Kitabı oku: «Colton's Mistaken Identity», sayfa 3
He walked through open, massive carved oak doors and into the hotel’s pièce de résistance—the grand ballroom. The floor was entirely parquet but covered with a huge red carpet that ran into its center, where the area delineated for dancing remained clear. Hundreds if not a full thousand round tables framed the open area, the crystal chandeliers catching the fading sunlight, their bulbs still dim. Soon they’d be bright and the room a cacophony of press, actors, studio executives and the teams of people it took to make it all happen.
It was that rare quiet moment before a major event launched. Right now it was hushed as workers rapidly set tables and moved last-minute lighting equipment into place. A DJ set up in a far corner of the room, her control panel as large as any he’d ever seen in a concert. But in another hour and a half, it would burst to life with an entirely different personality.
Prescott liked the quiet anticipation before an event. As much as he enjoyed the slow build of desire as he met and wooed a woman into his bed.
The redhead stood alone in the middle of the room, silently moving her lips as she read from her phone. Her running clothes were gone but she hadn’t upgraded her look that much, wearing easy black pants and a simple pale pink silk shell. Her skin was dewy, and as he’d already noticed she liked her makeup heavy, but on her stunning features it only emphasized her beauty.
His running shoes, silent on the plush carpet, hit the parquet floor, and a loud squeak sounded. The woman gasped as she startled and dropped her phone onto the carpet. Her caramel-brown eyes lasered in on him, and he knew how a bug felt under a magnifying glass. But it was more like an ant under a sunbeam as heat immediately flared in his chest, rushing toward his groin. The woman was so damned beautiful, from her glorious red hair to her full lush lips, down to her full breasts and hips. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so smitten, from the get-go.
Because you never have been.
He held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He bent down and retrieved her phone, on which he saw notes displayed before he handed it back to her.
“I-I’m not...scared.” She cleared her throat, and he had to consciously force his gaze from the creamy skin of her neck to her eyes. He swore he already knew what she’d taste like, how her soft skin would give under the pressure of his lips.
“What can I do for you?” She’d been surprised by his appearance but recovered quickly. The immediate shock in her brown eyes was already replaced by cool assessment. Yup, definitely someone used to working with celebrities. And not easily impressed, he’d guess.
“I’m Prescott—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Reynolds. Is there something you need before tonight’s premiere?” Her tone burst with brusque efficiency, but all he could see was the way her pink-glossed lips formed the words.
“You didn’t notice, but this morning we were both on the hiking trail.”
“You mean the running path?” She bit her lower lip, and her cheeks flushed under the makeup. Why did she have an expression of guilt on her feminine features? “Sorry, but I’m not a runner. You must have seen my twin sister, Phoebe. She, ah, goes for a few miles every morning. I’m more of a night owl. Did you enjoy your time on the property?”
“Yes, of course.” He waved his hand around, motioning at the room. “This entire place is amazing. It’s easy to feel like I’m in the middle of Normandy or Burgundy while I’m here.” Too late he realized what a snob he sounded like. His global travel was a direct privilege of his celebrity status, and the Iowa farm boy inside him cringed at his careless mention of a destination so few ever afforded.
“Thank you. I’ll pass that on to my parents. Is there something else?” There was an air of impatience, no, make that desperation about her as she repeated her question. Maybe she had to practice red carpet introductions, or there had been some last-minute disruptions to the festival’s launch gala.
“Actually, it’s me who’d like to do something for you. What did you say your name was?”
Most women were impressed enough by this point to at least show a spark of appreciation in their gaze. But not this woman. She actually hesitated before she answered, as if reluctant to let him know anything so personal. Talk about the tables being turned.
The warmth in his center from her nearness exploded into something he hadn’t felt in a long while. Joy.
Prescott realized that he’d sorely missed having a woman turn him on his head. Maybe this film festival wasn’t going to be the laborious weeklong junket that he’d resigned himself to.
“I’m Skye Colton, the resort’s marketing director.” She held out a slim hand, and he took it. As they shook he was again distracted, this time by the silky softness of her skin that contrasted sharply with the firmness of her grip. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Not as pleased as I am. Call me Prescott, please.” He loved how she grasped his hand like a boss. She’d be incredible in bed, he instinctively knew. But what stunned him was that he wasn’t interested in that, not right now. Well, maybe he was completely enthralled by how seductive her mere presence was, but he was feeling something very different from first-meet attraction. Something more palpable.
