Buch lesen: «Trading Places»
“What are you trying to do, drown me?”
“I’m trying to save you.” He caught her wrists and held her arms wide in self-defense.
She stumbled to her feet, water streaming down her body—her body, because the tight black stuff she had on was virtually transparent. She was like an angry goddess rising from the sea, full breasted and glorious in her rage.
“Are you trying to save me or just make me crazy?” she shouted at him.
“I’m trying to—”
And then he forgot what he was trying to do, because she surged forward and he surged forward, and they came together in an explosion of pent-up desire. Right there in the middle of the bathtub in the penthouse of the Beverly Pacific Hotel.
“Damn,” he gasped, shocked by her slick hands on his bare back. “I never intended—”
“Shut up and kiss me,” she ordered in her throaty voice, “because I did intend.”
So much for that lousy commandment from the boss about clients and bodyguards not getting involved.…
Dear Reader,
I love stories about people trading lives. I like to think, read and write about living in somebody else’s shoes. I’ve never done it, but the concept fascinates me.
That’s what drew me to Trading Places. What would happen if a deserving but everyday woman had a chance to live the life of her boss and exact opposite, a beautiful and notorious adventuress? Would it turn out to be a dream come true or would it be a disaster—perhaps even a dangerous disaster?
Alice gets the opportunity, whereupon things go wrong in bunches: car bombs, threatening phone calls, bullets, ex-husbands she’s never met—you name it. Fortunately, she has Jed by her side; unfortunately, he has no idea who she really is. How will he react when he finds out?
I hope you enjoy reading Trading Places as much as I enjoyed writing it. And I suggest that the next time someone you know well acts…just a little off…you take a closer look.
We see what we expect to see, as Alice learned.
What do you expect?
Ruth Jean Dale
Trading Places
Ruth Jean Dale
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
SHARLAYNE KENYON threw back her head and let loose her trademark laugh, deep and sexy and somehow bawdy. “That’s what you want to call my book?” she asked when she could speak again.
Linden Wilbert, fifty-two-year-old head of the small and eccentric New York publishing house that bore his name, regarded this magical creature with a mix of disapproval and fascination. He could well understand the power she wielded over the men in her life and those who wanted to be in her life. Much married adventuress, occasional actress, sometime model and internationally popular personality, Sharlayne was, quite simply, dazzling. She had traveled furtively to Linden’s Long Island estate to discuss her latest incarnation: author.
The book deal, also furtive, had been struck more than a year ago after they’d happened to meet at a cocktail party.
To this day Linden, scion of old money and the ideals of another century, could not fathom why she’d chosen him to pilot her autobiography through the literary shoals. He understood even less his own willingness to publish a tome so at odds with his usual list, which tended to be long on quality and woefully short on sales. All he knew was that he’d surprised himself by leaping at the opportunity.
His only excuse was that publishing the memoirs of one of the most famous—perhaps the proper word was notorious—women in the world appealed to his sense of the absurd.
Now Sharlayne turned her enormous blue-gray eyes in his direction and he melted. She was even more beautiful in person than in photographs or on film. Her face was a flawless oval, the skin creamy and unmarred by lines or dullness. Long lashes framed those incredible eyes, also accented by impeccably arched brows. The straight nose was as perfect as the rest. Full lips glistened pink and tempting.
But her hair—that glorious soft blond mane that was her signature style—had been chopped into a short, curvy cap. It bared dainty ears and gave her an innocence he wouldn’t have imagined possible in a mature woman of her background and age, which he guessed to be early forties, although she didn’t look near it. She herself would only say she was “twenty-nine and holding.” Gazing at her, he could almost believe it.
He refused to let himself think about her famous body. At least, he tried valiantly.
She leaned forward, her expression one of mild alarm. “That’s a very funny title, really,” she said in her throaty voice. “But I like mine better—The Story of My Life by Sharlayne Kenyon.” She lifted graceful hands as if framing a movie shot.
Linden gave her an indulgent smile. “Old hat, Sharlayne. You’ve led an exciting life. You deserve an exciting title.”
She pouted prettily. “Isn’t there any way I can convince you?”
He could think of many, but he’d vowed from the offset not to fall into this woman’s clutches. She’d never have any sincere interest in an aging, balding, boring, widowed publisher. “No way whatsoever,” he said firmly. “Shall we move on to more immediate concerns?”
