“Did you feel something just then?”

Kate asked in a hushed tone. “When I…When you…”

“When we kissed?” Darren finished for her.

“Yes.”

“I felt like this,” he said, pulling her to him. He put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his mouth to hers.

This time there was no accidental brushing of lips. He kissed her with everything he had, taking her mouth with gentle persuasion and making it his.

He kissed her until she swayed against him. She let her hands climb to his chest and link behind his back. Maybe they couldn’t indulge in anything too sexual in a public park, but foreplay could take all sorts of forms.

She reached for a grape and slipped it between his lips. “When we get home, you’ll get your real dessert.”

Dear Reader,

I don’t know about you, but I’m fascinated by those reality TV shows where people are in public dating contests to win the rich guy or gal. I always wonder about the men and women who are drawn to do that sort of thing. Naturally, as a writer, once you start wondering about people you begin to create characters who might find themselves in a certain situation. What if the “prize catch” was unwilling and had been manipulated into being a celebrity bachelor?

A theme that I explore a lot in my books is appearance versus reality. Most of us create images of ourselves that we project to the world. Sometimes these are very close to the “real” us and sometimes quite different. What if my celebrity bachelor ran away from his unwanted fame and chose a disguise that was a lot truer to who he really is? What if he ended up falling for a woman completely different to the woman he thought he wanted? And what if this one didn’t fall at his feet?

Darren and Kate were a lot of fun to write about. I hope you enjoy their story.

For info on my upcoming releases, contests and to join my e-mail fan group, come visit me at www.nancywarren.net.

Happy reading,

Nancy Warren

Underneath it All

Nancy Warren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

1

DARREN KAISER was literally on top of the world. He was chatting to one of the hottest-looking women—and there was stiff competition—at a rooftop cocktail reception in Manhattan.

“I’ll call you,” Darren Kaiser’s new friend, Serena, said, her shoulder-length blond hair swinging against athletically sculpted shoulders perfectly displayed in a clingy black halter dress. She leaned forward to give Darren a kiss that promised a lot more than phone conversation.

“You do that,” he said, giving her a kiss back that let her know he could keep up his end of whatever she had in mind. From the rooftop deck, all of New York City was laid out in noisy, sparkling splendor, far beneath the well-heeled feet of upwardly mobile twenty-and thirty-somethings.

He nodded to a couple of acquaintances, then decided he’d stayed long enough. He pulled out his cell phone to call his car service for a pickup, then slowed to redrape a sexy young woman’s shawl over her shoulder from whence it had dropped. She rewarded him with a blindingly white smile and an air kiss.

Not being much of an air-kisser himself, he winked at her and kept going.

Darren Kaiser loved being a single man in Manhattan. There were so many beautiful, smart, sexy women. He was crazy about the new female power-babes who were totally up-front about what they wanted, when they wanted it and with whom.

Especially when they wanted it with him.

He whistled as he left Studio 450, where the benefit for fibromyalgia was still in full swing. The benefit was a thinly veiled excuse for singles to check one another out. Darren was here on a corporate ticket paid for by Kaiser Image Makers, and he still felt as if he was working, since he was expected to hand out a few business cards and schmooze.

So, he’d schmoozed a beautiful woman. Or, more accurately, she’d schmoozed him. These days, a man didn’t even need to take a pen and paper with him to the dating-and-mating hunting grounds. If a woman was interested, she’d do what Serena had done—pull out her Palm Pilot and enter him into her database.

Thoughts of the sexy Serena almost made Darren contemplate blowing off work tonight. But he was anxious to get a few hours in—before his pseudo work in the morning. He’d found a glitch in the educational software program he was designing and he’d suddenly had an idea for how to fix it right about the time he sipped his first martini and chomped his first hors d’oeuvres.

He’d have bolted home right then, except that Serena had appeared with a toss of blond hair, an it’s-your-lucky-night smile and her hand extended.

He’d enjoyed chatting with her and exchanging speculative eye contact, enjoyed the first few steps of a dance he never tired of: the dance of seduction. Unlike the bulk of Manhattanites, old and young, she hadn’t wanted to talk exclusively about herself. Serena Ashcroft had seemed genuinely interested in him. His politics, his tastes in fashion, music, movies, clothes and women. Not being stupid, he’d described his ideal woman as someone a lot like Serena. He’d looked into her cool, patrician blue eyes and said, “My ideal woman is blonde, articulate, slim and sexy, and isn’t afraid to go after what she wants.” He leaned closer so he could smell her expensive scent. “Especially when what she wants is me.” She’d looked so enthralled with his answers he almost expected her to take notes.

Still whistling, he jumped into the black limo that pulled up just as he hit the pavement, wondering how long it would take Serena to call.

Serena was pale, blonde and patrician—the sort of woman whose ancestors had traveled over on the Mayflower. His forbears had come over steerage-class—if they hadn’t stowed away—on some overcrowded European steamer. Their first taste of America hadn’t been Plymouth Rock, but Ellis Island.

He felt his blood quicken as he challenged himself to prove to this sexy blonde that he was worthy. He loved a challenge.

As he’d expected, Serena called, not the next day, but the day after, and suggested they meet for a drink after work. And for the next couple of months, they got together sporadically. They never seemed able to coordinate their schedules for serious dating, but he was busy, anyway.