All Prescott wanted was to get to know Skye Colton better. Suddenly his seven-day junket in Roaring Springs felt as if it was already half over. There would never be enough time to know this woman the way he wanted to.
But damned if he wouldn’t give it his best shot.
* * *
Phoebe knew she gripped Prescott’s hand too tightly, but to his credit the man didn’t even wince. She’d had no choice, as there was no other way to hide her nervousness. Thank goodness she’d wiped her palm on her pants before she’d shaken his. Otherwise he’d have known how rattled she was.
The photos and films didn’t do this man justice. Not even close. She’d never had a zing of awareness when she’d seen him on the big screen, nor had she grown wet with pure feminine need as she’d watched his performances. Standing so near to him, it was a shock to her that his star status wasn’t at play. She felt as she would with a non-celebrity man she was attracted to. Except her reaction was so far over the top. Between his deep voice, his words that made her feel like she was the only woman in the room, and the confidence in his posture and body language that hinted at his athleticism, her knees felt like her mother’s pepper jelly. All wobbly but with heat washing over her skin, making her want to run away before she did what her hormones were begging for: to kiss Prescott Reynolds right here in the ballroom and tell him to follow her to her room.
This must be what groupies feel like, and why they go after movie and rock stars.
This had to be some kind of sexual overreaction due to the morning’s upheaval caused by Skye’s disappearance.
Prescott flashed his familiar white-toothed I-leave-hearts-crushed-with-every-footstep grin that she recognized from his film promos and it snapped it out of her sexual trance.
It was nothing like the smile she’d witnessed in her favorite work of his—an historical period piece where he’d played a struggling artist amid the French Revolution. While his smile was part of his trademark good looks, as he looked at her, she was aware that there was more to this man than his celebrity. And he knew how to turn it on and off, not a virtue of many people she’d met who lived in the spotlight.
“Okay, then. Nice to meet you, Prescott.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Skye.” Phoebe didn’t like lying, ever, yet as she stood in the middle of the grand ballroom, her hair and makeup perfectly done in Skye’s signature style, it was surprisingly easy to fall into the role. Save for Skye’s effervescent presence. And extreme comfort around attractive, powerful men.
“You must be very excited for tonight. I’ll be announcing each of you, I mean the VIPs, as you arrive.” She’d watched from the sidelines as her twin had handled actors over the past three years since they’d both left college. Skye made it look so easy, but Phoebe was drained at the mere thought of having to play “happy to meet you” with countless actors.
He shrugged, his tall, muscular frame formidable in measure but his energy anything but. He made her feel as though she were the only person he wanted to be with. No doubt all part of his practiced Hollywood charm.
“It’s a thrill to know the world’s going to finally see something I worked so hard on, but to be frank, I left this film’s set almost a year ago. My mind is on other...projects.”
She couldn’t help but laugh, his flirting was so obvious. “I’ll bet it is.” It seemed silly, but she went ahead and batted her eyes anyway. And immediately felt like Skye. She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t really her twin, please forgive her, and would he call her Phoebe?
But she couldn’t. So she smiled, content to soak up his aura of good cheer as pseudo-Skye.
He smiled back, but it wasn’t the predatory grin of a man on the prowl. She’d watched plenty of actors behave poorly over the years, and this wasn’t it. Prescott seemed relaxed, and there was a special light in his eyes that she couldn’t attribute to the chandeliers, as they weren’t fully lit yet. She didn’t know the man, but if she had to name it, she’d say he was happy. A man in his element. Exactly where he wanted to be.
And oddly enough, he appeared a little...nervous?
“Please, Mr.—ah, Prescott, let me know if there’s anything you need while you’re our guest. The Chateau aims to please, and we want to make sure your every need is met to your specifications.” The Chateau’s mission statement rolled off her tongue, and she had to refrain from biting it.
He shook his head, looked away, as if gathering courage. Courage, to speak to her? No, wait—he thought he was talking to Skye. And she looked like Skye. A sad spurt of disappointment blossomed. He’d never know her as herself. Of course, he’d never be interested in Phoebe Colton, so she’d best count her blessings where she could.
