“A child. And then I grew up.”
“Too fast. You had no choice. This was never the life you wanted. I remember when you didn't care about business, or money—”
“I learned to care a lot about money once we didn't have any,” Jake said. “Funny how that happens.”
But Cora was caught up in her sentimental reverie. “You would have finished school, married Karen…”
“And lived happily ever after?” Jake's voice was suddenly harsh. He preferred his mother in her executive guise. “I doubt that. Hindsight suggests that it wouldn't have worked out anyway.”
Cora looked hurt, and Jake felt a stab of guilt. She meant well, and it wasn't her fault that her misty-eyed memories brought up emotions that he preferred to keep buried.
“It doesn't matter now,” he said, trying to soothe her. He gestured around the luxuriously furnished room. “It all worked out in the end, didn't it?”
“It's not the end yet,” Cora said tartly, and Jake grinned, remembering from whom he had inherited his temper.
“Oh, Jake,” she said. “I don't suppose you'd reconsider this business with Amanda? She's a nice girl.”
“No.”
“She's pretty. And she wants children.”
“Not interested.”
“If you'd spend some time getting to know her, you might become interested. And it would be good for you to get the Skye episode behind you. Publicly, I mean. You need to show the world that you've moved on. Amanda isn't high profile, but right now that's an asset.”
“I don't care,” Jake said. “I'm not going to date Amanda Harper, publicly or privately. Give up, Ma.”
“Hmm,” Cora said. “We'll see. Regardless, you need to do something about Skye. That girl is unstable, and she has the newspapers eating out of her hand. She's a talented actress, I'll give her that, but that's just what makes her so dangerous. She'll say anything to hurt you, and believe me, those reporters won't bother to confirm it before they print it.”
“So what?” Jake shrugged. “You know my take on that. Publicity keeps us hot, and even scandal sells rooms. There's nothing Skye can say that can do us any damage.”
“Don't be so sure. It would be much better if you spoke to the press yourself…”
“No.”
“The journalists are beginning to resent you for shutting them out. I can see it in the way they've been writing about you.”
“I don't know why you read that junk.”
“Because someone needs to keep an eye on these things, and I'm the only one who can make you listen! I see trouble, Jake. You're giving the reporters the impression that you think you're above them, and they're passing that feeling on to the readers…our customers.”
“That's ridiculous. You know why I don't give interviews. It has nothing to do with snobbery.”
“I know that,” Cora said. “But they don't.”
“Too bad. I don't talk about my personal life to the press. Not now, not ever. That's where I draw the line.”
“I'm not sure you still have the luxury of drawing a line,” Cora said. “The Berenger board is concerned about you, Jake. They say that your public image has become too frivolous. The world is calling you a playboy, and the analysts are questioning whether you're still an appropriate figurehead for the company. And now, this trouble with Skye…”
Jake had heard enough. “Damn it!” he said, slamming his hands down on the desktop. “Everything I do is for the good of the company. Everything. I built it, I run it, and until the economy took a dive, I didn't hear any of those sanctimonious pricks on the board complaining about the value of their stock. If things are rough these days, it has nothing to do with my personal life. The whole hospitality industry has taken a hit. Berenger is doing better than most, and it's specifically because of my hard work.”
“I agree,” Cora said. “But you can't fight human nature, my dear. Bad economy or not, when the stock is down, people want someone to blame. Right now, they're looking at you, and I want you to be careful.”
“O
kay, Carter,” Molly said. “Just tell me one thing.”
“Sure, what?”
“Have you gone
completely insane?”
They were back in Molly's apartment, the spacious bottom floor of an old clapboard house near campus. Carter's declaration had pushed the conversation to a point where Molly had decided that it would be better continued in private.
“I mean, listen to yourself,” she continued. “Are you seriously telling me that you want me to go with you to one of Jake Berenger's resorts and spend a week swanning around in a low-cut dress, trying to catch his attention so that I can then use my feminine wiles to persuade him to let you write his biography?”
“Yes,” Carter said.
“Yes, you've gone insane? I thought so.”
