Masquerade: a romantic comedy Read online

  Masquerade

  By Janette Rallison

  Copyright 2012 Janette Rallison

  Other titles by Janette Rallison

  Son of War, Daughter of Chaos

  Blue Eyes and Other Teenage Hazards

  Just One Wish

  Masquerade

  My Double Life

  A Longtime (and at One Point Illegal) Crush

  Life, Love, and the Pursuit of Free Throws

  Playing The Field

  My Fair Godmother

  My Unfair Godmother

  All’s Fair in Love, War, and High School

  Fame, Glory, and Other Things on my To Do List

  It’s a Mall World After All

  Revenge of the Cheerleaders

  How to Take The Ex Out of Ex-boyfriend

  Slayers (under pen name CJ Hill)

  Slayers: Friends and Traitors (under pen name CJ Hill)

  Erasing Time (under pen name CJ Hill)

  Echo in Time (under pen name CJ Hill)

  What the Doctor Ordered (under pen name Sierra St. James)

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Chapter 1

  Opportunity didn’t knock for Slade Jacobson—it rang his cell phone at 10:34 pm while he was putting his daughter to bed for the third time. He ignored his phone and tried to convince Bella she was tired, this time using a cockney accent and a dragon puppet who begged the four-year-old to stop bouncing around the bed because he ‘ad a blazin ‘eadache.

  Who said an actor’s life wasn’t carefree and glamorous?

  Bella finally relented, clutching the puppet to her heart—and his arm along with it. She’d inherited her light brown curls, her heart-shaped face, and the dimples in her cheeks from his ex-wife. The only thing Bella seemed to have inherited from him was a pair of golden-brown eyes. But this brought him comfort. As long as there was some part of him in his daughter, there was hope she wouldn’t turn out like his ex-wife.

  Bella finally relaxed her grip on his arm, surrendering to sleep. Slade’s cell phone rang again.

  Bella’s eyes flew open.

  “Lay still,” Slade told her. “You don’t want to make your dragon yell.” Or your father. He slipped out of the room, pulling the cell phone from his pocket as he did.

  Who was calling at this hour? He glanced at the caller ID. Landon. Well, that explained the hour. This was still early in the evening in Landon’s world. He was probably out clubbing with some model and had forgotten altogether that the rest of the species wasn’t nocturnal.

  Slade answered the phone with a tired, “Hello?”

  “Take the next plane to Vegas, because this is your lucky night.”

  Slade heard music and talking in the background. A woman laughed near the phone. Slade could picture Landon, his feet kicked up on the nearest piece of furniture, a day’s worth of stubble on that perfectly square jaw photographers were so crazy about. The laughing woman was probably tousling his blonde hair.

  Slade walked toward his family room. “What’s up, Landon?”

  “Don’t think of me as Landon. Think of me as the granter of favors, and I’m about to grant you a huge one.”

  Slade sat down on a recliner and rubbed his eyebrows. “If this has anything to do with women, I’m not interested. The last one you set me up with had the personality of moss.”

  Landon laughed. “Well, maybe, but she had other compensating qualities.”

  Right. If she had been any shallower, she could have been classified as a kiddy pool.

  “This isn’t about women,” Landon went on. “It’s about the only creatures on the earth more desirable than women—producers.”

  Slade leaned forward. “I’m listening.”

  “You owe me big for this,” Landon said. “Someday I’m going to need something, and I’m going to remind you of this moment.”

  Slade didn’t wait to hear any more of the bargain. “Did you get someone interested in my screenplay?”

  “I said I was granting favors, not miracles. You’re going to have to sell the script yourself. I’m just giving you the opportunity. AJ is taking the entire cast of Undercover Agents to Oahu for a week-and-a-half-long shoot there. He’s billing it as work, but you know AJ—he wants to vacation before we start filming. Anyway, I booked a room for you at the Mahalo Regency Resort with the rest of us. I thought you could pitch the project to him between the time he’s eating and swimming.” Landon paused. “Now tell me I didn’t do a better job for you than that overpaid agent of yours.”

  “You’re certainly as resourceful.”

  “We leave in ten days. Call the resort and confirm your spot.”

  Slade didn’t answer for a moment. He’d been looking for a producer for this screenplay for months. His agent had set up a few pitch meetings, but nothing had come of those. Still, he had his daughter to consider. “I don’t know. Bella acts up when I’m away.”

  “And she acts up when you’re with her. What’s the difference? Pay your nanny extra, and you’re set to go.”

  Slade hesitated. “Actually, I’m between nannies right now.”

  “Bella chased another nanny away?”

  “Bella didn’t chase her away. The woman wasn’t capable of handling a spirited child. Besides, I think she only took the job because she wanted an in with her acting career. She kept doing Betty White impersonations for me.”

  Landon let out an impatient grunt. “So find someone else.”

  “It’s not that easy. I’ve got to find the perfect woman.”

  Landon laughed, blocking out the background music on his end.

  “What?” Slade asked.

  “You’re such a family man now. There used to be a time when finding the perfect woman meant something entirely different to you.”