“I, ah, know that you’re in the middle of the event planning, but is there any chance you’d have some time for me over the next several days?”
Crap. Playing her sister Skye was one thing, and Skye would definitely jump at the chance to get to know Prescott Reynolds better. But she wasn’t Skye, she was Phoebe and she didn’t want to add guilt to the list of emotions she was dealing with.
Where are you, Skye?
She smiled at Prescott. “Are you in need of a companion for any of the events?” Maybe that’s what he’d meant. The Chateau didn’t usually provide dates for their guests, but she supposed she could take a request for an escort to Mara and have her to worry about it.
“No, no. Nothing at all like that.” He shook it off dismissively. “I’m asking you if you’d like to go on a date with me. Although, in this environment, privacy is hard to come by. I can’t expect you to want to jump into the midst of a horde of paparazzi, and I don’t want that anyhow.” He sighed. “I’m screwing this up so badly. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment, and I was wondering, if you’re also single, if you’d like to at least have a cup of coffee together?”
Phoebe couldn’t speak for a full moment. Prescott Reynolds, movie star extraordinaire, was behaving like a sixteen-year-old asking a date to prom. And coffee...he wasn’t trying to impress her with expensive wine or a fancy meal, as she’d watched wealthy men do with Skye. He was asking her to see him as any other guy who’d ask her out.
Which, whether she was Skye or Phoebe, was impossible. There was no question she needed to decline his endearing request.
“Of course. I’d love to spend time with you.” As soon as she spoke, she bit her tongue, hard. This was so not the time for her girl parts to begin calling the shots.
Prescott’s entire countenance lifted.
“Really? That’s great. Really, really great. Want to meet for a walk tomorrow morning? To be honest, I’m glad it was your sister who’s the runner. I’m a hiker. Running is something my knees gave up after I stopped playing rugby in college.”
What had she done? Nerves assaulted her, and she wished she could take her words back. This man thought she was Skye, and he wanted to get to know her. It would mean more than a walk through the woods if Prescott’s tabloid reports were any indication. This would be difficult enough if she were able to be herself, and not have to put on the exuberant act, but considering the circumstances...
It’s only for a week.
And what did Mara say? Coltons do whatever it takes to get the job done. The leading male actor in the film festival wanted to have coffee with her, to go on a hike, maybe more. In less than a week he’d be gone, and she’d be just another woman he’d been with to help while away the time. How much damage could it do to go along with it?
“I’ll meet you in front of the gym’s outside doors at six tomorrow morning.” Her mouth moved of its own volition, and Phoebe could hardly believe what she’d just agreed to.
Was she insane?
He lifted his arms as if he was going to embrace her, and then stopped, his expression unreadable.
“Make it five thirty, if that’s okay. And thank you, Skye.” He tipped his ball cap to her and left the ballroom, his footsteps silent once he stepped onto the plush red carpet.
Unlike her heartbeat, which clanged in her ears.
Chapter 4
“Skye, how do you plan to make up for the minimal attendance at this year’s film festival due to the Avalanche Killer?” One of Roaring Springs’ most intrepid reporters spoke over the national news outlet that had asked a much easier question about the opening gala’s menu.
Phoebe fought for breath in the tight-fitting, couture suit that Skye had laid out for this year’s festival. Tried to remind herself that any hope of keeping the serial killer out of the national news cycle had always been futile. And she especially ignored the sting of tears behind her eyes at the reminder of her cousin Sabrina’s awful death. She thanked the makeup gods for waterproof mascara.
“We’re going to have a moment of silence for the victims, of course. I’m sure you’ve noted that our flags are at half-mast. The Chateau and Roaring Springs Film Festival share the grief of the families and friends affected. And we have every confidence that the sheriff’s department will find and apprehend the murderer imminently. We’ve upped our security profile, and I can personally assure each and every guest and festival attendee that their safety is our utmost priority.” She paused for effect, just as she’d witnessed Skye do countless times. When the reporters appeared as though they were ready to ask another question, she nodded. “And as much as we’re all hurting right now, the festival will go on, because it’s more important than ever that we celebrate life and all of its joys. I know you all agree that the best revenge is a life well lived.”
