the kissing disease?” She shuddered. “I definitely don’t want anything like that.”
“Oh. Then…there’s always exhaustion. You hear that a lot—celebrities checking into the hospital, suffering from exhaustion.”
“But I’m not checking into a hospital,” she pointed out reasonably. “Think of something else.”
“How about a broken bone?”
She considered, finally shaking her head. “I don’t want to get into casts or anything like that,” she decided. “Been there, done that.”
“I’ve got it!” He snapped his fingers. “Laryngitis. You can’t even talk on the phone.”
Her eyes lit up. “That’s perfect. I can set up this decoy in my house, surround her with strangers—except for Tabitha, of course—and then I’ll be free to hide away and write my book. Simple.”
The mention of her personal assistant produced a grimace from Linden. Why the beauteous Sharlayne had hooked up with the formidable Tabitha Thomas was a mystery, but he knew they’d been inseparable for a decade at least.
“Where will you go?” he asked, then caught himself, realizing that now even he was treating this cockamamy idea as if it might actually work.
“I haven’t figured that out yet,” she said serenely, as though she recognized the precise instant she’d overwhelmed his objections. “Somewhere I can be completely anonymous. A mountain cabin, an isolated ranch—something like that. You wouldn’t have any ideas, would you?”
When she turned that luminous gaze on him, he didn’t have an idea in his head. He licked his lips. “I…might come up with something.” He pulled himself together. “If you really intend to try this—”
“I’m not going to try.” She gave him a reproachful glance. “I’m going to do it.”
“In that case, you must provide this poor woman with some kind of protection.”
“Protection from what?”
“From all potentialities—ex-husbands, any ex-lovers lurking about, kooks who might wander by, everything.”
She considered. “You know,” she said at last, “that might not be a bad idea. You mean, like a bodyguard?”
He nodded.
“This bodyguard could keep people at arm’s length, so they don’t get close enough to notice the switch.”
“He could possibly do that, yes.”
“That’s a good idea, Linden.” Her lovely mouth curved up. “Thank you, darling. As long as the press doesn’t find out that I’ve already signed a publishing contract and that the book is practically finished, there shouldn’t be any problems.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear.”
“Exactly.” She turned on that smile like a neon sign. “This will work. All I’ve got to do is convince my stand-in.”
“Stand-in or stooge?” he wondered aloud. “Sharlayne, I don’t actually believe you’ve found a woman who can pass for one of the most photographed women in the world—and who is also dumb enough to be talked into such a scheme.”
“O ye of little faith,” she said, softly mocking. “Finding her is the least of my problems. In fact, at this very minute she’s in your kitchen, trying to convince your cook to treat butter, which is practically my only weakness, like poison.”
The wink she gave him curled his toes, even as it enlisted him in her mad scheme.
“Cheer up, Linden.” Leaning forward, she cupped one smooth hand around his cheek. “This will work.”
“It won’t. The first person she meets will see right through her.”
She shook her head with absolute certainty. “Not so. And you know why? Because we see what we expect to see. If she’s living in Sharlayne Kenyon’s house and wearing Sharlayne Kenyon’s clothes and jewels and you expect to see Sharlayne Kenyon, that’s exactly who you will see when you look at her.”
She was so sure she almost made him believe it, too.
CHAPTER ONE
How many husbands are too many?
We have it on excellent authority that Sharlayne Kenyon has flown East for a rendezvous with potential husband number seven. Be careful, whoever you are! You could end up as an addendum in the book she keeps threatening to write—you know, the one that will name more names than the telephone book….
Gina Godfrey, U.S. Eye
ALICE WYNN LOVED working for Sharlayne Kenyon.
It was beyond a doubt the best thing that had happened in her thirty-two, mostly hard-luck, years. Not only did she love the job; it paid very well indeed.
That did not, however, mean that Alice was beyond having a little fun at her glamorous employer’s expense. With a dead-on knack for mimicry, which she’d had since childhood, she’d easily perfected a takeoff on Sharlayne that never failed her. It was a wonderful means of relaxing strangers and getting her own way in circumstances such as the one in which she currently found herself.
Mr. Wilbert’s cook, it had turned out, was not interested in listening to special requests from anyone. When Alice made her perfectly reasonable request that butter, cream and all other high-calorie substances be excluded from Sharlayne’s meals, the cook had pinned the interloper with a stern gaze.
“Don’t tell me my business, young woman,” she said. “I’ve been preparing Mr. Wilbert’s meals long enough to know what I’m doing.”
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Alice agreed, aware of the averted gaze of the young kitchen helper chopping vegetables at a butcher block table in the middle of the enormous kitchen. “It’s just that Miss Kenyon has very delicate digestion. She simply can’t handle rich foods—although she loves them, she truly does.”
The cook’s helper said eagerly, “I haven’t seen her yet. Is she really as beautiful as she looks in all those magazines?” She put down her knife and waited with breathless attention.
“More beautiful,” Alice declared. “And sweet as pie.” Usually. “It’s a joy to work for her except for this one little thing—about her meals, I mean.” She gave the cook an apologetic glance. “She gets really testy when she can’t find anything she can eat. You understand.”
“I suppose.” The cook spoke grudgingly, apparently not in the least bit mollified. She turned her glare on her helper. “Get to work! We don’t have all day here.”
“Sorry.” The young helper picked up the knife and held it poised over a carrot. “Are all the stories about her really true?” she asked Alice.
“Most of them,” Alice said. She switched easily to a deep-voiced near drawl to add, “And you don’t know the half of it, honey. Nobody