She was in publishing, she told him, and he imagined her editing the memoirs of famous men and women of letters. It was an occupation that would suit her.

A couple of times they were photographed by one or other of the paparazzi that hopped around the social scene like fleas. As a VP and son of the CEO of one of the hottest ad agencies in town, Darren was used to the attention, but usually tried to blow it off. Serena seemed to enjoy having her photo taken when they were together, however, so he put up and shut up, knowing that his father would get a thrill seeing the company name mentioned in print and his son’s picture in the paper.

Then, one warm late spring day, Darren discovered Serena had set him up.

The day started as it usually did. Tired from working too late the night before at his computer, he grabbed a java from the corner coffee shop he frequented on Madison Avenue half a block from his office.

He gulped the dark, liquid caffeine, hoping it would jump-start his sleep-deprived brain, as he tried to concentrate on today’s tasks. He was expecting focus-group results on a campaign for a new soda; he was increasing the TV buy for a sportswear manufacturer; and he was booked to have lunch with a prospective client.

The crowded elevator rose and let him out on his floor, the upper of the three levels that housed Kaiser Image Makers, which most people referred to simply as KIM.

“Congratulations, Darren,” said Angie, the receptionist, before answering a ringing phone.

He sent her a wave, wondering why she was offering kudos. Had he done something good? He tried to recall what it was. Hopefully it would be enough to please the old man.

Sure enough, when he got to his office, his father was standing in front of Darren’s gleaming white desk, his smile as glossy as the magazine in his hands. Was it Advertising Age? Positive industry buzz always excited his publicity hound of a father. But no, the magazine was a regular-size one with a young, dark-haired man on the cover. Must be some successful ad campaign that had his dad licking his chops.

“Hey, Dad. How’s it going?”

“Congratulations, son. I knew you didn’t turn out good-looking like your mother for nothing.” And his father, president, CEO and founder of KIM closed the magazine and thrust it toward Darren.

Darren stared at the cover, and the bottom of his stomach went into free fall. “What the…” His words felt sucked dry as though a vacuum hose had attacked his mouth, taking the breath out of his body.

The mug grinning up at him from the front cover of Matchmaker magazine—nationwide circulation in the millions—was his. And the headline over the top read, “Manhattan Match of the Year, Advertising Executive, Darren Kaiser.”

Darren flopped onto the black Bauhaus couch as his legs gave out on him.

“What…” He tried to pull air into his lungs, but they felt flattened. He tried again. “How did they…” Finally he reached out a hand. “Let me see that.”

His father chuckled as though he were Santa Claus and this was Christmas Eve. He was smoking a cigar, which his cardiologist had forbade him, and his laughter shook the seventy or so plus pounds he was supposed to shed.

“I wasn’t certain they’d pick you. But I was very persuasive.” His dad chuckled again, happier than Darren had seen him in months.

“Pick me for what?” Darren asked, knowing he didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Where have you been, boy? I keep telling you you’ve got to stay on top of popular media if you’re going to make it in advertising. This Match of the Year thing is huge. It’s like People’s Sexiest Man on Earth—which reminds me, we’ll have to send them some hints to look your way now you’re going to be so famous.”

The thought of conducting his love life in public made him nauseous.

“Darren, your mother and I want nothing more than to see you settle down and marry a nice girl. Now that the magazine has decided you’re a great catch, there’ll be all kinds of publicity. You could date royalty, movie stars. Anybody!”

“No.”

“I want grandchildren.”

“You’ll have to wait.”

“You don’t have to marry any of them if you don’t want to. You just play the game. You’ll be famous, KIM will be famous. Clients will pour out of the woodwork.”

“I am not putting my love life on display so you can make a few more million. No.”

“Think of the publicity. You’ll be photographed everywhere, you’ll get pretty girls proposing, all of America will be part of your courtship.” The old man’s eyes twinkled with excitement. “Think what the reality TV show did for that tire fellow.”

“They broke up.” A shudder shook Darren as he imagined his love life as a reality TV show. At least the magazine thing wasn’t that bad. Swiftly, his media-savvy brain assessed the damage as he tried to convince himself this Match of the Year pick wasn’t a total, life-altering disaster.

All at once the most obvious objection sprang to mind. “This is a nightmare. I can’t believe the media group that owns Matchmaker magazine would choose me without my knowledge or consent. I mean, this is an invasion of privacy right here. Where did they even get this picture?” He jabbed a finger at the photograph. “That was taken at our company’s annual general meeting last year.” He flipped a page angrily and saw an even worse sight. “And where the hell did they get my baby picture?” he yelled.

His father chuckled, sending out a puff of cigar smoke.

And in that moment he knew. “Dad.”

He and his father rarely saw eye to eye, but he’d never wanted to deck dear old dad until now. “You gave that photo to them. Didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. We wanted this to be a surprise. You weren’t the only possible candidate, you know. Men all over America would kill to be in your shoes.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“That pleasant young woman who’s the special-assignment editor for Matchmaker magazine. Serena Ashcroft. There’s a picture of the two of you together in the four-page spread.” Darren Kaiser Sr. jabbed his cigar toward the magazine. “You can’t buy that kind of publicity.”

Darren flipped none too gently through the pages until he saw even more photos of him at various events, with an assortment of women, including Serena of the big blue eyes and the “Oh, let’s talk about you,” conniving personality.

