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her books.
    She grimaced. Who was she kidding? Today's Paris wasn't any braver. She'd managed to dig herself in deep with this life full of lies. But she'd get back on track soon enough. She had her literary and financial life all mapped out, and she didn't intend to keep secrets from her dad forever. As soon as she could afford to quit writing the Alexander books, she would. She'd turn to accepted literature. The kind that got reviewed in Sunday newspaper inserts. The kind that won literary awards.
    The kind her dad would find respectable.
    She tossed back the last of her drink, grabbed Rachel's still untouched one, and took a gulp.
    Rachel's eyes widened. "Just because I'm the poster girl for step aerobics doesn't mean I can carry you back to your room."
    "I think I've discovered the cure for nerves," said Paris , raising her glass. "Tiny bubbles." She hummed, trying to remember the words to one of her dad's favorite songs, her feet tapping out a subtle little jig.
    " Paris ."
    "Hmm?"
    "It's about time."
    "They're going to hate me. What's that saying? Kill the messenger?"
    "Nonsense. Maybe you won't get Christmas cards, but they won't hate you. They won't hate Alexander, either. It's just a delay, remember? Until we can find the right guy. In the meantime, this will just add to his mystique. Hell, it'll probably boost sales."
    "Maybe I should—"
    " Paris . Go."
    Paris grimaced, but nodded. Walking like a woman condemned, she crossed the dance floor and headed toward the kitchen. On the way, she noticed a commotion near the entrance. Camera flashes illuminated the room like tiny bursts of lightning.
    On any other day, Paris would have been lured by the possibility of seeing a big celebrity. But right now, even Harrison Ford couldn't have waylaid her. She had to get to the phone, pretend to dial, then return to the party and relay the sad news that Mr. Alexander had missed his flight from London .
    A thunderous round of applause stopped her dead in her tracks. Curious, she turned and watched as the crowd parted to make way for a man she knew. A man who didn't exist.
    Montgomery Alexander was walking straight toward her.

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    Chapter 2
    « ^ »
    O f course, Paris knew the man couldn't be Montgomery Alexander. Alexander was a figment of her imagination, created so she wouldn't have to explain why she was writing books filled with guns and cars and girls wearing next to nothing.
    For years, she'd shared with him the kind of adventures she craved. Adventures a politician's daughter just couldn't have. In her mind, they'd traveled to exotic islands, danced until dawn, made love on the beach with nothing but the breeze to cover them. Real life couldn't satisfy her desire for passion and romance, but Alexander had filled that gap.
    They'd had long conversations in the moonlight, and he'd listened to her hopes, her dreams. He amused her with his wit and beguiled her with his charm. Yes, she'd made him up. She knew that. But somehow she'd fallen in love with him anyway.
    And over the years, she'd spent uncounted delightful hours imagining every luscious inch of him. So how was it possible that now Alexander's details escaped her? Now, she could see only him, an Alexander bursting free of fantasy and striding toward her with such purpose that her sluggish imagination kicked back into gear, conjuring up all sorts of erotic fantasies about how they could pass a little time together.
    He stepped out of the shadows and she swallowed. Oh my.
    His walk marked him as confident, almost arrogant, and his firm, humorless mouth was belied by a sparkle in his eyes that reflected compassion and intelligence. Defined cheekbones and a sturdy jaw accented his freshly shaved face. Dark brown waves were slicked back in a devil-may-care style.
    Even the forest green suit, Alexander's standard attire for special occasions, was perfect. Another man might just wear the suit. Not Alexander. He commanded it, as if even clothing couldn't escape the brute