Murmurs and several nods gave her the first bit of relief from her nerves over posing as Skye since she’d first looked into the mirror after Amber had finished her makeup. The bronze foundation and colorful eye shadow, along with blush and lipstick, didn’t faze her. But the false eyelashes really took getting used to. They’d made looking at Prescott Reynolds without continually blinking a bit of a challenge.
“Call me Prescott.” She, Phoebe Colton, had been asked out by Hollywood hunk Prescott Reynolds and was going on a walk with him in the morning.
As Skye. He thinks you’re Skye.
The reporters fired more questions at her, and she had no time to revel in the soft glow that Prescott’s presence in the Chateau and subsequent request to spend time with her had ignited earlier today. Which was a shame, because it truly was a lovely way to move through the day. As she answered the more rudimentary festival questions, a separate part of her mind realized her sister must have this kind of feeling all the time. That a man she was attracted to was truly interested in her and wanted to get to know her better. Phoebe could certainly get used to it.
Once she wrapped up the press conference, she took a few minutes to stop in Skye’s room to find costume jewelry, accessories and maybe some clothes that were definitely more Skye than Phoebe. She had half an hour before the red carpet event.
The red carpet scene would be tougher for her than the press conference. Answering questions for which she usually prepped the answers for Skye had been doable, even if she was nervous about behaving like her twin. However, facing international celebrities and engaging them with small talk was Phoebe’s idea of a fiery hell.
Stop.
It was downright childish and self-serving to be so dramatic over all of this. The Chateau needed her; the Colton empire needed all hands on deck. Skye had pulled an ugly stunt by not returning in time for the gala, but at least Phoebe and their mother knew she was okay. Skye wouldn’t lie in a text to her twin, would she?
A prickle of warning skittered over her nape as she stood at Skye’s vanity and chose one of her sister’s more glittery sets. Not full-on twin warning radar, but the feeling she was being watched. She looked over her shoulder toward the open cathedral window that was her favorite part about their in-resort apartments. Both she and Skye had matching apartment suites, but they’d decorated them quite differently. Skye had gone for a very upscale, gilded, Louis XIV look, while Phoebe’s apartment was more relaxed with modern touches. “Colorado chic” was what she liked to call it. Skye referred to it as “something our grandmother would love.” Phoebe missed Skye’s constant teasing. It was how they often showed their deep affection for one another. She could use some sisterly love to help her get through the next several hours, possibly the next week.
Of course, if Skye were here, Phoebe would be happily engrossed with the production and guest services end of the festival. It wouldn’t matter what shade of lip gloss or eye shadow she wore.
The view of the mountains was unsurpassed even by the extensive terraces that surrounded the majestic Chateau. A summer breeze puffed the sheers that hung from the rods with French provincial finials, bringing the scent of Skye’s potted jasmine into the room. The French doors onto her small but well-used terrace were closed. Walking to the door to open it, Phoebe chided herself for being so edgy. It had to be a combination of playing her role as Skye and the scary murders that had tragically touched her family with Sabrina’s death.
But when she reached to unhitch the hook at the top of the door, it was already unfastened. Phoebe pushed open the door and stepped in bare feet onto the stone-paved terrace, checking to see if Skye’s chaise, small side table and several potted plants were as she’d last seen them this afternoon, when she’d been here to pick out some clothes and jewelry.
When she saw Skye’s potted jasmine was crushed on one side, and a smear of dirt drawn on the mortar railing, a cold rush of fear ran over her scalp and down to her toes.
Taking the few steps forward, she saw the imprint of feet on the soft lawn not more than six feet below. Someone had been in Skye’s room and exited via the terrace, but why? And who? And had they been in her apartment, too?
It could be Skye.
Skye was pulling a doozy on Phoebe and Mara, but if she was back in Roaring Springs she’d help with the festival, wouldn’t she?
Phoebe checked the terrace more thoroughly before she returned inside and shut the door. She’d have to ask about getting a dead bolt—on both of their patio doors. In all the years her family had lived in The Chateau, she’d never felt the least bit afraid for her safety. Mara had been vigilant, though, and always kept Phoebe and Skye away from the public and guest eyes as needed.