Carter shot a nervous look at the chef's knife that she was using, and Molly realized that she was gripping it in a way that suggested that she had intentions beyond chopping parsley. She put down the knife and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Why me? If you really do want to go through with this…bizarre plan, why don't you hire some local model to go with you? I'm flattered that you haven't noticed that I'm not exactly the glamorous type, but—”
“Packaging,” Carter said dismissively.
“What?”
“Packaging,” he repeated. “That's all it is. Your infrastructure is as good as any other female's. Better, actually.”
“My
infrastructure
?”
Carter looked uncomfortable. “You know what I mean. The whole…girl thing.” He raised his hands and waved them vaguely along the outlines of a female form. “You're actually very good-looking, Molly, or you would be, if you didn't try so hard to hide it.”
“I'm not trying to hide anything,” Molly exclaimed. “That is such a typically male thing to say. I suppose you think I should show up at faculty meetings in high heels and a miniskirt. Don't you think that it might be a little difficult for me to discuss my teaching load with the department head while he's staring at my thighs?”
“Maybe so, but you weren't always like this.”
“Like what?”
He didn't even blink. “Frumpy.”
“What!”
“The pearls, the glasses, those baggy beige sweaters, two at a time—”
“They're called twin sets! They're cashmere. They're classic. Grace Kelly wore them.”
Carter shrugged. “I'm just giving you the male perspective. I don't know where you got the idea that dressing like your own grandmother would make the people at Belden take you seriously, but it seems like a wasted youth to me.”
Molly stared at him, unable to speak. She knew that she should be outraged that he would dare to say these things to her. She tried to work up some righteous indignation, but it came with difficulty. Mostly, she just felt deflated and foolish. Carter had called her bluff. She didn't particularly like the way she looked these days, but she didn't think that she had any choice about it. There had been mornings when, sick of her usual drab uniform, she had put on something more daring—daring, for her, being a snug sweater and a skirt hemmed above the knee—only to lose her nerve before she set foot out of her front door. It had gotten even worse in recent months, since
Pirate Gold
was published. She felt as if she were always seeing herself through two sets of eyes: her own, and those of some sour-lipped critic who saw any attempt at vanity as proof that she was an intellectual fraud.
“In my opinion,” Carter said, “you're seriously conflicted, Molly. This trip might turn out to be as helpful to you as it is to me.”
“I doubt that very much,” Molly muttered, but the vigor had gone out of her voice. She felt tired, suddenly, and she sighed. “Carter, please. Don't ask me to do this. I can't. My feminine wiles are gone…they dried up and blew away while I was in grad school. Anyway, your plan can't possibly work. Jake Berenger just broke up with
Skye Elliot
—”
“Aha!” Carter said triumphantly. “You do read
People
magazine. I knew it. You probably have a subscription. Where do you hide them? Under your mattress?”
“My point,” Molly continued, ignoring him, “is that if the man's last love interest was an Academy Award-winning actress who also happens to be one of the most beautiful women on the planet, then what are my chances? He won't even look at me.”
“He will,” Carter said, so positively that Molly was intrigued, in spite of herself.
“Oh?” she asked. “Why?”
“I told you,” Carter said. “It's all in the packaging. Marketing makes the world go round, Molly, and Jake Berenger will notice you because we have done our market research.”
Molly looked blankly at him. “Huh?”
“It's simple. Look, he's a market of one. So we study him to find out exactly what's been selling. Then we design the perfect package, create buzz, do some strategic product placement…”
“Wait a minute. I don't like the sound of this. What am I, a can of soup? I'm not a product. And you're not selling me, to Jake Berenger or anyone else.”
“Wrong,” Carter said. “Selling you is exactly what we're doing. That's what seduction is all about, right? Convincing someone that they want you? That they have to have you? Sounds like sales to me. Am I wrong?”
“Yes! It's not that cold-blooded.”
“Oh, come on,” Carter scoffed. “What do you think attraction is? You subscribe to the Cupid theory, with a little naked guy flying around shooting arrows of love into people?”
