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  BORROWING ALEX

  A Romantic Comedy

  by

  Cindy Procter-King

  Published by

  Blue Orchard Books

  Copyright © 2013, 2007 Cindy Procter-King

  All rights reserved

  Kobo Edition

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  Copyright Notice

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and articles. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Borrowing Alex Publishing History

  Second Edition: September 2013 Blue Orchard Books

  2011 AudioLark – Audiobook

  First Edition: June 2007 Amber Quill Press

  Cover by The Killion Group

  Formatting by Hale Author Services

  About this Story

  Nikki St. James wants to get married more than anything. But what’s she to do when her fiancé spends his days sucking up to her rich father instead of helping with the simple task of, oh, setting a date? Why... fake a fling with the best man, of course!

  Nikki is the first to admit that ambushing Alex Hart and whisking him off to secluded Lake Eden is a tad desperate. But maybe pretending she’s hot for the handsome history professor will kick-start the attention of her future groom. Besides, a sojourn at a lakeside cabin is exactly what uptight Alex needs. Not that Nikki cares what he needs or how sexy he is....

  Alex is not on-board with Nikki’s plan. Yeah, he’d love a break from his quest to achieve tenure at warp speed, but getting kidnapped by a crazy blonde hardly tops his to-do list. If what he’s heard is true and Nikki is perfectly happy with her “open” engagement to his former college roommate, why bother getting married?

  Quickly, he realizes Nikki isn’t a wild party girl at all. She’s cute, sweet—and faithful. Against his common sense, he’s falling for her. Should he spill the beans about her cheating fiancé? Or will he ruin his own chance for a happy ending?

  Dedication

  This story is dedicated in memory of my grandfather, William “Duke” Procter (August 18, 1899 - December 14, 2005), who set foot in three centuries, went skydiving in celebration of his 100th birthday, was the oldest competing horseshoe player in Canada for several years, square-danced until 103, took up five-pin bowling at 92 (still getting strikes at 104!), and could whack a snake to pieces with the best of them before finally expiring at 106 as the last surviving British Columbian to have served his country in The Great War.

  Duke’s vitality and spirit never failed to inspire me. Rest in peace, Grampa. You deserve it.

  Chapter 1

  Here Goes Something

  NIKKI ST. JAMES was no criminal. Merely desperate.

  And desperate times called for desperate measures.

  In her cramped hiding place behind the massive rhododendron bush, Nikki pushed a cluster of white blossoms out of her face. The shingles siding the old Seattle house scratched her back through her turtleneck. Matching rhododendron-green yoga pants and black ankle boots completed her camouflage ensemble.

  Normally, she would never wear such a dark shade of green.

  Signaling her cousin, Karin Russell, to follow her lead, Nikki tugged on a makeshift pantyhose mask. Ouch, that hurts.

  The tight nylon yanked her short curls, but it couldn’t be helped. The beige mesh screening her vision squashed a blond lock into one eye. Her breath whistled through her nostrils while her heart raced faster than a frightened rabbit’s.

  Yep, on a scale of one to ten, Nikki estimated her current desperation level ran at an all-time 9.99 high. Nerves and excitement scrambled to catch up.

  All things come to those who take action. Or something like that.

  Spitting out a speck of pantyhose lint, Nikki turned to help Karin tuck her loose brown waves beneath an identical mask. The remaining length of hose dangled off Karin’s head like a mutated ponytail. Nikki’s cousin looked ridiculous.

  Wait a minute. Did she?

  Whatever. Time was running short. Nikki only hoped that, for Alex Hart, the element of surprise when they ambushed him catapulted “ridiculous” into the category of something more like “menacing.”

  “Here,” she whispered, retrieving a coiled rope from the supplies on the ground and passing the loop to Karin. “The duct tape can wait until you tie his hands,” she instructed. She reached for the black pillowcase and child’s toy space gun purchased a few days ago. The rhododendron leaves rustled against her legs in the late-afternoon breeze of mid-May. “If we work fast enough, we’ll have him in the van in under two minutes.”