He’d talked, and she’d either recorded their conversations or she had a damn good memory. There he was, revealed in photographs and print in all his glory. His tastes in everything from music to restaurants laid out for all the world to dine on.

My ideal woman, jumped out at him. They’d displayed this little gem of wisdom in a text box with a larger type size.

My ideal woman is a blonde. She’s a professional woman who knows what she wants from life and isn’t afraid to go after it. Even if that something is me. She’s educated, intelligent, classy, but also very sexy.

Sweat was starting to dampen his brow and he felt like he might puke. He didn’t doubt he’d spouted that nonsense, but he’d never intended it for any ears but Serena’s.

A quick skim told him that there was a Web site where women could write in about themselves and why they would love to date Darren. Since the magazine pledged to do its best to fix him up with eligible women throughout the year, there would be updates about his dating habits, his preferences and his experiences with the opposite sex.

He was having trouble turning the pages and he realized even his fingertips had started to sweat.

“Darren,” his assistant, Jeanie, called breathlessly from his doorway. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got The Tonight Show people on line one and Entertainment Tonight holding on line two.”

“Wonderful. Wonderful,” said his father. “I’ll let you go, then.”

“Dad, what have you done?” Darren asked hoarsely.

“What our company does best, son. I’ve given you an image as the most eligible bachelor in America.”

KATE MONAHAN’S FEET ACHED, which wasn’t surprising since she’d been on them all day. She was halfway through her third twelve-hour shift at New Image, the salon where she worked, in as many days. But her younger brother, Huey, needed braces and she had her eye on a DKNY skirt and jacket that her bargain-hunter nose told her was headed for another markdown, so she tried to think about her bank balance and not her feet.

Graduation season was always a busy, and lucrative, time of year.

“So,” she said to her fourth high-school senior that day, “what are we doing?”

“I want it layered, you know, like Rachel in Friends.”

“Sure.”

“But with the fluttery bangs like Cameron Diaz in Charlie’s Angels. Not the first movie but the second one.”

“Aha.” She shifted feet, trying to get the ache out of her lower back. Her friend and co-worker, Ruby, breezed by and they exchanged a glance, but at least her friend didn’t say anything to make her laugh. With Ruby, you could never tell.

“And the same color as Julianne Moore, only more like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.”

“You’re going to dye your hair for grad?”

It never failed to amaze Kate what these girls’ mothers let them get away with.

“Yep. Well, like your hair. What color is that?” the teenager with perfectly attractive brown hair asked her with a squint that was assessing. “Mocha berry or copper glitz?”

Kate grabbed a fistful of the mass of curls that no styling product, blow dryer or curling iron could ever entirely tame. “It’s red, and it’s the color God gave me.”

“Well, God gave me this boring brown and I want to look as hot as you when I graduate.”

Kate sent soon-to-graduate Bethany off to be shampooed and quickly phoned the girl’s mother to make sure it was okay about the color. Anything she wants, was the answer.

At eighteen. Imagine.

Ruby stopped her and said, “Tell that girl that Ashton Kutcher has cuter bangs. And no haircut or dye job is going to make her look like Julia Roberts.”

She stifled a giggle, but Ruby was right. Still, it didn’t hurt to put a little magic in a young woman’s life. She’d do what she could.

Once she had Bethany settled under the dryer, she passed her a sheaf of current magazines, and the brunette, soon-to-be-redhead immediately chose a well-thumbed copy of Matchmaker magazine.

“If I could marry him,” the girl said, pointing a freshly manicured index finger at the photo on the cover, “I’d be set for life.”

Kate gazed at the man’s picture. “Darren Kaiser, Matchmaker’s Match of the Year,” she read, staring at the man deemed so eligible women would go to humiliating lengths to marry him.

Darren Kaiser had playboy written all over him. He had Brad Pitt blond hair, a little long and with just a hint of a curl at the ends. It looked as though each strand had been individually groomed to provide that tousled disorder. He had the sensual face of a man who likes women and usually gets whatever he wants from them. His lips tilted in a smile that was only going through the motions—there was no genuine warmth. Beautiful eyes, she thought, but cynical. He wore a suit, and even though only the shoulders were visible in the picture, she was certain the clothes on his back cost more than her mother spent to feed her family for a year.

Yes, she thought, he was good-looking in a smooth, slick sort of way, but she didn’t see a real man in the photo. More like a perfect image of one.

“He’s a hottie,” sighed her client.

“He looks altogether too full of himself. And those rich men—” Kate shook her head “—what would they want with the likes of us? We’d end up picking up their socks and propping up their egos. Bethany, take my advice and find yourself a decent man who cares about you. Leave the boy millionaires to marry girl millionaires.”

She glanced at the photo of Brian she’d taped to her station. He was so different from the glossy fellow with the perfect smile. Things had been a bit weird lately between her and her boyfriend, but she thought it was because they were both so busy right now. Brian would never be a magazine cover’s idea of the ideal bachelor, but he was a down-to-earth man with a steady job in banking who shared her basic values.

He was ambitious, too, which was good. Having grown up with a widowed mother and four brothers and sisters, lack of money was all too familiar. Kate appreciated an ambitious man with a steady job. Besides, with all his training and knowledge, Brian was investing her money for her so she could achieve her dreams more quickly.

