Ruth Jean Dale - Trading Places

Sharlayne shook her head. “Impossible. If you’re not with her, nobody will accept that she’s me.” Leaning forward, she squeezed Tabitha’s hand. “You’ll do this for me, dear. I can’t imagine you’d ever let me down.”

The uncharacteristically mute Linden said into the sudden silence, “I’m beginning to see how this could actually work.”

Alice turned to him, wide-eyed. “You can?”

He nodded. “There are certain basic similarities. If no one gets close enough—”

“Aha!” Alice gazed at everyone triumphantly. “There are always people around you, Sharlayne. How could I keep them away?”

“You won’t have to. I’m going to hire a bodyguard to run interference for you.”

“A bodyguard! I couldn’t put up with a bodyguard. Besides, how do you know you can trust him to keep the secret? Something like this could be worth a lot of money to a scandal sheet like the U.S. Eye.”

“He can’t sell information he doesn’t have. He’ll think he is guarding me, of course. Everybody will. You’ll put on that act you do so well for the help, then lay low until I finish the manuscript and come back. You’ll have the run of the whole house, the pool, the tennis courts—everything. You’ll live in the master suite and be queen of all you survey. It will be the experience of a lifetime.”

“She’ll never pull it off,” Tabitha reiterated.

“Damn it!” Alice was getting sick and tired of hearing that. She glared at Tabitha. “If Sharlayne thinks I can—”

“I know you can,” Sharlayne said quickly. “Do this, Alice. When it’s over, I’ll be very grateful.”

“You will?”

“So grateful that I’ll pay off the rest of your grandmother’s medical bills.”

Alice was stunned. She had no idea Sharlayne was even aware of those bills. “Be careful,” she said a bit uneasily. “You’re talking big bucks.”

“I’m aware of that. I know your debts to the penny.” She leaned forward, hand outstretched. “Let’s cut to the chase. Is it a deal?”

Alice looked down at the sleek hand, with its faultless manicured nails, then at her own competent hand, which resembled a paw next to all that perfection. Ever since she’d met this woman, she’d wondered what it would to like to be so beautiful, so famous, so sought after. Now, out of the blue, she had a chance to find out. Even so…

Tabitha gave a grunt of disbelief. “I’m warning all of you, this is a ridiculous idea. It will never work. Alice won’t be able to carry it off and disaster will—”

“It’s a deal,” Alice said abruptly, tossing in a hostile glance for her nemesis. “If you think it can work, Sharlayne, I’m willing to give it the old college try.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

Sharlayne’s relief was palpable, and a shock to Alice. Somehow she got the feeling that something else was going on here, but what could it possibly be?

“SHARLAYNE.” Linden took her hand between both of his, forgetting that she was more than an hour late for breakfast. “You’ve never looked lovelier.”

She smiled and patted his cheek, her touch lingering. “How sweet of you to say so.”

“Hardly sweet.” He drew her toward the table set up in the sunroom—at 11:00 a.m., to the cook’s horror.

Sharlayne settled gracefully into the chair he offered. “Did you sleep well?” she inquired, dropping the linen napkin into her lap.

“Not particularly. I was thinking of your double.”

“Alice kept you awake?” She reached for the silver coffee carafe and poured for both of them, an almost smile tilting those bewitching lips.

He would not be put off. “I’m not sure Alice understands what she may be getting into. I’m not sure you understand what we may all be getting into.”

Sharlayne’s beautiful face remained clear and untroubled. “You worry too much, Linden,” she scolded, simultaneously teasing and enticing. “None of us is getting into anything except a little plot to deceive the media and the busybodies of the world. It’s a little game, that’s all.”

“Be that as it may.” He offered her the basket of fresh croissants, now grown cold. “With your permission, I’ll arrange for the bodyguard right after breakfast. When do you want to leave for your hideaway?”

She considered. “Next Friday,” she finally decided. “That should give me time to remake Alice and get her set up in the new house.”

“All right. I’ll handle the arrangements.”

“No one is to know I’m not really being guarded,” she said quickly. “You understand that? Not the bodyguard, not the agency—just you and me, Alice and Tabitha.”

“I understand.” But he didn’t like it. “I only hope you understand what you’re doing.”

“Trust me, darling.”

When that dazzling smile fell upon him, what else could he do?

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Linden dialed 1-800-HERO and waited patiently for the voice to announce, “S. J. Slade Insurance Agency,” then asked for Samantha Spade Archer.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mrs. Archer doesn’t speak to anyone,” the woman said, sounding stunned that anyone would suggest otherwise. “Her daughter might be able to help you.”

“I don’t think so,” Linden said. “Mrs. Archer is a personal friend. Please tell her that Linden Wilbert is in need of a bit of insurance.”

“If you say so, sir.” She obviously didn’t believe him.

Mere moments later, Sam’s husky voice exploded in his ear. “Linden, as I live and breathe. Long time, no hear, sweetheart.”

“Too long.” He found himself smiling. He could picture the elegant Samantha, dressed in ankle-strap heels and tight little forties suits worn with pearls. “Tell me, how’s Mr. Samantha Spade?”

Her throaty laughter sounded indulgent. “That’s Mr. Wil Archer to you, buster—and he’s fine. So are the daughter and son-in-law and grandson.”

“Delighted to hear it.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the reason for this call.”

“True. I’m in need of your professional services.”

“Looking for a little insurance, are you?”

Insurance: her euphemism for bodyguard. Sam carried discretion to new heights.

“Not me,” Linden said. “A friend of mine. Perhaps you’ve heard of her? Sharlayne Kenyon?”

Sam gave a bark of laughter. “Yeah, I’ve heard of her. Who hasn’t? So what’s the story?”

“She needs someone to run interference for her,” he said. “Someone to keep the press at bay, to hold back the throngs—that sort of thing.”

“Sounds like she needs a press secretary, not one of my highly trained operatives.”

“She wants someone she can count on in an emergency,” he improvised. “Not that she expects an emergency, but you know how it is with a woman as famous as this one.”

“Yeah,” Sam said dryly, “I know how it is. When do you need this glorified errand boy?”

“Now, Sam, don’t talk that way. Sharlayne is a highly strung, artistic individual. She’s exhausted and needs peace and quiet, which is what she’s hoping your guy will help her get. Can you do anything for me?”

A long silence followed. Then she said, “Of course, sweetheart. Just tell me when and where and I’ll have your man standing by.”

THE QUESTION WAS, which man?

Samantha Spade sat at her desk, staring at two folders before her. The agency was overextended already. Business was booming and she didn’t have a whole lot of choice here.

Two operatives were available. One had just returned from a harrowing assignment that required him to spend several days piloting a desperate senior citizen through Florida swamps in an ultimately successful attempt to avoid his vengeful heirs, eager to collect sooner rather than later.