  Karin winced. “Nikki, are you sure about this? Kidnapping Royce’s best man seems a bit drastic.”

  “Karin, we’ve talked until I’m green in the face,” Nikki whispered. “Don’t you think I feel bad enough about... borrowing Alex already?”

  “Then why not explain to him—?”

  “I can’t. He’ll think I’m nuts. He’ll never agree to help me unless he feels he has no choice.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do.” Nikki had been acquainted with Alex Hart, her fiancé’s intended best man, for over two years. They’d met at the society engagement party her parents had hosted soon after Royce Carmichael had proposed.

  However, “acquainted” was the operative word. Nikki didn’t know Alex well enough to saunter over to the intelligent history professor and casually ask his cooperation in her last-ditch effort to boot Royce into action. Although the two men had remained friends since rooming together as college freshmen, they rarely socialized. Nikki knew about Alex, but she could count on the fingers of one hand the occasions during which she’d actually talked to the guy.

  Royce had explained the situation once. Between his busy schedule as an associate in her father’s dermatology practice and Alex’s determination to fast-track his way to tenure at prestigious Pacific University, neither man possessed the luxury to coddle their relationship.

  Nikki couldn’t fathom sharing a similar fate with Karin. At twenty-five, she might be six years younger than Royce and his pal, but she valued friendship. She and Karin had been BFFs since childhood. In fact, they were closer than Nikki and her older sister—her parents’ favorite.

  She puffed out a breath. “You’re right, kidnapping Alex Hart could be considered drastic. But, Karin, that’s the point.” Nikki’s nose itched beneath the stretched nylon. She scratched her squished nostril, and her huge diamond solitaire engagement ring glittered in the shadows of the giant rhododendron.

  “Kidnapping—I mean, borrowing—Alex is the only way I can think of to get through to Royce. Talking has accomplished squat.” The nylon pressed her lashes into her eyes like tiny, spiky instruments of torture. Biting her lip, she glanced at her watch. According to her legwork, Alex Hart would arrive home any minute. “Besides, it was your brainwave that I make Royce jealous by pretending I’m attracted to another guy. That I might even sleep with him. If we dismiss the
borrowing aspect, that’s really all I’m doing.”

  Karin’s face paled beneath her pantyhose mask. “Nikki, that was a joke! I didn’t for one second believe you’d try to make Royce jealous by borrowing a guy from your wedding party.”

  Nikki’s stomach knotted. “It has to be Alex,” she half-whispered. “Royce knows all my male friends, and he doesn’t feel threatened by a single one. No, pretending I’ve fallen for a friend of his—and not just any friend, but his best man—will prove how intolerable our situation has become. Karin, I can’t stand this forever-a-fiancée waiting. With Royce dragging his heels about us setting the date, I’m starting to believe there’ll never be a wedding, unless I do something about it. And Mother and Father seem to think I’m stalling.”

  “I know, and that’s awful. But—”

  “No buts.” Nikki parted the waxy bush leaves, and a cluster of blossoms riffled. She scanned the parking area several yards behind the house. Empty. She looked back at Karin. “If Royce still wants to marry me like he says, then it’s time for him to ante up. If he loves me, he’ll take this fake booty call I’ve engineered with Alex as serious indication that he’d better make an honest woman out of me fast.” Clutching the pillowcase, she pointed a finger skyward. “Nikki St. James is nobody’s fool.”

  Okay, she had her doubts about that last statement. Maybe Royce was playing her for a fool. Maybe he no longer wanted to get married, but didn’t know how to tell her.

  Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them away. Think positive.

  Royce was busy, that was all. Too harried to notice the flying tendency of time. Well, after the surprise she’d arranged for later tonight, he’d have to be thicker than the bricks in the little pig’s house not to take action.