She glanced at the about-to-graduate teen glued to the story of a fantasy man and shook her head. No glossy hunk on a magazine cover was going to drop into their lives and provide the happily-ever-after.

2

“I QUIT!” Darren yelled, almost as red-faced as his father. “I can’t take this anymore. Women are waiting outside my co-op when I leave in the morning. Women are hanging around outside the office with signs written in lipstick reading, “Choose me!”

“You’re exag—”

“I’ve been propositioned, stalked, proposed to about three thousand times. This morning the doorman handed me a woman’s bra with a phone number on it.”

“It’s the excitement of the magazine, son.” His father tried to sound sympathetic, but he was as gleeful as a boy with a new Hot Wheels set. “A few months from now they’ll have forgotten all about you.”

“Not if you can help it,” he mumbled.

“We’ll hire you a bodyguard,” his dad replied.

“I don’t want a bodyguard. I want my life back.”

In fact, what he wanted was his life. His own life. Forget the family business, he wanted to succeed or fail on his own terms. Doing something he loved a lot more than creating artificial “need” in the marketplace for products anyone could live without.

“Our business has gone way up in the past week. Think of what this could mean.”

“No. Dad. I’m thinking about me. I love programming, it’s what I want to do with my life. Face it, I’m a computer geek and I don’t belong in advertising. I’m quitting. As of now.”

Their voices were rising, but Darren didn’t care. He’d inherited his temper from his father, if nothing else.

Just as angry, his father shouted, “You walk out that door, young man, and you can’t change your mind.”

“I won’t.” Darren strode across the room but hesitated at the doorway of his dad’s plush office, feeling not so much fear for his own future, but worry that his father couldn’t cope without him. He was about to speak when he heard some sort of commotion down the hall in the direction of his own office.

He turned and swallowed an expletive. There was a camera crew in front of his office, and damned if they weren’t filming some woman, some complete and utter stranger, leaving a dozen red roses outside his door. She was talking all the time, her face toward the camera so the flowers almost got knocked to the floor.

Oh, no. This had gone far enough. His dad had turned his life and his job into a joke. He’d become, not an ad exec, but a product to be marketed. The hell with it. Kaiser Image Makers would survive without Darren.

And Darren was going to be fine without Kaiser.

But before he left, he was going to give that woman and the cameraman a piece of his mind. Angrily, he made his way toward them. Instead of looking guilty and hurrying away, the woman with the roses, beamed a thousand-watt smile his way, then shouted into the camera, “There he is!”

She picked up the roses, yelled, “These are for you, Darren Kaiser. I love you,” and headed his way, hampered by her red stilettos and body-hugging red dress. She was followed by a skinny guy in a Knicks shirt balancing a TV camera on his shoulder.

In a moment of horror, Darren realized that unless he disappeared fast, whatever happened next would be filmed. He abandoned his plans to dress down the camera guy and the misguided woman. He abandoned any thoughts of standing his ground.

He turned on his heel and ran.

KIM employees stood in the hallway, mesmerized, until Darren yelled, “Out of my way,” and set a world sprinting record racing for the stairwell.

He was out of here.

Running on instinct, he tore down several flights of stairs, spurred by the sounds of pursuit far above. Then he abruptly stopped and, as quietly as possible, opened the door to the twelfth floor and the law offices of Stoat, Remington, Bryce, where his buddy Bart worked. Since the receptionist knew him, she motioned him to go on through.

“You never saw me,” he panted, and, ignoring her startled expression, kept going, racing through the hallowed halls of the law offices to seek temporary shelter with his old friend.

Stumbling into Bart’s office without knocking, he shut the door, put his sunglasses on and borrowed the Yankees baseball cap Bart kept hanging on his wall along with a signed pennant. Then he slouched low in the leather club chair Bart kept for office visitors.

“Drop in anytime,” Bart said as he watched Darren.

“I’m in trouble.”

“Hey,” Bart complained, as Darren tugged on the cap. “You can’t wear that! You’re a Giants fan.”

“I’m in serious trouble, Bart.” Darren panted, expecting any second to hear the sounds of that crazy female after him like a baying hound after a juicy fox.

“You have to help me.”

As well as being a good friend, Bart was a dedicated lawyer. He immediately assumed an air of concern. “You did the right thing coming here. What’s up?”

“I quit my job just now and I have to get out of town. Go far away where no one has ever heard of Matchmaker.”

Bart’s expression of concern was replaced with one of hastily suppressed amusement. “Is that what your trouble is?”

“Yes! It’s that magazine.”

“I don’t want to make your day any worse, old buddy, but you’re everywhere. It’s not just the magazine. It’s the Internet, chat groups, newspapers and on the TV. You, my friend, are news.”

“I need to stop being news. Damn it, I never agreed to be Match of the Year. I want to sue Matchmaker Enterprises or whatever they call themselves, Bart.”

“What for?”

“You’re my lawyer. Aren’t you supposed to advise me? How about defamation of character? Harassment? Libel?”

“Buddy, they aren’t defaming you when they call you God’s gift to women. It’s supposed to be a compliment.”

“I can’t even live in peace in my own home. I’m being mobbed, stalked. Women I don’t know give me their bras. Mary Jane Lancer proposed.” He’d known Mary Jane for years. Their fathers belonged to the same club. She was part of his social circle, but there never had been a hint of attraction between them until the bachelor thing.

