Dead Perfect
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, all the while glancing around the room, searching for a weapon. The fireplace poker? The heavy glass vase on the coffee table? Could she reach either of them before he reached for her?
“I didn’t run away,” she lied. “I just came home.”
“I asked you to stay. You said you would.”
Her hands tightened on the book in her lap. “I’m a woman. I changed my mind.”
“You’re afraid of me,” he mused, and she heard the puzzlement in his voice.
“Why…why would I be afraid of you?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I just wanted to come home.”
“You’re lying.” He hunkered down on his heels until he was at eye level with her. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“All right,” she admitted defiantly. “I got scared and I left.”
“I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why would you want me to stay there with you? You don’t even know me.”
“Had you stayed, I would have told you my reasons.”
Curious in spite of her better judgment, she said, “So, tell me now.”
Rising, he sat down on the sofa beside her, though he was careful not to touch her for fear she might run screaming from the room.
She shivered at his nearness, uncertain if it was because he was so close or because of the sudden heat that flowed between them. He was a remarkably handsome man with his mesmerizing black eyes and dark good looks. Sometimes, when he looked at her, she felt as though he could see through her heart and straight into her soul, that he knew things about her that no one else knew. But that was impossible. Heart pounding with trepidation, she watched him reach for her hand, felt little frissons of awareness race up her arm as his fingers closed around hers. The book fell from her hand and slid off her lap onto the floor.
“What do you want from me?” She had intended it to sound like a demand; it came out as a breathless gasp.
“Nothing sinister, I assure you. I have an aversion to having my picture taken, to appearing in public and being subjected to interviews. My readers think I’m female and I should like to keep it that way. My agent and my publisher have been after me to go on tour for quite some time…”
She shook her head. “What does all that have to do with me?”
“I want you to pretend to be me.”
She stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment. Of all the things he might have said, his answer caught her completely off guard. “But…how could I…?”
“No one knows what I look like.”
“I don’t think I can…”
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
“But how could I possibly…people will ask me about your books…” She retrieved his book from the floor and held it up. “This is the only one I’ve read, and I haven’t even finished it.”
“When you’ve finished that one, I want you to read the ones I’ve published in the last year or so. I’ll give you a complete list of all my books, along with a brief synopsis of each one for you to memorize. As for questions you might be asked, I’ll help you with what to say.”
“I just don’t see how it could work.”
“Trust me. We’ll rehearse for a month or two, more if need be, until you feel comfortable. As I said, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“You’re forgetting one thing. I don’t have a couple of months.”
“Let’s not worry about that now.”
“I was never very good at memorizing things.”
“You’ll be surprised at how easy it will come to you.”
“And why will it be so easy now when it never was before?”
His smile warned her not to ask any more questions. “You’ll also need to make an appointment to have your picture taken.”
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“You haven’t said no.”
“If I agree, will you tell me something?”
“Perhaps. What is it you wish to know?”
“Is Ronan your first name or your last?”
He smiled then. “It’s both and neither,” he said evasively.
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s the only name I use.”
“Really? How do you get away with that?”
He shrugged. “It works for Cher and Madonna, why not me?”
She made a face at him. “Don’t forget Bono. And the artist formerly known as Prince.”
She was quick, he thought, pleased. “And so,” he said, his thumb drawing circles on the back of her hand. “What do you say?”
“Yes.” She whispered the word, feeling as if it had been drawn out of her by his will and not her own. Once said, she realized it was what she wanted. Pretending to be an author might be fun, and it would give her something to think about besides her own imminent demise. “I’ll do it,”
she said quietly. “For as long as I’m able. But I’m not giving up my apartment.”
“It’s foolish for you to pay rent here when you’ll be living with me.”
“I don’t care. I need a place of my own. A place to come back to when…when I want to come home.”
“All right. But I’ll pay your rent as long as you’re working for me.”
“I can’t ask you to do that!”
“You didn’t ask me. Consider it part of your pay.”
“You’re going to pay me?”
“Of course.” Rising, he tugged gently on her hand. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of work to do, and only a short amount of time to do it.”
She gathered her things together, then followed him outside where she glanced up and down the street. “Where’s your car?”
“I walked.”
“You walked all the way here?”
He shrugged. “It’s not so far.”
“Yes, it is. I don’t know about you, but I’m driving back. You can come with me, or you can hoof it.”
He agreed to ride with her. As soon as they were both in the car, with the doors closed, she wished she had chosen to walk. She drove a restored 1962 VW Bug. It was a small car, made smaller now by his presence.
Shannah started the engine, looked behind her, and pulled away from the curb. She was all too aware of the man sitting beside her. His shoulder was only inches from her own; once her hand brushed against his thigh as she reached for the gear shift. She could feel his gaze on her face.