Not For Sale. Sandra Marton

a size six. You?”

      “A six. But—”

      “Size seven shoes, right?”

      Caroline sank onto the rickety wooden stool that graced the counter. “Right. But honestly—”

      “Three hundred,” Dani said briskly. “And I’m on my way. A dress. Shoes. Makeup. Think of what fun this will be.”

      All Caroline could think of was three hundred dollars. You didn’t need to be a linguist to translate that into a piece of next month’s rent.

      “Caroline! I need your address. We’re running out of time here.”

      Caroline gave it. Told herself to ignore the prickly feeling dancing down her spine, told herself that same thing again, two hours later, when Dani spun her toward the mirror and she saw.

      “Cinderella,” Dani said, laughing at Caroline’s shocked expression. “Hey, one last thing, okay? Let this guy think you’re me. See, the friend who set this up thinks I’m gonna do the date, I mean, be the date, and it’s easier all around if we keep it that way.”

      Caroline looked at her reflection again. Dani’s fifty-dollar-a-bottle conditioner had taken her hair from no-color to pale gold. Her hazel eyes glittered, thanks to the light sparkle of gold shadow on her lids. Her cheekbones and mouth were a delicate pink and her dress…Cobwebs. Slinky black cobwebs that showed more leg than she’d ever shown except in shorts or a swimsuit. And on her feet, gold sandals, their heels so high she wondered if she’d be able to walk.

      She didn’t look like herself anymore, and something about that terrified her.

      “Dani. I don’t—I can’t—”

      “You’re meeting him in half an hour.”

      “No, really, it just feels wrong. To lie, to pretend I’m you, that I’m this Luke Vieira’s girlfriend—”

      “Lucas,” Dani said impatiently. “Lucas Vieira. Okay. Five hundred.”

      Caroline stared at her. “Five hundred dollars?”

      “We’re running out of time. What’s it gonna be? Yes or no?”

      Caroline swallowed hard. And said the only thing she could.

      She said, “Yes.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      LUCAS went home, showered and changed clothes. White shirt, blue tie, gray suit. A little casual, a little businesslike. Now, all he had to do was calm down.

      The hotel was fiftieth and Madison and he lived on Fifth Avenue, only a couple of blocks away. There was no need for his car; like any New Yorker, he knew the fastest way to cover that distance was to walk.

      Besides, walking might give him time to tame his temper. He’d snapped at his driver on the way from the office to his condo; he’d barely responded to the doorman’s pleasant “good evening, Mr. Vieira,” he’d scowled at his housekeeper in response to a simple question.

      He was breathing fire, and what for? Ultimately, he was the one responsible for this mess. Why turn his anger on everyone else?

      He’d made a mistake, not recognizing that Elin was trying to make more of their affair than it ever could be, but the way to recover from a mistake was to learn from it and move on.

      The Palace’s elegant lobby was crowded. Lucas found a relatively clear space that gave him an unimpeded view of the entrance, then checked his watch. It was seven forty-five. On the chance Dani Sinclair might have arrived early, he scanned the room for a late-twenties, tall woman with light brown hair, blue eyes and what Jack Gordon had slyly described as “a body that just won’t quit” when Lucas had phoned him for a description an hour ago.

      “A total babe,” he’d said, with a low laugh. “Built for action, if you get my drift.”

      Lucas’s mouth twisted. He didn’t like Gordon’s increasingly smarmy tone, and he had no interest in knowing if he and the woman had been intimate. As long as she looked presentable, seemed credible as his date and spoke Russian, he’d be satisfied.

      There were lots of women in the lobby, some that met Gordon’s description, but none were alone as Dani Sinclair would be. If she ever showed up. Frowning, Lucas checked the time again. Four minutes had gone by.

      Another slipped past.

      Lucas folded his arms, felt a flicker of apprehension. She was late.

      It was not a good start.

      At five of eight, Lucas could feel the muscles in his jaw tense. Yes, Rostov had said he and his wife would be late but if the Sinclair woman didn’t show up soon—

      A woman entered the lobby. She was by herself. Lucas felt a surge of hope until he realized this couldn’t be the woman he was waiting for. Nothing about her fit Jack Gordon’s description.

      Her hair was pale gold, not brown. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes from here, only that they were wide-set, like a cat’s. Her face was oval, her mouth a soft pink.

      Even at a distance, she was stunning.

      Feminine. Delicate. Curves gently accented by an incredibly short, clinging silky black dress, long legs that lent sexiness to already-sexy gold sandals with stiletto heels. An erotic image flashed into his head. This woman, wearing only those heels and whatever wisp of silk she had on under that amazing dress.

      He scowled.

      What kind of nonsense was this? He was here on important business. Besides, it would be a while before he’d want to be with a woman again. The thing with Elin had left a bad taste.

      Still, he lifted his gaze, took one last look at the woman’s face…

      And found her staring at him.

      For a heartbeat, their eyes met and held. Lucas felt something knot, deep in his belly. He took a step forward—and then her gaze swept past him and the moment, whatever it had been, was over.

      Hell.

      He needed a break.

      He’d finish the Rostov deal, clear up a couple of other things and then he’d go out to his house in the Hamptons for a long weekend. Alone. Just him and the sun and the sea. Three, four days like that and he’d be ready to get back to work, and to women.

      All he had to do was wind things up tonight—except, how was he going to do that? His watch read five after eight.

      No question about it.

      Dani Sinclair had been a mistake.

      Lucas ran his hand through his hair.

      He could call the Rostov suite. Plead sudden illness. No. That was the easy way out. More to the point, he wanted things settled, tonight. His only real choice was to go through with the dinner plans, let Ilana Rostov do all the translating, try to ignore her fingers in his lap and if things got bad enough—

      “Excuse me.”

      If things got bad enough, say to hell with it and tell Rostov that he needed to leash his barracuda of a wife…

      “Sir? Excuse me.”

      A hand fell lightly on his arm. Damnit, what now?

      “Yes?” he growled as he swung around…And saw the blonde with the cat’s eyes looking up at him. This close, he could see that her eyes were hazel, that she was even lovelier than he’d thought.

      A woman on the prowl. New York had more than its fair share of assertive women. Or she might be a high-priced call girl. New York had plenty of those, too, and though places like this did all it could to discourage them, they were around.

      Either way, he wasn’t interested. He liked assertive women but not tonight, with a deal like this on the agenda. And if she was a