to get his head in order. To plan his attack.
A large room with high ceilings and bare walls, the stockroom was a hodgepodge of electronic gadgetry and miscellaneous supplies. Devin found the cashews under a stack of misprinted menus and grabbed a box.
“Larry? Federal prosecutor Larry? He doesn’t have any magnetism. No one will buy that he’s Alexander.” Devin almost dropped his bundle. That smooth voice belonged to her.
“Well, I’ll be,” he mumbled. He’d forgotten that the room shared a thin wall with booth twelve.
“He’s perfectly fine,” Rachel replied.
“People have an image of Montgomery Alexander. Not just anyone can step into his shoes.”
Whoever this Alexander guy was, Paris sure seemed taken with him. The lucky bastard.
Devin took a deep breath. What the hell was he doing, eavesdropping on a woman he didn’t know and envying a man he’d never met? “Dev, you’re a basket case,” he muttered.
“You can say that again.”
Jerry’s whisper carried, and Devin spun around, a finger to his lips.
“Don’t worry,” Jerry assured. “The sound only comes in. Don’t ask me why. I just—”
Devin held up his hand. The women were talking again.
“So you’re okay with the idea?” Rachel asked. “All we have to do is find the right guy?”
“No, I’m not okay with it.” That was Paris. He pictured her with slightly raised eyebrows, like a woman scolding a small child. “Even if he looked perfect, how can we be sure this guy would keep the secret? Besides, it’s not right. It’d be like we were scamming everyone.”
“Scamming? Honey, what do you think we’re doing now?”
“Nothing,” Paris insisted. “Montgomery L. Alexander is just a pen name. My pen name.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” whispered Jerry. “Who woulda thought Montgomery Alexander was a broad?”
The knot in Devin’s stomach loosened and his heart picked up its tempo. He caught himself smiling and almost laughed out loud. There was no Alexander. It was just a pseudonym.
His reaction bordered on absurd, and he knew it. She didn’t know him from Adam. Just because there was no Alexander didn’t mean she was going to rush into Devin’s arms and smother him with kisses. So what difference did it make if this Alexander guy was out of the picture? None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.
Didn’t matter. The logic center of his brain must have taken a vacation and left the lust department in control. All he could think was that Alexander’s untimely demise left one less person in the world to compete with for her attention.
Now he just had to figure out how to get her attention.
“Okay,” Rachel finally said, and Devin imagined her leaning back into the worn red leather booth, gathering steam for her next attack on Paris’s logic. “But there’s a drawing of Alexander on the back of your latest book. There’ve been articles, and web-pages, and on-line interviews. There are even women who swear they’ve slept with the man. You didn’t expect that, and neither did I. But that’s what we’re dealing with now.”
“I should just ’fess up and tell the truth at the party.” Paris said, sounding as if she’d prefer to have a root canal.
“And ruin everything? Hardback book deal. Remember? Money, publicity, the whole nine yards. Remember? You know Cobalt Blue’s only going to make an offer if Alexander comes through at the party tomorrow.”
“I know. I know. Besides, I’m just babbling. You know I can’t tell the truth. Not now. I’m in too deep.”
“So, let’s go out and find us an Alexander.” There was a pause. “What? Oh, no. You’re not going to say what I think you’re going to say.”
“But it’s true,” Paris insisted. “Not just anyone can be Alexander. He’s special. He’s unique.”
“Hello? Anybody home? He’s made up. Or are you going mental on me?”
Paris laughed. “Haven’t I always been?”
“Well, I’ll give you that.”
Devin heard shuffling.
“But what about the party?” Rachel asked. “We need time to find the right guy.”
“Maybe we could say he missed his plane from London.” Although her voice was muffled, Devin could just make out what Paris said. “As his personal manager, I guess little ol’ me will just have to break the bad news.”
Her voice barely penetrated the wall, and Devin realized they were leaving. The urge to see her again overwhelmed him, and he was on his feet and out the door before the echo faded. He burst into the dining area just as the front door swung shut.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he spewed, startling an old man munching pretzels at the bar. Without stopping to consider, he sprinted for the door, opened it and stepped into the heavy August heat. Paris stood across the street, about to slip into a taxi.
For a moment, she seemed to look right at him. Without thinking, he took a step toward her. Her mouth twitched in what could have been a smile, then she ducked in, slammed the door and was gone.
Devin mentally shook himself. He was acting like a flake. Since when did Devin O’Malley run after anonymous women? He tried to laugh it off, blaming his quirky behavior on testosterone, sunspots, or his fast-approaching thirty-first birthday. Anything to lessen the feeling that he had suddenly and without warning lost something terribly important.
“Answer to your prayers, eh, boss?”
“She’s a diamond, Jerry,” Devin answered, without turning around. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m coal. My whole family’s coal. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll make it to graphite by the next millennium. But not diamonds. Never diamonds.” And that was a damn shame.
“I ain’t suggesting you marry her, man. I’m saying she’s a nice little solution to your problem.”
Distracting thoughts of marriage and honeymoon nights, bare shoulders and a willing woman, that woman, drifted though Devin’s mind. Devin and the diamond? The possibility intrigued him, and Devin had never turned his back on a challenge. Hadn’t he started his business despite every possible obstacle? Wasn’t he finally shaking loose the remnants of his childhood?
Devin shook his head to clear his thoughts. “What are you talking about, Jerry?”
“Just your gal-pal and that twenty-thou you owe a certain, um, loan manager.”
Devin turned. “I don’t owe it.” A technicality, but true. After his dad’s stroke, Devin had said he’d cover the debt. Too bad for him the creditor was more vile than the worst thug in a Scorsese gangster flick.
Jerry shrugged. “Your pop, you. Same difference. You stepped in,
