The Sister Switch
by Pamela Ford
Harlequin Superromance
March 2007 ~ ISBN 0-373-71404-1
"The solution is obvious," Suzanne said. "You just have to be me."
Nora Clark knew she was in trouble the moment she heard her twin sister utter those words. She tightened her grip on the phone and paced across her small kitchen. "Tell me I just misheard you. Tell me this cell phone connection is so bad you didn't really say what I think I just heard."
"You have to do this, Nora. You've gotta take my place."
Irritation rolled through Nora. She'd been supporting her sister for two years as she tried to build a personal shopping business. Now Suzanne wanted her to be the personal shopper? Enough was enough. "Your biggest client wants you to do a rush job for her son. The correct answer is—you get off that cruise and come home."
"I'm on the Inside Passage, remember? Alaska? Open water. Icebergs. You don't just jump off cruise ships up here." Suzanne's voice turned pleading. "Please... I can't afford to lose this account."
Nora gritted her teeth. "I know you need this job. I know Camille Lamont is a famous author and connected enough to launch your business—"
"Then do the job for me. Think about it. If I keep Camille as a client, it could get me out of your hair—not to mention your house." Suzanne paused. "Maybe then you'd have time to date."
"Suzanne!"
"Nora!" Her sister mimicked her annoyed tone.
"How about if I go to the appointment as myself...and explain that you're on a seventeen day cruise—"
"No! What will his mother think when she learns I sent someone who knows next to nothing about personal shopping to meet with her son?" Suzanne groaned. "I can see this account waving goodbye already."
"Then, come back to San Francisco and meet with her yourself," Nora said as evenly as possible.
"We're practically in grizzly territory up here. Probably polar bear, too."
Nora snorted. "I doubt the bear populations will be attacking you at the next port of call—or the airport, for that matter."
"Nora." Suzanne's voice dropped low. "When Keegan called off our wedding, I thought I would die. I need this cruise. Even you said it was a good idea. The Lamont account is important to me, but I'm just not up to it yet. I've only been on the ship one day. What kind of a respite is that?"
Nora dropped into a kitchen chair as she tried to reason everything out. Suzanne had really hit bottom when Keegan dumped her. And though Nora had never been able to understand her sister's devastation over losing that idiot, she had agreed time away might help Suzanne heal.
Still, that didn't mean Nora taking her place was a good idea. "Suzanne, we may look the same but that's where the similarity ends. I'm a physical therapist. You're a personal shopper. You're loose and carefree. I'm...not."
"I'll say."
"What?"
"Sorry. Sorry."
"Anyway, pretending to be you, even for one meeting, is like...expecting apples to be oranges."
"You didn't used to be an apple. You just became one over the years."
"I did not." Indignation rose up inside her.
"Then why do you keep staying in that hospital P.T. job when you hate it? Come on, I know your complaints by heart." Suzanne's voice took on a sing-song quality. "Once people have surgery, all you do is make sure they can use a walker and get out of a chair, and then—boom!—they're gone. Discharged. You never get to see rehab through to the end."
"It's important work," Nora said.
Suzanne just kept talking. "And what about that new sports medicine rehab center the hospital's opening? They have to hire someone—and you haven't even applied yet, have you?"
The truth in her words irritated Nora more than the know-it-all tone in her voice. "Suzanne, when you grow up you discover you can't have everything. You become—"
"Dull. But you don't have to."Nora slowly counted to ten in her head. "Whatever. My pretending to be you is still a dumb idea. Switching places is something you do when you're seventeen."
"Or something you do when your sister really needs your help. This isn't about Erik Lamont—and you know it. It's about keeping his mother happy. If she wants me to do a quick job for her son, I can't not do it." She sighed. "Nora, she'll hire someone else."
"Couldn't you just call her and explain that—"
"Nora? You there? You're breaking up."
"Suzanne? Hello? Can you hear me?" She looked up at the ceiling in frustration. Dammit, they'd lost the connection. Hitting redial, she kicked into her spiel again as soon as Suzanne answered. "Just tell Camille you're on a long cruise in Alaska. Surely she'll understand that people take vacations." She pressed the fingers of one hand to her forehead.
"I can't risk it—she's too new a client. How hard could it be to take my place just this once?" Suzanne laughed. "You never know, he could be cute..."
"Not even funny." Nora stood, unable to stay still for long with the conversation twisting the way that it was.
"Why do you always discount the possibility of meeting another man? Kevin died five years ago—"
"How did we get from me impersonating you to my getting hooked up with some guy we don't even know and for all we know is an unemployed loser living off his mother or still in high school or something? Suzanne, sometimes you're like a broken record."
"So will you take my place?"
She huffed. "New song. Same broken record. No. How could I? What if his mom notices the difference?"
"Why would his mom be there? You're shopping for him."
"Well, his mom made the call. Really, Suzanne, I'd help you if I could." She felt a tugging at her shirt and looked down.
