Man Trouble Read online

  Jake stopped, taken aback. He waited for a few moments to see if she would come out again, but the cottage was now as silent as its neighbors. The curtains moved slightly, and while it was probably just the wind, he had the sudden feeling that she was standing there, hidden behind the fabric, peeking at him.

  Weird, he thought, wondering what could have spooked her. If the sight of a man in swim trunks frightened her so much, she was in for a seriously terrifying vacation. He shrugged, lifted a hand in a brief wave toward the curtain, and continued on down the beach.

  “My dear,” said Elaine McKee Culpepper Von Reinholz Newberg, “what on earth are you doing?”

  Guiltily, Molly jumped. Her heart was still hammering so hard that she could hear the beat of the blood in her ears, and her cheeks were hot. She released her grip on the curtain, and turned, feeling foolish.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Elaine raised her eyebrows. She was wearing black satin mules, a red silk nightgown with a matching robe, and diamond earrings. Her hair was pinned into a neat chignon, and her makeup was perfect. It was five minutes after eight A.M.

  They had arrived at Gold Bay late the night before, after a six-hour snow delay at Chicago's O'Hare airport. Commercial travel took them only as far as Antigua, where they were met by a Gold Bay helicopter that whisked them and their baggage over the last stretch of ocean to the resort's private island. Molly had been surviving on minimal sleep in the days prior to the trip, working nights to get two hundred freshman final exams graded before she left town, and by the time they arrived at Gold Bay, she was so dazed with fatigue that her brain had barely processed the scene around her. She had tumbled into bed after a brief discussion with Carter and Elaine about the fact that they were three people in a two-bedroom cottage. Elaine had explained that it would be perfect for Molly and Carter to share the room with the twin beds, and although her logic was dubious, Molly had been too tired to argue.

  She slept as deeply as she had ever slept in her life, and woke at seven with a fuzzy awareness of warm, jasmine-scented air and the sound of breaking surf. Carter was still snoring gently, an unidentifiable blanket-covered lump in the other bed, when Molly opened the bedroom door and slipped out of the shuttered darkness into the dazzling morning sunshine.

  “You look as if you've just seen a ghost,” Elaine said.

  Molly shook her head. “Worse,” she said. “I saw Jake Berenger.” She felt like an idiot, which was a bad beginning. Without her glasses, anything farther away than twenty feet had the colorful cloudiness of an Impressionist painting. When the vague shape of the person walking toward her had suddenly resolved itself into a tanned man with an unmistakable face, Molly had been as shocked as if a photograph had suddenly come to life and winked at her. She had reacted instantly, without thinking.

  “Jake Berenger?” Elaine said skeptically. “Where? Here? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. He just walked by. He…waved to me.” Molly winced at the thought. He had known that she was looking at him from behind the curtain.

  “How odd,” Elaine said. “I can't imagine why he'd be wandering around at this hour. He saw you, then…like that? Good heavens. Well, not to worry. He won't remember you.”

  “Thanks,” Molly said coldly. “I feel much better now.” But she knew that it was true. Even if she had been sitting on the deck wearing a see-through negligee and singing “I Feel Pretty,” Jake Berenger probably would not remember her. He was handsome, she thought wistfully. He had wind-tousled black hair and a chest with muscles that curved like dunes on the Sahara. There were not a lot of men in Belden, Wisconsin, who looked like that, or so she assumed. It was hard to be sure when everyone spent seven months out of the year wearing parkas.

  The doorbell chimed, and she stiffened sharply.

  “Breakfast,” Elaine said, looking curiously at her. “Are you always this jumpy, dear? I had problems with my nerves during my first marriage, and Valium did me a world of good.”

  “I don't…” Molly began, and then stopped herself. There was no point in answering. “I'm going to get dressed,” she said.

  Elaine nodded. “Good. Do your best to wake Carter while you're in there. Otherwise, he's likely to sleep until noon, and we have no time to waste.”

  Molly succeeded in waking Carter during the awkward process of rooting around in the dark bedroom, searching first for her luggage and then for clothes to wear. By the time she'd managed to dig out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, he was stirring and grumbling in his bed.

