Shayne: The Pretender
Page 1
“I’m Bliss. Bliss Fortune.”
About the Author
Books by JoAnn Ross
Title Page
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
Teaser chapter
Copyright
“I’m Bliss. Bliss Fortune.”
The party swirled around them. She held out her hand and as his fingers curved around hers, Shayne felt a sudden jolt that almost made him drop the wineglass.
Bliss obviously felt it, too. Her eyes widened, and when he touched his thumb to the pulse spot on the inside of her wrist, he could feel her heart leap.
“It’s the carpet,” she suggested, struggling to deny the sexual energy between them.
“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, his gaze sweeping slowly over her face before settling on her luscious mouth. What he wanted to do with that mouth...
As they stood there, looking at each other, Shayne had to remind himself that Bliss Fortune was an assignment. One he was determined would end successfully with the lovely lady in some nice federal prison.
His involvement with her would be purely professional. Sexual if necessary. Never anything more...
The author of over fifty novels, JoAnn Ross wrote her first story—a romance about two star-crossed mallard ducks—when she was just seven years old. She sold her first romance novel in 1982 and now has over eight million copies of her books in print. Her novels have been published in twenty-seven countries, including Japan, Hungary, Czech Republic and Turkey. JoAnn married her high school sweetheart—twice—and makes her home near Phoenix, Arizona.
Don’t miss book III of New Orleans Knights in October, 1997 with MICHAEL: THE DEFENDER
Books by JoAnn Ross
HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
537—NEVER A BRIDE (Bachelor Arms)
541—FOR RICHER OR POORER (Bachelor Arms)
545—THREE GROOMS AND A WEDDING (Bachelor Ann)
562—PRIVATE PASSIONS
585—THE OUTLAW
605—UNTAMED (Men of Whiskey River)
609—WANTED! (Men of Whiskey River)
613—AMBUSHED
638—ROARKE: THE ADVENTURER (New Orleans Knights)
Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Watden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 608, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
SHAYNE: THE PRETENDER
JoANN ROSS
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN
MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
1
Paris
BLISS FORTUNE DIDN’T look like a thief. Then again, Shayne O’Malley decided, if jewel thieves actually looked the part, they’d all be in prison and he’d be out of work.
He’d been watching the redhead for the past hour and still couldn’t get a handle on her. The way she was working the wealthy party crowd reminded him of a faith healer at a Southern tent revival meeting, and although the French—Parisians in particular—were notorious for disliking everyone, particularly outgoing Americans, her guileless eyes the hue of soft Spanish moss and her dazzling smile appeared to be charming both men and women alike.
It was springtime in Paris. The low pewter clouds that had blanketed the City of Light during the winter had broken up, the famed cool April drizzle was beginning to subside, the chestnut trees were in bloom and life had quickened as Parisians filled the cafés, streets and parks to celebrate the starry nights and sunflower days.
Although women had taken off their wool clothing, the color of choice, despite the season, remained classic black. Except for tonight, when the guests appeared to have pulled out all the stops. The women had dressed in colorful gowns that rivaled the brilliant displays of tulips blooming in the Jardin du Luxembourg.
The party was being held in a luxurious apartment in a seventeenth-century home located on the Ile Saint-Louis, a tiny island wedged into the heart of Paris, between the Right and Left Banks. Constructed to house the aristocracy, the mansions on the island had once been the home to the Rothschilds and Madame du Pompadour. Nearly four hundred years later, it was still one of the city’s most desirable and expensive neighborhoods.
Shayne figured there was enough jewelry adorning the party guests to finance another revolution. Gold gleamed, diamonds blazed, pearls glowed beneath the sparkling light of the stalactite crystal chandelier dominating the center of the room. He doubted the Fortune woman would be able to resist such dazzling temptation.
Bliss Fortune had not attempted to compete with the expensive designer gowns that displayed the king’s ransom of jewelry to such advantage. She was wearing a sleeveless white silk sheath dress belted low on the hip that skimmed her slender curves and revealed a dazzling length of firm smooth thigh. Contrasting to the simplicity of the little white dress, a pair of very good diamonds sparkled like ice at her earlobes. Shayne wondered what necklace or tiara the stones had been lifted from.
He’d been trailing her around Paris for ten days and outward appearances suggested she was exactly what she’d told the customs agent when she’d arrived on that Air France jet—an antique dealer on her biannual business buying trip. Shayne doubted that she’d missed a single antique shop in Paris and wondered how she managed the energy to check out the competition all day and still shimmer with energy at night. Obviously, she’d never heard of jet lag.
Deciding that it was time they met, he plucked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and made his way across the room.
DAMN, DAMN, DAMN. Bliss couldn’t believe it! Of all the parties in all of Paris, why on earth did her rat of an ex-husband have to pick this one to show up at?
She stiffened instinctively as she saw him break off his conversation with an attractive thirty-something brunette and head her way.
