but you don’t understand. You have to be the right Mitchell. My associates have seen his picture. They know what he looks like. If I bring the wrong man, my career will be over.”
“I am the right Mitchell. Trust me.”
“Who am I kidding?” she said helplessly. “Without a future husband, I’m right back where I started and I have nobody but myself to blame. How could I have let this happen? I knew better.”
“Future husband?” That was not part of the plan, imaginary or not. “Tell me about Mitchell,” he said, stalling, “What does he look like?”
“In my photograph, he’s standing on a beach by a big black rock, looking back at the camera. He’s tall with tawny hair and…” she paused “…he looks a little sad.”
The beach by the black rock—he remembered it well. He and Melia had shared some special moments there. After she died, he’d gone back to that beach a lot. The photograph was one of those he’d given to Bettina, taken by an acquaintance. The memory of that beach sucker-punched him in the gut. He’d thought he’d put it behind him but he obviously hadn’t. He’d seen that expression in his mirror every time he shaved.
“Mitchell, do you know the photograph I mean?”
“I do,” he said, a sudden attack of regret causing him to backpedal on his rash offer. “I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but I think you’d better wait for Bettina to handle it.”
“Normally, I’d agree with you. Waiting would be wise. But this time I can’t wait. If I can produce the real Mitchell, I stand a chance at getting a promotion. With a promotion I can afford to look after my mother.”
Her mother. She must be ill. That would explain Ms. Harris’s desperation. “I really am Mitchell. I promise you, I’m the guy you’re looking for.”
“I hope you are.” Her resignation clearly voiced her doubt. “I’ve arranged for us to use a friend’s cabin up by the lake, near Mr. Jacobs’s house for the afternoon. I thought it would be better if we had a private place where you and I could rehearse the story of our relationship before I introduce you to my employer.”
“Rehearse?” He couldn’t see her, but his mind didn’t care. It went into erotic overtime. “That sounds—interesting.”
“It’s business,” she said. “This is serious. Don’t worry. Just keep an open mind. I have everything all worked out.”
Mitchell tried to open his mind but it refused, choosing instead to imagine what his “fiancée” meant by rehearsing. “I’m pretty much a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of guy. You might want to reconsider your plan.”
“It’s too late for that, Mitchell.”
It was too late. Bettina always said he lived his life as if it was a James Bond adventure, but this time he felt as if he’d just stepped into Alice’s rabbit hole—except this rabbit hole had nothing to do with tea parties and chess games. And the “off with their heads” line ran eerily through his mind. Once he’d admitted to being Mitchell, he’d sealed his fate. Short of hanging up, he had to follow through. It was a matter of honor. If he said he’d do something, he did it. Besides, he told himself, it was only for a weekend. And she’d probably be as plain as dry toast.
“Bring casual clothes for the lake and a dress suit for the wedding,” she went on, more confidently now. “I don’t know why people have to get married in June. It’s too hot. By the way, I don’t want to know who you really are. Bettina called you Mitchell Dane, and that’s who my co-workers are expecting. At least she gives her men last names, even if she keeps her own a secret.”
“Mitchell Dane?” Bettina gave Anne Harris his last name but kept hers a secret? What was she thinking of? Then it hit him—using his photograph…her sudden need for a vacation… This entire weekend was a setup. “Just look after the office for three days, Mitchell, in case of an emergency. Please?” She was getting even for all the high-handed rules he’d imposed on her when she was growing up.
She hadn’t appreciated the early curfews he’d set, when her friends had more freedom. He hadn’t handled his responsibility well. He was still a teenager with raging hormones and thwarted dreams. And he might have gone too far while he forced her to study business instead of art, but he’d tried to make sure she could take care of herself. Now she was either getting even or returning the favor. She thought it was time for him to settle down. The last time he was in town and she’d invited one of her clients to dinner, he’d hightailed it out of town a day early. This latest incident proved she hadn’t given up. She’d turned him into Anne Harris’s future husband. He wondered if Anne was even a real client or not, and if Jess and Ran were in on her plan. If not, they’d better get ready. They’d be next.
Anne interrupted his thoughts. “I’m already packed.” She gave him her address, then added, “Please hurry, Mitchell. We need to get going,” and hung up before he could back out. And he still didn’t have her telephone number.
Mitchell sat for a minute, considering his next move.
He had let a hoarse, sexy voice and a woman in trouble get to him. Bettina had counted on that; his past had made him a caretaker. He couldn’t fight the guilt for Melia’s death or the need to help any woman or child in distress. He’d never admit it but he was a romantic. He’d watched Casablanca on every black-and-white television set in every language in the world. He would never have let Ingrid Bergman’s plane leave without him.
But that was a movie, and he had to assume Anne Harris was truly one of his sister’s clients. If this was a setup, well, maybe he’d turn it around and the joke would be on Bettina. He had a couple of weeks between assignments… Anne Harris wanted to rehearse… He was beginning to warm to the idea. She needed a lover who would play his role to the hilt. He’d give her what Bettina had promised. He just had to dust off his hilt a bit.
2
ANNE HARRIS HUNG UP the phone and, as she had a hundred times, picked up the black-and-white photograph of the man who was supposed to be her fiancé. He was very tall and lean, with windblown, fair hair that was too long. He looked as if his thoughts were a thousand miles away as he balanced himself against a gray rock on the beach and looked directly into the camera. The expression on Mitchell Dane’s face was one of restlessness, of private longing. She didn’t have to be told that he didn’t share himself freely. She knew.
She knew because she’d had to learn to be that way. She traveled alone now, not willing to share her creative ideas with her co-workers. The last time she’d done that, the man she’d shared them, and her life, with stole her idea, sold it to another company and left Baltimore. She was still paying off the debts he’d run up and replacing the money she’d been forced to borrow from her mother’s account. Bundles of Joy was her second chance and she couldn’t blow it.
As one of Bettina’s models, this was just another job to Mitchell Dane. Anne couldn’t expect him to understand how serious this was. Neither had her mother, Faylene, the day she’d met Anne’s new boss, Alvin Jacobs. She’d seen Faylene’s eyes light up when she saw Mr. Jacobs and, worse, she’d seen Mr. Jacobs’s response. When Mr. Jacobs announced that his granddaughter had just become engaged, Faylene, overdosed on romantic bliss, waxed poetically about planning her daughter Anne’s wedding as though it was an upcoming event.
Anne