A rich chuckle answered him. “Harassment. Hmm. There are men all over America who would kill to be in your shoes. You’d only make a fool of yourself.”

There was a long pause. Darren waited while Bart drummed his fingers on his blotter, obviously deep in thought.

“But libel, now you’ve got something. Let’s see, I just happen to have a copy of the magazine.” He twirled his chair and found the hated magazine in a stack of papers and flipped it open. “Ah, here it is. They called you rich, good-looking and intelligent. Man, we can sue for millions.”

Darren’s heart sank. “Okay, very funny. So what do I do?”

“My best advice is to go with the flow. Have fun with it. Make your father’s company a few more millions. Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame and kiss a bunch of gorgeous women. Seriously, have you seen the babes who go for stuff like this? Be the rich boy all the girls want to marry. It’ll be over in a year and long before that somebody else will be news.”

“You don’t get it. It’s not just me being a minor celebrity and that’s it. A week ago I was a happy single man living a wonderful single life. I was a New York bachelor. One of millions. Now I’m some freakin’ great catch and no one but no one thinks I should remain a happy bachelor.”

He paused to take a breath and a quick check outside Bart’s office. So far he seemed safe.

“In the past week, I have been proposed to by girls with braces, women old enough to be my mother, loonies, the lonely, the desperate, and even women I thought were my friends, Like Mary Jane Lancer.” That, he thought, had been the worst. “It’s like they’re trying to snap me up before any other woman gets a chance.”

Bart started to chuckle. “Let me get this straight. Are you telling me you don’t want women all over the country throwing themselves at you? Is that what I’m hearing?”

“Yes! I told Serena Ashcroft I won’t cooperate. They should admit they made a mistake and find someone else. She told me to think about it. No hurry. I told her I won’t change my mind and she laughed.”

“I’m sure they would stop writing about you if you won’t cooperate. They have the right to choose you as the most eligible bachelor, though. You can’t stop them loving you.”

“I don’t know. She’s a devious woman. Who knows what she’s planning? I can’t stand it anymore.”

Bart shrugged. “Do what movie stars do when they want some privacy. Hide. Lay low somewhere until this blows over.”

“Hide?”

“Sure. If you insist on trying to avoid publicity, why don’t you pretend you’re in the Witness Protection Program? Find a new locale, a new identity. Maybe a disguise.”

Bart had enjoyed a brief spell of fame in college as an actor. Particularly memorable had been his Falstaff. Truly a method actor, he’d become roaring drunk every night for weeks before the performance in order to prepare for the role. He’d been good, too. Except that his brain had been so alcohol-saturated and his hangover so severe, that he’d forgotten half his lines on opening night.

What Bart was suggesting was that Darren run away. He’d never been the type to run from his problems, but suddenly it seemed as though he were being offered freedom, the likes of which he’d never known.

He sat up, slipping his sunglasses down his nose so he could regard his friend more clearly. “If I hide out somewhere, I can take some time to work on my own stuff.” Not having to sneak in his real work at night would be incredible. He had some money saved up, and if he sold his BMW he would have some decent cash quickly, enough to live on for a while. He could probably finish his line of software programs in less than a year.

“Right. You’re the next Bill Gates. I forgot.”

Darren didn’t bother to correct him. He had one line of educational software he was developing to help kids read. His younger brother Eric had a symbol-retrieval problem and he’d found a way to help him by writing a simple program. Eric was now studying engineering at college—and the fact that he’d made the difference in his younger bro’s life gave him a lot more pride and satisfaction than his most successful day at the family firm. Now he wanted to see if he could create a more elaborate program that might help other kids like his brother.

Maybe his program wouldn’t cure cancer, but helping kids overcome learning hurdles felt more useful to him than getting some KIM client’s brand of deodorant up two percentage points in the marketplace.

“Okay. But you’ve got to help me.”

Bart grinned. “You have come to the right place,” he said, almost rubbing his hands with glee. “You’re one of the most famous faces in America. But, my man, we’re about to change all that.” Bart, the sometime actor, rose majestically from behind his desk and gestured. “Follow me,” he said. After a surreptitious glance up and down the hallway, they surmised the coast was clear, then took the elevator to the main floor.

After hiding in the back seat while Bart drove them out of the building’s car park, Darren wondered how famous people handled celebrity. He felt hunted, and the baseball cap and dark glasses, not to mention the Brooks Brothers suit, weren’t helping him blend in with the crowd.

They ended up in a drugstore, where Bart pondered a row of Miss Clairol boxes. “You want to blend in with the locals, but look completely different from how you look now. Where are you going, anyway?”

Maybe it was the throwaway comment about Bill Gates, but it made up Darren’s mind. “Seattle.”

“That’s a long way away.”

“Exactly. I don’t know anyone there, I’ve no reason to go. Hell, I was only there once for a weekend. No one will think to look for me in Seattle.”

Bart picked up a box of dark brown hair dye.

“What are we doing in the girl aisle?”

“Women’s hair dye doesn’t last as long as the men’s stuff,” Bart explained, reading the instructions on the box as though he might actually need them.

“I’m not dying my hair.”

“Do you want to disappear or don’t you?”

“Yes. But…” He stared at the box. “If I wear Miss Clairol, I might as well pierce my ears and wear pink golf shirts.”

