By Invitation Only

by Wilde, Lori; Etherington, Wendy; Burns, Jillian

  A stone-faced security guard glanced at her, and then did a double take. “Ms. Addison?” His brows drew together.

  Breath short and hands shaking, Peyton channeled her I’m-a-star-and-you’re-not attitude, strode up the steps and brushed past the guard with a small smile and a wave.

  The guard gave her a confused nod, then his gaze darted behind her. “Invitation, sir?” he asked, dismissing Peyton.

  That was it? She’d done it! Suz had been right. Her assistant had sworn that with the right blond wig, some makeup and designer clothes Peyton could pass for the Holly Addison: movie star and celebrity bride of the “wedding of the century.”

  Striding through the revolving doors, Peyton glanced over her shoulder to see the man from the red car pulling a cream envelope from his shorts pocket. If only lowly language professors received invitations to celebrity weddings. Then she wouldn’t have been reduced to this.

  Peyton stopped in the glass-ceilinged lobby and let out a shaky breath. Now all she had to do was find a restroom, remove the wig and then she could hunt for Mr. Prescott unnoticed.

  Squinting to see her surroundings clearly, she dug her glasses from her bag and slipped them on, and the world came back into focus. She scanned the area in several directions. Surely there was a ladies’ room close by. Her gaze stopped at the escalator leading from the second level.

  Holly Addison—the real Holly Addison—was headed straight for her!

  The movie star hadn’t seen her yet, but Peyton’s mind blanked.

  Come on, Monahan, think! She hadn’t flown this far just to get thrown out now. Should she yank off the wig and brave Holly and her entourage? But she had her hair pinned up inside an old stocking. Or should she turn her back and hope she wouldn’t get noticed? With this long, silver-blond hair? What could she hide behind? The potted palms? Too short and thin.

  The man from the red car sauntered past, headed toward the registration desk. Before she had time to consider the consequences, she threw her arms around the guy’s neck. “Darling! I’ve been waiting for you.”

  The man stiffened beneath her arms.

  She heard Holly speaking as she approached. “I don’t care. It’s my wedding and everyone should wear whatever I want them to.”

  The gorgeous guy glanced at Holly, and Peyton maneuvered him around until his large frame hid her from view. The longest second of her life ensued waiting to see if he would shove her away and call security.

  But instead, he slid his arms around her waist and flashed a wicked grin. “Sweetie! Sorry I was late.” He swooped down and covered her mouth with his.

  Wide-eyed, she almost pulled away, but his lips moved over hers so softly, so sensually. Her body was melting and she opened her lips to him and—then his were gone.

  Incredulous, she stared up at him.

  One sandy brow rose as if challenging her to complain. His soft musky cologne filled her nostrils and sent an image of sweaty nights on cool sheets straight to her brain. And affected other parts she’d feared had amnesia. But no, they were alive and…remembering very well.

  The Greek god in her arms watched the now-disappearing Holly and her entourage, and then returned his attention to Peyton. “That was fun, but now you need to convince me not to call security.” Without warning, he pulled her wig off. The stocking and pins came off with it and her dark brown hair tumbled down in a tangled mess.

  “Hey!” Peyton scowled and reached for the wig, but he moved it behind his back. She folded her arms across her chest. “So I wear a Holly Addison wig. That’s not against the law.”

  “No, but stalking is. Tell me I didn’t just help some psycho fan crash this wedding.”

  She clicked her tongue with disgust. “Of course it’s nothing like that. I—I’m—I was hired to impersonate Holly as part of the entertainment for tonight.”

  He moved close. “Then why were you hiding from the real Holly Addison?”

  “I—I’m supposed to be a surprise.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked up and his gaze had lowered to her lips and then to her. Under his intense scrutiny her nipples tightened and her breathing hitched. Wow. That had happened with a man exactly never in her life. She looked up into golden-brown eyes filled with the knowledge of her body’s reaction to him.

  “Why don’t you convince me over drinks?”

  “Drinks?”

  His lips curved in a slow smile. “That’s the going rate for my silence.”