"Mama," Danny said. "I think I found a new daddy—the right one. Come." He pulled her with him toward the living room.Suzanne kept talking into her ear. "Yeah, well, what happens if I tell his mother I can't do it—"
"Hold on a minute, Suz." She looked at Danny. "What?"
"I found a new daddy on my video." His brown eyes shone with earnestness.
"You can't just find a daddy on a video, honey. It's not that easy."
"But you said if I found one to let you know."
Nora sighed. Whatever possessed her to say such a thing to him?
"He's really nice." Danny pointed at the television where Mr. Rogers was cutting construction paper with scissors and talking in his perfectly calm voice.
"Mr. Rogers? Oh Danny, Mr. Rogers is—" Dead. "Uh—married already. Tell you what, sweetie, why don't you go get a cookie and I'll be off in a minute." She watched him dash into the kitchen, then turned her attention back to the phone.
"Something wrong?" Suzanne asked.
"He's just looking for a daddy again. Found one on T.V. that he thinks is just right. Mr. Rogers."
"Jeez, he's really getting determined about that. Maybe you should sign up for some online dating—"
"Suzanne. Don't be dumb."
Danny hopped back into the room munching on a cookie and she went back into the kitchen.
"Okay," Suzanne said. "So I was saying, what happens if I turn this job down and Camille finds some other personal shopper who is ready and willing to help. Now she thinks, golly, I like this new on-the-ball shopper girl, who's available just when I need her. I think I'll give her all my business. Now I've just lost my biggest account. All because I didn't meet with—"
Suddenly silence was all Nora heard and she knew the connection had been dropped again. "I hate cell phones!" she muttered. She set her phone on the counter and stared at the cupboard for a moment, suddenly noticing the dried milk spatters on the doors. How did all this milk splash up here? And how could she not have seen it before? She grabbed the dishrag from the sink and began to wipe the spatters off the black doors as she debated whether to call her sister back or not.
Her head felt like it was going to burst. She knew this account was crucial to Suzanne's success, to having Suzanne make enough money to support herself, to Suzanne ever moving out of Nora's house. She exhaled. Which meant, keeping this account was as important to her as it was to Suzanne.
She picked up the phone and punched redial. Her sister answered on the first ring, saying, "I don't know how much longer I'll be able to get a signal out here."
"Look," Nora said. "There's not much I wouldn't do for you, but this...this... I wouldn't know the first thing about what I'm doing."
"It's not that hard."
Nora could hear the hope in Suzanne's voice. She looked down at her T-shirt and sweatpants and felt ill. "For God's sake, I don't know anything about style—let alone being a personal shopper."
"I'll talk you through it—"
"You're on a cruise ship with crummy cell phone connections." Kneeling now, she attacked the spatters on the lower cupboard doors as if the forcefulness of her effort would erase her frustration.
"There's always ship-to-shore radio."
Nora groaned and sat back on her heels. "I'm sure that's a reasonable price-per-minute. Let's just stop and look at this realistically. What if he figures out I'm not you? What if his mother comes along on the spur of the moment? What if I do a really bad job and you lose the account anyway—"
"Nora! We don't have any other choices."
We? She pushed herself to standing and went into the front hall to inspect her reflection in the full-length mirror. She pulled her dark hair out of its ponytail and shook it loose around her face. Yeah, she could still pass for Suzanne without a problem.
The thought made her stomach do a nervous flop. She wasn't actually considering this ridiculous idea, was she?
Absolutely not.
"One meeting," she said calmly.
"Right. Two at the most."
"Two? When did this happen?"
"If you have to buy him something, you're going to have to deliver it," Suzanne said. "No biggie. He tries it on, you say it looks great, you're outa there in, like, twenty minutes."
"Okay. Two meetings at the most." Nora felt the room begin to spin.
"Right."
"You'll talk me through everything?"
"Everything."
Lightheaded, Nora sank down into her brown chenille couch. Across the room, Danny sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the T.V., still enthralled by Mr. Rogers.
"What if he is cute?" Nora said. "And he wants me to buy him—" Her voice dropped lower. "—pants. I don't have to measure his inseam or anything, do I?"
Suzanne burst out laughing. "No. He should know what size he wears. If in doubt, get a couple of sizes and have him keep the one that fits best."
"I have to tell him which pants fit him best? Some guy I don't even know? What if he's cute? What if he's, ahem, built."
Suzanne laughed harder. "You just say they look fabu and get the heck out of the house before he takes them off and asks you how his briefs fit."
"No way. I can't do it. I can't. Really Suzanne, I am not ready for this—"
Suzanne's laughter reached hysterical proportions before she pulled herself together. "I'm kidding. You really do need to get out more. Clients do not come on to the personal shopper. It just isn't done."
"Right. I know that." Nora let her head fall back against the couch.
