Trading Places. Ruth Dale Jean

      “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