Shayne: The Pretender

by JoAnn Ross

  He pulled himself out of the unbidden fantasy of watching that silk dress slide down her body. “Know what?”

  “About mussels. Are you going to eat that cheese?”

  “Be my guest.” He put his plate in front of her and leaned back in his chair. “I enjoy cooking. I find it relaxing. I took a class a few years ago at the Cordon Bleu and picked it up there.”

  Bliss stopped in the act of spreading the soft Camembert over a piece of crusty bread. “You’ve actually taken classes at the Cordon Bleu cooking school?”

  He shrugged. “I told you, cooking relaxes me. And I figured if I was going to tackle French, I might as well learn from the best.”

  “No argument there.” She took a bite, savoring the cheese with the same pleasure as she had the mussel. “I suppose you chose French because of your ancestry. You are American, right?”

  “Right. And I chose French because I viewed it as a challenge.”

  “And you enjoy challenges.”

  “I live for them.”

  “Me, too. Lately I’ve had a few more than I’d prefer, but life would be incredibly boring without its little tests, wouldn’t it?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  Shayne decided that whichever parent had decided to name her Bliss had chosen well. The woman seemed to find delight in the simplest of things. Once again he thought she was the unlikeliest felon he’d ever met. Then reminded himself of how well she’d worked that room and decided that she was a lot slicker than she appeared.

  “Are you rich?”

  The directness of the question caught him by surprise. “Would it matter?” he asked, taking another drink of champagne and idly wishing it was a beer. A nice cold Dixie with beads of moisture running down the long neck of the bottle.

  One of the problems with playing this role of the international jet-set playboy was that it kept a guy from enjoying the simpler pleasures in life. Like a cold beer on a hot summer afternoon, a hot dog at the ballpark, a day of crawfish trapping in the bayou.

  An uncharacteristic feeling that resembled homesickness tugged at chords deep inside him. As he always did under such circumstances, Shayne ignored it.

  “It’s just that I was really beginning to like you,” Bliss explained. “After all, it’s not every man who’d share his moules brûles doigts with a total stranger. But I have a rule about getting involved with rich men.”

  “I’d think that your business would depend on wealthy individuals.” After all, Shayne considered, you couldn’t make all that much money stealing jewels from the poor. “And are we getting involved?”

  “I’ve always tried to separate business from pleasure. As for getting involved, well, no, I suppose we’re not,” she admitted with a quick, somewhat abashed grin. “But we might have been.” She stood up and held out her hand again. “Good night, Mr. Broussard. It’s truly been a pleasure.”

  He took the slender hand in both of his. “You’re not leaving before dessert?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her cap of bright curls bounced as she shook her head. “I told you, I have a rule against getting involved with wealthy men.”

  “We don’t have to get involved.”

  “But that’s the problem you see—” her green eyes became earnest “—I told you, I have no self-discipline. Well, actually, I do, at least when it comes to important things like my business and voting and paying my taxes and not littering, but I’ve always tended to be horrendously impulsive in my personal life, and since I’ll admit to having been attracted to you from the minute you walked in the door—”

  “I hadn’t realized you’d noticed me.”

  “It’s difficult not to notice a devastatingly good-looking man who doesn’t take his eyes off you,” she answered.

  “You were the most appealing sight in the room.” He glanced over at the river, where a bateau-mouche was passing by, lit up like Bourbon Street back home in New Orleans. “You know, you really haven’t seen the City of Light until you’ve seen it from the river. Come for a boat ride with me, Bliss. You’ll be surrounded by tourists who can act as bodyguards and if it’ll make you feel safer, I promise to keep my hands in my pockets at all times.”

  Damn. He’d hit on the one thing that was so, so tempting. The boats were one of the most enticing experiences Paris had to offer. She remembered once coming to the city with Alan, who’d refused her entreaties for just such a ride, proclaiming them a floating cliché. Which they might well be, but that didn’t stop her from loving the idea of them.