  By the time she emerged from the bathroom, Carter's bed was empty. She found him in the living room with Elaine, wearing plaid pajamas and clutching a coffee cup with both hands. His hair was sticking up in random tufts, and his eyes were puffy.

  “Good morning,” Molly said.

  He acknowledged her with a squint. “You are,” he said in a creaky voice, “a morning person. So is Elaine. It seems obvious to me that the two of you should share a room.”

  Molly smiled and poured herself a glass of juice. Breakfast had arrived in the form of a large wicker tray bearing starched napkins, a pitcher of juice, a white Limoges coffeepot, and a linen-lined basket filled with steaming croissants. In the corner of the tray sat a tiny crystal vase holding one huge red hibiscus flower. There were more flowers on the table, a complex arrangement of tropical color massed into a bunch that reached Molly's eye level.

  “How beautiful,” she said. There was a white envelope tucked into the bouquet, and she plucked it out.

  “It may be beautiful, but it isn't ours,” Elaine said. “It was misdelivered. You'd think that a resort of this level would have better service. It's appalling, really. I've already called the manager.”

  It took Molly a moment to decipher the elegant script on the back of the envelope, but when she did, she felt as if all of the air had suddenly rushed out of the room. She stared at the small rectangle of paper, speechless.

  “I can't imagine why the bellman thought that Sandra St. Claire was here with us,” Elaine continued. “Where does he think she is, under a chair? In a closet somewhere? I suppose that he mistook me for her. I've never met her, but I've heard that she's very beautiful.”

  “Funny you should say that,” Carter began, but Molly wasn't listening. Quickly she tore open the envelope and pulled out the card. Dear Miss St. Claire, it said, it is my pleasure to welcome you to Gold Bay. Please do not hesitate to call me if there is anything I can do to make your stay with us more pleasant. Sincerely, Terry Wong, VIP Guest Services Manager.

  “What,” Molly said, very softly, “is going on here?”

  “Because, in a sense, you could say that we do have Sandra St. Claire in a closet,” Carter continued. He seemed to be fully awake now, and very pleased with himself. He was practically giggling, but the delight on his face faltered when he saw the look on Molly's.

  “You told them about me?” Molly asked in the same soft voice. “You told them?”

  “No, no, no,” Carter said quickly, holding up his hands as if he feared that she might attack him. “I didn't tell them about you. Well, not exactly. I told them that Sandra St. Claire was here, with us, but I didn't tell them that you were Sandra.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Elaine said. “Who is Sandra?”

  “She is,” Carter said, pointing to Molly.

  “I am not!” Molly exclaimed.

  “Yes, you are,” Carter said. “It's all part of the plan. You're going to be Sandra St. Claire for the week. We discussed this, don't you remember?”

  “No!” Molly said. “Was I in the room when we discussed this? There is no way in hell that I would have agreed to pretend to be Sandra! What were you thinking, Carter?”

  “Profanity is a no-no,” Elaine interrupted. “A gentleman might be able to get away with a potty mouth, because it can make him seem rugged and macho, but a lady cannot afford to sound like a sailor's parrot.”

  “We discussed it,” Carter insisted. “I said, ‘Spend a week forget
ting the Respectable Professor Shaw, and become Sandra St. Claire.’ Or something like that. You agreed. Remember?”

  “Well…” Molly sputtered. “Yes, but when you said that I should become Sandra, I didn't know that you meant that I should become Sandra.”

  Carter gazed at her with innocent eyes. “What else could I have meant?”

  “I thought that you were telling me to become her in…in a spiritual sense.”

  “Oh, no,” Carter said. “We need an actual Sandra. It's critical. Jake Berenger only dates high-profile women. I have the statistics in my suitcase.”

  “Carter, dear,” Elaine said, “if you're suggesting that Molly impersonate Sandra St. Claire for the week, I have to say that I think it's a very bad idea.”

  “That makes two of us,” Molly said.