  He wanted to have drinks with her? Guess Suz had been right about men being easily attracted by cleavage. Unfortunately, Peyton had missed Feminine Wiles 101 by spending her formative years in her boarding school’s library.

  “Look. I assure you I have no violent intentions against anyone, so feel free to enjoy the festivities with a clear conscience.”

  “Smile.” He pulled out his cell phone and snapped her photo, and then he crossed his arms and waited.

  He had her picture now, and he seemed to have no compunctions about calling a guard to have her thrown out if she couldn’t convince him she was harmless. She smiled and tried batting her lashes. “I guess one drink wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Good.” His beautiful white teeth flashed in a smile so stunning, Peyton could only stare. “I’m Quinn Smith, by the way.” He extended his hand, offering her back the wig.

  Quinn. The name suited him. His face was a study in anthropological perfection, with a Roman nose and strong chin. And he was just unshaven enough to make his sensual lips stand out. His dark blond hair was cut short yet tousled enough to give it a just-ran-his-hands-through-it look.

  But Mr. Smith was at this wedding because he was either a celebrity friend of Holly Addison’s or a very rich friend of the groom, J. D. Maynard, heir to the wealthiest oil and ranch tycoon in Texas. Smith might as well have Spoiled Playboy stamped on his forehead.

  “And you are?”

  She realized she’d never taken the wig and grabbed it. She’d been too busy gawking at the man. “Peyton M-Miller.” Inwardly, she cringed. Really, Monahan? A false last name? It’s not as if she had a criminal record.

  “All right, Peyton Miller.” He checked an expensive-looking watch on his left wrist. “They’re serving a buffet dinner on the terrace at six.” He scooped up his garment bag where it had fallen and hitched the strap over his shoulder. “Meet me there in an hour.”

  The terrace. An hour. Smiling her promise, she nodded.

  Smith narrowed his eyes at her, and then sauntered off to the registration desk.

  She let out a relieved breath. With any luck, in an hour she’d be back in a taxi on her way to the airport. Now, to carry out part two of her plan: find Mr. Edward Prescott. Unfortunately, she had no idea what he looked like. Stuffing the wig into her tote, she pulled out the only picture she had of him, found when she’d looked up Prescott Industries on Google. The Google image was at least a decade old.

  Owner and CEO of one of the United States’ largest manufacturing conglomerates, Edward Q. Prescott was a New Jersey magnate, and an alumnus and patron of Princeton. He’d funded past excavations back when her father had run the Archaeology Department, but the last few years Prescott had become a recluse. No one in academic circles had seen him or been able to contact him.

  Then, her department chair had heard through the university grapevine that Prescott would be attending the Maynard/Addison wedding. Thank the stars for gossipy secretaries. It seemed the groom’s father, Maynard Sr., was a powerful enough business associate to force Prescott out of seclusion.

  It was only a rumor, but Peyton was desperate enough to take the chance. All the other possible patrons had been hit by the economic downturn, and the Mexican government had offers from several other universities. If she couldn’t come up with the financial backing soon, she’d lose her bid to locate the hidden codices. And possibly her career along with it.

  Where to start? This hotel was larger than some small towns. There were a half dozen restaurants, a casino, three poo
ls and an entire level dedicated to shopping. After scanning the lobby in the vain hope the CEO would suddenly materialize, Peyton grabbed her cell phone from the tote, dialed the hotel’s registration desk and asked for Mr. Prescott’s room.

  “One moment, please,” the woman said.

  Peyton closed her eyes. Come on. Be there.

  “I’m sorry, no Mr. Prescott has checked in.”

  “Thank you.” Peyton closed her phone. She’d already sent the man three letters and called his office dozens of times. All without any reply. But he was the only one who hadn’t given her a definite no. She only wanted a chance to make her case in person.

  She made her way to a set of sofas with a view of the hotel’s entrance, and waited. He had to show up soon. Didn’t he?

  QUINN RODE THE ELEVATOR up to the correct floor and stepped into his room as if on autopilot. He couldn’t get the brazen brunette out of his mind.

