He was certainly nothing like his brother, Sam, whose easy charm and boyish good looks had made more than one person ask if they were really related. A perennial favorite with the opposite sex, Sam had won more hearts than he could count. Too often Dexter had sparked the interest of a woman, only to find out later that she was just using him to get closer to Sam.
So several years ago he'd decided to forego the social scene and focus on his talents—accounting and acquisitions. Maybe when he finally reached the pinnacle of success in the business world he'd have time to figure out how one actually talked to an attractive woman without breaking into a cold sweat.
"Mistress Helga will see you now."
He looked up to the see the receptionist back at her desk, a smirk on her young face.
Mistress Helga? Dexter pushed up his glasses, then walked into the office, half expecting to see a gallery of sadistic sex toys. Instead, he entered a light, airy room with a white ceiling fan and a wicker love seat and matching armchairs.
A middle-aged woman sat reading a magazine in one of the chairs, a pair of bifocals propped on her nose. She looked up and smiled at him. "Hello."
"Mistress Helga?"
She laughed, then stood up and held out one hand. "I see my granddaughter is playing games again. My name is Betty. Betty Brubaker."
"Dexter Kane," he said, surprised by the tasteful decor of her office. It was certainly an improvement over the garish display in the entrance. Betty wasn't what he expected either. A slightly plump woman with ash blond hair pulled back into a neat bun. Thick eyebrows dominated her face, but her green eyes gleamed with intelligence.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kane." She sat back down in her chair and motioned for him to do the same. "Now, how can I help you?"
"I'm here to apply for a job. Perhaps as a bookkeeper or even an investment consultant. I have considerable experience in corporate management."
She gave him a maternal smile. "I appreciate the offer, but my son might take offense if I replaced him. He's worked as my business manager and financial advisor for the last five years."
He thought about telling her that the front window display and the attitude of her receptionist were probably driving potential business away. But the numerous family photographs covering the walls and every nook and cranny of her office told him the advice might not be well received. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, "I really need a job."
"I see." She studied him for a moment, then leaned forward in her chair. "Actually, I do have an opening for a male escort. Did you bring any references?"
"No, this is my first time." Heat crept up his neck. "Well, not my first time, of course. I do have some experience." He decided not to elaborate. His romantic encounters had left him physically satisfied, but strangely hollow. Yearning for something more that he couldn't name or even fully understand.
"Tell me, Mrs. Brubaker…"
"Betty," she reminded him.
"Betty." He cleared his throat. "What exactly are the job requirements for this line of work?"
"We are an escort agency, Mr. Kane. Our employees accompany women to a variety of social functions and also serve as companions."
"Both day and … night?"
She arched a brow. "We're here to serve our clients at their convenience. Is that a problem?"
He cleared his throat. "Not at all. I just want to be fully prepared."
"Now that I've answered your question, please answer mine." She leaned forward in her chair. "Why are you really here?"
He blinked. Did she know about the game? Or was this some kind of test to prove to Amos that he intended to follow the rules? "I'm not sure what you mean."
"I mean you don't look or sound like our usual applicant. In the first place, you're wearing a tailored three-piece suit. In the second place, I've never seen a man blush so much since my honeymoon. So either you're a lousy lover who is looking for some free experience or you're a lousy undercover vice cop hoping to make a bust."
"I'm neither." Dexter feared he'd lost the game before he'd begun. "But I'm afraid I've given you the wrong impression."
"It doesn't matter," she interjected. "Studs-R-Us does not sell sexual favors to its clients. I run a clean operation. There are a lot of lonely women out there, Mr. Kane, and it's my mission to provide them with the company of a respectful, upstanding gentleman. In fact, if I suspect any employee of mine is indulging in a physical relationship with a client, he will be immediately terminated."
Dexter swallowed his sigh of relief. He was a red-blooded American male, but selling his body wasn't exactly the way he'd envisioned obtaining the company of his dreams. He gave her a curt nod. "A sound policy."