Bart snapped his fingers. “Now, that’s a great—”

“Forget it.”

“Listen, here’s some advice from a once potentially great actor. If you want to become a character, you step into his shoes and into his skin.”

“And into their hair dye. Yeah. I’ve got it.”

“It’s not just his hair. It’s the whole persona. What we’re doing is building a character. Who is this man who’s going to appear in Seattle? We’ll start with the hair and see where it goes.”

A woman glanced at them curiously and then picked up a box with a picture of a blonde on it.

Darren stood there surrounded by women’s hair-styling products, wondering how his life had ever come to this. Finally, he pulled out his wallet and handed Bart a twenty.

“You’re buying it.”

Two hours later, they were at Bart’s place and his damp hair was now brown. Darren couldn’t believe how it changed his appearance. His skin tone seemed lighter, his eyes darker.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Bart, who was getting right into this dye-your-hair and dress-up thing. “You really are a computer geek, and you’ll be living in Silicon Valley north, so why not dress like one? It’s the perfect disguise.”

“What, you mean wear plastic pocket protectors and plaid weenie shirts?”

“Too much?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay. The trick is to keep people’s attention off your face. I’ve got some black thick-framed glasses from when I played Willy Loman. They’d be perfect. The hair, baseball caps, those will help. But I’m thinking wild shirts like boarders wear. Loud, casual and cheap.” His buddy laughed and then clapped him on the back.

“Geek chic.”

Darren snorted. But he kind of liked the idea. Who’d look for him under a loud shirt? He’d never owned such a thing in his life.

“Okay,” he said, knowing he couldn’t pass up this opportunity to escape being marriage bait and at the same time follow his private dream. “I’ll do it.”

“Great.” Bart dug in a drawer for a pair of kitchen shears. “Now, hold still,” he said, and picked up a lump of Darren’s still-damp hair.

“I paid two hundred bucks to have my hair cut two weeks ago,” Darren informed his old buddy.

“Welcome to the world of—hey, what are you going to call yourself?” Bart asked as he started cutting.

KATE MONAHAN SAT AT HER kitchen table with her calculator and her monthly budget. She had the pleasant feeling of being ahead of her target.

She’d worked a lot of extra shifts to get here, but knowing her investment account with Brian’s bank was growing, and that soon she’d be able to follow her life-long dream and enroll in teacher’s college, had her beaming.

She heard the broken cement at the end of the duplex’s driveway rattle as a car rolled in. The landlord was too cheap to fix the drive, or much else, but the rent was reasonable so she didn’t complain. She wondered if this could be the new tenant moving in upstairs, and got up to look out the window.

She hoped it would be someone as friendly as the last tenant, Annie.

Kate went to the kitchen window and peeked out. Well, it was a guy moving in. Annie had been a fun-loving flight attendant—a girl after Kate’s heart—and the house had been more like a single home than a duplex. But Annie had been transferred to Denver. Somehow, Kate didn’t think this guy and she were going to be watching old movies together and sharing bowls of popcorn, or borrowing shoes and jackets.

He got out of a nondescript beige compact that had seen better days and glanced around as though suspecting he might have been followed.

The guy was tall, and he stretched his back as though he’d been driving a long time, pulled off the baseball cap he wore low over his eyes and scratched his scalp. He had dark brown hair in a cut his barber ought to be ashamed of, glasses with thick black frames on a pleasant, strong-boned face. He looked sort of familiar, though she was certain they’d never met. But it was hard to concentrate on his face when he was wearing such a wild shirt. Bright red, with big white flowers. The shirt was open to expose a white T-shirt that was soft from many washings. He wore creased cargo shorts and navy flip flops.

Shoving the cap back on his head, he popped open the trunk and pulled out a computer keyboard and a cardboard box with computer-type stuff sticking out and started toward the outside stairs that led up to his suite. Suddenly, he stopped, his gaze focusing on her kitchen window.

Her hair. It must be her wretched hair that had caught his attention. She’d thought she was hiding behind her curtains, but obviously he’d caught sight of her.

Well, she’d have to introduce herself now.

She opened the kitchen door and stepped out. “Hi,” she said, with a friendly smile.

He nodded. Not smiling. Not speaking. Looking at her as though she might be an assassin sent to kill him. Oh, great. He looked like a cross between a California surfer boy and a computer nerd, and was paranoid to boot.

He stepped past her and kept going toward the stairs. “I’m Kate,” she said. “I live downstairs. If you need anything—”

The upstairs door opened and then slammed shut.

3

OH, NO. Kate groaned when she saw the note taped to the washing machine. Now what?

“Occupant of Apartment B,” the note was headed.

Plunking her overflowing laundry basket on the floor, Kate ripped the scrap of paper from under the tape. The sight of the cramped black scrawl annoyed her even before she read the note.

Occupant of Apartment B,

Please don’t leave your clothes in the washer.

Thank you.

D. Edgar. (Occupant of Apartment A)

“Now, what’s his problem?” Kate grumbled, her words echoing off the gray cement walls of the duplex’s laundry room.

Glancing around, she quickly spotted the problem and uttered a cry of distress. On top of the dryer was a tangled, limp mess of pink and white. She recognized the remains of her brand new satin camisole, which had started life a sexy deep red. The camisole snaked around a pair of formerly white men’s briefs that blushed furiously at the intimacy.