“Oh, you.” She sat upright, throwing him an exasperated glance. “I’ve almost finished the manuscript, if that’s what you want to know.”
“Really.” He carefully concealed his astonishment. He’d expected it would take her years to write her life story without professional help. He’d offered her any number of collaborators, but she refused to even consider an “as told to” book. She insisted that this was her life and she’d write about it her way or not at all.
She smiled, all sunshine again. “I knew you’d be surprised.” The smile faded. “But there’s a tiny problem.”
“Such as?”
“The media frenzy that awful woman has whipped up.”
“What awful woman?”
Her mobile face registered surprise. “You don’t know? Gina Godfrey, of course. That witch refuses to leave me alone. The other barracudas of the press I can take or leave, but Gina’s out to get me.”
“Ah. Then Gina Godfrey is a journalist?”
“God forbid! She’s head entertainment muckraker for the U.S. Eye. And she’s devoted to making my life a living hell.”
He regarded her kindly. “That sounds almost paranoid, Sharlayne.”
“Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean nobody’s out to get me.” Her brilliant smile flashed again. How did she do that? “The problem is, I’m beginning to think I’ll never finish the book if I don’t find a little peace and quiet. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know how I got this much done.”
“Frankly,” he said, thinking about all the times he’d read her name in newspapers and seen her image on magazine covers in the past year, “neither do I. But peace and quiet aren’t your only problems.”
Her eyes widened. “They’re not?”
“You have several ex-husbands who may not want you to finish the book.”
“Oh, them.” She waved dismissively. “Every single one adores me. At least, the live ones do.”
“Even the senator?”
“Him, especially. He cried like a baby when I divorced him.”
“At his age, he could have been crying from relief. What was he, eighty?”
“Oh, you.” She tossed back her head. “Age is nothing more than a state of mind.”
“Then what’s the state of mind of those near and dear to your most recent husband?”
She somehow managed to frown without marring the perfect smoothness of her forehead. “Oh!” Understanding dawned. “You mean because to John, family had a whole different meaning. But…John’s dead. I didn’t divorce him—he died. I’m a widow. “
“Did it ever occur to you that with him gone, there’s no one to keep his family in check?”
She laughed. “Family? You make him sound like some Mafioso. John was a very classy man.”
“He was also head of one of the biggest crime families in New York. Might you not be in considerable danger, my dear? After all, you promised to reveal the unvarnished truth in your book. That could conceivably make certain parties very nervous.”
“I’ll tell the truth or not publish the book at all,” she said with dignity. “Besides, once it’s out, what can anyone do?”
“Plenty,” Linden said darkly, “but there may be those who’d prefer to stop it from being published at all…as in seeing you get cement overshoes and a quick trip to the nearest deep body of water.”
“Really, Linden.” She leaned back into the overstuffed flower-patterned chair in his library, her body graceful in simple black.
Simple clinging black.
She tapped perfect fingernails on the chair arm. “On the outside chance that I’ve overestimated my charms, I’ve come up with a scheme—oh, dear, let’s call it a plan. A plan to give me time and space to write while lulling everybody into a false sense of security, you know?”
He felt the first stirrings of concern. “I’m almost afraid to hear this.”
“Don’t be. It’s very simple. I’m going to pay someone to move into my new house in Beverly Hills. Did you know about it?”
“Everybody knows about it. You did take a television crew from a national show on a tour.”
“I did, didn’t I.” She looked pleased. “Anyway, I’m going to pay someone to move in there to impersonate me while I hole up somewhere far away and work in blissful solitude. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of months to finish if I don’t have to fight off the vultures of the press and deal with all life’s other interruptions.”
“Let me get this straight. You think you can find someone to impersonate you, one of the most famous and distinctive women in the world?”
She looked delighted. “Well, aren’t you sweet,” she said, traces of her Arkansas beginnings showing through. “I know it’s a long shot, but with proper prior planning—you’re familiar with the seven P’s?”
“I don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about.” Most of the time, in fact.
“Proper prior planning prevents piss-poor performance. My first husband used to say that. A lot, actually.” She rolled those fabulous eyes. “He said it. He didn’t live by it.”
“Are you telling me you’ve already found someone who can pass as you?”
