Men Like This

by Roxanne Smith

“You’re greedy American, no?”

  That hurt. “The thing is, I kind of have my own money. Remember the book I mentioned? I’ve written several. My bank account probably rivals his.”

  “Of course. I see. You find your long-lost cousin, and he happens to be rich and famous? A pleasant surprise for you. If you don’t want money, you must want fame. Oh, and you’re the writer? So you write a book about Jack, huh? Paparazzi in disguise. Very clever.”

  “Listen, I can—”

  Her tone turned snide. “I don’t know who you are, or what place you crawled out of, but you are not his family. You, Miss Novella, are nothing but a bug, stealing and manipulating. You work fast, but I’m going to discover who you really are and what you’re really after.”

  “Did you call me a bug?”

  “I’m going to bring you down, Miss Novella—”

  “I don’t have time for this.” Quinn sighed. “Do whatever you need to.”

  “I’m going to—”

  One little push of the End button cut off the rest of what Vickie was going to do.

  Quinn strode back to her desk but soon found her concentration shot. Was it fair to say Vickie really did have the personality of a scorpion if she was only protecting her husband-to-be?

  Maybe a river of pure, sweet honey ran beneath her steely, imposing visage. Maybe a cute little clown fish swam behind her shark’s gaze. Quinn bit the inside of her cheek. Maybe Nicholas would take up karaoke and sport fishing.

  Her cell phone rattled in her hand. Another unknown caller. Having learned her lesson about avoiding problems, she answered. “Hello?”

  “Quinnie!”

  Wonderful. “Hi, Jack. How nice to hear from you again.”

  Her sarcasm didn’t go unnoticed. “Aw, c’mon, I’ve gone through some trouble to call you. I had to steal your number from Vickie’s phone.”

  “Sounds dangerous.” She tried to sound bored but meant it wholeheartedly.

  “You’ve no idea.”

  “Oh, I think I do. I hung up with your lovely fiancée only moments ago.” No need to tell him she’d hung up on his betrothed. “She’s a real peach.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m the sarcastic one, remember? She’s figured out I’m not some distant relative. I’ll admit I might’ve overplayed my part. The real problem is she believes I’m lying to you rather than you lying to her. I’m after your fame, obviously, since I’ve got my own fortune. Or I’m an undercover journalist attempting to infiltrate your inner circle. Oh, that’s not bad.” She jotted a quick note on a sticky pad she kept handy for such moments. “Infiltrate. Celebrity. Inner. Circle.” She set the pen down. “You need to come clean.”

  He’d been laughing. It ended abruptly. “I can’t. You don’t understand.”

  “Explain it to me.” She stood firmly in Vickie’s corner. She’d been the butt of Blake’s extramarital joke for long enough to pity any woman on the ignorant end of a lie.

  “It looks bloody awful, but I swear my reasoning is sound. You see, Vickie is jealous to the point of insanity. She’s literally crazy with it. This isn’t my ego talking, nor do I use the term ‘crazy’ with a light heart. She’s jealous of my dog. Had I introduced you as yourself, we would’ve been forced to recount every nuance of our time as acquaintances. When we met, where we met, how we met, if we’d slept together, how many times, last time we’d spoken. What does the truth sound like?”

  Quinn leaned back in her cushy desk chair, crossed her ankles, and considered. “We met in Hollywood after I caused a scene in a bar. You spent the night with me in my hotel room, and we haven’t seen each other since. It’s been well over a year.”

  “Quinn, Quinn, Quinn.”

  Never had such a world-weary tone crossed her ears.

  “You and I sat talking for hours this morning, babbling like two neighboring old biddies. Normally, when two people with our particular past run into each other, it’s an awkward meeting of desperate avoidance and eyes that can’t quite meet. We’re far too friendly for our history, you and I. Vickie would’ve assumed the worst.”

  She understood. Nicholas’s thoughts had run along the same vein. “An affair.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Why didn’t you say we’d worked together or something?”

  He scoffed. “Oh, right, because we did such a fine job of acting off the cuff, did we? Look, the lie backfired as they’re known to do, and I’m sorry to have dragged you into the mess. I’ll fix it. The good news is she didn’t assume we’re involved.”

