Trading Places. Ruth Jean Dale

the one, all right,” Jed confirmed dryly.

      “You always did have all the luck.”

      That surprised Jed, who didn’t think he ever had any luck. “How so?” he challenged.

      “You’re gonna be guarding one of the most famous bodies in America. That’s not luck?”

      “I’m guarding it, not making moves on it.”

      “Yeah, right.”

      “Steve, she must be ten years older than I am.” He figured the photos in his briefcase must have been taken fifteen years ago and extensively retouched.

      “Fifteen years older and twenty years smarter,” Steve shot back.

      “You think so? Look, little brother, guarding some flighty celebrity isn’t my idea of a plum assignment.”

      “Everybody’s got to start somewhere, my man.”

      “That’s what I figure, so I intend to make the best of it. The body of Sharlayne What’s-Her-Name will be guarded like never before, but that’s all—guarded. This is strictly business.”

      “Knowing you, I believe it.” Steve sounded disgusted. “Good old straight-arrow Jed.” He sighed. “If it were me…”

      “It’s not. If you need me, use my cell phone number. I’ll be at her place in L.A.—Beverly Hills, Bel Air, wherever.”

      “Okay. Have a good time.”

      “Fat chance. This is work.”

      “Speaking of work…” A pregnant pause followed, and then, “We really could use you around the old homestead, Jed. If bodyguarding doesn’t pan out, you can always come home.”

      “It’ll pan out. Give my love to Dana.”

      “Will do, and you give my love to Sharlayne Kenyon.”

      Jed hung up on a long, low whistle.

      Steve must be losing it, he thought, tossing his sea bag into the back of the pickup. What did his brother know about this Sharlayne Kenyon that Jed didn’t? He’d seen pictures of her, read her file. She was just another glossy blonde.

      Wasn’t she?

      ALICE SAT AT the makeup table in the master suite of Sharlayne’s Spanish-style villa in Beverly Hills. Practically in a state of shock, she stared at her reflection in the lit mirror.

      Her own face stared back at her, bare of makeup but topped with Sharlayne’s hair: a pale baby blond in a sexy, short cut. Sharlayne, who was also reflected in the mirror, tugged at a strand, testing the texture between her fingers.

      “Well?” Alice inquired breathlessly.

      “Not bad,” Sharlayne responded grudgingly. “Your hair’s finer than mine—less body. But Kathy did a great job, I have to admit.”

      “It went just the way you said it would,” Alice said. “I asked for your hairdresser when I made the appointment, then gushed all over her about how much I loved your hair. I asked her to do mine exactly the same and this is the result.”

      “And since you went in sans makeup, she’ll never put two and two together,” Sharlayne said with satisfaction. “Okay, time to complete the transformation. Show me what you’ve learned in the past week.”

      Alice herself wasn’t sure what she’d learned. Sharlayne had bombarded her with information and instructions, including the art of makeup. Although Alice had painted her eyes, modified her lip line, shadowed her nose to make it appear longer and allowed Sharlayne to change the shape of her brows, she’d never done everything all at once.

      This would be the acid test.

      With trembling hands, she reached for the jar of Sharlayne’s custom-blended foundation. Picking up a sponge, she looked herself in the eye, took a deep breath and began.

      Thirty minutes later, she was so racked with nerves that she really couldn’t see the forest for the trees: all the parts that went together to create Sharlayne Kenyon. Everything about Alice gleamed and glowed with color and new shapeliness, but did it add up to success?

      She shifted on the bench and fixed a plaintive gaze on Sharlayne. “Well?” She held her breath.

      Sharlayne looked…stunned. Stepping forward, she put her hands on Alice’s shoulders and turned her back to face the mirror. What Alice now saw was two Sharlayne Kenyons—two. For a moment, she didn’t know which one was her.

      Sharlayne said in a strangled voice, “I’m the one who thought this would work, and even I don’t believe it.”

      “Neither do I,” Alice gasped. “I never dreamed—!”

      “I realized there were a lot of similarities.” Sharlayne had pulled herself together, although she still appeared rattled. “Do you suppose we’re twins separated at birth?”

      Alice laughed. “Not likely, since I’m thirty-two and you’re—”

      “Older. A tiny bit older.” Sharlayne grinned at her own intervention. “Actually, when I look closer I can see the differences. Your upper lip is longer…see?” She pointed to her own mouth. “Your nose is shorter, your cheeks fuller. That’s why I showed you how to contour. Your neck’s shorter, too.” She preened her head from side to side to demonstrate.

      “I see it when you point it out,” Alice agreed. “Without all the camouflage we don’t look that much alike at all.” She rose. “Now what?”

      “Now you get dressed. Wear that.” Sharlayne pointed to garments laid out on the silk-draped canopy bed and strappy high-heeled sandals sitting on the floor.

      Without a word, Alice stripped off her jeans and T-shirt. Beneath them she wore a thong—which was driving her crazy—and a demibra of lace and satin, artfully constructed to make the most of her assets. The underwear was new, selected and purchased by Sharlayne.

      “You can wear my clothes and my shoes,” she’d said. “You can even wear my jewels. But no way will anybody wear my undies. Since you have a penchant for cotton underwear and no one on the planet would believe Sharlayne Kenyon would wear such a thing—”

      “But no one will see my underwear,” Alice had protested. “What difference does it make?”

      “Plenty,” Sharlayne snapped. “You’ll know and you won’t feel like me in cotton underpants—trust me. Besides, what if you got hit by a car? Then everybody at the hospital would see. It would ruin my reputation.”

      “I’m not going to get hit by a car.”

      Sharlayne had got that sneaky gleam in her eyes. “There are other occasions to show one’s underwear. You could have a mad passionate affair with your bodyguard.”

      “I had a mad passionate affair with one of your gardeners. Remember that? It didn’t work out so well. I won’t be trying that again any time soon.”

      “José was cute,” Sharlayne said, “but the language thing was a problem. I’m still not sure if he was kissing you off or inviting you to go back to Mexico with him.”

      “Whatever. I was sorry I ever got involved.” Alice stepped into white jeans and hauled them up over her hips. She had to take a deep breath to get them snapped, then to pull up the zip.

      She’d never worn anything so tight in her life. “Good grief,” she gasped. “How do you move in these?”

      “They’re denim. They stretch.”

      “I hope.” Alice tugged the black T-shirt over her head. Short and just as tight as the jeans, it reached only to a couple of inches above the waistband, baring her navel.

      She stared in the mirror at her exposed bellybutton. “You’re kidding,” she said faintly.

      “You