This would be much easier if I had my phone to provide some light.
The thought drew a quiet snort out of her.
At least I’m not talking to myself out loud. Apparently I do have some self-control. Not that last night supports that particular hypothesis.
The memory of Jake’s hand skating across her body made her nipples tighten again, and she trembled a little.
Maybe she should wake Jake, after all. The night didn’t have to be over.
Just then, her hand fell on her phone. “Finally,” she muttered and clicked the button to turn it on. Her usual password screen didn’t come up, and it took her a moment to comprehend what she was seeing.
The phone was open to Jocelyn Dellarivier’s Twitter homepage.
Had she been checking that the night before? No…
What the hell?
With a swipe of her finger, she moved to the main screen of the phone. None of the icons matched hers.
This must be Jake’s phone.
Shining the light around the mess on the floor, she found her own phone and picked it up. Same brand, same style—no wonder it had felt like hers in the dark. It must have fallen out of Jake’s pocket when his pants fell to the floor.
Sadie knew she should put it back.
But why was Jocelyn Dellarivier’s homepage on Jake’s phone?
Slowly, she scrolled back and stared at it.
Surely not.
But it made a kind of horrible, perfect sense.
All week long, every time Sadie followed one of Jocelyn’s posts to try to find the reclusive editor, she’d run into Jake.
Jake didn’t even want his former job as an Intertwined cover model to be public knowledge for fear it might hurt his brother’s campaign.
How much worse might it be for that campaign if Ian Blaine’s constituents knew that his brother—his twin brother—was the premier editor of feminist erotica around?
It had to be true.
Jake Blaine was Jocelyn Dellarivier.
Almost in a trance, Sadie typed a sentence into Jocelyn’s Twitter home page, then pressed send.
On her own phone, the alert buzzed to let her know Jocelyn had tweeted. She glanced down at the screen.
I am a liar.
Sadie stared at it for a long moment, then began scooping her belongings into her purse as quietly as possible.
I have to get out of here.
Now.
She whispered the lines of a Brenda Shaughnessy poem. “‘I wanted to know none / of what I now know twice.’”
Her stomach lurched as she dropped the coverlet and pulled the crumpled formal dress back on. She shoved the lacy scraps of bra and panties into her purse and snapped the clasp shut. Then she gathered her shoes into one hand and tiptoed toward the door, freezing when Jake made a noise and rolled over.
Once she was sure he was still asleep, she eased the door open and slipped into the hall.
Of all the jumbled thoughts tumbling around in her mind, one suddenly stood clear and certain.
I can expose him to the world.
As she stumbled out of the room, Sadie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror at the end of the hall. Smeared eyeliner ringed her eyes, and a smudge of lipstick ran from the corner of her mouth up to the middle of her cheek.
I’m a wreck.
Wrecked.
Lines from “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” one of the poems she often taught in her literature courses, ran through her mind:
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed,
On the billows fall and rise.
With a snort, she stared at her dark hair reflected back at her. “Brown seaweed, indeed,” she muttered, then quoted the last two lines aloud: “‘Christ save us all from a death like this, / On the reef of Norman’s Woe!’”
Shaking her head and laughing a little at her own melodramatic streak, she hit the down button for the elevator and said, “Or at least the reef of Sadie’s woe,” just as a man rounded the corner into the elevator waiting area.
Biting her bottom lip to keep from breaking into hysterical laughter, Sadie stared at the silver elevator door, waiting for it to open.
The man glanced at her from the corner of his eye, then murmured some excuse and headed toward the door to the stairwell.
Seriously? We’re on the twenty-third floor.
Did she really seem that crazy?
Another look in the mirror confirmed it, and as she ran back over the conversation she’d been having—with myself—she realized that yes, she probably would seem insane to any outside observers.
By the time she reached her own room five floors down, tears were running down her face from her attempt to keep from laughing aloud.
Her hopes of securing the interview she needed to complete her dissertation were in the sewer. Not only had she possibly blown her shot at tenure, she’d slept with her quarry in the process.
I really, really hope that what happens in Vegas actually does stay in Vegas.
Any hope she had of keeping what happened in Vegas from Amelia disappeared when she pushed open the door to their room and tiptoed in, and the lamp between the queen beds clicked on.
“Tell me everything,” Amelia was already saying, when she caught sight of Sadie’s face. Instantly, Amelia was out of bed, her arms wrapped around Sadie’s smaller form. “Tell me what he did. I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”
At that, Sadie burst into actual tears, unable to do more than gasp out a few incoherent phrases. Amelia led Sadie to her own bed, scurrying around to first find tissues and then to hand her friend a washcloth soaked in cold water.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” Sadie finally managed to say, once the initial storm had passed. “I was laughing just before I walked in.” Her voice caught on the last word.