"So, will you do it? Just this once...just switch places one more time."
She knew better. She really did. "Ohh, Suzanne, how many times did we switch places and have it backfire—"
"And think of all the times it didn't... Nora?"
She hesitated even though she knew she didn't have a choice. Not really. Not if Suzanne was going to get what she wanted so that Nora could get what she wanted. She hesitated, even though she knew she was going to say yes.
She drew a breath. "You have to promise—"
"Anything. Anything you want."
"—Never to ask me to do this again."
"Never?" Suzanne sounded shocked.
"Never."
"Never is really an absolute. I mean, what if it's mutually beneficial? Because there are times when—"
"No." Nora made sure her voice was firm and strong.
"Wow. O-kay. But, just in case you're wondering, I'll still be you sometime if you want me to—"
"No, no, no. After this time, never again. Never."
"Okay. I think I got that," Suzanne said.
Nora closed her eyes for a moment and hoped she wasn't about create yet another massive complication in her life. "Now what do I have to do to be a personal shopper? You're going to have tell me more than just what questions to ask the guy—you're going to have to dress me, too."
As Suzanne's laughter came across the airwaves, the phone cut out again. Nora hit redial but this time the call didn't connect. She tried again and got Suzanne's voice mail.
"Oh just great," she muttered. "I'd better not have to make this up as I go along or we're both in big trouble."
#
"I'm not meeting with a personal shopper." Erik Morgan scowled at his mother who was working on a computer at her large mahogany desk.
"Why not?" She slowly spun her leather desk chair round to face him.
"I don't have the time. I don't have the inclination. I don't want some strange woman that involved in my life."
"She doesn't get involved in your life. She just shops for you. Or with you." His mother smiled calmly and he knew manipulation was running rampant beneath her perfectly coiffed blond hair. "Whichever you prefer."
Erik rolled his eyes. "Is this why you asked me to come over today? To talk about personal shopping? Not to check your knee?"
"I want you to check my knee, too. This replacement they put in doesn't seem to work that well yet." She rubbed her knee.
He knelt by her chair and checked her leg for swelling, then straightened her knee with his hands and made it bend again. "Your range of motion is still limited. Let me see you go up the stairs." He stood and took her hand to help her up. "Are you doing the exercises? And walking like you're supposed to?"
They moved slowly toward the wide curving stairway in the marble-floored foyer. This house was way too formal for his taste; he was glad he hadn't grown up here.
"It's hard to find so much time to exercise," his mother said. "I've got a deadline. I've just got to get this next book written and the words aren't coming easily. Maybe it's from going under the anesthesia. Doesn't that have some sort of effect on brain neuron connections?"
For a bestselling author, sometimes his mother was really a ditz. "Maybe on you."
She gasped and he held in a grin. "Really? Is it permanent? How will I ever finish this book?"
"Mom! No—"
"It's not permanent then?"
"It doesn't happen at all! I just said that because you're driving me nuts." He frowned as he looked at her left leg. "A knee replacement isn't going to finish healing unless you help it along. I know it's been five weeks, but you've got to get up and walk."
"Honey, isn't there some other way—"
"No." He tried to stay patient. "That knee is going to freeze up if you don't work it. If all you wanted for a leg was a bent stick, we could have given you one in the first place and it would have cost less." He gestured at the stairs. "Let me see you climb."
"Now Erik, there's no reason to get testy." She took hold of the banister and started up the stairs, one step at a time. "I'm doing most of my exercises. I just wanted to double check because I really have to get this book finished."
Patience, patience. "Some isn't good enough. Look at you on the stairs—you don't have the strength to go step over step yet."
"What are you going to wear to the party?" she asked over her shoulder.
He watched her knee. "Promise me you'll do all your exercises even if you have writing to do.""We'll talk about it. Now what are you wearing to the party?"
"What party?" he asked irritably.
His mother sighed. "And you wonder why I want you to use a personal shopper?" Halfway up the stairs she turned around. "The one my publisher is throwing—"
"Oh yeah. Fifteenth straight book on the New York Times list."
"And you have an outfit to wear?" She continued down the stairs, her eyes never leaving his face.
"An outfit? Sounds so...matching."
"Erik—"
"Mom—"
"Don't mom me. You spend all day in scrubs and the rest of the time in jeans. It's time you start dressing like the grown-up you are."
He folded his arms across his chest. "I have other clothes, trust me—"
"I don't trust you. Not since you showed up for dinner at Cavanaugh's dressed like you were going to the ski hill." She stepped off the bottom stair and took the hand he held out to her.
"That's because I was coming from the ski hill. I just overestimated how long we'd be out there."
"Well you had the appearance of someone from the wrong side of the tracks."
He snorted. "Mom, I'm a doctor. Everyone knows I can buy clothes if I want them. Who the hell cares what I wear as long as I can fix their bodies up good as new—or almost good as new."