She walked into her sister’s closet, a luxurious feature they both relished, and stepped out of Skye’s dressy business suit that she’d borrowed earlier and dressed in the T-shirt and drawstring shorts she’d left behind on a small dressing bench. Wearing Skye’s business clothing helped her play the part to a T in front of the press, but she wasn’t going to trade out her own evening wear, which was cut to fit her shape and more comfortable. Even though she was an avid runner, Phoebe’s curves were slightly fuller than her twin’s, and she’d always worn dresses that flattered her bust and hips. Skye’s clothes tended to flatten out her curvier features, plus the waists were a tad tight.
Phoebe reached up to take a sparkly wrap from the hangar on the back of the closet door and stopped when she saw a large sheet of cardboard, one of The Chateau’s desk blotters that was in each and every guest room, hanging by a thread over the gossamer shawl. In matte, bloodred lettering, a shade creepily similar to Skye’s lipstick, Stay Away from Him! was lettered in slanted print. The sign definitely hadn’t been here earlier when Phoebe had raided the closet for the suit.
“Stay away from whom?” She wanted to believe the scary message was some kind of prank that her sister had done, but Skye wasn’t here and had no idea that Prescott had asked her out. And while Skye was the definite extrovert and prankster between the two of them, she’d never done anything this frightening.
Besides, Skye would never waste a good lipstick on something so childish.
Someone else clearly had seen Phoebe with Prescott and wasn’t happy about it. But who could it be?
She gingerly unhooked the warning, and when she lowered the cardboard to the floor, she noticed a lipstick case, open, the stick of makeup ground into the carpet. Sure enough, it was one of Skye’s designer shades. Phoebe wasn’t a cop, but she knew she needed to call the head of hotel security. If it needed to be reported to the police or sheriff, they could pass it on.
Grabbing all that she needed from Skye’s room, Phoebe check to make sure no one was in the corridor that linked the residential apartments before she scurried to her room, careful to keep the cardboard message facing away from her so it wouldn’t smear. Once in her room, she placed the warning sign on her dining table and went through to her bedroom and into her closet to change.
Call Security now.
But if she called the security officer, he’d tell her parents, then Mara would find out and have a freak-out, the last thing they needed as the festival launched. She’d have to speak directly with security, They’d handle it discreetly and have dead bolts placed on their terrace French doors.
Melancholy gripped her as she fumbled to zip her halter-style sparkly pink gown. In such a short time, her happy, secure life The Chateau in Roaring Springs had taken a serious nosedive. All because of a cold-blooded murderer who’d snuffed out Sabrina’s life so horrifically.
Her first instinct was to find Skye and talk out her feelings. While Phoebe always had a sense of being in Skye’s public shadow, she could trust her twin with her life and heart. Sadness slammed the thought back as she remembered Skye wasn’t here.
“You’d better get back here, Skye.” She spoke to the empty room as she added more powder to her face and made certain the false eyelashes weren’t going to fall off in the middle of her red carpet interviews.
Prescott Reynolds was going to be there, in a tuxedo and smiling his killer trademark grin. And instead of being behind the backdrop with an earpiece and clipboard, making sure it all flowed perfectly, she’d be the one interviewing him.
Playing her twin sister had its perks.
* * *
It was as if a dozen separate orbs of sunlight edged the red carpet that ran across The Chateau’s circular drive, up the stone stairs to the expansive landing and circled to the front entrance doors. The bright lights that were brought in by an event production tech group from Denver each year were the definition of blinding.
Phoebe longed for the familiarity of the smart tablet she usually carried, and her running shoes, which allowed her to work the entire red carpet behind the scenes. She’d done it for three years and was proud of how she’d streamlined the process, which had been pretty messy when Mara ran it. Her mother was more about keeping guests comfortable and well fed, while Phoebe was far more interested in the operational part of a business. The rest of the year she did the books, but during film fest week she liked to think of herself as a producer.
Not tonight.
Her legs quavered like a brook’s water trickling over craggy rocks as she approached the spot where she’d stand on the landing, microphone in hand, to greet each actor, film VIP and celebrity. Skye had worked out a deal with a major network last year, and the producers had spoken to Phoebe after the press conference. They’d gone over each part of the red carpet, including the opening ceremony, which would include the moment of silence she’d already briefed the press about.