  Bliss gave him a long considering look. Although she’d been drawn to him the minute she’d seen him, leaning up against that silk-draped wall watching her with unwavering intensity, she’d made the decision to walk away from temptation.

  Absolutely nothing had changed in the last few minutes; Shayne Broussard was too charming, too smooth, too confident. And, too rich, Bliss reminded herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I just know that no matter how honorable your intentions, I’d end up letting myself get involved with you, and then...” She shrugged. “There you go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Checking into the Heartbreak Hotel.” This time her smile was unmistakably wistful, reminding him of a starved waif staring in a bakery window at a tray of chocolate éclairs. “I truly do believe that it’s better if I leave now. Before things get complicated.”

  That said, she withdrew her hand gently from his, slipped the jacket from her shoulders and put it over the back of her abandoned chair, then returned to the party.

  Shayne stood up, walked over to the French doors and watched as she disappeared into the bedroom where the coats had been collected.

  He cursed. Then laughed. “So much for the old Broussard charm.” Since he’d taped a microphone to his body before getting dressed for the party; he knew that somewhere in the city his superior would be listening to their conversation and laughing his head off.

  Shayne tilted his head in an almost imperceptible nod toward a woman standing beside the buffet table. She nodded back, then went into the bedroom as well to cover their target while Shayne left the building.

  “What a lovely wrap.”

  Bliss smiled at the forty-something woman who’d just plucked a mink coat from the bed. “Thanks.” She shrugged into the red satin baseball jacket in question. “It’s not really appropriate for this type of party, I suppose, but I believe in traveling light”

  “That’s wise.” The woman, who epitomized elegance, smiled back.

  As they stood there, looking at one another, Bliss had the feeling she was expected to say something. “Are you an American?”

  “From Seattle,” the woman lied blithely. “But I’ve been living in Paris for the past ten years. Did I hear you tell someone that you’re an antique dealer?”

  “Yes.” Ever ready, Bliss took a business card out of her purse. “If you’re ever in New Orleans, drop in and say hi.”

  “I just may do that.” The woman slipped the card into her ivory satin bag without looking at it. “Are you going to be in the city long? Perhaps we can have lunch.”

  “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “Ah.” A penciled brow lifted. “Then you’ve concluded your business successfully, I presume?”

  “Not really.” Bliss shrugged and tried not to sigh. “But I’ve left my shop too long as it is.” Zelda, who’d promised to help out during her absence, had probably given away half the stock by now. Her beloved grandmother, while appreciating fine things, had never been known for her business sense.

  “Well then, have a safe flight home. And if I ever visit your city, I’ll be sure to look you up.”

  “I’d like that.” Bliss returned the smooth smile with a quick one of her own, then left the bedroom.

  She should have taken a few rolls with her, she thought as she waited for the elevator. It would have saved having to buy something to eat at the airport while waiting for her flight. Unfortunately, her meeting with Shayn
e Broussard had left her feeling more than a little distracted.

  He certainly seemed nice, although really, when you thought about it, why shouldn’t wealthy people be nice? When you weren’t worried about mortgage payments and power bills and trying to figure out a new way to stretch ground turkey, you’d certainly have less reason to be stressed-out and snappish.

  Alan had certainly seemed nice enough. In the beginning. And Shayne Broussard was every bit as smooth as her ex-husband. And even more handsome. In fact, she thought as she stepped into the old-fashioned cage elevator, she’d never met such a good-looking man.

  His hair was as black as midnight, his eyes as blue as a summer sky. The contrast was riveting enough even before you tacked on that gorgeous straight nose, those chiseled lips and teeth so perfect that if they hadn’t been professionally straightened was even more proof that life was decidedly unfair.

  He was tall. She was five foot six, and she’d had to tilt her head back to look up at him. His deep tan suggested he spent a great deal of time in the sun, undoubtedly lounging around on topless beaches in the south of France and his body, beneath the Italian custom-tailored suit and silk shirt, appeared lean and hard.