His mother started back toward her office. "Well Mary Jean's niece cared. She wasn't impressed at all, even if you were once on the Olympic ski team."
Oh, wait a minute. He'd thought she was manipulating something. His mother was matchmaking again. "Mom, I don't want to meet anyone at this party."
Her eyes widened. "I wasn't going to introduce you to anyone."
"Don't invite anyone who might want to introduce themselves to me either."
"Erik, I wouldn't dream of interfering in your love life."
Ha! He held up a hand. "Just so we're clear. No more daughters of friends, friends of friends, acquaintances of friends— I'm tired of meeting plastic women who just want to land themselves a rich husband."
A pensive expression crossed his mother's face as she lowered herself into her office chair.
"Now what?" he asked against his better judgment, knowing full well that the master manipulator was just getting started.
His mother rubbed her knee.
"Does your knee hurt?"
"Only when I get into disagreements."
Erik laughed.
"Now, sweetheart," she said. "About that promise to do my exercises... I think I would feel so much more inclined to do them if I could remove the worry that you had something appropriate to wear to the party."
"Fine, put your mind to rest. I do." Khakis and a polo.
"What?"
"What do you mean, what?" He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets.
"What are you going to wear?" she asked calmly. "Not your old khakis and a worn polo."
"I'll buy something."
"When?"
"Soon."
"I've heard this before. And it's not good enough. My shopper can take care of everything. Then I can do my exercises in peace knowing that your outfit is taken care of...and my brain neurons can reconnect so I can write the rest of this book."
If his mother hadn't succeeded as a novelist, she would have made a great lawyer. Juries wouldn't even know what hit them.
"Mom! I don't need a personal shopper. What's next? Should I have my nails buffed? My chest hair waxed?" He held up both hands. "Okay, I'll go shopping. I'll even ask the clerk for help—if I need it."
"Don't be silly. This is the same shopper I use. You'll like her. First, she'll interview you." She rummaged through the papers and notebooks on her desk. "I have an extra card here somewhere," she said. "Then she'll shop and bring back what she bought. You try it all on and keep what you want. Or in your case, you keep what she recommends so your clothes match. It's jolly fun."
"Jolly fun? Are you going British?" he asked grumpily.
His mother chortled. "So, what do think? I will force myself to get up and walk. That will make you happy. And you will force yourself to meet with my personal shopper. That will make me happy. Have we an agreement?"
At least this was better than her playing matchmaker and trying set him up with one of her friend's daughters. "Fine. What's her number? I'll give her a call."
She waved a hand at him. "No need to call. It's all set up. She'll be at your house tomorrow night at seven."
"You already made the appointment? Mom, what are you doing?" No wonder his sister moved halfway across the country. He'd been the stupid one to move back when he finished his residency.
"I thought about having her meet you here since I know her already, but she'll probably want to take a peek at what you've got in your closet."
"She's going to go through my clothes?" he asked, appalled."Well, how else do you think she'll help you?"
"Mom! Why do you do these things?"
"I checked your schedule at work—""The Giants game is on tomorrow night. I'm not—"
"Talk fast then and the meeting will be over sooner. Now where is that business card?" She shuffled through her papers again. "The party is Saturday. In order for her to have time to shop, you have to meet tomorrow night."
"Oh, well we wouldn't have wanted to miss out on the opportunity."
"Now Erik, that sounded a bit like an arrogant orthopedic surgeon talking."Arrogant orthopedic surgeon? Hell, he felt like a fifteen-year-old kid right now. "But, mom, really, she's going to go through my clothes?
"Have you got something to hide?"
He almost choked. "No. But it's sort of personal."
"That's why she's called a personal shopper. Now sweetie, I've got writing to do and, you know, knee exercises. I hate to push you off like this, but I don't have time to chit-chat the night away even if you do." She turned back to her computer and poised her fingers at the keyboard. "If there isn't anything else, you really should get on your way."
He really should get on his way? That's what he'd been trying to do when he left work and got an urgent call from his mother insisting he come over immediately. "Great idea. By the way, they say blueberries are good for brain development and neuron connections."
"Really? I'll be sure I get some."
He waited a long moment, but his mother didn't offer the information he needed. "Okay. I give up. Who am I expecting at seven tomorrow night?"
"Suzanne. Suzanne Carlisle. Her company is called The Shopping Goddess. You'll like her."
Excerpted from The Sister Switch by Pamela Ford
Harlequin Superromance
March 2007
ISBN 0-373-71404-1
Dear Cordelia
by Pamela Ford
Harlequin Superromance
August 2005 ~ ISBN 0-373-71291-X
Dear Cordelia,
Freud had it all wrong. He should have asked:
What do men want? Why is it that saying the "L" word practically gives men hives? Why does the merest hint of the word commitment catapult men into flight? Why will a man relentlessly pursue a woman, only to change his mind about her once she yields to his advances? I'm beginning to believe men think of women as they do fishing trips. Catch and release. Thank goodness it's January—the lakes are frozen over just like my heart.
