>
“What are you trying to do, drown me?”
“I’m trying to save you.” He caught her wrists and held her arms wide in self-defense.
She stumbled to her feet, water streaming down her body—her body, because the tight black stuff she had on was virtually transparent. She was like an angry goddess rising from the sea, full breasted and glorious in her rage.
“Are you trying to save me or just make me crazy?” she shouted at him.
“I’m trying to—”
And then he forgot what he was trying to do, because she surged forward and he surged forward, and they came together in an explosion of pent-up desire. Right there in the middle of the bathtub in the penthouse of the Beverly Pacific Hotel.
“Damn,” he gasped, shocked by her slick hands on his bare back. “I never intended—”
“Shut up and kiss me,” she ordered in her throaty voice, “because I did intend.”
So much for that lousy commandment from the boss about clients and bodyguards not getting involved.…
Dear Reader,
I love stories about people trading lives. I like to think, read and write about living in somebody else’s shoes. I’ve never done it, but the concept fascinates me.
That’s what drew me to Trading Places. What would happen if a deserving but everyday woman had a chance to live the life of her boss and exact opposite, a beautiful and notorious adventuress? Would it turn out to be a dream come true or would it be a disaster—perhaps even a dangerous disaster?
Alice gets the opportunity, whereupon things go wrong in bunches: car bombs, threatening phone calls, bullets, ex-husbands she’s never met—you name it. Fortunately, she has Jed by her side; unfortunately, he has no idea who she really is. How will he react when he finds out?
I hope you enjoy reading Trading Places as much as I enjoyed writing it. And I suggest that the next time someone you know well acts…just a little off…you take a closer look.
We see what we expect to see, as Alice learned.
What do you expect?
Ruth Jean Dale
Trading Places
Ruth Jean Dale
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
SHARLAYNE KENYON threw back her head and let loose her trademark laugh, deep and sexy and somehow bawdy. “That’s what you want to call my book?” she asked when she could speak again.
Linden Wilbert, fifty-two-year-old head of the small and eccentric New York publishing house that bore his name, regarded this magical creature with a mix of disapproval and fascination. He could well understand the power she wielded over the men in her life and those who wanted to be in her life. Much married adventuress, occasional actress, sometime model and internationally popular personality, Sharlayne was, quite simply, dazzling. She had traveled furtively to Linden’s Long Island estate to discuss her latest incarnation: author.
The book deal, also furtive, had been struck more than a year ago after they’d happened to meet at a cocktail party.
To this day Linden, scion of old money and the ideals of another century, could not fathom why she’d chosen him to pilot her autobiography through the literary shoals. He understood even less his own willingness to publish a tome so at odds with his usual list, which tended to be long on quality and woefully short on sales. All he knew was that he’d surprised himself by leaping at the opportunity.
His only excuse was that publishing the memoirs of one of the most famous—perhaps the proper word was notorious—women in the world appealed to his sense of the absurd.
Now Sharlayne turned her enormous blue-gray eyes in his direction and he melted. She was even more beautiful in person than in photographs or on film. Her face was a flawless oval, the skin creamy and unmarred by lines or dullness. Long lashes framed those incredible eyes, also accented by impeccably arched brows. The straight nose was as perfect as the rest. Full lips glistened pink and tempting.
But her hair—that glorious soft blond mane that was her signature style—had been chopped into a short, curvy cap. It bared dainty ears and gave her an innocence he wouldn’t have imagined possible in a mature woman of her background and age, which he guessed to be early forties, although she didn’t look near it. She herself would only say she was “twenty-nine and holding.” Gazing at her, he could almost believe it.
He refused to let himself think about her famous body. At least, he tried valiantly.
She leaned forward, her expression one of mild