  “I've heard,” Elaine continued, “that Miss St. Claire is part of the international jet set, which means that someone here at Gold Bay is certain to know her. If you're caught, you'll find yourself in court. Or worse.”

  “Much worse,” Molly said firmly. Six months ago, she would have been unsettled to hear someone speaking of her pseudonym as if Sandra were a real person, but by now she was used to it. When Pirate Gold had begun its surprise climb up the sales lists, her publisher's massive PR firm had quickly joined the party, releasing fictional interviews, “leaking” information, and planting gossip to create a Sandra St. Claire mystique. The media had eagerly reported these delicious tidbits, embellishing freely, and somewhere along the way, Sandra had taken on a life of her own.

  It was not unlike the bigfoot phenomenon. Sandra St. Claire fan sites popped up on the Web like mushrooms after a rain, all claiming to have “official” and “exclusive” information about the mysterious author. Was she or was she not a member of the Greek royal family? Was her name a rough anagram of Carla Andresi, the glamorous Italian socialite? Sandra sightings abounded in the press, and Molly had collected a folder of clippings from breathy gossip columns recounting the parties where Sandra had been seen, the boutiques where she shopped, and the restaurants she favored. A busboy at Spago Beverly Hills reported that she had come in on four consecutive nights, each time with a different man, and each time had ordered nothing but champagne and caviar. She was notoriously camera-shy, but she was widely described as a stunning blonde, and Jean-Luc Valmont, celebrity colorist and owner of the eponymous salon, made a point of telling the press that he would never violate Miss St. Claire's privacy by confirming that she was his client.

  At first, Molly had been horrified by the buzz. There had been so much interest in Sandra that it had seemed like only a matter of time until the reporters were at her door, and she had developed a bad case of insomnia from the anxiety. But as the months went by, and her life at Belden plodded on in the usual manner, she had slowly relaxed. Neither her agent nor her publisher had ever tried to persuade her to come forward, which, she soon realized, was in their interest as much as her own. The gossip and speculation had pushed Pirate Gold to the top of the best-seller lists, and it would have been foolish to do anything to destroy the lucrative Cult of Sandra.

  Still, Molly didn't believe in pushing her luck, and at her request, the PR firm had backed off, releasing word that Sandra was staying home to work on a sequel. The restless eye of the media soon focused elsewhere, and Molly started sleeping through the night again.

  Despite the royalty checks that kept arriving, and her covert collection of press clippings, the commotion had been so removed from Molly's daily reality that even she had begun to think of Sandra as a separate person. Not a stranger, of course. More like a twin sister prone to outrageous and embarrassing behavior. The mental division was soothing, and although Molly was aware that the Psychology department would have a field day with her coping strategy, she didn't spend much time worrying about it. It had all settled down into an odd but manageable situation.

  “Carter,” Molly said, and found that her voice was shaking, “I think that I've been very agreeable about helping with this project. I agreed to come on this trip. I agreed to put on a blond wig, blue contacts, a tight dress, and a bra with pads so thick that I would probably survive a shotgun blast to the chest. I agreed to spend a week of my life acting like a simpering idiot in order to convince a playboy billionaire to pay attention to me. But I never ever agreed to be Sandra in public! I won't do it. What if someone figured out that it was me?”

  “Not possible,” Carter said calmly. “If nobody here has ever seen Sandra, then how could they know that you're not really her?” He frowned. “That didn't come out right. I meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” Molly said.

  “Excuse me,” Elaine said. “But I simply don't see how you can be so sure that no one here knows Miss St. Claire.”

  “I'm sure,” Carter said. “Trust me, I'm sure.”

  “Hmm,” Elaine said, and then shrugged. “Well, have it your way, then. I'm beginning to see that it was a good decision not to include this project in my book. I personally believe that lying should be limited to minor issues like one's age and natural hair color.”

  Carter started to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of the phone.

  “Goodness,” Elaine said. “That's probably the manager returning my call about the flowers. How annoying.”

  She picked up the receiver. “Yes? Oh, yes, hello. Well, I'm afraid that we had a bit of a misunderstanding…”

  Carter's hand closed on Molly's arm. “Molly, listen,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “This is the reason why I didn't hire a local model for this project, like you suggested. We need someone with a famous name, someone with cachet. We need Sandra. Otherwise, the project is doomed.”