Shivering in Chicago
Dear Shivering,
Things could be worse. You could still be dating a commitment-phobe. At least now you're free to find the right guy. In the famous words of Mae West, "A woman has to love a bad man once or twice in her life to be thankful for a good one." Don't give up yet. Cordy predicts that if you let the ice in your heart melt a little, you'll soon land the keeper you've been looking for.
Cordelia
Chapter One
Liza Dunnigan flipped through the papers in her inbox and grimaced at the work that lay ahead of her. An article on 20 different easy-to-make tortilla treats, a story featuring Superbowl menus guaranteed to score a touchdown, and a third piece, tentatively titled, "Waffle Mania." Ughhh.
Seven years of quick easy dishes and happy holiday entertaining and cool low-carb cooking and blah, blah, blah. Enough! She'd been working in the same job at the Chicago Sentinel since the day she'd graduated college—the small, private girl's school her parents had insisted she attend when she'd really wanted to go to the University of Wisconsin with its wild parties and blue jeans and Big Ten football games. Instead, it had been sherry with the Dean, charcoal blazers, plaid skirts and discussions of Thomas Hardy.
Well, no more.
She glanced up as one of her food section co-workers slid into the chair next to her desk. Kristin Coulter, every man's dream woman—tall, thin, blond, blue-eyed. She wore clothing effortlessly, making everything she put on look like a Vogue cover. Good thing she was as nice a person as was ever born. Because it kind of made her hard to despise.
" You look different today," Kristin said.
Liza looked down at herself. "Plain navy suit. White cotton blouse. Low-heeled pumps. I don't think so." She reached behind her back to give a quick re-roll to the waistband of her skirt. Kristin probably never had to roll up her waistband to make her skirt length fashionable. Probably because Kristin had the good sense to buy new clothes when styles changed. Liza was a bit taken aback that such a thought popped into her mind. Until this moment, she'd always considered Kristin's attention to fashion a frivolous waste of money.
" Not your clothes," Kristin was saying. "Your face. Seven years together in the food section and I can tell these things. You're hiding something."
Liza grinned.
" I knew it! What is it?"
She glanced at her watch with its slim, black leather band. How very mundane. "In half an hour I'm going upstairs for an interview—"
" You're leaving the food section?" Kristin gaped at her.A tiny thrill ran through Liza at the fact her announcement came as such a shock. Kristin's reaction was reinforcement of just how predictable she'd become. It was definitely time to put her new plan into action. As of today, her motto was throw caution to the wind.
Kristin leaned forward and waggled a finger at her. "This has something to do with Greg, doesn't it?"
Jeez. "No. It's about me. I'm twenty-nine years old, in a rut twenty feet deep and a mile wide."
Kristin pushed herself up, put her hands on her hips and faced Liza, eyes twinkling. "It's about Greg."
Liza exhaled in defeat. "Fine. If it makes you feel better, I admit Greg is the catalyst. But all he did was open my eyes. When he called me 'practical and predictable,' it made me realize just how boring I really am."
" Honey, that was months ago. Just because he dumped you doesn't mean he's right. The world could use a few more practical people."
" Let it be someone other than me. I am changing my life."
" Because of Greg."
" No. Because of me. All my life I've followed the rules, taken the safe route even when I didn't want to. And what has it gotten me? Don't answer that. It's too late for sales pitches about yesterday's life. I've thought about this for months. It is time to shake things up. I'm going after the kind of job I've always wanted, the kind of job I should have applied for years ago."
" You're leaving the food section," Kristin repeated, almost dumbfounded.
" Cross your fingers," Liza said airily. "There's an opening upstairs for an investigative reporter and I'm going for it. With any luck, I'll soon be saying goodbye meatballs and hello mystery."#
Forty-five minutes later she was seated across a large beat-up metal desk from Bill Klein, managing editor, a paunchy and wrinkled middle-aged man who looked like he had left investigative reporting behind years ago. While his desktop was virtually empty, fat manilla files and stacks of paper covered almost every other flat surface in the room. Behind him, fish burbled and swam across his black computer screen.
He hadn't cracked a smile since the interview began, hadn't seemed impressed by her resume. And now, it was painfully clear as she watched his bald head bent over her portfolio of sample articles, that he wasn't impressed by her writing either.
" You've been with the food section for seven years," he said in a monotone. "Tell me about that."
Liza cleared her throat. The job-hunting book she'd read said to sell yourself, make your experience match the skills needed for the job. Food—investigative reporting. Now there was a match if she'd ever seen one.
" I get story ideas from almost anywhere. I might read something that will inspire a concept for a series. Or a meal in a restaurant will trigger an idea. Then my first step is—" she paused for emphasis "—research and investigation. I'll look into the history of a certain dish or the uses of a particular spice. I dig in, search to find the truth and expose it to—"
A loud screech from the interoffice buzzer on his telephone stopped her mid-sentence.