  Her hopes rode on that risk. Her future happiness depended on Royce’s reaction to the note she’d left on her kitchen table.

  The puttering of a car in the alley announced Alex Hart’s arrival. Holding her breath, Nikki peeked through the bush again.

  A classic Volkswagen Beetle pulled into the gravel parking area. As Alex Hart stepped out of the small yellow car, the sun filtering through the gray Seattle sky glinted off his neatly trimmed, nutmeg-brown hair.

  Luckily, he hadn’t noticed her van parked in the alley. Or, at least, he hadn’t questioned the presence of the old vehicle.

  Good, stashing the van down the road multiple times over the last week had worked.

  She wanted him unprepared and completely unsuspecting.

  “He’s here,” she whispered to Karin. “No more discussion. It’s too late to jam out.” Her heart jack-hammered against her ribs. She tightened her grip on the toy gun. “Get ready to jump him.”

  Alex Hart wanted to vegetate. To collapse on the couch and indulge in a mind-numbing action movie while consuming mass quantities of pizza and chugging an ice-cold beer. Then sack out in front of the blaring TV with his feet sticking off the sofa—and his socks on.

  To speak to no one. And not move a muscle.

  To sleep the sleep of the happy dead until morning.

  To take a break from playing the infested-with-departmental-politics, ivory-tower game.

  Loafers crunching gravel, Alex locked his restored 1976 Super Beetle. He placed his laptop case on the hood and tugged off the glasses he wore for driving or lecturing when he felt bagged like this. He rubbed his gritty eyes.

  The fatigue he swore had replaced his bone marrow during this last semester dug within him, and he pushed out a sigh. Making like a sloth over the next week would provide a welcome contrast from the hectic pace of supervising exams, attending commencement as an assistant history professor, and, this afternoon, finalizing grades on the student web portal and catering to the dean’s ego. The latter was a necessary evil of pursuing tenure that Alex abhorred.

  Idiot box, here I come. He couldn’t wait.

  There was nothing like the flash of ammunition jolting off a big-screen to rejuvenate a guy. With a deadline to an academic journal looming, Alex craved relaxation. In five short weeks, the second summer session would begin. He needed to prep materials for his American History seminar, which allowed him seven blissful days of slacking off, although his mind and body begged for more.

  Much more.

  Unfortunately, assistant professors didn’t earn near enough cash to justify a quick island-paradise jaunt. He’d have to content himself with bursts of sunshine between Washington’s spring rains.

  He slipped his glasses into his laptop case. Ruminating over the pizza delivery menu taped to the fridge, he flipped through his bulky keychain and ambled toward his ground-floor apartment.

  As he reached the door, the overgrown shrubbery sneezed.

  Alex froze.

  All right, he was haggard. Totally wiped out. As tuckered as Rip Van Winkle. But he had realized since the inquisitive age of three that bushes did not sneeze.

  Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the door lock. A breeze rustled the huge shrub.

  A rustle, not a sneeze.

  He wasn’t going bonkers.

  He slipped the key into the lock.

  “Hee-yah!” The bush launched off the side of the house and landed on his back.

  “Wha—?” Alex stumbled against the doorjamb. His computer case fell to the stoop as the hundred-plus-pound weight clinging to his spine bounced left and squealed. Green legs gripped his hips, pinning his arms. An elbow cinched his throat. He glimpsed a silver gun twinkling in the pale light. An instant later, a black hood shrouded his head.

  A second attacker whipped a rope around his wrists, pulled them behind his back, and rapidly bound them.

  Heart pounding, Alex sucked in a breath. Fabric plastered his mouth. Slim fingers knotted the hood behind his neck. Some kid—some teenagers—had ambushed him?

  “Get the hell off me!” He thrust back his shoulders, but the kid’s legs squeezed tight. His assailant boasted the build of a gymnast—small, compact, and wiry-strong. Yet, in some places, curiously soft.