"Now, if you're really interested in the job…"
"I am."
She opened the file folder on her desk. "I had a job request earlier today that has presented some problems. Since the majority of escort requests are for evening duty, dances and such, most of my employees work elsewhere during the day."
"I'm available twenty-four hours a day," Dexter assured her.
Betty glanced down at the open folder. "Actually, that's exactly what Miss Timberlake requires. A man at her disposal twenty-four hours a day for approximately four weeks."
"That sounds perfect."
She arched a brow. "Aren't you even interested in hearing about the job?"
He shook his head. "I'm completely flexible."
She looked bemused. "Well, that's good, because she refused to give me many details. Although she did make it clear that confidentiality was of the utmost importance."
"My lips are sealed."
She smiled. "See that you keep it that way. I've not yet met Ms. Timberlake but she sounded quite young on the phone. As I said before, any physical relationship with a client results in instant termination."
"Understood." He took a deep breath. "Does this mean I have the job?"
She stood up and held out her hand. "Congratulations, Mr. Kane. You are now officially a Stud."
* * *
2
« ^ »
Kylie Timberlake sprinted through the door of Studs-R-Us, her heart pounding in anticipation. She'd almost given up finding a way out of this untenable situation. Now it looked as if her biggest problem was about to be solved.
She stopped short when she saw the man standing in the front office. His short, dark hair was sucked back and he wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He was tall and looked as if his gray pinstripe suit concealed finely honed muscles. Her first impression was that she'd run smack dab into a superhero in disguise. But she didn't need a man who could leap tall buildings in a single bound. She needed a man who had a way with woman. And one who didn't mind a little deception.
"Excuse me," she said, still a little breathless from her sprint. "I'm looking for Mrs. Brubaker."
"She just took the receptionist out to dinner." The man pushed his glasses up on his nose. "I'm filling in until they get back."
"Oh." Disappointment spiraled through her. Had she gotten the time wrong? "Do you have any idea when that will be?"
"No, but perhaps I can help you."
"I'm here for an interview." Kylie bit her lower lip, telling herself not to panic. She still had a little time to sort it all out.
"Are you Miss Timberlake?"
"Yes," she said, giving him a quick smile. Her preoccupation was no reason to be rude. "I'm supposed to be meeting one of the studs here. But I must have mixed up the time."
He glanced at his watch.
"Actually, you're three minutes late."
"You mean he already left?"
"No." The man shifted on his feet. "I'm … the stud."
She blinked. "You?"
"Yes." He arched a dark brow. "Is that a problem?"
"No. Not at all." Her cheeks burned. She'd imagined spending the next few weeks with one of the men in the pinups plastered in the front windows. Slick, polished playboys who didn't affect her in the least. Not this supe
rhero in the making. The last man she'd suspect of making his living as a gigolo.
On the other hand, superheroes did rescue damsels in distress. And her distress was on the verge of becoming an all-out disaster. She stepped forward and extended her hand. "Hello, I'm Kylie."
"I'm Dexter." His eyes widened slightly at her firm grip. "Dexter D. Kane."
She wondered what the D stood for, but couldn't afford to waste time by asking him. She wouldn't be referring to him by his middle name anyway. Or his first name, for that matter. "Has Mrs. Brubaker told you anything about me or this job?"
"Only that you require my services for the next four weeks."
To her mortification, she felt another blush creep up her neck. She hadn't enjoyed the services of any man—let alone a gigolo—for too long to remember. Not that she was contemplating a relationship with Dexter. No matter what images his words evoked. "That's true. This is a rather unusual job. And one that requires the utmost secrecy."
He smiled. "You can count on my discretion, Miss Timberlake. My job depends on it. And I'm depending on this job."
She barely comprehended his words, too dazzled by the dimple that flashed on his chin when he smiled. It almost made her forget her mission. But the chime of a wall clock brought reality rushing back. She had about fifty phone calls to make within the next few hours.