Mr. Klein sighed and picked up the phone. "Yes?"
Liza shifted in her seat so she could look through the glass wall behind her at the newsroom, awash in activity. She could picture herself there, phone squeezed between shoulder and ear as she typed the finishing touches of a gripping exposé into the computer. Her heart beat a little faster. This was where the action was, the excitement, the pulse of the newspaper. She had to get this job. She just had to. This was about as far from predictable as you could get.
After a long pause, Klein said, "You tell him the deadline is nine o'clock. If he's not finished by then, the story doesn't go in. It's not a big enough scoop to hold the presses. Got that? And Mary, hold my calls, I'm doing an interview right now."
He banged the phone onto the base and shook his head. "Sorry. We're using a freelancer until we can fill this position. The guy doesn't understand the meaning of the word deadline."
Liza nodded. "I've never missed a deadline in the food section. I'd bring that same conscientiousness to investigative reporting. A reporter needs to know when the story is finished. I guess it's sort of an intuitive thing." An intuitive thing? Oh, please, she needed to learn when to quit talking.
He raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, does this intuition thing help out when you can't get anyone to confirm information on the record that someone has slipped you off the record?"
A thrill of excitement rushed through her. Never once in all her years on the food section had anyone ever had to go off the record to answer her questions. Off the record. The very thought made her all the more determined to get the job. She sat up straighter.
" I guess...intuition would help me choose just the right persuasive argument to get the original source to go on the record. Or even help me decide whether I can push that person to give me names of people to contact who could confirm the information."
She leaned forward and felt the waistband at the back of her skirt unroll a bit. "Mr. Klein, I think I could do a good job for you and I'd do whatever needs to be done to—make sure I do just that." Babbling, babbling.
He drew a long slow breath and sat back in his chair. "I'm sure you work hard—"
" And I can even work harder—"
" But this isn't an entry level job. You've no experience in this type of journalism. And you're used to the pace of the food section—we've got tight deadlines. We'll get breaking news late in the afternoon and you'd have to investigate it and submit your story in a few hours."
He closed her portfolio and shoved it gently toward her.
" I can do that. If you look at the back of my portfolio there are some stories I wrote for my college newspaper. They're much more investigative. I didn't start writing about food until I graduated." Her words tumbled out in a desperate rush. "My goal was always to write about something more meaningful, something more important to life than food." She felt her dream slip away with her prattling. "Not that food isn't important to life..."
" I need someone who can hit the ground running. I'm sorry." He stood, signaling the interview's end.
Liza stared at him dumbly. It was over? Her one chance to break out, change her life, prove to herself that she wasn't so predictable after all? Defeated, she lifted her portfolio off his desk and stood to shake his hand.
" Thank you for talking with me," she said.
He pulled open the office door and stepped back to let her pass, then followed her out. For a brief heart-stopping moment she thought he wanted to talk with her further, then she realized his attention was focused on a young man heading across the newsroom in their direction.
" Are you getting anywhere on the interview with Dear Cordelia?" Mr. Klein asked when the reporter neared.
Liza hesitated, curious. Dear Cordelia, the advice columnist? She bent over a nearby drinking fountain, letting the water run over her lips, swallowing every now and then so it looked like she was actually taking a drink—a very long one. The back of her waistband unrolled a little more and she thought of Kristin who never had this problem.
" Nope," came the reply. "Can't get near her. What a recluse. Her publicist says she doesn't want publicity. Just wants to be left alone to write her column and help people find true love. So what does she need a publicist for?
" True love for me would happen on the day she finally grants us an interview."
" Well, at this rate, we won't have it by Valentine's Day... And you know I'll be off for two weeks—"
" Yeah, yeah. Hell, let it rest until you're back from your honeymoon."
Still bent over the water fountain, Liza tipped her head slightly and watched Mr. Klein step back into his office. She straightened and dabbed at the water that trickled over her lower lip to her chin. Reaching one hand behind her back, she surreptitiously re-rolled her waistband so her skirt length was even all around.
So, he wanted an interview with Dear Cordelia, the purveyor of advice about romance and marriage, the author of the bestselling, Dear Cordelia's Authoritative Guide to Finding Love and Keeping It.
Well, well. This certainly presented possibilities. The practical, predictable person would go back to her office and write a story on the many uses of the lowly tortilla. Right. And Mr. Klein had already made it clear she belonged in the food section—not in investigative reporting. Uh-huh. She knew where her place was, where her skills were valued.
Before she could second guess herself, she spun on her heel and marched back into his office. "Mr. Klein?"
He raised his head; surprise flickered across his face.
" I couldn't help overhearing the conversation you just had...about Dear Cordelia?"