  There’d been a time in his life when risking arrest had come as naturally as breathing. It had taken facing five-to-ten in the state pen to convince him he might want to explore other options. But there still lurked a part of him that needed the rush of breaking the rules and damn the consequences.

  And, it seemed, he’d found a kindred spirit.

  He had a lot of questions for Peyton Miller. Like, what would she have done if he’d called security?

  Maybe he shouldn’t have trusted that she would meet him in an hour, but he’d learned a thing or two about judging the opposition while running Prescott Industries, and Peyton had been way too determined to crash this shindig. No way she’d leave without getting what she came for. Which was probably to scoop a story for her gossip rag.

  But she hadn’t tried to hit him up for any dirt on the bride or groom.

  In any case, he intended to discover her secret. He hadn’t been this intrigued by a woman in years.

  Not that his schedule left him much time for women, intriguing or otherwise. But this weekend should remedy that.

  He strode to the balcony doors and pushed them open. A warm breeze blew in and he drew in a deep breath of salty air. The steady crash of waves against the shore relaxed his shoulders. This is what he’d needed. How long had it been since he’d taken time off? Hell, even most weekends were spent at the office. Nine years he’d worked for the old man, and he could count his vacation days on one hand.

  When Edward had received the invitation to the Maynard/Addison wedding on Rapture Island, Quinn had jumped at the chance to get away. He figured he was a Prescott in all but name, and Maynard was an important business contact. No way the old man would go, not in his condition. And Prescott Industries needed to be represented at an event of this magnitude.

  He’d had his assistant clear his calendar and begun fantasizing about a carefree weekend with a long-legged, suntanned woman. Three whole days to party hard, to make up for almost a decade of sixteen-hour days and watching Edward deteriorate from a ruthless tyrant to a paralyzed stroke victim.

  Quinn preferred the tyrant. As much as the old man had made Quinn’s life hell for years, Quinn hated to see that steel-trap mind stuck inside a failing body.

  But he didn’t want to think about Edward right now. He wanted to spend the weekend soaking up the sun, and getting laid. And not necessarily in that order.

  His BlackBerry vibrated, but he ignored it and started to unpack, stashing condoms in the bedside drawer. Wait. The hotel had Wi-Fi. Wouldn’t hurt to do a search on Peyton Miller.

  He pulled his BlackBerry out of his pocket, replied to his assistant’s text about the Jenson file and then got online. But none of the Peyton Millers he found on Google were reporters or even had a blog about celebrities. He was more intrigued than ever. As soon as he’d showered and changed into something slightly more formal for dinner, he made his way to the terrace.

  The aroma of grilled steaks and salmon wafting in from an outdoor kitchen made his mouth water. And the sight of the curvy wedding crasher waiting for him at the French doors made his pulse race. She was still wearing the same short dress and green shoes from earlier, but her large bag was missing.

  Her long brunette hair had been tamed somewhat, but it still curled deliciously around her shoulders. And her thick eyeglasses gave her a studious look that had him fantasizing about seducing a stern librarian.

  As he reached her side, he extended his elbow. “Shall we get a table? I’m starving.”

  She frowned and ignored his arm. “All right.”

  Was that…annoyance on her face? That sort of reaction could hurt a lesser guy’s ego. Amused, he pushed through the crowd and spoke to the maître’d, who led them to a small wrought iron table. White lights twinkled in the trees above them and employees were lighting torches placed at intervals along the stone path that led down to the beach.

  After they sat, she crossed her legs and then uncrossed them, yanked on her skirt and crossed them again.

  Quinn watched her, unable to keep from chuckling. “You good now?”

  She straightened her shoulders. “Yes.”

  Their waiter appeared, and Quinn ordered a glass of dark lager, and then turned to her. “What will you have?”

  She cleared her throat and twisted a paper napkin into shreds. “How many ounces of rum are in your frozen piña colada?”

  Once the waiter informed her, she ordered the drink, but she had to have extra pineapple—on the side. Fascinating.