“Hey, Skye.” Remy Colton, Phoebe’s cousin and the Colton empire’s public relations director, stood in front of her. The tall man exuded confidence and calm amid the chaos of pre-event preparation. Next to him was his maternal half-brother, Seth Harris, who had similar hazel-green eyes and brown-blond hair but whose temperament Phoebe had never synced with. Still, they worked well enough together during festival week.
“Hi yourself, Remy. Seth.” She gave Seth a bare glance, opting to keep their interaction minimal, and silently cursed Skye, who was so much friendlier with their extended family.
“Seth’s helping out with the production tonight.” Remy must have seen the question in her eyes. He held her gaze a beat too long and panic swelled in her chest.
“Have you seen Phoebe? I haven’t been able to reach her.” Remy’s concern paralyzed Phoebe, and she wondered if this was Remy’s idea of calling her bluff. Did he know she wasn’t Skye? But after another moment, she decided his concern was genuine.
“Uh, I’m sure she’s around, and her phone battery has been acting up. We had a lot of last-minute reservations, so she’s probably helping my mother in reception.” Lying for her sister was one thing, but now she was defending her own reputation. A swirl of nausea swarmed inside her belly. Phoebe counted integrity as one of her most important values. Having to skirt it was the pits. Skye couldn’t get back soon enough.
Seth nodded knowingly. “Phoebe’s always hiding. She’s shy.” Phoebe fought back a defensive retort, but Remy handled it with aplomb.
Just as Phoebe thought she’d have to literally turn and walk away to avoid either man from figuring out that she wasn’t Skye, a young man with a headset touched her forearm.
“Ready to get wired up?” The tech assistant handed Phoebe a large gold microphone with a rhinestone-studded handle, and an earpiece. “Give me a test, gorgeous.”
She blinked, not used to being spoken to with such familiarity. Her sister was as much a feminist as she was, but Phoebe didn’t encourage the sexy banter that Skye did, and this put her at a disadvantage. A disadvantage she was going to have to conquer right here, right now, in front of her two cousins.
“Um, please call me Ms. Colton, okay? Just to keep it professional!” Grinning like Skye would and batting her eyes at the man, she tapped the top of the mic. “One, two, three.” Nothing.
“Good one, Skye. Now try turning it on and do it again.” Seth’s tone matched his smirk. Heat rushed into her cheeks. Way to toe the professional line when she didn’t even bother to see if the mic was on.
She found the switch on the bottom of the wireless mic and pressed. “Is this better?” She spoke into it, and the techie pressed his hand to his earpiece, listened, then nodded and gave her a thumbs-up before he jogged away.
“Looks like you’ve got this, Skye. Let me know if you need anything else.” Remy turned to walk away and Seth lingered a brief moment, waiting for her to meet his eyes.
“See you, Seth.” She kept it light and kind, as Skye would do.
“Yeah, you too, Skye. Break a leg!” As he walked away, she felt a pang of guilt. Seth wasn’t a bad guy, he’d just had it tough, as Remy’s half sibling, and he’d most likely had always felt like an outsider to the huge, extended Colton family.
Phoebe sucked in a deep breath and pasted a large, wide smile on her face. Tonight she had one job: to play the role of Skye.
Scores of people stood on either side of the red carpet, and the bleachers erected on the south side of the drive were full of fans. They’d all won a ticket lottery, so that they could be prescreened for security. It was a festival standing practice since tonight’s gala was on private property and meant to be a safe haven for the VIPs before the onslaught of premieres and press interviews that made up much of the week, culminating with the huge awards ceremony. But this year it felt more necessary than ever, after word of the Avalanche Killer got out.
And, on top of that, someone in their midst was threatening Phoebe, or Skye, for being around Prescott. At least that’s what both she and the security team had agreed was the motive for the harassing note in her closet. They had assured her he’d have the dead bolt in place before she returned to her room tonight, and that he’d inform the local police. Mara wouldn’t find out until Phoebe planned to tell her about it, tomorrow morning after her run.
Er, after her hike with Prescott.
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