He stared at her, silent, and a heat wave of mortification rolled over her. She pushed forward.
" I love her column. I've been reading it for years."
He lifted an eyebrow.
" What I'm trying to say is... I'd like to—I could—I mean—how about letting me try to get the interview for you?" The words rushed out of her, not at all professional like the book advised. "I could do it on spec, to show you my investigative abilities, while that other reporter is on vacation. If I don't succeed, he can take over where I've left off."
The corners of his mouth twitched, the first sign all morning that she'd made any type of impression on him at all. Great. He was going to laugh at her.
" What about your responsibilities for the food section?"
Oh. "Wellll...vacation," she blurted out. "The new year just started. I could—I've got two weeks—I could take them off now to track down Dear Cordelia and get the interview." She mentally winced. Showing desperation was a definite no-no in the job-hunting book.
He steepled his fingers. "I've been trying to get an interview with Dear Cordelia for ten years now. She's never, by the way, given an interview to anyone anywhere. In all my years of reporting, this is the only story I never got. I've assigned a dozen reporters at various times to get an interview with Cordelia. And everyone has failed."
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
" In other words, Liza Dunnigan, what makes you think you can succeed where nobody else could?"
Because this is the most impulsive thing I've ever done in my life and if I don't try, then Greg is right about me. "Because I want this interview as much as you do," she said. "Because if I succeed, we agree that you'll hire me to fill the investigative reporter opening, which is really what I want." Good lord, did she just say what she heard herself say?
A slow grin slid across his face. He threw back his head and laughed. "Kid, you just might have what it takes."
" I know I can do it." She gripped the handle of her portfolio tightly to keep her hands from shaking at the enormity of her lie. Any moment the ceiling was going to open and a lightning bolt would shoot down from above and take her out.
Close the sale, the book said. Ask for the job. "Do we have a deal?"
" Oh what the hell." He reached a hand across the desk and she grasped it with her own. "Deal. Let's go get the file so you can get up to speed on the first lady of the lovelorn, Dear Cordelia."
Excerpted from Dear Cordelia by Pamela Ford
Harlequin Superromance
August 2005
ISBN 0-373-71291-X
Oh, Baby!
by Pamela Ford
Harlequin Superromance #1247
December, 2004 ~ ISBN 0-373-71247-2
Excerpt ~ Chapter One
Nick hadn't seen Annie since the week after their wedding—six years ago last month.
She'd married him, just as they'd agreed. Had left him a week later, just as they'd agreed. And he'd filed for divorce, just as they'd agreed.
He cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he practiced aloud a new version of the lines he had been working on for days now. "Annie, our divorce was never finalized. I left the country and never followed up with the lawyer to make sure everything got done."
She was a practical sort, Annie was. She’d probably offer him a cold lemonade and they’d have a laugh over how irresponsible he once had been. Then she'd sign the new set of papers he'd brought with him and he’d kiss her on the cheek when he left. And they’d go back to life the way it had been for the past six years.
Unless, of course, she’d remarried.
He pulled his Range Rover to a stop in front of a big pale yellow Victorian house and lifted his sunglasses to squint at the sign in front.
Unless of course, he'd made her a bigamist.
Bailey House Bed & Breakfast. He drew a breath. This was the place, exactly where the old woman at the gas station on the edge of town said he would find it. Small town Wisconsin at its finest.
He shoved open the car door and stepped out into the late afternoon summer sun. A crumbled fast-food bag and a toothbrush dropped out onto the pavement. He scooped them up and tossed them onto the passenger seat.
Why was he nervous? Annie would still be Annie. Whether she’d married or not, all she had to do was sign the new papers and they’d slip back into their lives—no one the wiser. Well, no one but her other husband. . .and the judge who would have to remarry them. . .and a couple of witnesses—
He buried those thoughts and headed across the walk and up the stairs to the wide front porch, noting the paint just beginning to peel on the old wood. There were layers of build-up underneath, layers that would make this place a nightmare to scrape and paint. Thank God, he wasn't the owner.
He jabbed the doorbell and put a pleasant expression on his face. After a long minute without a response, he pushed the bell again. Maybe he should have called.
No, it was bad enough they were still married. It would have been far worse to tell her that over the phone.
Suddenly the door swung inward and Annie stood before him, in cut-offs and a T-shirt. Barefoot. Radiant. Deep blue eyes shining. Tawny blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, a grin on her face as though she were ready to take on the world.
Annie.
He couldn’t remember the Annie he knew, the waitress in the all-night coffee shop, looking so gorgeous.
"Hey Annie," he said.
Her eyes widened. Her grin disappeared.
An older woman’s voice floated down the hallway from somewhere behind her. "Tell Vivian I’ll be right out."
"Get out of here," Annie said in low voice. "Now."
What? He took a step toward her. "I know this is a surprise, but I need to talk to you."
