I despise name-dropping, however, it seems necessary for me to encourage you to expedite our reservations.
Perhaps you’re familiar with Carter and Eliza Billings. I’d suggest you call the governor’s mansion, but the staff there would never let you through.
Enclosed is a personal number for Eliza and Carter. I’m sure you understand the need for their private number to remain private.
I expect to hear from you shortly.
Sincerely,
Miss Rosenthal
“Asshole,” Meg mumbled to herself before she called Eliza.
Once she hung up the phone with Eliza, she turned off her computer and walked into the kitchen.
Her boss and the first lady once occupied the Tarzana town house. Seemed Alliance had a steady home, but those in the day-to-day running of the business changed every few years. Early on, Meg had been told that those who slept in the master bedroom of the house found their spouse within a few short years of sleeping there. The evidence was in the vows exchanged by the employees of Alliance through the years.
Needless to say, Meg didn’t sleep in the master bedroom.
She’d always found herself attracted to men who couldn’t provide anything . . . emotional or financial. The thought of marriage and forever made her break out in hives.
She did not intend to find a mate. Living where she worked, however, made perfect sense.
When she’d first started working for Sam, she’d thought . . . maybe . . . maybe she could do the temp-hubby thing. What was wrong with finding a temporary spouse who would pay her off at the end of a year?
Then she realized she could make some serious money setting up said marriages and live her life as she saw fit.
Call it superstition . . . or maybe it was the scent of the pot her parents loved to smoke seeping in . . . but Meg wasn’t sleeping in the master bedroom for fear the room was cursed.
She banked the money she made, took a couple of trips to see her parents . . . paid off her student loans, loans she didn’t think she’d ever pay back. She’d always assumed those loans would be a part of a chapter, something in her future. Did anyone ever pay back their student loans these days?
As it stood, Meg made decent money and lived virtually free.
Trips to places like Sapore di Amore were on Alliance, and Alliance had deep pockets.
At the end of the day, however, when Meg tossed off her designer heels and slipped out of the evening gown, she sat in sweatpants with a big bowl of popcorn watching the latest action flick on TV. There were the nights she’d spend with her friends, shooting pool, or in her case, watching them shoot pool . . . or the occasional karaoke night where she’d dream.
Tonight was popcorn night.
Karaoke wasn’t in the cards without her best friend, and the other people she knew were all either married or busy.
Popcorn it was.
Taking a beer from the fridge, Meg walked over to the upright she’d purchased with her first paycheck.
The piano sat in the living room and did more than house family photographs.
After plucking a few notes, Meg found herself playing a classic.
Only the words she used for “My Funny Valentine” weren’t as the original composer intended.
No . . . her funny valentine had a few choice names and descriptions that fit her mood.
Valentino was an assable. And every day was not Valentine’s Day.
Chapter Two
“I can’t believe you’re pretending to date my brother just to check out a hotel.” Judy, Meg’s best friend, flopped on the bed and leaned on her arm.
Meg moved through the room while she packed.
“What better way to determine if this resort is everything the brochure says it is than to have Mr. Famous walking around the place? If it’s überprivate, then very few people will know he’s actually there. He won’t end up in a tabloid, and no one will think I’m dating him. Well, except for those at the actual hotel.”
“Why bother then? Might as well take me.” Judy grinned and batted her lashes several times.
“Neither of us are famous. No one will be looking for a beautiful blonde”—Meg flipped her short hair and winked—“and her sidekick friend. Michael, on the other hand . . .”
Judy shook her head and laughed. “I know. We can’t go to lunch without a camera lurking. How long are you going to stay?”
“A week.”
“Why so long? Seems like a lot for a recon mission.”
Meg rolled her eyes. “Recon mission? You’re starting to sound like Rick.” Judy’s husband was a Marine . . . well, former, retired, or whatever it was he called it. He said things like recon mission all the time.
“Isn’t that what it is?”
Meg packed the side pockets of her suitcase with a couple of bathing suits.
“I suggested four days, Michael wanted a week. Between him and Samantha, they’re buying. Who am I to say no?”
Judy pushed off the bed and moved to the closet. “You need more summer dresses. It’s going to be hot and humid.”
Having grown up in Washington State, where moss grew on every side of a stone, owning a pair of sandals, as in one pair, was more than enough for the summer. Adjusting to the California sun had been a pleasure, but Meg still hadn’t embraced summer dresses to the extent Judy had.
“Michael and I are going shopping during the layover in Dallas. If we don’t find everything I need, then I’ll have Michael take me to Key West.”
“Won’t that compromise your privacy?”
Meg wiggled her eyebrows, did her best I’m devious impression. “It will. I’ll be interested to see how the resort will handle an onslaught of lookie-loos boating up the Keys to catch a glimpse of Michael. If they can keep the cameras offshore, then I might have found the right place to recommend that our clients honeymoon.”