“Of course not,” Molly said. “But I think that when two people are attracted to each other, it's because they've recognized qualities in each other that are personally meaningful—”
“Exactly,” Carter said. “And let me tell you what qualities Jake Berenger considers meaningful. Hair: pale blond and long. Eyes: blue. Height: five feet eight. Body: slender but curvy, about one hundred and twenty-five pounds. Age: twenty-six…”
“
What
are you talking about?”
“Patterns. Statistics. I collected all of the information I could find on all of the women he's dated over the past ten years and gave it to a friend who's handy with computers. What I just told you is what the statistical analysis program told us. We took every detail that seemed relevant, fed it into the program, and it gave us, to an inch and a pound, Jake Berenger's ideal woman.”
“How charming,” Molly said. “If you're trying to get me to seriously dislike this man, just keep on talking.”
“Oh, I could,” Carter said. “I was only warming up. How about a tendency to prefer women who wear the color pink?”
“
Pink?
This is becoming a bad cliché. Plus, pink makes me look blotchy. This is never going to work, Carter! My hair is brown, I don't have blue eyes, I'm only five-foot-four and I might be slender, but I'm definitely not curvy—”
“Details,” Carter said. “We'll deal with all of that later.”
“Not unless I agree to go along with this. Can you explain to me how I'm supposed to charm such a shallow, ridiculous man?”
“Acting. This isn't about
you,
Molly. It's not about the two of you falling in love. It's about creating a fantasy character, just like when you write a book.”
“It's deception. It's not honest.”
“It's an adventure,” Carter said. A wheedling note crept into his voice. “Do you want me to beg? I will. Please, Molly. Please come with me, your old buddy, and help me reach the heights of success. You know, those same heights that I helped you reach?”
“But I don't know
how
—”
“Yes you do. Read your own book. Spend a week forgetting the Respectable Professor Shaw and become Sandra St. Claire. If you can write like her, why can't you live like her for a week?”
Molly didn't answer. She had just remembered a game called “Spies” that she had invented and played as a child, with the help of a red-haired girl named Kristin, her best friend at the time. The game had involved a clandestine meeting in Molly's attic, where each girl assigned the other a “secret identity” consisting mostly of a made-up name. They had never done more than run around acting mysterious and giggling a lot, but Molly still remembered that exciting sense of possibility, the feeling that she could do or say anything, with the justification—however questionable—that it wasn't really her.
Acting, Carter had said. He was right, wasn't he? It wouldn't really be
her
out there, in a pink dress, batting her eyelashes at a hotel tycoon. Whether she failed miserably or succeeded, it wouldn't matter. Whatever happened on a Caribbean island, hundreds of miles away from Belden College, would be as harmless and as meaningless as a game of Spies.
“Well,” Carter said gloomily, “if you aren't willing to help a friend in need, then so be it. I understand, really I do.”
“Carter…” Molly began.
“No, no.” He put up one hand. “Don't worry about me. I'll just keep on with my pathetic existence as a B-grade journalist, struggling to survive, barely making ends meet…”
“Carter,” Molly said again, more forcefully this time.
He ignored her. “I'll just give up on all my dreams of ever bettering myself, of ever achieving the success that you—”
“Carter, shut up! You win. I'll do it.”
“You will?” His grin was sudden and blinding.
“Yes. But let's clarify one thing. When you say that you want me to seduce Jake Berenger, I'm assuming that you mean that in the old-fashioned sense, right? Because if you're asking me to sleep with him, I can tell you right now that you have the wrong woman.”
“Molly,” Carter said, looking mildly scandalized. “Please. What kind of person do you think I am?”
“I'm not going to answer that. So we understand each other on that point?”
“Oh, sure. Definitely, I mean. Sleeping with him won't be necessary, anyway. Someone told me recently that the power is all in the chase.”
“Who said that?”
“Ah,” Carter said smugly. “My secret weapon. Our guarantee of success.”
“You've lost me again.”
“Another trick that I've learned in my long and illustrious career,” Carter said, “is that when you need expert help, what do you do?”
“You call an expert?”
“Bingo.” Carter reached for his battered leather satchel, pulled out a paperback book, and handed it to her.