  Quinn rolled her eyes. “That’s not good news. You merely channeled her suspicion into safer waters. Safer for you, anyway. You get to be the victim while I’m a fame-hungry man thief.”

  “Oh? And if she thought we were shagging, she wouldn’t call you a man thief?”

  He’d already ruined her day. Did he have to make sense, too?

  “I’m truly sorry. No lip service. There’s a lot at stake, though. She might’ve canceled the wedding.”

  Quinn made silent gagging motions. “Sure. I gotcha. You know, for being an actor you’re a terrible liar.”

  Affronted, he replied, “They aren’t one and the same. Acting is an art.” He paused. “I suppose lying is, too, for those who work at it. Still, I maintain they’re two entirely separate entities. Lying involves a victim. Acting is an honest portrayal of another person, be they fiction or non.”

  She pursed her lips. “You’ve given this some thought.”

  “I’ve never lied to her before.” The quiet confession surprised her. “Never had a reason to. I’m a well-behaved bloke despite what the rags will tell you.”

  She sighed against a wash of melancholy. Her Irishman hadn’t changed a bit. Still charming and funny, curious and eager, and from teasing to earnest in the space of a single sentence. No man should be this easy to talk to.

  They’d talk forever, joke forever, argue mindlessly over nothing and everything forever if she didn’t do something. “I’m sorry for the trouble my little morning exploration has caused between you and Vickie, though to be fair it’s mostly your own fault. Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. I wish you both the very best. Good-bye, Jack.”

  “Good-bye? Nonsense. I’m inviting you to the wedding! We’re best friends, remember? And family, besides.” The unmistakable laughter in his voice made her want to throttle him.

  Ten whole minutes of her life went down the drain in futile bickering before Quinn called a cease-fire. If he truly managed to annoy her, it might forever sully her image of Ezra. And Ezra had to be perfect.

  Character worries aside, she had more important tasks at hand than debating with her friend/muse/long-lost cousin over the wisdom of her attending Vickie’s dream wedding to Jack. She informed him she’d be changing her number in the morning.

  He was still arguing when she hung up. Persistent to the end.

  Quinn was still half-asleep when she reached for the screaming cell phone on her nightstand and squinted at the painful brightness of the room. The sun must’ve come up early. It didn’t make any sense, but neither did receiving a phone call at an hour when normal people were sleeping.

  “Hi, hon.” She smiled in anticipation of Seth’s response to the endearment.

  “Who, me? Well, all right.”

  She sat up.

  Her sleep-laden eyes popped wide open at the Irish brogue coming over the waves. “Jack?”

  “None other. Can you call me hon again?”

  She covered her face with her free hand in an effort to block out the light. “Stop flirting with me. Why are you calling me? It’s too early for battle.”

  “You’re a wily one. I half expected you to have changed your phone number by now, and it’s only early if you’re a college student. We’re well into afternoon, Quinnie.” He laughed. “Late night with Nicholas?”

  She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and shuffled across the room to the robe hanging on the back of the door. She didn’t sleep
in. Why had she slept in? “Damn it. Late night with my manuscript, more like.”

  She stumbled into the kitchen and made a beeline for the coffeemaker where she dumped out yesterday’s brew. “What do you want, Jack?” She didn’t have time for his antics today. “I’m not going to the wedding, okay? I mean it.”

  “The wedding. Right.” A certain gravity in his voice gave her pause. “A few terrible things have transpired since I saw you last. It’s probably a lucky thing you haven’t left your flat today.”

  “Terrible things? What terrible things?”

  “First, check outside for me, will you? Anyone lingering near your doorstep?”

  She finished measuring out grounds first. One must have priorities. She then traveled to the living room and peeked through the curtains at the front stoop. “Not a soul. What’s this about? You’re making me nervous.”

  “It’s something I ought to show you. Thanks for confirming the coast is clear. I’ll be right over.”

  The connection ended.