  “You tricked me,” Molly said. “You knew that I wouldn't have agreed to come here and play Sandra. You brought me here under false pretenses.”

  “It's true,” Carter said, suddenly drooping like a scolded dog. “It's true, and I admit it. I am a terrible person, but I'm desperate, Molly, don't you see? You're my only chance, and I thought that if I could just get you here, I might be able to convince you that it wasn't really so different to put on the costume and call yourself Sandra instead of…Fifi, or Trixie, or whatever name we would have picked. It's the same adventure, just a little more exciting.”

  “Exciting for you, maybe,” Molly said. “You're asking me to risk my reputation and my career in order to help you with yours.”

  Carter gazed at her with soulful eyes. “Isn't that what friends are supposed to do?”

  Molly groaned. “I don't believe this.”

  “How dangerous could this be? Nobody here will guess that you and Sandra are the same person. And there are no paparazzi allowed on the island, so you won't even have your picture taken. All you'll do is cement the perception that Sandra St. Claire is a tall, voluptuous blonde. What better way to make sure that nobody ever links her to Molly Shaw?”

  “What about the fact that I happen to be sharing a cottage with her?”

  Carter shrugged. “I doubt that anyone other than the staff will notice. But if someone does, you can say that you're an old friend of Sandra's, and you're working with her as a historical consultant on her next novel.”

  Molly didn't answer. She looked away, folding her arms against her chest. Elaine was finishing her conversation with the Guest Services Manager, smiling as she spoke.

  “Well,” she said briskly, hanging up the receiver and turning to Molly and Carter. “It took a bit of creative improvisation to get us out of that mess. Carter, in the future I'd appreciate it if you'd remember to share your plans with me, so that I don't make a fool of myself again. Now, have you and Molly worked out whether or not she intends to go ahead with this?”

  “I don't know yet,” Carter said. He looked hopefully at Molly. “Could you possibly—”

  “I don't know yet, either,” Molly said crossly. “I'm still thinking about it.”

  “Perfectly reasonable, dear,” Elaine said. “But you'll need to thin
k fast, because Sandra has been invited to a VIP cocktail party tonight at Jake Berenger's villa.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “I find that spending more than two weeks aboard a yacht becomes very confining, don't you?” asked Fiona Carrington. “I mean, being waited on hand and foot is lovely for a while, but eventually one just wants to brush away the stewards, march into the galley, and make oneself a simple cup of tea.”

  “I wouldn't know,” Jake said. “I don't own a yacht.” He didn't drink tea, either, but that seemed like a minor point.

  “No?” Fiona's eyes opened wide and she gestured in surprise, sending the remains of her latest cosmopolitan sloshing dangerously against the rim of her cocktail glass. “How extraordinary, for a man in your position. But surely, you charter?”

  “Nope,” Jake said. It was not the first time that he had shocked the glitterati by admitting his lack of desire to own or rent one of the white behemoths that the Brits referred to as “gin palaces.” Over the past decade, he had been a guest aboard the yachts of his customers and business colleagues, visits that had done the job of convincing him that this particular display of wealth was not something to which he aspired. The least offensive boats were maritime replicas of British bankers clubs, complete with Victorian paneling, crystal chandeliers, dour oil paintings, and fireplaces. It was when the owners and their decorators got creative that it really became frightening. The MariJo had a fiber-optic ceiling over the grand staircase, displaying a rainbow of constellations that rotated gently to the strains of “Starry Night.” The Princess Tiffany had a full disco and a room of slot machines that only accepted special coins imprinted with a portrait of the owner. The Sea Serpent, whose owner was a Saudi prince known for his skill at the Vegas tables, had a master suite covered entirely in snakeskin. During the obligatory tour, Jake had been shown the enormous adjoining bathroom, encrusted with gold and mirrors. Embedded in the Lucite toilet seat was a hand of cards. It was, Jake had realized, a winning poker hand: a royal flush.