She nodded, suddenly very serious. “Not a perfect match, of course—that would be asking too much. But she doesn’t have to be a clone or anything. With a haircut, a makeover, a little careful instruction, she can pass for me.” She frowned. “At least from a distance. I’m sure of it.”
“Never.” He shook his head decisively. “You’ll never get away with it.”
She looked hurt. “Why not?”
“Well…people know you.”
“So?”
“So they’ll see right through her, whoever she is.”
“Not necessarily.” All business, she began ticking points off on long, slender fingers. “Number one, I’ll move her into my new house with a new staff. None of them will have a clue.
“Number two, I’ll put out the word that she’s—I mean, that I’m—not feeling well. What’s a disease I can have that isn’t disfiguring or fatal?”
“Why…I don’t know. Mononucleosis?”
“No, that’s catching. Don’t they call that the kissing disease?” She shuddered. “I definitely don’t want anything like that.”
“Oh. Then…there’s always exhaustion. You hear that a lot—celebrities checking into the hospital, suffering from exhaustion.”
“But I’m not checking into a hospital,” she pointed out reasonably. “Think of something else.”
“How about a broken bone?”
She considered, finally shaking her head. “I don’t want to get into casts or anything like that,” she decided. “Been there, done that.”
“I’ve got it!” He snapped his fingers. “Laryngitis. You can’t even talk on the phone.”
Her eyes lit up. “That’s perfect. I can set up this decoy in my house, surround her with strangers—except for Tabitha, of course—and then I’ll be free to hide away and write my book. Simple.”
The mention of her personal assistant produced a grimace from Linden. Why the beauteous Sharlayne had hooked up with the formidable Tabitha Thomas was a mystery, but he knew they’d been inseparable for a decade at least.
“Where will you go?” he asked, then caught himself, realizing that now even he was treating this cockamamy idea as if it might actually work.
“I haven’t figured that out yet,” she said serenely, as though she recognized the precise instant she’d overwhelmed his objections. “Somewhere I can be completely anonymous. A mountain cabin, an isolated ranch—something like that. You wouldn’t have any ideas, would you?”
When she turned that luminous gaze on him, he didn’t have an idea in his head. He licked his lips. “I…might come up with something.” He pulled himself together. “If you really intend to try this—”
“I’m not going to try.” She gave him a reproachful glance. “I’m going to do it.”
“In that case, you must provide this poor woman with some kind of protection.”
“Protection from what?”
“From all potentialities—ex-husbands, any ex-lovers lurking about, kooks who might wander by, everything.”
She considered. “You know,” she said at last, “that might not be a bad idea. You mean, like a bodyguard?”
He nodded.
“This bodyguard could keep people at arm’s length, so they don’t get close enough to notice the switch.”
“He could possibly do that, yes.”
“That’s a good idea, Linden.” Her lovely mouth curved up. “Thank you, darling. As long as the press doesn’t find out that I’ve already signed a publishing contract and that the book is practically finished, there shouldn’t be any problems.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear.”
“Exactly.” She turned on that smile like a neon sign. “This will work. All I’ve got to do is convince my stand-in.”
“Stand-in or stooge?” he wondered aloud. “Sharlayne, I don’t actually believe you’ve found a woman who can pass for one of the most photographed women in the world—and who is also dumb enough to be talked into such a scheme.”
“O ye of little faith,” she said, softly mocking. “Finding her is the least of my problems. In fact, at this very minute she’s in your kitchen, trying to convince your cook to treat butter, which is practically my only weakness, like poison.”
The wink she gave him curled his toes, even as it enlisted him in her mad scheme.
“Cheer up, Linden.” Leaning forward, she cupped one smooth hand around his cheek. “This will work.”
“It won’t. The first person she meets will see right through her.”
She shook her head with absolute certainty. “Not so. And you know why? Because we see what we expect to see. If she’s living in Sharlayne Kenyon’s house and wearing Sharlayne Kenyon’s clothes and jewels and you expect to see Sharlayne Kenyon, that’s exactly who you will see when you look at her.”
She was so sure she almost made him believe it, too.
CHAPTER ONE
How many husbands are too many?
We have it on excellent authority that Sharlayne Kenyon has flown East for a rendezvous with potential husband number seven. Be careful, whoever you are! You could end up as an addendum in the book she keeps threatening to write—you know, the one that will name more names than the telephone book….
Gina Godfrey, U.S. Eye
ALICE WYNN LOVED working for Sharlayne Kenyon.