"I'll have to give you the condensed version and fill in the details later." She took a deep breath, hoping she could trust him. "Have you read a book called How To Jump-Start Your Love Life?"
"No," he said, looking a little confused. "I've never even heard of it."
"It's new on the market, but it has the potential to become a bestseller. I'm the publicist for Handy Press, the small press that published it. It's my responsibility to see that it gets the right amount of media coverage necessary to attract national attention."
His brows furrowed. "And?"
"And I've scheduled an array of book signings, radio interviews and even a couple television spots for the author. We'll hit twelve cities in just under four weeks. It's an all out publicity blitz. There's only one small problem."
"You need an escort?"
"No. I need someone to play the part of the author, Harry Hanover." She waited, letting the words sink in. Dexter D. Kane certainly looked intelligent enough to understand all the ramifications.
He folded his arms across his chest. "You're serious?"
"Absolutely. You see, Harry suffers from agoraphobia," she explained, "which is a fear of social situations. It's impossible for him to appear in public. In fact, his case is so severe that he refuses to leave his home. Unfortunately, I'd already scheduled all the media events before I found that out."
"So why not just cancel the tour?"
"Because Harry believes there will be negative repercussions on the sale of his book. And frankly, that's a real possibility. Booksellers can make or break a book. And many of them have already started advertising the upcoming book signings. Broken promises don't make the best public relations. Not only could Harry's book suffer if he fails to make his scheduled appearances, but Handy Press could suffer as well."
"In what way?"
"The company stays afloat by publishing how-to manuals and technical guidebooks. If booksellers retaliate by pulling all the Handy Press books off the shelves, the company could go bankrupt."
He looked thoughtful. "There has to be some other solution."
She shook her head. "Believe me, I've lain awake nights trying to think of a way out of this mess. I know it seems a little extreme, but this is the only answer."
"How will Mr. Hanover feel about another man taking on his identity?"
"It was his idea." She pulled a folded newspaper clipping out of her jeans pocket, smoothing out the wrinkles. It was an advertisement for Studs-R-Us. She handed it to him, their fingers touching. Her skin prickled at the jolt of electricity that shot up her arm. And judging by the way Dexter was staring at her, he'd had the same reaction.
Then he cleared his throat and looked down at the advertisement. "A man for all occasions," he said, reading the company motto. "I'm not sure this covers impersonating an author."
"I know it sounds a little unusual," she replied, glancing at her watch. "But it's really not all that uncommon in the entertainment world. There are ghost writers who write all those celebrity books. Musicians who do voice-overs on albums. Some authors even send in a phony glamour picture for the back of their book. It's all about presentation."
He still looked skeptical. "What happens when people find out I'm not the real Harry Hanover?"
"That won't happen," she assured him. "When the book tour is over, Harry is going to disappear. Handy Press will decline any further interviews on his behalf, earning him a reputation as an eccentric recluse. Which is the truth. The press loves that kind of stuff."
Dexter hated to put a damper on her enthusiasm, but the obstacles to her plan seemed almost insurmountable. "What if someone who knows Harry attends a book signing?"
She smiled. "Not a possibility. Harry's been shut up in his cabin for the last six years. And before that he lived in the Yukon."
Dexter couldn't seem to take his eyes off of her. Kylie Timberlake was the most vibrant woman he'd ever met. Even if her plan was crazy. "Well, what if someone recognizes me?"
Her smile faded. "I can't believe I didn't think of that. Especially when you've probably got legions of women in your past."
His pride prevented him from disabusing her of that ridiculous notion. "I'm sorry I can't help you."
Her face suddenly brightened. "Yes, you can. I think I know a way to make it work. A way to make everyone just wild about Harry."
"I look ridiculous." Dexter stood in the living room of Kylie's apartment, wearing a short fuschia cape protecting his clothes and silver foil wraps in his hair.