  Slade knew Landon didn’t understand. He didn’t have a little girl with golden-brown eyes who depended on him. “Thanks for the lead,” Slade said. “I’ll see you in ten days.”

  Which meant he had nine days to find the perfect woman.

  Chapter 2

  Writing a eulogy would have been easier, Clarissa mused as she looked down at the employment application. At least when you said glowing things about the dead, no one asked you to provide references to prove it was the truth.

  Clarissa glanced around the waiting room and sized up her competition. The other four people sitting on the decoratively-uncomfortable couches appeared calm, perhaps even bored. A man with glassy eyes and a tight-fitting suit filled out his application in one corner. In another, two girls who looked like they had skipped out of high school to be here chatted instead of filling out their applications. Both wore jeans, T-shirts, and too much makeup. Next to them a frumpy older woman filled out her paperwork with a flourish, as though she thoroughly enjoyed dotting her i’s.

  Clarissa didn’t like filling out her application. Reducing her life history to one-sentence answers made her sound so ordinary.

  Accomplishments?

  She tapped her pen against the clipboard her application was attached to. What had she accomplished lately? She’d survived a divorce. She’d single-handedly moved her belongings into an apartment. She’d recently bought an ironing board, a blender, and two outfits for her three-year-old daughter at a garage sale and got change back from her ten-dolla
r bill. That had seemed like a great accomplishment at the time.

  What else?

  She tapped the pen some more. How could she be busy from seven in the morning until midnight every night and yet never accomplish anything?

  Clarissa looked at the next space on the application. It read: Hobbies.

  Oh, great. Not only was she supposed to accomplish things, she was also supposed to have hobbies. Somewhere in between her job at the fitness club, her job as a waitress, and the time with Elaina she wedged into the remaining hours of the day, she was supposed to be skiing, composing poetry, or playing chess.

  Reciting Dr. Seuss probably didn’t count as a hobby. Neither did turning old dish towels into Barbie fashions.

  She looked at the space for a moment longer, then wrote yoga. As part of her job at the fitness club, she taught a yoga class twice a week. It paid little enough to almost count as a hobby.

  Clarissa glanced over her application again. It was unimpressive by anyone’s standards. Perhaps she should embellish a few abilities and accomplishments for good measure. After all, she was justified because she really needed a decent job. Working two dead-end jobs had been all right in the short term. It had produced enough money to retain a lawyer and put down a deposit on an apartment, but she couldn’t go on this way for long. She had to think of her future. She had to think of Elaina’s. She needed work that would allow her more time with her daughter and enough money so she could go back to school and finish her family science degree.

  Clarissa held the pen poised over the application, but in the end couldn’t bring herself to make up anything. It simply wasn’t right.

  She stood, walked to the receptionist, and handed her the clipboard. Then she slipped back onto the couch and picked up a magazine. She didn’t read it, though. Instead, she gazed at the other people in the room and wondered what had brought them here. Then she wondered if they were thinking the same thing about her.

  I’m not supposed to be here, she thought. This was never supposed to be a stopping place in my life. I planned on a career as a stay-at-home mom. I planned on baking casseroles, carting people to dance lessons, and teaching the joy of reading to a bunch of beautiful and talented children. That’s what was supposed to have happened.

  Clarissa closed her eyes and pushed away the feeling of panic that assaulted her whenever she considered the future. It will be okay, she told herself and ignored the other voice in her head—the one that said, “You’re a single mother with minimal job skills, an incomplete college degree, and a three-year-old daughter to support.”

  A portly, middle-aged man appeared in the doorway of the waiting room, signaling that he was ready to see the next applicant. He looked down at the form in his hand and then called, “Clarissa Hancock?”

  Clarissa flinched at the name. She’d meant to put down Harrison as her last name. Instead, out of force of habit, she’d written Hancock on the form. It was just one more way she hadn’t fully adjusted to single life.

  She got to her feet, smiled at the man who’d called her, and followed him into a small office.

  He motioned her to have a seat, then sat down behind a desk, all the time keeping his gaze on her. As she settled into her chair, a smile broke across his face. “I do know you. It took me a moment to recognize you, but you’re Alex Hancock’s wife, right?”

  She smiled back at him, trying to place him, and wondered how much of her current marital status to divulge.

  Before she could say anything he added, “I’m an old friend of Alex’s parents. Brent Peterson. I came to your wedding reception, remember?”

  She forced a smile and pretended she wasn’t uncomfortable talking about it. “Sorry. That day is a blur in my mind. I mean, I remember smiling for a lot of pictures, shaking hands, and somewhere in all of that we ate cake.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, I gave you the nicest wedding gift.” He laughed a deep, rich laugh.

  She didn’t want to tell him. She somehow couldn’t tell him the marriage was over, so she kept smiling and nodded.

  “And how is that family of yours doing these days?” he asked.

  “We have a three-year-old daughter. Her name is Elaina.”

  He nodded. “Precious age.”