It was beyond a doubt the best thing that had happened in her thirty-two, mostly hard-luck, years. Not only did she love the job; it paid very well indeed.
That did not, however, mean that Alice was beyond having a little fun at her glamorous employer’s expense. With a dead-on knack for mimicry, which she’d had since childhood, she’d easily perfected a takeoff on Sharlayne that never failed her. It was a wonderful means of relaxing strangers and getting her own way in circumstances such as the one in which she currently found herself.
Mr. Wilbert’s cook, it had turned out, was not interested in listening to special requests from anyone. When Alice made her perfectly reasonable request that butter, cream and all other high-calorie substances be excluded from Sharlayne’s meals, the cook had pinned the interloper with a stern gaze.
“Don’t tell me my business, young woman,” she said. “I’ve been preparing Mr. Wilbert’s meals long enough to know what I’m doing.”
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Alice agreed, aware of the averted gaze of the young kitchen helper chopping vegetables at a butcher block table in the middle of the enormous kitchen. “It’s just that Miss Kenyon has very delicate digestion. She simply can’t handle rich foods—although she loves them, she truly does.”
The cook’s helper said eagerly, “I haven’t seen her yet. Is she really as beautiful as she looks in all those magazines?” She put down her knife and waited with breathless attention.
“More beautiful,” Alice declared. “And sweet as pie.” Usually. “It’s a joy to work for her except for this one little thing—about her meals, I mean.” She gave the cook an apologetic glance. “She gets really testy when she can’t find anything she can eat. You understand.”
“I suppose.” The cook spoke grudgingly, apparently not in the least bit mollified. She turned her glare on her helper. “Get to work! We don’t have all day here.”
“Sorry.” The young helper picked up the knife and held it poised over a carrot. “Are all the stories about her really true?” she asked Alice.
“Most of them,” Alice said. She switched easily to a deep-voiced near drawl to add, “And you don’t know the half of it, honey. Nobody does.” She winked.
Even the cook had to laugh at the impersonation, and was still laughing when the butler entered. He looked around with a guarded expression, which quickly turned to a frown. “Where is she?” he demanded. “I distinctly heard Ms Kenyon’s voice.”
The laughing girl with the paring knife laughed harder. “You heard Alice,” she said. “She does a great impression of her boss. Do some more, Alice.”
“Well…” Alice glanced at the cook, who was no longer laughing. Better jolly her along a little more. “If you insist. Have you ever heard the story of her first wedding anniversary?”
“Which husband?” the cook inquired.
“First. He was a garage mechanic, the only poor man she ever married. According to legend, he took a gift to his beautiful young wife on their first-week anniversary.”
“One week?” Even the cook was interested now, while the butler, although pretending not to pay the least attention, had an ear cocked to catch everything.
“And a good thing, too,” Alice retorted, “because the marriage only survived about six months.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “Guess what he got her.”
“A diamond?” the kitchen helper guessed.
“Candy and flowers,” the cook predicted.
“Wrong on both counts.” Alice loved this part of the story. “He handed her a pretty box, and when she ripped off the wrappings she found…a blender.”
Alice recoiled in perfect imitation of Sharlayne’s own frequent telling of the tale. “And Sharlayne said, ‘If it’s not something to put on this body, I don’t even want to touch it!”’
Her audience of three roared with laughter, which cut off abruptly. With a sinking feeling, Alice knew before she even turned around that this time she might very well have gone too far. The best job she’d ever had, and now she’d be out on the street because she just couldn’t pass up an easy laugh.
But turn she must. Sure enough, Sharlayne stood in the doorway, beckoning to her like the spider to the fly.
But why was she smiling?
Alice had had an uneasy feeling from the moment almost a week ago when Sharlayne had announced that she and her two assistants were flying East. She didn’t know why, since she frequently traveled with her employer. She just knew she’d been nervous about the whole thing for no good reason.
Now she knew why. She’d had a premonition of doom.
MR. WILBERT LED Sharlayne and Alice into an elegant room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He certainly appeared to belong in these rich surroundings, not too surprising. Sharlayne had said rather calculatingly that he came from old money.
Lots of old money.
Alice spared a glance around, admiring the leather-covered tomes with gilt edgings, the heavy dark furniture, the brocaded draperies. How many of these books had Wilbert’s own company published? How many of the items in this room were family heirlooms?