“Hello, Bliss.” Alan Fortune hugged her as if he had every right to. Which he damn well didn’t, Bliss thought as she stood as still as a marble statue in the circle of his arms.
Although the hug was brief, Alan remained standing too close for comfort, his lips curved in the professional charmer’s smile that had once, not so very long ago, had the power to melt her heart. Heavily hooded eyes as dark and warm as sable skimmed over her.
“You’re looking wonderful, darling.”
When he bent his head, as if to kiss her, Bliss backed up two steps.
“You don’t have to sound so surprised. I can, on occasion, clean up rather nicely.” She was pleased when her cool tone failed to reveal that running into him had stirred smoldering embers of anger she’d believed long cooled.
He ignored her sarcasm just as he’d ignored her temper when she’d discovered him in their bed with a woman she’d thought to be her best friend. Only later had she learned that it was not the first time he’d been unfaithful; discovering that he’d even felt the need to cheat on their honeymoon had dealt a painful blow to her ego.
“I always said you had a natural flair for making the inexpensive appear elegant.” He continued to smile as if forgetting that the last time they’d been together he’d been ducking the vase she’d thrown at his head.
Bliss was wondering how on earth she was going to get out of there without creating a scene when t
he problem was solved for her. A remarkably tall woman, dressed in a strapless gown that undoubtedly cost more than Bliss’s car, broke into the conversation.
“Alan, darling,” she complained prettily, her smile flashing in a complexion the hue of café au lait, “I was getting lonely over there all by myself.”
He laughed at that. “I’ve never seen you alone, Monique.”
The name rang an immediate bell. Monique—and she went only by that first name, like Cher or Madonna—was a supermodel who’d become the darling of the international fashion set. It appeared she was also Alan’s flavor of the month.
“Well,” Bliss said airily, “it’s been nice running into you, Alan, but I’d better go back to mingling.”
“That’s my Bliss. Always thinking of business.”
He was gazing down at her as if she were some rare sort of creature. And that was once the way he’d made her feel—rare and special. Only later had she discovered her workaholic habits were viewed with scornful amusement by him and his circle of jaded acquaintances.
She flashed him a sweet, entirely false smile. “Some of us aren’t born with antique silver spoons in our mouths and a fistful of platinum cards in our hands.”
She wondered how he’d react if she let him know she’d discovered the truth about his real identity and decided that having to listen to more lies, since he’d undoubtedly deny the story, just wasn’t worth whatever small satisfaction she’d receive by bursting his counterfeit bubble of wealthy superiority.
“More’s the pity,” he returned easily, appearing unwounded by her barb.
Deciding to leave before she destroyed any credibility she might have achieved this evening by cracking him over the head with one of the champagne bottles nestled in the crystal-and-silver buckets nearby, Bliss turned and walked away with as much dignity as she could manage.
In need of fresh air after her encounter, she was standing by the French doors when she sensed someone coming up behind her. She spun around, prepared to tell her lying, cheating ex-spouse to leave her the hell alone and found herself face-to-face with a stranger.
“All that talking you’ve been doing must have made you thirsty. Champagne?” Okay, so it wasn’t the most original line in the world, but when she managed a faint answering smile, Shayne decided it had worked.
“Thank you.” She accepted the flute he was holding out to her and took a sip of the wine. The sparkling sunshine on her tongue helped dispel the bad taste lingering from her unwelcome conversation with Alan. “I’m really terrible, aren’t I?”
“Are you?” he asked mildly.
“I realize that discussing business at a party isn’t socially correct. I mean, even in America. But here in Paris—” she shrugged “—Cela ne se fait pas.”
“It may not be done.” He repeated the old French expression as he eyed her over the rim of his own glass. “But no one seems to mind in your case.”
“Well, they’ve been wonderfully polite and even amazingly friendly, considering how many rules of etiquette I’ve undoubtedly broken tonight,” she allowed. “But polite doesn’t exactly pay the bills, does it?”
He reached out and touched a fingertip to her earlobe. The diamond was a carat, as perfect as he’d ever seen, radiating a blue-white light. “I wouldn’t think you’d have to worry about bills.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Bliss had to repress a shiver as the light touch felt as if he’d touched a sparkler to her skin. “I’m an antique dealer—I own The Treasure Trove in New Orleans—and in my business you have to spend money to make money. With all the competition, it’s important to maintain a high-quality and eclectic inventory, so of course I was delighted by all the steals I discovered on this trip. It truly has been a wonderfully successful trip.” Or had been, until she’d had the bad luck to run into Alan.
“Although MasterCard is not going to be at all pleased when they realize how much over my limit I’ve gone. I’ve been trying my very best to keep expenses to a bare minimum, but everything is so horribly expensive here, and unfortunately I have absolutely no self-discipline.”