Just before breakfast she had carefully put the camisole on to wash in cold water and mild soap. Occupant A had obviously thrown in his clothes without checking that the washer was empty and cranked up the hot water.

And goodbye to last month’s clothing treat.

Kate held the limp, twisted fabric up to her body and sighed. The pitiful remains of the camisole hardly covered her full breasts. It had shrunk as well as run, ruined beyond hope.

Screwing the camisole into a ball, she hurled it at the trash. “Jerk,” she muttered. Tossing back her hair, she poked her tongue at the ceiling, in the general direction of her brand-new upstairs neighbor.

Furiously she stuffed her laundry—bright reds, greens, blues, purples and dramatic blacks—into the washer and cranked the water setting back to cold. Should she stand here in the laundry room until her load was done? Computer brain might blow a circuit if he came in and discovered she’d started washing laundry and left it again.

Kate had known in her heart she wouldn’t be lucky enough to get another Annie for a neighbor, but she had hoped for someone compatible.

What she’d got was the biggest jerk on the planet.

Now he was messing with her clothes. And, instead of apologizing, he was blaming her for his own mistake.

Picking up his blotchy pink briefs, she shook them at the ceiling.

“If you think I’m taking this, you need to learn a thing or two about Occupant of Apartment B.”

She had to live here, but she didn’t have to put up with a rude and unpleasant neighbor. Since he’d ignored her initial greeting, they hadn’t seen each other again. She was working more hours than not, and he never seemed to leave his apartment.

The slammed door was bad enough, but no way she was putting up with snarky correspondence in the laundry room. But how should she send the man a message that she wasn’t to be messed with?

A cold note like his wasn’t going to have enough impact. Kate paused, still holding the formerly white discount-store briefs, and an idea hit her. She knew how to send him the message. A glance at her watch told her she had just enough time.

She was still smiling when she pushed through the doors of the department store and sailed toward Men’s Wear. Shirts, ties, T-shirts, socks—her gaze roamed the aisles until she spotted what she was searching for.

As she entered the department, she felt uncomfortable. Did nice girls buy underwear for men they’d never met?

“Can I help you?” The young male voice stopped her in her tracks. Lunging toward a pile of woolen socks, Kate grabbed a pair of scratchy gray knee-highs and turned, pinning a bright smile on her face.

“No thanks, just looking around.”

The clerk was a pimply faced boy, likely not out of his teens, and his eyes bulged when she faced him. His protuberant gaze reminded her how tight her fuchsia tank was—maybe she should have bought the large, after all—and how short her black skirt.

“Well.” The word came out like a squeak. He flushed and tried again. “If you want anything, let me know. I’ll be, like, you know…here.”

Her own embarrassment evaporated in a smile. “Thanks,” she said casually, sifting through the socks until he moved away.

She slunk around, feeling as guilty as though she were planning to rob the place, until there was no sign of customer or clerk, then sidled into the racks of briefs, where she lost her embarrassment in the joy of the hunt.

Scanning the rows of possibilities, she was drawn first to a pair with a deep blue background dotted with perky sunshine-yellow happy faces.

No, she decided, too happy.

Then she almost succumbed to a pair of designer bikinis emblazoned with red-and-white hearts—one prominent red heart centered in the front—but heaven forbid the jerk should think she was coming on to him.

At last, she spotted them—a pair of deep burgundy bikinis adorned with ivory-colored Rubenesque cherubs. She chuckled aloud. They were more expensive than anything with so little fabric should be, but the delicious sense of revenge was worth it.

Disguising the briefs under a pair of the gray socks, Kate wandered surreptitiously out of Men’s Wear and kept walking until she found a pay station with a female cashier.

She was running late for her shift by the time she returned home from the mall so she ran into the laundry room, propped the designer briefs on the dryer and penned a quick note:

Dear Occupant of Apartment A,

Tell your mother this is what men wear nowadays.

These are on me. (Crossed out).

These are for you.

Please look in washer before you add clothes next time.

K. Monahan (Occupant of Apartment B)

CURIOSITY TUGGED HER to the laundry room the next morning. A basket of clean towels was her cover, in case Occupant A happened to be there. She was dying to see whether or not he had picked up his new briefs.

They were gone. In their place on top of the dryer was a gold-and-white box embossed with the name of Seattle’s most expensive lingerie shop.

Intrigued, Kate walked over to it. She didn’t see a note. Putting down the basket of towels, she removed the cover from the box. Inside, even the gold-and-white tissue was printed with the store’s name. Very classy. She breathed in the scent of roses emitted by the rustling tissue as she dug into the box.

A gleam of palest cream-colored silk peeked out. She stroked it softly before withdrawing an exquisite camisole embroidered with dainty peach rosettes. The tag told her what she had already guessed, the garment was pure silk. Even without a price sticker, Kate knew this camisole was far more costly than the red polyester satin it was replacing. The garment tag also told her it was the correct size.

How could Occupant A have guessed? She stood for a moment, horrified to think he’d checked out her body while blowing her off.

She stood frowning, caressing the soft silk thoughtfully until she remembered the discarded camisole in the trash can. Sure enough, when she picked it up she saw the size label had been neatly snipped off. He’d thought of everything. Maybe he was trying to say he was sorry? She rubbed the soft fabric against her cheek and then noticed the note in the box.