  Quinn stared at the phone in her hand disbelieving. She hadn’t had breakfast yet, and she expected company? She tossed the phone onto the couch with a growl and retreated to her bedroom to swap her robe for something marginally more decent. Lavender velour pants and a white tank top were as decent as she intended to get. Her search for her brush was less successful.

  She was on her second cup of coffee when the doorbell sounded and she admitted an anxious Jack into her apartment.

  “Coffee?” she offered by way of greeting.

  “You’re a bloody angel. Yes, please.” He hung his jacket on the peg next to hers and curiously looked her over.

  “What?” she snapped. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable.

  “Your hair is a fantastic mess.”

  She declined to reply, fearing something less than kind would escape from her lips. Instead, she guided him into the kitchen and inquired how he took his coffee, a picture-perfect hostess.

  “I’ll get it. I don’t need to be waited on. Go on, have a seat.” He plucked a mug from the carousel next to the coffeemaker.

  It was too early to start an argument, so she did as he suggested. Jack poured his mug to the brim, no sugar, no cream, and joined her wordlessly. From his back pocket, he pulled out the thin, rolled-up magazine she’d noticed but not commented on. He set it in front of her.

  She scanned the front page. The title was familiar, a celebrity gossip magazine widely available in the States. It took her less than ten seconds to spot the thing that had Jack nervously chewing his thumbnail while he waited. In the top right corner, a photograph showed the two of them locked in an embrace seemingly inches away from kissing.

  Intimate.

  No other word existed to describe the image. “Jack Decker’s Mystery Woman” read boldly beneath the inset along with a tagline inviting readers to page three for the juicy details.

  The air in her lungs vanished. “Oh, no.”

  Jack urged her to keep reading. “Go on, page three has the real goods.”

  Quinn flipped through to find the photo enlarged and accompanied by three paragraphs. Well, that wasn’t so bad, right? Not a full article; three tiny paragraphs.

  She read aloud. “Jack Decker, star of the critically acclaimed Myron’s Office, is seen here with an unidentified mystery woman. The only thing known for certain is there have been no reports of Decker’s long-term relationship with Venezuelan actress and model, Vickie Lana, being on the rocks. Neither party could be reached for comment.” She followed the rest in silence, panic growing with every word. “They weren’t supposed to take your picture. You said they wouldn’t. This is bad. Oh, my God, this is bad.”

  “It’s a bloody nightmare.” The heat in Jack’s voice was unmistakable. He stood up and began to pace. “I guess the deal’s off if I have my coffee with a side of beautiful blonde, especially one who is not my well-known girlfriend.” He plopped back into the seat and ran a hand over his hair.

  He’d called her beautiful, but she didn’t have time to obsess over it. She’d come back to it later, wallow in and absorb the compliment at a more appropriate time. Right now, they needed to focus on damage control. “Okay. Okay, well, has Vickie seen this yet? I mean, because the press can say whatever, but as long as she has the truth, it’s okay, right?”

  He looked at her like she’d spoken a foreign dialect. “I’m sorry, love, I’ve forgotten to tell you the rest. The paper you’ve got there is but a bit player in the tragedy we’ve seen unfold this fine morning. You recall Vickie is off her rocker, yes?”

  “Yes. I get it. She’s crazy.” Quinn moved her hands in a get-on-with-it gesture. Every minute they spent chatting equaled a minute not spent figuring out a solution.

  “Crazy hardly covers it. She’s a piece of work, she is. Gone in the head and deserving of a slow, agonizing death.”

  Taken aback, Quinn blinked at the strong words. Jack didn’t have a mean bone in his body. She studied his face and discovered not anger but hurt. “What happened?”

  He glanced at the floor. “I woke up to a bloody war, that’s what. She’d gone out for coffee and came home with this garbage.” He grabbed the paper only to give it a disgusted toss to the other side of the table. “No questions, no demands for information. Just instant war. She said she’d been counting on it. Can you believe that? She expected it! Who expects that in a relationship? Crazy people, that’s who. Turns out, she’s seeing someone else. Her ex-boyfriend, some little Italian turd, called Vino. I met him once. Don’t see what the big deal is, myself.” He paused and made a visible attempt to gather himself with a deep breath and a shake of his shoulders. “Ah, well. She told me to get out. No chance to explain a thing. I left even though she’s sitting in my house because sometimes you’ve got to pick your battles. Also, Quinn, she sends her regards, and you’re welcome to my ‘cheating ass.’”

