

“Peabody, I can’t hear you. Let me in.”

“Oh—uh...” Accustomed to doing as he bid, she scurried to the door and threw it wide.

He stood there grinning, looking marvelous in beige slacks and a short-sleeved knit shirt, the same bright hue as his eyes. When he scanned her, his grin skewed wryly. “Bad timing?”

At first she didn’t register what he meant. Then she remembered she wore nothing but a robe. With suddenly restless fingers she touched her towel turban. “I—I just.” She motioned loosely toward the bathroom.

“I gathered that.” He indicated a dining table, set with two covered dishes and a big carafe. “Come. Eat while it’s warm.”

She peered down at herself. The big robe swallowed her from her chin to the top of her terry scuffs. She certainly wouldn’t show any skin he hadn’t seen before—and precious little of that. Deciding she could use some food, she stepped into his room.

“It was nice of you to think of me, Mr. Parish.” Usually on business jaunts he had dinner engagements with clients. On most of those occasions she went along, took notes, rummaged through files in his briefcase, whatever he needed to make the meeting go smoothly. After dinner, she went to her room and read herself to sleep. Never had he ordered room service for them to share.

“You’re doing me a favor, Peabody.” He pulled out her chair and she took a seat at the glass-topped table. “The least I can do is feed you.” He smiled, and she hurriedly turned to gaze out the window. His smiles were too disturbing to experience while wearing nothing but a robe.

She noted with some irritation that her lack of proper attire didn’t unsettle him in the slightest. Of course, being a worldly bachelor, seeing half-dressed women was no big event to him.

She concentrated on the view outside the picture window From their room on the twentieth floor, she scanned Miami’s meandering coast, lights adorning the shoreline like a brilliant crown. Farther out, on the dark water, scattered twinkling lights marked oceangoing vessels as they crept across the sleeping sea.

A sound caught her attention and she turned back. Her boss seated himself on the far side of the table—which wasn’t far enough. She crossed her legs, her foot skimming his shin. Her slipper fell off.

“Oh...”

“What?” He glanced up from placing his napkin in his lap.

She shook her head, feeling her cheeks heat up. “My slipper—it...”

He looked down. The white scuff was clearly visible beside his brown loafer. “I’ll get it.” He bent, ducking beneath the table.

“That’s not necessary, Mr. Pa—”

He took her ankle into his hand, cutting off her breath. As he lifted her foot, her robe skimmed off her knee, revealing a show of leg. She could see all this through the glass. And because it was glass, there was no stopping the light from passing right through. Mr. Parish had a good clear view, too. Izzy cursed the table for not being made of thick oak.

He remained bent there holding her ankle for a fraction of a second longer before slipping the scuff onto her foot. Did Izzy sense a momentary hesitation, or was it merely a hallucination brought on by the woozy feeling his touch generated in her brain? She had to admit, she wasn’t feeling up to her usual, alert self.

He let her go and ducked back out. Brushing a fallen lock of hair off his brow, he grinned. “Cinderella, I’m happy to report the slipper fits.”

She dragged her feet beneath her seat and adjusted her robe over her knees. “Actually it’s a little big.”

He removed the cover from both their meals and gave her a cynical look. “That’s my Peabody. Ever the hard-nosed realist. Not a touch of romance in her soul.”

She stared at her plate, deciding a close inspection of her cheese soufflé was better than giving him the chance to see the pain and longing in her eyes. Her ankle sizzled unmercifully from the caress of his fingers.

Hard-nosed realist, ha! He couldn’t be more wrong. She was without a doubt the biggest, stupidest romantic fool who had ever lost her slipper—and her heart—to a man. If that weren’t so agonizingly true, she would not be on her way to a private island paradise, pretending to be his wife!

His wife.

She had a quick, disturbing revelation. Not until this moment did the true scope of that status hit her. As his wife, she would be expected to spend a certain amount of time alone with him—in a room much like this one.

Panic racing through her, she peered at him. The fact that he was watching her shook her badly, and she could only stare.

An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t look so worried, Peabody.” He reached across the table, his hand closed as though he held something. “You’ll like being Mrs. Parish.” With a sexy wink, he slipped a golden wedding band onto her finger.

CHAPTER THREE

THE next morning at eight o’clock, Izzy found herself being handed onto a small, sleek jet by one of two pleasant-looking men in black uniforms and pilots’ caps. When she and her boss entered the cabin, Izzy was struck by the exquisitely appointed white leather interior and plush carpeting. The seats were as big and cushy as armchairs, and were separated by small tables, making each grouping an intimate setting for two. There were three such seating areas on either side of the aisle. Two couples were already on board, seated across the aisle from each other in the forward table groupings.