How long could Alice avoid the inevitable?
Taking a deep breath, she turned—and stopped short at the sight of Tabitha, who was just entering the room. Sharlayne’s personal assistant wore her usual disapproving expression. Alice didn’t take it personally, supposing that the woman simply didn’t want anyone invading her turf.
Was she about to get her fondest wish?
Alice sighed and said a tentative, “Sharlayne—”
“Before we begin,” Linden Wilbert put in, “may I offer everyone a glass of wine?”
“Nothing for me,” Alice said quickly. “I’d just like to get this over with, if you don’t mind.”
“We do mind,” Sharlayne said sweetly. “Thank you, Linden. That would be lovely.” She gestured for Alice to take a seat.
Thoroughly confused, Alice chose a brass-studded leather chair beside a fireplace cold in May. She’d seen Sharlayne lose her temper only once and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Why was she pussyfooting around now? Being the kind of person who’d rather get any unpleasantness over with as quickly as possible, Alice was nonetheless forced to wait until the wine was duly delivered.
Then she said, “I apologize, Sharlayne. I wasn’t making fun of you, honest.”
“No?” Sharlayne’s brows arched above guileless eyes. “Who were you making fun of?”
“No one.” Alice made it a point not to look at Tabitha, who was probably purring by now. “I just wanted to score brownie points with the cook. She wasn’t real happy to hear about your dietary requirements.”
Mr. Wilbert seemed distressed. “I should have spoken to the cook on your behalf, Sharlayne,” he apologized. “She does tend to be testy.”
“I was only trying to get on her good side,” Alice explained, trying not to sound defensive, “but I shouldn’t have used you to do it.” Sharlayne said nothing, so Alice added a resigned, “If you’re going to fire me, let’s get it over with.”
Sharlayne’s eyes widened. “Is that what you think? That I’d fire a good and loyal employee over a little thing like that?”
“Well, actually…yes. I know loyalty is really important to you. I also know I was out of line.”
“As you have been on many other occasions, and I didn’t fire you then, did I? You’ve been doing that takeoff on me almost from the day I hired you.”
“You knew?” And then Alice understood: Tabitha, blank faced and superior, was a stool pigeon.
Sharlayne smiled that dazzling smile. “You should know better than to believe everything you read and hear about me, Alice. I’m not really all that dumb.”
“Lord, if there’s one thing I never thought you were, it’s dumb,” Alice said fervently. “This is a real relief. I owe you big-time. How about I promise I’ll never let myself get carried away like that again, for starters.” She lifted her right hand, palm out, to verify her vow.
“Oh, dear,” Sharlayne said. “That’s not what I want to hear at all.”
“You don’t?”
Sharlayne shook her head.
“Then what?” Alice leaned forward, aware that Tabitha was doing the same. Whatever was going on, she wasn’t a party to it, either.
But Mr. Wilbert was. “Sharlayne, do you really think you should go forward with—”
“Shh.” Sharlayne kept her level gaze on Alice. “I won’t deny it hurt to learn that you, my trusted friend and employee, were making fun of me behind my back.”
“I wasn’t,” Alice protested. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, after all.”
Sharlayne sighed. “I was not flattered. But you see, something’s come up where your knack for mimicry may come in handy.”
“I can’t imagine what.”
“It’s very simple, really. I need some space to finish my book and I can only think of one way to get it.”
“You mean there’s some way I can help? Of course. Name it.”
An almost cunning expression appeared on Sharlayne’s lovely face. “Oh, good,” she said. “That’s what I hoped you’d say. You heard her, Linden. You’re a witness, too, Tabitha.”
Tabitha let out her breath in a short hiss. “What are you up to?” she asked sharply. “What can Alice possibly do for you that I can’t?”
Sharlayne’s smile was beatific. “Alice can be me,” she said. “And now I know she will.”
DINNER WAS ANNOUNCED before Alice could do more than say a thoroughly confused, “Huh?” Sharlayne and Mr. Wilbert ate in the formal dining room; Tabitha had a tray sent to her room; and Alice grabbed a sandwich and took it outdoors to eat on the terrace overlooking a lovely formal garden.
What in the world was Sharlayne up to now? “Alice can be me,” she’d said, yet that must surely be a joke. No one could be Sharlayne Kenyon, but most especially not Alice Wynn.