  “Yes.” I want to leave, she thought. I want to walk out of here and go where I’ll never run into anyone who ever knew Alex. She shouldn’t have to explain all the personal details of her life. She shouldn’t have to tell people that Alex was not as charming or as kind as the image he so carefully cultivated.

  What would Brent Peterson’s response be if she said, “Yes, three is a precious age—it’s too bad my ex-husband could never see that. He always found things to yell at her about, until it became a daily ritual for her to break into tears every time he spoke to her.”

  One didn’t say those kinds of things. One was supposed to keep it inside and pretend everything was lovely. So Clarissa continued to smile and nod.

  Mr. Peterson glanced over her application again, then set it aside. “I’ll tell you what . . . I’ve always believed friends should help friends, and I’m going to see what I can do for you.”

  Clarissa gulped and hoped he didn’t see the flush that suddenly touched her face. Before, her divorce had been a question of privacy. Now suddenly it was a secret, a secret that might help her get a job. It seemed dishonest to keep pretending she was Alex’s wife, and yet how could she tell the truth now?

  As Mr. Peterson looked through files on his computer, he recounted stories of cute things Alex had done as a child. One didn’t break into that kind of speech with: “Oh, I know exactly what you mean. Alex said the cutest thing to me the last time I saw him. He told me, ‘I’ll always be able to afford better lawyers than you can hire. I let you have full custody of Elaina, but don’t think you’ll ever get one cent more in child support from me.’”

  Mr. Peterson looked up. “You don’t have any accounting skills?”

  “Not beyond balancing my checkbook.”

  “Pity, that one paid well.” He scanned his computer again. “Computer programming?”

  She shook her head.

  He returned his attention to the computer. “Any experience in dental offices?”

  “Only the kind where you sit in a chair with your mouth open for half an hour.”

  He smiled, then glanced down at her application again. “You do have child-care skills.”

  “Three years’ worth.”

  He pushed himself away from the computer. “I should have thought about this before.” Folding his arms, he leaned back in his chair. “Can you be an around-the-clock nanny for a week?”

  One of Clarissa’s friends watched Elaina while Clarissa worked, and she would probably consent to taking care of her for an entire week, but Clarissa balked at the idea of being away from her daughter for so long. “Well, I was thinking of something more along the lines of eight to five.”

  Mr. Peterson smiled across the desk at her. “It pays three thousand dollars, with the possibility of callbacks.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  He laughed and jotted an address on a card. “The job offer came in this morning. I already set up three people to be interviewed for it, but I’ll add you to the list and tell him you come with the highest recommendation.”

  “Oh, that’s very kind of you.”

  Mr. Peterson handed her the card. “It’s a job for Slade Jacobson. He wants a nanny for his four-year-old daughter while he goes to Hawaii. It’s going to be a sort of working vacation for him.” Mr. Peterson leaned toward her. “Some life, huh?”

  “Slade Jacobson?” Clarissa asked. “The Slade Jacobson who’s in all those movies?”

  “The very one.”

  Slade Jacobson was one of those tall, dark, and ruggedly-handsome actors who looked like he was perpetually about to defeat a villain in hand-to-hand combat and then carry off a swooning-yet-seductive maiden. It was hard to think about him as a father at all. Ordinary dads didn’t have sh
oulders like linebackers or golden-brown eyes that seemed to look right through you.

  Mr. Petersen smiled. “I loved him as Hawk Hawthorn in Maximum Security, which reminds me—don’t give out his address to anyone. Actors are touchy that way.”

  Before she could promise to be discreet, he went on. “I know how these interviews go, so let me give you a few hints. Be on time. Dress professionally, and don’t be afraid to emphasize your qualifications. Make sure he knows you’re perfect for the job. You’ve got the schooling, you’ve got the experience, you’re trustworthy, and you’re married.”

  “I’m married?” she asked. “I mean, that’s a qualification?”

  He laughed again, the same deep laugh. “Officially no. Unofficially yes. He doesn’t want any pretty young things taking the job for the wrong reasons.”

  “Oh, yes, I see.” Well, no need to tell him the truth then. She only wanted the job for the right reasons.

  “The interview will be Tuesday at three o’clock—” Mr. Peterson stopped, leaned back in his chair, and waved his pen in the air thoughtfully. “Why don’t you call and tell him you have a three-year-old daughter? She’s about the same age as Bella, and maybe he’d let you take her along as a playmate.”

  Clarissa nodded and looked at the card. He lived in Malibu. She didn’t go there often, but she could find her way around.

  She thanked Mr. Peterson and then stood up to go.

  Mr. Peterson also stood and reached over the desk to shake her hand. “Say hello to Alex for me. And listen, if this interview doesn’t work out, you come back and we’ll find something else for you.”

  She smiled and thanked Mr. Peterson again. This interview had to work out because she could absolutely not come here again.

  Chapter 3

  Clarissa glanced in the rearview mirror for the umpteenth time, making sure her hair was still in place and her makeup unsmeared. Those things weren’t likely to happen while she was driving in a car with the windows rolled up, but she checked her appearance anyway. A sudden phobia of not being perfect had hit her.