  They each ordered something from the grill, and then Quinn sat back to study the intriguing woman as she fidgeted with the sugar packets on the table.

  Her eyes were the same bottle-green as in the pattern of her dress. But as he watched, they changed shades to more of a hazel as the rays of the sun caught her face.

  Once their drinks arrived, Peyton pounced on hers as if she’d been lost in the Sahara for a decade. Her lips wrapped around the straw and Quinn’s attention was drawn to her mouth. They were exotic lips, plump and expressive. He had to look away as he sipped his lager. Man, his social life had gone through too long a dry spell if that’s all it took for him to be ready.

  “So. There are eighteen Peyton Millers in the United States.”

  She choked on her drink. “You looked me up?”

  “Ten of whom are men.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “There’s a Peyton Miller in Houston, but I don’t detect a Texas twang in your speech like the Maynards’.”

  “I’m not from Houston.” She gave him a tight smile.

  Superb deflection. Only confirming information he already knew. He could use someone like her on his mergers and acquisitions team.

  Their food arrived and he cut into his steak, forked the bite into his mouth and chewed. “There was a Peyton Miller in L.A. But you can’t be a friend of Holly’s, or you wouldn’t have avoided her earlier.” He watched her closely as she pushed the salmon around on her plate.

  “I also called every celebrity impersonator business and none of them have a Holly look-alike.”

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Well, maybe I free-lance.” She took a satisfied bite of fish.

  Another nonanswer.

  “So, how about you, Mr. Smith?”

  “Quinn.”

  “Quinn. Friend of the bride or groom?”

  “Groom. His father and mine are business associates.”

  “Oh, and what does your father do?” She sipped more of her drink and then bit into the pineapple wedge. Juice dripped down her chin and she blotted it with her napkin.

  Two things Quinn refused to discuss this weekend: his job, and his father. “I came here to get away from work and relax. So, for the next three days, company talk is strictly forbidden.”

  She raised her brows. “You work?”

  Ouch. He grabbed his chest and mimed pulling out a dagger. “You really know how to hurt a guy’s ego.”

  At least she had the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry.” She lowered her gaze and slurped the last of her piña cola
da through the straw. “Mmm, that was delicious.”

  “Want another?” He raised a hand to motion to the waiter.

  “Oh. No.”

  “No?” He dropped his arm.

  “If I were to consume two piña coladas the rum-to-body-weight ratio would bring my blood alcohol level over the legal limit.”

  Quinn blinked. “But you’re not driving anywhere tonight, are you?” Had she gotten a room here for the night? The only luggage he’d seen was that bag.

  She grimaced. “Unfortunately, I had no choice but to get a room. However, my objective is to remain clearheaded.”

  Clearheaded? That was the last thing he wanted to be the next few days. “Why?”

  She frowned. “Why what?”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m on vacation. And my objective is to cut loose and have fun.” He pushed his plate away. “Let’s walk on the beach.”

  She frowned. “Uh…”

  “We’re on a tropical island. When in Rome…”

  “Oh, I’d almost forgotten.” Excitement sparked in her eyes and her face became animated. “Tonight’s a new moon and the next couple of nights you should be able to see a rare meteor shower.” She scooted back her chair and stood before he could assist her out of her seat. “Maybe one more drink wouldn’t hurt.”

  Quinn couldn’t help but grin. They stopped at the bar on the way and she ordered another frilly umbrella drink. As she sipped it, he gestured for her to precede him down the path and then placed a guiding palm on the small of her back. Her curvy hips and perfect backside swayed in front of him as he followed. She was no anorexic starlet. Her figure was generous in all the right places, and that dress showed it off just as it should. And she was tall. He liked that he didn’t have to bend his six-foot-two frame to kiss her. And he was going to kiss her again.

  2

  THE WARM PRESSURE OF Quinn’s hand on her spine made Peyton shiver. He’d changed into a forest-green dress shirt, charcoal slacks and a dark sport coat that enhanced his broad chest and shoulders, the sleeves tight over biceps that definitely got a workout.