Izzy tried not to show stunned surprise when her boss’s hand went to her waist in a display of husbandly affection.

The fraud had begun in earnest.

“Did I tell you how nice you look today?” Mr. Parish whispered.

She went stock-still and stared. “No.” His smile was warm and believably loving. If Izzy didn’t know better, she would have been convinced her boss was truly devoted to her. Ha!

“Then you should be told. You look lovely—darling,” he reaffirmed, this time louder.

She lifted her chin and forced a smile. He might as well be complimenting himself. He picked out the dress! She had to admit, the sleeveless frock was beautiful, fashioned out of sand-colored faille and splashed with tropical blossoms and ferns. With its above-the-knee, sarong-wrap skirt, it offered an occasional flash of thigh. Coupled with ankle-strap sandals with high, wedged heels, Izzy didn’t think she looked much like an executive assistant. At least not one who could actually type and take dictation.

“Why, thank you—lovikuns.” The ridiculous pet name just popped out. Miffed about his manipulations to get her involved in this hoax, she couldn’t keep her feelings completely buried. “You know I live for your approval.” She fluttered her lashes, noting how his forehead wrinkled ever so slightly, though he maintained his devoted-spouse expression.

He coaxed her down the aisle. With the touch of his hand scorching her waist, he bent to whisper, “Lovikuns?” Her ear tickled with the brush of his lips. “Don’t overdo it, Peabody.”

He took her hand to help her up to the raised seating area. She was surprised when he touched the chair’s arm and it swiveled out for easy access. Once again, she kept her surprise to herself. Mr. Parish didn’t seem inclined to buy his own plane, at least not yet, so she wasn’t accustomed to such unexpected frills. Clearly Mr. Hugo Rufus had a lot to lose if he couldn’t find a way to make Yum-Yum a household word again. She wondered how much longer the sweet old man could hold onto his fancy plane.

Once Izzy was settled, Mr. Parish slid into the chair on the other side of the small, marble-top table they shared. Gathering her hand into his, he lifted her fingertips to his lips and brushed them with a kiss. “I think of this trip as a second honeymoon, darling.” His eyes held such tenderness she had an urge to turn around to see who he was talking to, but at the last second she remembered her role.

And he said not to overdo it?

“My very thoughts.” Her smile was more like a smirk, since she faced away from the other guests. Withdrawing her fingers, she dropped her hand to the table. “But, don’t you think we should meet these nice people—lambie-pie?”

His lips twitched wryly at her smart-aleck endearment, but he was hardly in a position to reprimand her, and she knew it. “Of course, darling.” Placing a hand over the one she had removed from his, he swiveled to better see those in front of them. He squeezed her fingers. Not enough to give her pain, just reinforce his warning that she not overplay her hand.

Without giving him the satisfaction of a glance, she swung her chair toward the aisle, too, trying not to look too disconcerted. Mr. Parish had touched her more in the past ten minutes than in the entire three years since she’d started working for him. The lingering contact was doing erratic things to her breathing.

Izzy noticed that the other two couples had turned their chairs outward, also. She took a quick survey of Mr. Parish’s rivals for the Yum-Yum account. A middle-aged couple sat across the aisle and forward in the cabin. They both wore navy-blue suits and thin-lipped smiles, looking like sallow, humorless bookends.

The other couple was seated on the same side of the aisle as Izzy and her boss. They appeared to be around Mr. Parish’s age, tanned and trendy, the kind of moneyed couple you might see at a swanky Club Med. The blonde with a casual, windswept coif looked as if she might have a tendency to be snooty, the way she peered down her nose. Or she might simply have a stiff neck. Izzy decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Her husband had the brawny bulk of a football fullback. His hair was white-blond and thinning, his swarthy face too reminiscent of a pit bull to be considered handsome. They both wore California chic summer clothes, and seemed to have a predilection for gold jewelry.

The pit bull leaned forward. “Name’s Wirt. Fox McFarland Wirt, and this is the wife, Claudia.” He grinned at the pale, stiff-lipped couple across from him, then at Izzy and Mr. Parish. “Call me Foxie.”

Claudia smiled, but her smile, like her husband’s, lacked warmth. Nobody was kidding anybody. This trip was no pleasure jaunt. A huge account was at stake. The three couples would be hard-pressed to be more than superficially pleasant.