  “I wonder if he works out,” she murmured.

  No. She couldn’t imagine him sweating in some common gym. It was easier to picture him playing polo, fencing or skiing at some jet-set gathering place in the Alps.

  “He’s not for you,” she reminded herself firmly as the elevator reached the ground floor. “You’ve had your fling with the rich and famous. And paid for it, big time.”

  The first three months of her marriage—along with her brief whirlwind courtship—had been the most exhilarating time of her life. She and Alan had honeymooned on a yacht in the Greek Islands, made love in a high feather bed in Provence, hung out with movie stars at the Cannes film festival and just before everything had fallen apart, they’d attended a dinner party in SoHo where John Kennedy Jr. and Madonna had both shown up—although not together.

  Life had seemed like a continual costume ball and she’d felt like Cinderella. Unfortunately, she’d never realized that come midnight her Prince Charming would turn into a rat.

  2

  AS SHE CAME OUT of the building, Bliss found Shayne waiting for her. She was not all that surprised. She was, however, more than a little unnerved at the warmth of pleasure that flowed through her at the sight of him.

  “So,” he greeted her, as if she hadn’t cut the conversation off so abruptly upstairs, “how much would it take?”

  Bliss eyed him warily. Despite his easygoing behavior, she sensed a steely core that made her suspect this man could be extremely hazardous to a woman’s emotional health.

  “How much what?”

  “How much money would I have to give away before you agreed to have dessert with me?”

  “I told you—”

  “I know.” Without waiting for an invitation, he fell into step with her as she began walking away. “You don’t get involved with rich guys. And I don’t know what’s happened to make you so down on an entire group of the world’s males, but don’t you think that behavior’s a little rigid? Especially for Paris?”

  The tap tap tap of her high heels on the cobblestone sidewalk reminded Bliss that being alone at night in a foreign country with a total stranger was definitely one of the riskier things she’d ever done.

  “That’s partly my point,” she answered, knowing that if she looked up at him and viewed the smile she heard in his voice that she’d have trouble sticking to her guns. “Paris is precisely the kind of city where people have flings.”

  “So now you’re against flings with rich men, too? I thought it was just involvement you were determined to avoid.”

  She stopped beneath the spreading yellow glow of a streetlight and looked up at him. “Are you always this impossibly stubborn?”

  “When I want something badly, yes.”

  Well, that was certainly to the point, Bliss decided, reluctantly giving him points for honesty. “And you want me?”

  “Sweetheart, a man would have to be stone-cold dead for a month of Sundays to not want you. However, at the moment I’m willing to settle for a walk along the river, perhaps share a few pastries, and pass the time in friendly, getting-to-know-you conversation.”

  “And if I don’t want to get to know you?”

  He laughed, the sound streaming through her like warm summer sunshine. “Of course you do. The same way I want to get to know you. I’ll make you a deal.”

  “The last time someone said that to me, I ended up buying a fake Meissen shepherdess.”

  “I’m not selling any counterfeits today,” he lied deftly.

  The truth was, of course, that his entire story was a fake. Hell, his whole life these past years was a tangled web of lies, when you got right down to it. It was getting so even he had trouble keeping track of who he was, Shayne thought, a bit disgusted with himself. But not enough to tell her the truth. She was, after all, he reminded himself firmly, a consummate liar herself.

  “It’s just that I’m in a strange mood tonight,” he said. Now that much was the truth. “I don’t feel like being alone.”

  “Now that’s encouraging,” she muttered. “Personally, I think the champagne remark was a better pickup line. If you’re accustomed to mentioning strange moods when you’re with a woman on a dark street it’s no wonder you’re alone.”

  He laughed again. Again she found it unnervingly charming. “You have a point. So, how about we get off this dark street and go somewhere public?”

  She really shouldn’t. For some reason—perhaps it was his black Irish looks—this man reminded her of her tenant, Michael O’Malley. She could just imagine what the former homicide cop turned private investigator would say about her incautious behavior. He would undoubtedly hit the roof.