"I know, but we're trying to fix that." Amy Kwan, Kylie's roommate, sorted through the clothes hanging on a portable rack.
He never should have let Kylie talk him into this. But something about her made it impossible to say no. Maybe it was her big brown eyes. Or the smile that sparked a warmth deep inside of him. Or the overwhelming urge he had to touch her again.
"You're a tough case, Dexter," Amy said, "but I'm always up for a challenge."
"Amy used to do hair and makeup for the stars of 'The Young and the Restless,'" Kylie informed him, studying the day planner on her lap.
"But I needed a break." Amy selected five outfits and tossed them onto the sofa. "So now I'm doing freelance work. Mostly working on models for fashion shows and photo shoots. But my favorite jobs are makeovers. Enhancing the beauty of soap stars and models is easy. But transforming a loser into a knockout takes real skill."
"Not that you're a loser, Dexter," Kylie hastily assured him.
"Thanks," he said dryly as the timer on the kitchen stove dinged.
"Time to rinse," Amy announced. She led Dexter over to the sink, then began removing the foil wraps.
"Exactly what color will my hair be?" he asked as Amy pushed his head under the faucet.
Amy carefully rinsed his hair. "The same color, but we're hoping to add some fabulous golden highlights."
"What do you mean, hoping?" Dexter asked.
"I'm sure it will be fine," Kylie called from the living room.
"Well, there was that time we ended up with lime green on Carlo." Amy laughed. "Remember that, Kylie?"
"Green?" Dexter repeated, starting to feel a little panicky. He'd only done this to make Kylie happy, to see her smile again. Now the absurdity of it hit him full in the gut.
"It was a temporary color," Kylie assured him. "It only took a month to wash out."
"That makes me feel so much better."
Amy shut off the tap, then towel-dried Dexter's hair. By the time he returned to the living room, his hair was standing straight up in golden brown spikes.
"That's already an improvement," Amy said, admiring her handiwork. "Now for the clot
hes."
He frowned. "What's wrong with my clothes?"
"Nothing if you're starring in a black-and-white fifties flick. The three-piece suits have got to go." Amy stepped back and surveyed him from head to toe. "Fuschia isn't really your color."
"Well, that's a relief."
Amy tapped her chin. "And I've got to admit, it looks like you've got a great body under all those clothes. Of course, you're a gigolo, so I suppose it's one of the job requirements."
"I think he prefers the term male escort," Kylie said, scribbling something in her planner.
"I prefer to wear my own clothes," he said, as Amy pulled another outfit off the rack.
"You've got to trust me," Amy informed him, holding a pair of skimpy black leather pants up to his waist. "Once we get rid of your old hairstyle, your old clothes and those horrendous glasses, you're going to be every woman's fantasy."
"The glasses?" Kylie looked up. "Don't you think we should keep them? I think they're sexy." Her cheeks grew rosy. "I mean, in a subtle, intellectual sort of way."
Dexter's heart warmed at her words, along with another part of his body. He liked the way her hair hung in a profusion of wild, thick curls around her shoulders. His fingers itched to touch it, to feel the slide of that silk against his skin.
"Look, Ky," Amy replied, as she pushed Dexter into an inflatable chair, then ran a comb through his wet hair. "I know what I'm doing. Women don't like subtle. They like raw sex appeal."
Dexter cleared his throat. "I take it my ability to see doesn't matter when it comes to fashion."
Amy snorted. "Haven't you ever heard of contact lenses?" Then she stepped back and looked into his eyes. "Ooh, we could go with colored lenses. Wouldn't violet be awesome with his coloring?"
"No." Kylie's voice was firm. "Dexter's eyes are perfect just the way they are."
The telephone rang before Amy could argue with her. Kylie picked up the cordless receiver, then placed her hand over the mouthpiece. "I'm going to take this call in the bedroom. Yell if you need me."
OPERATION BABE-MAGNET / OPERATION BEAUTY Page 2