  So much for damage control. Quinn shook her head in pure awe. “Confesses to an affair and kicks you out of your own house. You don’t just watch daytime television, Jack. You live it.”

  “Oprah taught me everything I know.” The joke fell flat. He didn’t seem to notice. “I’m sorry I came here. I shouldn’t have. I suppose I wanted someone to commiserate with me. We’re safe for as long as you remain a mystery to the press.”

  “Safe?”

  “Yeah, from paparazzi and the like. They’re bloody vultures once they catch a scent, though, don’t doubt it. We’re screwed if they figure it out.” His steady gaze shifted to the saltshaker between them. “I’m sick to my stomach. Not jealous or angry, just ill. I bet it’s only a small taste of what it must’ve been like for you, though. I can’t imagine.” He blinked. “A year. An entire year. How’d I miss it? Where was I when this was happening?”

  Her heart broke for him. He described the ugly aftermath perfectly. Few emotional combinations were more caustic than anxiety and total heartbreak. She’d lost the contents of her stomach several times after discovering Blake’s affair and asked herself all the same questions.

  She covered one of Jack’s hands with hers. “At least you didn’t find out after the wedding.”

  The sentiment may not help, but it was true. He’d been a couple months shy of making a huge mistake.

  Jack laughed and squeezed her hand as his eyes refocused on hers. “There it is. The silver lining I’ve been searching for all morning. Thank you, love.”

  Her phone rang before she had a chance to reply. She jogged to the couch where she’d tossed it earlier and checked the screen. Dad? Odd timing for him. She reentered the kitchen and excused herself to take the call. “Hi, Dad.” She added a pinch of inquiry to the greeting.

  “Quinnie, my girl. When were you going to tell us you’d met someone?”

  The gears turned but failed to catch. Her brows snapped together. “What?”

  “The man in the picture. Blake called here at the most ungodly hour last night to tell me he’d come across a photograph of you online with
some guy. Whatever happened to the nice fellow with the paper store?”

  Quinn blew out her cheeks. Oh, man. “Nicholas. Um, Nicholas is fine. He’s doing great. The picture is nothing, really. They’re playing up the angle. The guy is a friend. He’s pretty well known here, and I’m some strange girl no one’s heard of. They’re making a big pile of manure where there isn’t even a cow.”

  Jack quirked a brow in her direction. The hint of a smile played on his lips.

  “Yeah, I can see you’re confusing people. They’re calling you a Mystery Woman. Unfortunately, that’s not going to be true for long.”

  Quinn swallowed in an attempt to get her heart out of her throat. “Why not?”

  Douglas coughed politely. “Upset people do irrational things. I intend to give the little prick a piece of my mind after I’m done with you.”

  Blake. Like “little prick” could be anyone else. “What, Dad? What did he do?”

  He explained and revealed the full depth of the nightmare. “Blake contacted the Web site and identified you. I’m sorry, Quinn. By this time tomorrow, the photograph will have a new heading. But maybe it’s not a bad thing. How’s your readership overseas?”

  “My . . . Wait, what? You’re saying he—”

  “Told them you were Clementine Hazel? Yes. I am. He did.”

  Her heart plummeted. It took her stomach, lungs, and other internal organs along for the ride. “I have to go.” She ended the call without hearing a word of his protest.

  She took her turn staring at the saltshaker on the table until the view blurred from shock. “Blake. Oh, Blake. I’m going to kill you. I should’ve done it after the affair. No one would’ve blamed me.”

  Jack leaned back and folded his arms. “What about the tosser?”

  “He told them who I am after coming across the photo of us online.” When Jack didn’t seem appropriately scandalized, she clarified. “I’m nobody, obviously. But Clementine Hazel. . . .”

  The light dawned across his features as he soaked in the implications.

  She nodded. “I have a feeling we’re going to make the news again.”

  A moment passed. “So, killing Blake. How do you want it done?”