For openers, Alice was relatively unsophisticated. A registered nurse, she’d spent nearly a decade caring for an invalid grandmother in her small Nebraska hometown. Only after her grandmother’s death had she been free to look around for a job—and a life—of her own.
Hooking up with Sharlayne had been a stroke of good fortune. Alice had gone to visit a distant cousin in California, and when she’d happened upon an automobile accident, had gone to the aid of the injured. One of the victims was Sharlayne, who’d suffered a broken leg and a terrible scare: she’d thought at first that her face might be scarred.
In her matter-of-fact way, Alice had reassured Sharlayne. When Sharlayne was released from the hospital, she’d hired Alice to tend to her at home on a temporary basis. That had quickly evolved into full-time employment, with Alice in charge of meal planning and the general health of the household. She’d set up an exercise schedule and saw to it that Sharlayne, who had couch potato tendencies, stuck to it. From the beginning, Sharlayne had also used her new employee for general gofer duty, which hadn’t bothered Alice in the slightest. She hadn’t spent ten years fetching and carrying for a crotchety old lady for nothing.
The job was fun, the surroundings elegant, but the biggest plus was a generous salary that helped defray the staggering hospital bills for Grandma’s final illness. With a light finally visible at the end of her personal tunnel, Alice settled in for a long run.
She’d never imaged being so close to so much glamour. For a little girl from Nebraska, it was dazzling. Through Sharlayne, Alice had met many beautiful people, among them a gardener with whom she’d had a brief but passionate affair. Strangely enough, perhaps, she’d never met any of Sharlayne’s rich and famous ex-husbands, although she’d heard many stories about them.
Yes, she definitely owed her boss. The method of repayment, however, eluded her.
When Sharlayne summoned Alice later that night, she went with some trepidation. Again, she entered the library to find the same three waiting for her. She sat down without invitation, her knees suddenly rubbery.
Sharlayne’s smile would set a garden statue at ease. “I’m sure you’d like an explanation,” she said gently.
Alice nodded.
“You know I’ve been trying to finish my book,” Sharlayne said. “It’s going quite well, actually, when I can find the time to work on it. That’s where you come in.”
Alice waited.
“I want you to pretend to be me so I can slip away to some hiding place and finish the manuscript,” Sharlayne said, as if proposing nothing out of the ordinary. “That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Alice and Tabitha said in unison.
Tabitha threw in a scathing glance. “You can’t possibly be serious.”
“I’m deadly serious,” Sharlayne said calmly.
“Nobody,” Tabitha said flatly, “will ever believe this Plain Jane is you.”
Alice sputtered, searching for words to defend herself that didn’t come. She’d be the first to admit she was no Sharlayne Kenyon but neither was she a Plain Jane.
“When I get through with her,” Sharlayne said with total confidence, “her own mother will believe she’s me. It’s not that big a deal, Tabby.”
Tabitha huffed and puffed, muttering “Hopeless” and “Ridiculous” and “Insane.”
Sharlayne laughed. “No, seriously.” She turned back to Alice, who sat speechless with astonishment. “This will work,” she said. “How tall are you?”
“F-five-eight.”
“Me, too. Our bodies are also basically the same. They should be—we do the same workout every day. I’m a bit more buxom—”
“An understatement,” Alice observed, looking pointedly at Sharlayne’s generous cleavage.
“That’s why God invented push-up bras, dear.”
“But—but—you’re blond.”
“Ever hear of bleach?”
This suggested she probably wouldn’t be swayed by the fact that Alice’s hair was twelve inches longer. That’s why God invented scissors. “Our eyes aren’t exactly the same color,” she stated as though she’d finally settled upon a valid difference.
“That’s true. Yours have less gray in them. But nobody will notice that unless they see the two of us together, which they won’t. Blue is close enough.”
“Okay, then—” Alice began again, grasping for straws. “My nose is shorter.”
“Again, unless we stand side by side, who’s to know? Besides, makeup will go a long way toward negating that.”
“Sharlayne.” Tabitha’s tone was agonized. “This is insane. She’d never get away with it.”
“She will if I put out the word I have laryngitis,” Sharlayne said triumphantly. “If I set her up in the New York apartment, there could be a problem. But we won’t do that. She can move into the new house in Beverly Hills, where nobody’s met me. You’ll be with her, of course. Everyone knows that where I am, you are, too, Tabby.”
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