Sitting down on her own bed, Amelia reached across the gap between the two beds and took Sadie’s hand. “Start at the beginning.” Amelia kept her tone gentle, but Sadie recognized the steel underlying the words—it was the same sound she had heard back in grad school when Amelia’s then-boyfriend, clearly on a date with another woman, had walked into a bar Amelia and Sadie had decided to try out at the last minute. By the end of the night, everything the boyfriend had ever left at Amelia’s house was in a fire pit in the backyard, and Amelia had handed Sadie a wire hanger pulled straight to skewer a handful of marshmallows. As they toasted the confections over the merrily burning fire, it had occurred to Sadie that Amelia was probably wishing the flames were consuming the boyfriend instead.
“You have a pretty serious violent streak,” she had commented mildly.
“I think I keep it fairly well contained, all things considered,” Amelia had replied, equally gently, but then ruined the restrained tone with a loud guffaw.
I kind of wish we had a fire pit right now.
Instead, all Sadie had were words. So she spilled them out, telling Amelia the whole story, from the moment Jake had picked her up until she had scared off the random guy at the elevator with her crazed mumbling.
“And then I came back,” she concluded with a shrug that suggested far less concern than she actually had.
Amelia’s brow creased into deep furrows, and her mouth twisted. “You’re absolutely certain that Jake is actually Jocelyn Dellarivier?”
“Positive. All of her tweets were on his phone. I even sent one out from it to be sure.” She pulled her own phone out of her purse and opened up the app. “See? Right here: I’m a liar.”
Amelia snorted, covering her mouth with both hands. “Seriously?”
Sadie’s shoulders drooped, and she dropped the phone onto the bed beside her. “Oh, God, Amelia. What does this mean for my book?”
“Nothing. It means nothing. If no one else knows that he’s really Dellarivier—and it sounds like he’s trying to keep that secret—then it doesn’t have to change your chapter at al
l. You make your argument and move on.”
“But what if someone else figures it out? Who knows how many women he picks up at these conferences?” The last word came out on a wail, prompting Amelia to move to sit next to her friend.
“I didn’t get that vibe from him at all. In fact, if everything else you’ve learned about Dellarivier can be applied to Jake, my guess is that he avoids coming to these things as much as possible.”
With a sniffle, Sadie wiped away a tear. “That’s true, I guess.”
“It’s not like this is your usual mode, either. You’re not prone to one-night stands with gorgeous men at conferences, right? Not that I’ve ever known of, anyway.”
“Oh, I did just have a one-night stand, didn’t I?” At the realization, a hot flush of embarrassment flashed up across Sadie’s chest and cheeks, and her hands flew up to her face.
“Here.” Amelia handed the cold cloth to Sadie, who patted it against her face.
After a moment, she dropped the cloth in her lap and stared into space. “You know,” she said, her voice almost dreamy, “including Dellarivier’s real identity in my book might be even better than simply interviewing her.”
As usual when the talk turned academic, Amelia instantly switched gears, becoming serious and analytical. “You’re talking about outing him. Is that ethical?”
Tipping her head to one side, Sadie stared into the distance, thinking through all the implications. “I don’t know. Is it any less ethical than pretending to be a woman editor?”
“Wait. Think this through. If you make this information public, there’s no going back.”
“But it would be just what that chapter needs—something new that no one else knows. The kind of scholarship that would guarantee tenure.”
“Is that really scholarship? Because it sounds a little more like tabloid journalism for the academically inclined.” Amelia shook her head. “Call me crazy, but I don’t think that’s a good way to get tenure.”
Sadie blew out a breath and brushed a strand of hair out of her eye. “He did say that he promised his brother he wouldn’t let anyone know he’d been a cover model.”
“How did he manage that, anyway?”
“Apparently, he had it in his contract that none of the photos could show his face.”
“So…” Amelia paused for a long, quiet moment, and Sadie waited for her friend to offer words of wisdom, of comfort. When Amelia finally spoke again, her tone was somber, though her eyes danced. “Is the rest of him as hot as it looks like it must be?”
“Oh my God, yes.” Throwing herself backward onto the bed, Sadie let out a long sigh. “He is absolutely amazing.”
When Amelia didn’t respond, Sadie sat back up to see her friend scrolling through something on her phone. “What are you doing?”
Amelia didn’t look up from the phone, her brow creased in concentration. “Trying to figure out which Intertwined covers Jake is on.”
Sadie’s peal of laughter chased away the last of the sick feeling in her stomach. No matter what happened, she knew Amelia would be there for her, to make her laugh while helping her figure out what to do next.
Maybe even start a bonfire, if necessary.
And they would figure it out.
But not right now.
Opening the browser on her own phone, she typed in Intertwined’s website address and began scrolling through covers.
Chapter Thirteen
Jake woke up gradually, the cool darkness of the hotel room offering no clue about what time it was. Rolling over, he reached out for Sadie, finding the spot beside him empty, the sheets cold.
Where was she?
Surely she hadn’t left. Not after the night they’d had.
It had been amazing. He had been certain she had felt it, too, a connection that seemed to run deeper than one conference weekend could account for.