“Good to meet you, Foxie.” Mr. Parish smiled at the man, then his wife. “Claudia.” It was a good smile, and Izzy saw only friendliness there. She tried to make hers as engaging, but felt she was having little success. “This is my lovely wife....” He paused. When he squeezed her hand, she glanced his way, curious about the delay. It startled her when he took her chin into his fingers and drew her face toward his, brushing her lips with a light but soul-wrenching kiss. Her body went into quivering, melting shock as he angled her face around to press a kiss against her ear. “What in hell is your first name, Peabody?” he whispered. Izzy didn’t know how he managed to say anything with his tongue and teeth nipping and stroking. The man had more talents than she’d ever imagined.

Every mental circuit in her brain zapped and snapped, with downed wires writhing all over the place. Yet even with her brain gone haywire, she could detect his annoyance. Belatedly the substance of his question succeeded in rerouting to a functioning part of her brain. He wanted to know her first name. Clearing her thumping heart from her throat, she whispered near his ear, “Izzy.”

He shifted his gaze to clash with hers, his eyes conveying the message that he would never have guessed anything so appalling could possibly be her name. With a pseudo-devoted pat on her cheek and a dazzling smile, he faced the onlookers. His expression was believably apologetic. “Forgive me. She drives me wild. What were we talking about?”

Izzy felt so discombobulated she wanted to scream. He’d kissed her, sending every cell in her body into chaos—right there in front of everybody—then he’d crossly admitted that he didn’t recall her name! No, screaming was not enough! She wanted to...to...she eyed her boss with scorching intent. She wanted to scratch out his...to...to pluck out...those...those...

The tingling pleasure of his kiss continued to flow through her, making her light-headed. She was too intensely aware of him, of his scent, the lingering heat of his lips, his magnetic eyes gazing lovingly at her.

“You were about to introduce your wife,” Foxie said.

Izzy blinked, coming out of a stupor his soft stare brought on.

“Oh, yes. Foxie, was it?” Mr. Parish said. “My wife’s name is—Isabel.”

“Call me Izzy,” she cut in, grateful her lips worked, considering they still sizzled. She passed her fake husband an impertinent look, her emotions a roiling mix of anger, hurt and melancholy. “Lambie-pie loves the nickname, Izzy.”

His grin turned lopsided at her gibe, and though she saw a flash of reproach in his gaze, she knew the others couldn’t have noticed. “And I’m Gabe Parish.”

“Ah, right.” Foxie snapped beefy fingers. “I’ve heard good things about you, my man. The young genius of promotion in the Big Apple.”

Gabe lifted his gaze from Izzy. “And I about you, Foxie. L.A.’s hottest ad exec.”

“California, my man,” Foxie amended, with a guffaw “California’s hottest ad exec.”

“I stand corrected.” Gabe’s glance moved across to the bookends in blue. “And you are?”

“We’re Mr. and Mrs. Miles. Hedda and Roger Miles. Chicago. The Miles and Unwin Agency.” Mr. Miles straightened his tie. His movements held a prim, brittle dignity that did nothing to indicate a desire to strike up a friendship.

“I’ve heard of your firm. Good solid reputation,” Gabe said. He still held Izzy’s hand. As he spoke he laced his fingers with hers. She continued to face Mr. and Mrs. Miles with an expression of interest, but it was difficult. Her heart ached because the intimacy of their entwined fingers was a superficial sham.

“And what do we call you?” Foxie’s voice boomed in the cabin. “Rog?”

Roger Miles turned close-set eyes on Foxie. With a sniff of his thin nose, he said, “Roger and Hedda.”

Foxie’s white-blond brows wagged upward as though he was amused by the man’s frigid tone. “You got it, my man. Roger and Hedda it is.”

Izzy scanned Mr. and Mrs. Miles. Clearly they weren’t planning to disguise their aversion to their competition, at least until in the presence of their host.

The pilot and copilot climbed aboard. As the crew disappeared up front, an attractive brunette, also clad in a black uniform, entered the plane and began to take drink and breakfast orders.

Not long after Gabe ordered two glasses of gourmet water with a twist of lime, Izzy braced herself for takeoff. She’d never enjoyed the experience. Glancing at her disturbing counterfeit husband, then around at his business rivals, she had a sinking sensation that the white-knuckled takeoff would be the least stressful experience she could expect for the next week.

Gabe only half listened to Claudia and Foxie Wirt name-drop about celebrities they buddied around with in Los Angeles. He smiled and nodded when appropriate, but knew half of what the couple said was bull.

His gaze drifted to Roger Miles, who looked like a bean counter in his conventional blue suit, wing tips and slicked-back graying hair. Gabe wasn’t fooled by the drab image. Roger Miles’s reputation in the advertising business was well-known. The man was sharp and creative and had won a lion’s share of prestigious awards.

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