Not even enough, apparently to shut her mouth. She’d always been a talkative person and even more so when rattled. Which she definitely was at the moment, with those steady pale blue eyes looking so deeply into hers.
“Did you know that Hemingway, when he lived in Paris, actually wrote about having a ‘high grade’ dinner for two, with wine, for only twelve francs?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that.”
“Well, he did. Of course today, a simple cheese sandwich costs nearly three times that.”
He saw her cast a covetous glance toward the damask-draped buffet table, decorated with candelabra and offering enough food to feed Napoleon’s armies.
“They seem to have put out a pretty nice spread here,” he said.
“They have, haven’t they? I’m afraid if I began filling a plate, I’d end up eating like a long-haul truck driver.” Her sigh ruffled her curly red-gold bangs. “French women never eat, of course. You always see them sitting looking so elegant in the sidewalk cafés with plates in front of them, but you never see them actually take a bite. I firmly believe that it’s against the law.”
Her gaze briefly circled the room and returned to the table groaning with delicacies. Another sigh. “Even so, I could kill for a steak right about now.”
“Why don’t we pile some stuff on my plate?” he suggested. “You can stick to a nice, ladylike piece of cheese or fruit, then we’ll go out onto the terrace and you can eat all you want without anyone noticing.”
She smiled up at him and it crossed his mind again that if he didn’t know better, he would believe this blithe spirit had not an ounce of guile.
“That’s so sweet of you. And honestly, I’m not usually such a mooch, but I’ve had hardly anything to eat since yesterday—you’d think I was in the Bastille, for heaven’s sake—and I’m absolutely starving.” She stopped for a moment. “Do you know, I have absolutely no idea why I’m telling you this. In fact, I don’t even know who you are.”
“I’m Shayne Broussard.” It was his mother’s maiden name. And although it was technically Cajun, not French, it worked well enough in this setting.
“I’m Bliss. Bliss Fortune.” She held out her hand and as his fingers curved around hers he felt a sudden jolt that almost made Shayne drop the wineglass he was holding in his free hand.
She obviously felt it, too. Her eyes widened and when he touched his thumb to the pulse spot on the inside of her wrist he could feel her heart leap.
“It’s the carpet,” she suggested, struggling to deny this newfound scientific evidence that sexual energy could be measured in megawatts.
“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, his gaze sweeping slowly over her face before settling on her mouth.
As they stood there looking at each other, Shayne had to remind himself that Bliss Fortune was an assignment. One he was determined would end successfully, with the lovely lady landing, not exactly in the Bastille, but some nice federal prison back in the States.
“Ready to eat?”
The intimacy in his eyes was suggesting something else all together. Reminding herself that men and women routinely flirted in Paris, that it was, after all, the French who’d given the world the phrase le coup de foudre, love at first sight, Bliss decided to enjoy the fact that such a gorgeous man found her appealing.
“Absolutely.”
Shayne glanced across the room to the man who’d embraced her earlier. “Not that I want to warn you away, but what about your friend?” he said, as if it were an afterthought.
“Friend?” She followed his gaze. “Oh. Alan. He’s certainly not a friend. Merely a ghost of an old marriage past.”
“Ah.” He nodded understandingly. “I see.”
“How nice one of us does,” she responded dryly.
Having had plenty of time to think about what in the world she’d ever seen in Alan Fortune in the first place, she’d
come to the conclusion that the problem had been she hadn’t been seeing clearly at all. Instead, she’d allowed herself to be blinded by the bright and shining aura of the man she’d thought him to be.
Deciding not to ruin her successful shopping trip by contemplating her short, ill-fated marriage, she headed off toward the table, Shayne behind her.
He didn’t feel a single iota of guilt for enjoying the sway of her hips in that short white dress. Cunningham had told him to watch Bliss Fortune. And that’s just what he was doing. Some duties, he decided, as Bliss reached for a gilt-rimmed plate, causing the dress to rise even higher, were definitely more appealing than others.
The night was cool and tinged with the scent of distant rain. As they took their plates out onto the terrace, Shayne noticed her slight shiver.
“Here.” He took off his suit jacket and put it over her shoulders. “Can’t have you catching pneumonia. If you think the food’s expensive, imagine what a doctor would charge for a house call to your hotel.”
“I don’t even want to think about it.” She settled down in a wrought iron chair, took a mussel from his plate, popped it into her mouth, closed her eyes as she chewed and nearly swooned. “I think I’ve just died and gone to heaven.”
“They’re moules brûles doigts, otherwise known as burn-your-fingers mussels. They’re kept in salted water, then put on a super hot iron plaque which steams them open and concentrates the sweetness.”
“What they are is heaven.” She plucked another one from the plate and devoured it.
Watching her, Shayne wondered idly if she could receive such ecstasy from a mere mussel, what she’d be like in the throes of orgasm.
“How do you know that?” she asked when she finished chewing.