He couldn’t believe he had told her about his modeling.
Hell, I almost told her I’m Jocelyn.
The only thing that had stopped him had been his promise to Ian.
Kamille’s words came back to him—why was it always Ian’s career, but Jake’s job?
Shaking off the thought, he sat up and thumped his feet to the floor, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A glance at the clock told him it was still early, only six. He stood, stretched, and made a cursory search of the room.
No Sadie. She really had left.
Had he imagined the connection between them?
No. That was real. I’m sure of it.
So what had chased her away?
And why am I so certain that she ran?
Part of him wanted to march down to her room now, pound on the door, and demand to know why she had left.
Because that’s not at all stalkery.
Besides, it wouldn’t work.
You’re a romance novel editor, man. You know how women think. Do something romantic.
But nothing he could think of seemed appropriate. Sadie wasn’t like other women, fluttering around their favorite authors, sighing over the hunky heroes in the novels.
No, Sadie was quiet. Analytical.
Her interest in the books ran deeper than simply falling in vicarious love with the heroes. The way the words functioned together to create that emotion in the readers fascinated her.
And she fascinated him.
In the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The way his hair stuck out reminded him of her fingers trailing through it last night as he reveled in the taste of her.
Just the memory of her made him hard again.
If he didn’t do something about it, he wouldn’t be able to even catch sight of her today without wanting to press her against a wall, lift her skirt up over her hips, pull her panties to the side, and slide himself into her.
The thought dragged a groan out of him.
Turning on the shower, he stepped inside, letting the heat of the water slide over him as he imagined Sadie’s long, thin fingers running across his chest, one fingernail scraping down his abdomen, her hand wrapping around him firmly.
As he took himself into his own hand, his head bowed so the water ran in rivulets down the sides of his face and his other arm braced against the tile wall, he worked to recall every moment of the night before until he came, shuddering, gasping her name once again.
He might not go to her room, but he would definitely track her down today and find out why she had left without saying good-bye.
Jake wasn’t about to let this woman get away, if he had any say in it.
It wasn’t until later, when he was dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt, that he picked up his phone and glanced down at it.
It was open to his—Jocelyn Dellarivier’s—Twitter account.
Shock hit him like a fist in the gut when he read the latest tweet—one that had been retweeted over and over, posted to hundreds, maybe thousands of accounts.
I am a liar.
He sat down on the edge of the bed with a thump, as if his legs had given out under him.
She knew.
Now he needed to find out what she planned to do with that information, who she planned to tell.
Part of him realized that he needed to concentrate on damage control, on stopping Sadie Quinn from telling the world what she had learned after only one night in his bed—the secret he had kept for the last five years.
Jake placed his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.
With one stroke of a pen—or at least, a few strokes of a keyboard—she could ruin Ian’s campaign. Destroy his brother’s entire career.
But the only thing Jake could think of doing was sweeping her into his arms and asking her to run away with him—leave Intertwined and the whole tangled mess of lies behind, start over with something new.
Something real and true.
Something with Sadie.
The thought shocked him upright. Did he really mean that? Could he? He had only known her for a few days.
And one amazing night.
Could that really be long enough to know how he felt about her?
He laughed. “Well, it’s a start, anyway,” he said aloud.
Taking a deep breath, he pocketed the phone with its incriminating app, checked his wallet for his room key, clipped his conference badge onto his collar, and grabbed the program from the dresser. He knew which panels Sadie was likely to attend today.
If she goes to any at all.
He ignored the stray thought, choosing to focus on making positive plans.
Today, he would find her, and he would convince her…of what?
That he wasn’t a liar?
No. I will convince her that what we felt last night was real. That we should explore whatever it is between us.
He would convince her that he could be trusted, even if he wasn’t the person she thought he was.
Chapter Fourteen
Sadie took a sip of her extra-large latte from the Starbucks wannabe in the hotel lobby. It was going to take a couple of them to get her through the morning. In fact, she had considered simply staying in bed until the luncheon she had paid to attend at noon.
But staying in bed, hiding from the possibility of seeing Jake again, was cowardly. And Sadie Quinn was no coward.
Besides, she needed to figure out what she was going to do with her new knowledge. Outing Jake as Jocelyn Dellarivier would almost certainly guarantee her tenure—her book’s chapter on the most feminist editor in romance actually being a man would definitely make it required reading for every class in pop-culture literature that included romance novels. It would grace the shelves of hundreds of academic libraries.
It would pretty much guarantee her the equivalent of academic fame—such as it was, and among a certain set of scholars.
I’m afraid, though, that it might take me right out of the running for “decent human being.”
There were plenty of male editors in the world of romance publishing, and none of them felt any pressure at all to hide their identities. None of them had Ian Blaine for a twin, though.
As much as she hated to think of doing anything to support Blaine’s candidacy, she had to admit that his “family first” political platform might be harmed if anyone found out that his twin brother edited erotic novels for a living.
Hot on His Heels (What Happens in Vegas) Page 8