The older woman spoke again, her voice closer, louder, with each word. "Annie, dear, I’ll be back in time to help you flip the mattresses."
Panic stole over Annie's face—panic that was instantly replaced by an expression of fierce determination. In one nearly seamless movement, she launched herself out of the doorway and into his arms and began to kiss him like he was the long-lost love of her life.
She pressed herself against him as if willing him to put his arms around her and, for a brief, stunned moment he pulled her close and returned the kiss. Then his brain kicked into gear and he took her by the arms and pushed back a bit.
"What—" he choked out.
"Good heavens!" the older woman screeched as she came through the doorway and spotted Annie in his arms. "He’s here!"
Behind her, a gold and black, watermelon-shaped mutt bounded out onto the porch and began to bounce around them, barking.
Nick tore his gaze from Annie and focused on the diminutive gray-haired old woman; every line in her soft face angled upward from her joyous smile. Almost dancing with excitement, she reached up to tug his head down and kiss his cheek.
And the dog kept barking as if he'd just dug up the bone of his dreams.
"Chester! Quiet! Chester!" Annie shouted.
"I'm Luella!" the old woman cried at him over the chaos.
"Be quiet!" Annie grabbed hold of the dog's collar and dragged him toward the door.
"So happy to finally meet you," Luella said in a voice still loud and high. "I've been the inn's housekeeper for twenty years. I keep your Annie from overworking herself, what with that little bun in the oven."
Bun? His heart seemed to slow. Pregnant? Husband?
He shifted his gaze to Annie just as she snatched up the squirming dog and spun round, the desperate expression on her face a mixture of horror and hope.
Bigamist?
Her eyes locked with his.
"I, ah—" he stammered.
Behind him a car horn blared and he jumped, startled. He turned as the driver slammed on the brakes of her silver Lincoln and skidded to a halt just inches behind his SUV.
"Oh! Vivian’s here!" Annie almost screamed in panicked glee. "You don't want to be late for Women's Club." She shoved the dog into the house and pulled the door shut before he could escape.
Luella shook her head. "That old lady. Always has to make a grand entrance."
The blue-haired woman at the wheel laid on the horn once more, and then a third time.
"Oh! She's in fine form today. I’ll just have to hear everything later." Luella patted him on the arm. "Just wait until Vivian hears the news."
She headed down the steps. "I believe this calls for a glass of Chablis with our supper don’t you think?"
"Have two," Annie called. "Take your time."
Luella glanced back at Nick and grinned. "Oh, yes, dear. I see what you mean. We’ll make it a long meal."
She had hardly gotten into the car and closed the door before it sped off leaving the faint smell of burning rubber behind.
"Good God," Annie muttered. "This is going to be all over town in half an hour."
"What the heck is going on?"
Annie sighed and shook her head. "You might as well come in. Want a lemonade?"
At least he'd been right about one thing. "Sure."
Annie pushed open the front door and the dog leapt out again, whining excitedly, tail whipping from side to side. Thankfully the mutt wasn't barking.
"Just ignore him, he'll calm down," Annie said.
Nick followed her to the kitchen, a big, bright room filled with the delicious aroma of cookies baking.
"I always have homemade cookies for the guests." Annie took a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator. "Bake up a fresh batch every couple of days so the cookie jar is always full."
She poured him a glass of lemonade, a slice of lemon floating on the top, and he took a seat at the old oak table in the center of the room. He looked out the tall windows facing south, to the kind of view most people only dreamed of having. A long expanse of lawn sloped gently toward a sandy beach on a lake that looked to be surrounded by pristine forest.
A moment later, Annie set a plate of warm cookies on the table and took the chair opposite him. The dog collapsed on the floor beside her, apparently exhausted from all the energy he had expended barking.
"I guess I owe you an explanation," she said.
He waited.
Annie swallowed hard. "Two years ago I bought this B&B with the money you gave me. First I went to college so I could learn how to run a business. Then I found this place."
Her voice quivered and she reached down to rub the dog's head. "It's a great little town . . ."
"Annie—are you pregnant?"
Her expression shifted as though the question caught her completely off guard. She looked about to say something and stopped herself, then drew a slow breath and exhaled. Avoiding his eyes, she looked at the ceiling for a long moment before finally bringing her gaze back to rest on him. She bit her lower lip and made a futile gesture with one hand, as though the motion might give him an answer.
He raised an eyebrow.
She nodded.
Shit. "Married?"
"No."
He let out a breath. At least he hadn't made her a bigamist. He picked up a cookie.
"So where's the father?"
She locked eyes with him and he waited.
"I'm looking at him."
He jerked his head around to look behind him; no one else was in the room. His mouth opened, but the only word he could manage was, "What?"
"Everyone thinks I'm married to you. . ."
Excerpted from Oh, Baby by Pamela Ford
Harlequin Superromance #1247
December, 2004
ISBN 0-373-71247-2