Dear Occupant of Apartment B,

This is what women of taste have always worn.

D. Edgar (Occupant of Apartment A)

Kate felt a sharp pang of hurt. Women of taste. How classy that sounded.

Women of taste didn’t grow up in her neighborhood fighting with four other siblings for a few minutes in the bathroom in the morning. Women of taste had hours to bathe and scent themselves before stepping into their silk lingerie. Kate was probably the only one in her family who owned lingerie—even if it was only polyester.

And what did Occupant A know about women of taste? Him with his too-bright shirts and horrendous hair? In the week since he’d moved in, the only company he’d had was that computer of his.

Who did he think he was to insult her like this?

Kate had an Irish temper to match her auburn hair and green eyes, and it blazed into life in a sudden rage. A veil of red shimmered before her gaze as she snatched up the camisole and marched up the outside stairs.

She was banging on the door of Apartment A in no time, ready to explode. She could hardly stand still; phrases she would say to him bubbled madly in her boiling anger.

The door opened.

Before Occupant A could say a word, Kate threw the silk camisole in his face.

It snagged on his glasses, hanging like a tassel on a life-size loser lamp.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” she shouted.

His eyes widened.

“How dare you…” she spluttered, looking at the badly dressed, slouching, bespectacled figure in front of her.

“How dare you—you suggest I don’t have taste. When I need tips on how to dress from a surfer boy comic strip I’ll ask you!”

He opened his mouth to speak but she kept on shouting.

“I happen to work in a beauty salon. It contains the word beauty, which is something you don’t know the first thing about. I have plenty of taste and not…not…computer chips for brains.”

“I—”

Kate drew a shuddering breath and raised her hand to shake her forefinger in his face. “Furthermore, I hate your attitude and your rude behavior and your stupid notes and I think you owe me an apology because—”

“You’re right.” The words were quiet and calm.

She’d expected a shouting match and the quiet words caught her off guard.

Occupant A had taken off his glasses in order to unsnag the camisole, which seemed to be caught in the hinge. He looked down, fiddling.

“What?” she shrieked.

A pair of clear gray eyes met hers ruefully. “I said, ‘You’re right.’ I was out of line.” He sighed, his face wrinkling as though in pain. “I apologize.”

All Kate could think was what a shame it was that such beautiful eyes were wasted on a jerk who covered them up with glasses and stared at a computer monitor all day.

With a nod that sent her dangling earrings swinging, she said, “Well, okay. No more nasty notes.”

“It was a stupid thing to do,” he agreed.

His voice was a surprise. Deep and rich, with an upper-crust East Coast accent.

Kate drew a long breath. She’d expected a battle. Adrenaline pumped through her body. She’d been ready to rant and rave and throw things.

His unexpected apology took the wind out of her sails, leaving her stalled on his doorstep, with no anger to push her on. Her rages were always over as suddenly as they began, and in the calm aftermath she felt a little foolish. She backed up a couple of steps and, taking another shaky breath, suddenly smiled.

“I’m sorry, too, if my temper led me to say anything I shouldn’t have.”

When she smiled at him she noticed his eyes widen in shock and he shoved the now-freed glasses back on his face.

She turned to leave.

“Wait.”

She glanced back.

He was holding out the camisole. “Please keep this.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. It’s much too expensive.” It occurred to her that this man didn’t know you could buy inexpensive camisoles at any department store, as she had. He must think you had to go to a lingerie store, or one of those fancy catalogs. “You could return it.”

He straightened from his careless slouch and looked down at her. He was surprisingly tall when he stood upright, over six feet. “I’m not going to take it back. If you accept it I’ll know you’re not still mad at me.”

Something in his voice, a trace of command, made her reach out to take the wisp of silk from him. “All right,” she agreed softly. “It’s beautiful. Thanks.”

Feeling even more foolish, she turned once again to leave.

“Maybe we should set up a schedule?”

Puzzled, she turned back. “A schedule?”

“For the laundry. If each of us has assigned laundry days, we won’t have a problem in future.”

Kate thought of Annie and her in the laundry room together chatting, throwing their jeans and socks together to make up a load. It used to be so much fun. She sighed. “Sure.”

“I’ll put something together on my computer. Do you have a preference?”

“I don’t know anything about computers.”

He grinned. She was amazed to see he could grin. “I meant days of the week.”

“Oh, of course. Well, I work different shifts. I’m busiest on the weekends and usually not so busy midweek.”

“I can work with that.” He cleared his throat. “Um.” He seemed to be struggling. Finally he held out his hand. “My name’s Dean Edgar.”

“Kate Monahan.” She grasped the outstretched hand, which clasped hers with warm strength. She glanced up in surprise.

He pulled his hand back as though she’d given him an electric shock. Then suddenly he was gone, back into his apartment like a gopher diving down into its burrow.

She shook her head as she walked slowly down the steps. He was a strange one, all right. But she didn’t think she’d have any more trouble with him, now she’d let him know she was not to be messed with.

He was even kind of cute when you got past the hair and the wardrobe.

And there was that odd tug of familiarity. It was surprising, but she worked on a lot of men in the salon. He probably looked like one of her clients.

Not that any of her clients would ever leave her chair with their hair like that.

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