  “I don’t think so,” the boy whispered in an obviously lowered voice. He poked the gun into Alex’s neck. Adolescent vocal chords cracked. “Please. Cooperate with me, and you won’t get hurt.”

  “Me?” Alex struggled to slow the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Think! “‘Me’ generally means one. There are at least two of you.”

  What sort of muggers pleaded for cooperation? Demanding money, Alex understood. But begging indicated desperation. And desperation was dangerous.

  Were his attackers on drugs?

  He’d give these loser punks whatever they wanted. He wouldn’t risk his life over the measly thirty bucks in his wallet.

  “Try my back pocket,” he told the kid.

  “Why would I do that?” the kid asked.

  “Nicky, lift your butt,” the second boy whispered.

  Nicky grunted and shifted higher on Alex’s back. Small, soft bumps pressed into Alex’s spine.

  Bumps?

  His stressed mind whirred.

  A stretching-and-ripping sound filled the air. Tape. Thick tape. In Mugger Number Two’s possession.

  They planned to rope and tape him? What was next? A little recreational tarring and feathering?

  At least Alex knew one boy’s name now. Nicky. Maybe a sense of familiarity would help calm the dunce.

  “Wait,” he said evenly. “You don’t have to tape me. I’ll cooperate. Nicky...” Alex didn’t dare turn his head. Not with cold steel biting his neck and Mugger Number Two awaiting the green light to wrap and seal him like a Christmas package destined for a turbulent ride through the mail. “That’s your name, right? Nicky? What you want is in my pocket.”

  Now would be a perfect time for his landlords to arrive home. Or for someone driving down the alley to spot him and rush to his aid.

  However, the afternoon-shift workers he rented from never failed to park out front, and the fences and overgrown shrubbery shielded his apartment door.

  He’d al
ways appreciated the extra privacy—until today.

  Nicky’s shallow breathing panted in his ears. The kid moved, and the elbow cinching Alex’s throat loosened.

  “I don’t want what’s in your pocket, you pervert,” Nicky said hoarsely. “I—yikes! I’m falling!”

  The kid’s voice broke on a high and distinctly female shriek. The mugger’s squirming and the force of gravity toppled Alex and his assailant to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs, soft bumps, and connecting concrete.

  The gun bonked Alex’s jaw, and a warped warbling slashed the air. Like a laser, or a phaser, or something equally space-movie-ish.

  That hadn’t been cold steel poking his neck! More like chilly plastic. These idiots had held him up with a toy gun. He groaned.

  “Nicky!” Number Two wailed in undisguised female tones. A body part—knees?—thumped the ground. Alex sensed Number Two hovering over them. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” Nicky—the female variety, which accounted for the soft bumps—murmured. “I slipped.”

  Alex’s head rested on what felt like her stomach. The concrete chewed his bound hands, and the rope chafed his wrists. His knuckles hurt like a cheese grater had scraped off half their skin.

  “Ooof.” Nicky wriggled beneath him. “Could you please get off me?”

  Her soft voice tweaked a memory. Beneath the hood, Alex squinted.

  Nicky?

  A visual of a petite woman blossomed: big blue eyes, porcelain skin, a sexy moptop of silvery-blond curls.

  “Nikki St. James?” He rolled off her. Royce Carmichael’s fiancée—the airheaded rich chick—had jumped him?

  “Yes.” She sighed. “How did you guess?”

  Shoes scuffled on concrete. Her accomplice must be helping her up.

  “Karin, you weren’t supposed to say my name,” Nikki admonished Number Two.

  “Sorry,” the woman named Karin replied.

  “Don’t worry about it. We have him where we want him. That’s the main thing.”

  Alex rolled his eyes as his vision adjusted to the hood. Something wacky must be going on, because Nikki St. James was as wacky as they came, according to her fiancé. Royce had bragged about Nikki’s affinity for fun and games when Alex had last met his old friend for drinks over the winter. Party games, mind games, sex games—apparently, Nikki enjoyed them all.