  “What did you have in mind?” she heard herself asking.

  “I believe I mentioned a boat ride.”

  Once again it was so, so tempting. “You promised to keep your hands in your pockets,” she reminded him.

  “Absolutely,” he lied again as he dipped them into the pockets of his gray slacks.

  Twenty minutes later, sitting on the upper deck of a boat gliding slowly down the Seine, with a backdrop of the Eiffel Tower glistening like an oversize Christmas tree, Bliss realized that she’d made an error. This was more than just a tourist cliché, like the Mad Hatter’s teacup ride or the Matterhorn at Disneyland. Despite the fact that the boat was crowded with people rattling away in a dozen different languages, this was, without a doubt, the most glamorous and romantic experience of her life.

  The lights of the boat created a shimmering silver veil over the water and cast the magnificent Gothic arches of Notre Dame in a dramatic brilliance. It reminded Bliss of the first time she’d experienced the aurora borealis while vacationing in Maine. Dazzling and magical and something she knew she’d remember vividly for the rest of her life.

  “You’re suddenly awfully quiet.” He turned toward her, leaned across the small table between them and toyed with a curl that the spring breeze had brushed against her cheek.

  The night air was cool; his fingers felt like a touch of flame against her skin. And Bliss knew that she was sunk.

  “I was just thinking that perhaps this isn’t such a bad way to end my time in Paris,” she murmured.

  He smiled at that. A bold, confident smile that should have made her hate him but unfortunately held so much - charm she couldn’t even muster up a decent dislike. “Does this mean you’re rethinking your position on wealthy men?”

  “No.” On this she was firm. Before Alan, she’d always prided herself on standing on her own two feet. Now that she was on her own again, the ground beneath her feet might be a little unstable, but she’d survive it. As she’d survived so much else in her past. “But it does mean that perhaps I’ll suspend judgment. Just for tonight”

  “Tonight’s a beginning.” He took her hand,
linked their fingers together and gave her another of those slow perusals that warmed her blood and made her pulse race. “You really are stunning.”

  “Of course.” Her cool smile was designed to conceal another attack of nerves. “It is Paris, after all. All women appear stunning at night in Paris.”

  “I know I promised to surround you with bodyguards,” he said as the boat pulled, over to pick up a group of Japanese tourists, “but how would you feel about walking for a while?”

  Throwing the last remaining bit of caution to the wind, she stood up. “I’d like that.”

  Bliss reminded herself that this was Paris and, after the year she’d had, she deserved a little fling. Besides, it was growing late and in the morning she’d be back on the plane to the States. What could happen in a few short hours?

  They strolled along the Left Bank, passing lovers embracing in doorways and a saxophone player sending sad, lonely notes against the stone walls. They stopped and bought ice cream from an elderly vendor who insisted Bliss was truly the most beautiful woman in all of the city, then later, when the April drizzle began again, they laughingly ducked into a bistro where they drank glasses of white house wine that tasted like buttered sunshine.

  After the rain, they continued along the cobblestone streets, stopping again when Shayne insisted that she have her portrait painted by an artist who’d set up shop on the sidewalk. A crowd of American tourists began to gather, and although Bliss was a bit uncomfortable being the center of attention, she had to admit that she was flattered by both the flirtatious comments of the artist and the final results.

  “Now you,” she said, getting up from the stool so Shayne could take his turn.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, smiling. He’d become an expert at never having his picture taken. In his business even a pastel chalk likeness would be a mistake.

  “But...”

  Not wanting to get into an argument, but realizing that she was not going to surrender easily this time, he did the first thing that popped into his mind. He bent his head and kissed her.

  The touch of his mouth against hers only lasted an instant. But it was still long enough to cause her breath to back up in her lungs and needs she’d forgotten she possessed to slice through her. His lips were cool; the emotions they stirred were anything but.