My Phony Valentine Read online

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright

  They look identical, but—

  Theresa Joan is:

  A flirt

  A dynamo

  The kind of woman every man wants

  Theresa Jean is:

  Hardworking

  Loyal

  The kind of woman every man wants... as a friend

  But now, Theresa Jean is Theresa Joan, and the fun is just beginning! Confused? So is Christopher MacAffee.

  Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and he’s just fallen for the perfect woman...but he has no idea who she is!

  Dear Reader,

  Happy Valentine’s Day! I hope you are enjoying a happy and romantic month.

  Harlequin is romance, so February 14 is an extraspecial day for us. Some people say it with flowers, others with chocolates, others with expensive jewelry, but those three little words, I love you, are perhaps the best words in our vocabulary. And at Harlequin, we get to be part of this experience all year long!

  As a treat for this special day, what better way to recall the joy of falling in love, than with our Love & Laughter selection this month. RITA Award-winning author Marie Ferrarella spins a delightfully comic tale of identical cousins (they walk alike, they talk alike...) and the man who doesn’t know which woman he’s in love with! Talented newcomer Stephanie Bond hits a hilarious note in Irresistible? Single and dateless Ellie Sutherland, who considers Valentine’s Day Black Friday (I know those of you who are single on Valentine’s Day can relate!), takes scientific action to land a man.

  Wishing you much love—and laughter,

  Malle Vallik

  Associate Senior Editor

  MY PHONY VALENTINE

  Marie Ferrarella

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN

  MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  It’s both touching and ironic that I should be tapped to write a book about Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day has always been a very special day to me, but in a Charlie Brown sort of way. A romantic from the moment I let out my first how! on Easter Sunday (no, I won’t tell you what year—I mentally update it each year, anyway), I always dreamed of getting a card from that “special someone.” Never mind that the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year there was no “special someone”—I was convinced he was going to make his appearance on Valentine’s Day. And of course, “he” never did. If it weren’t for the fact that for the first six years of our school life, the teacher forcibly makes people drop valentines into your envelope (or box, or whatever), and the fact that I had a very understanding mother, I would have never even held a valentine in my hand.

  My first voluntary valentine came from the man I wound up marrying (he had other attributes, too, besides card sending), so in essence, the card was worth waiting for. Just like TJ.’s wait for that “special someone” in My Phony Valentine was worth the effort.

  I wish you all special valentines in your lives (just not mine, he’s busy).

  Love,

  Marie Ferrarella has written more than seventy books for Harlequin and Silhouette. Don’t miss these exciting, upcoming titles; Traci on the Spot from Silhouette Yours Truly in March 1997, Your Baby or Mine? from Silhouette Romance in April 1997 and The Amnesiac Bride from Silhouette Intimate Moments in June 1997.

  To Helen Conrad,

  for friendship, for listening, and for the title

  1

  “I WANT YOU to be me.”

  T.J. stared at the telephone receiver in her hand, stunned.

  It. wasn’t until the telephone on her desk had rung three times that Theresa Jean Cochran had even become aware of it. With her mind on the statistics she’d pulled up on the screen, T.J. had groped for the receiver, managed to hit the speaker button instead and mumbled a preoccupied “hello.”

  “TJ.”

  Theresa Joan Cochran’s voice had filled her cousin T.J.’s sun-bathed seventh-floor corner office. Uncertainty had nudged at T.J. as she’d glanced at the telephone. Why was Theresa calling her on the phone? Why hadn’t she just swept in without knocking, the way she normally did? It never occurred to Theresa that she had to knock. As the president of C & C Advertising, she was accustomed to going anywhere she chose within the three floors that the agency occupied in the Endicott building—short of perhaps the men’s room. And entrance into the latter might have been ventured on a dare. So far, no one had wanted to see just how far the flamboyant executive would go if challenged.

  Even if Theresa hadn’t been the head of the company her grandfather had founded and her father had so diligently developed into a top advertising firm, she would have felt absolutely no compunction about invading her cousin’s space. It was something Theresa had been doing with fair regularity ever since they had been children. By now, it was as natural to her as breathing.

  T.J., named after the same paternal grandmother Theresa had been, had reached for the receiver then. Light was flooding in through the two adjacent windows behind her, but the office had suddenly seemed chilly, as a feeling of déjà vu waltzed through her, doing double time.

  She was more than familiar with the tone her cousin was using. Theresa was out for something. Like as not, it was a favor. A teeny-tiny little favor.

  It was always some “teeny-tiny little favor” that would somehow snowball, embedding T.J. along with it as it built up momentum. When they were children, some of the favors had been pretty outrageous, but of late, they usually involved work, one account or another that had to be diplomatically rescued after being in the path of Hurricane Theresa. That was the name some of the older employees had pinned on her behind her back.

  TJ. suspected that Theresa was aware of the nickname and took it to be a compliment.

  They’d been born nine months apart, with T.J. the senior; it was Theresa who was the flashy, outgoing one. Theresa who was constantly being photographed as she was squired around by one after another of the country’s most eligible bachelors. And it was T.J. who burned the midnight oil at the company. T.J. who was by far the creative force that propelled them into new contracts and new accounts and who helped cement the old ones by breathing new life into them.

  Which was fine with T.J. She preferred remaining in the shadows and doing something she considered worthwhile and creative. T.J. had always enjoyed pulling her weight. Theresa enjoyed pulling off coups. They worked well together.

  Because the computer was too slow for her taste, T.J. had pressed two buttons to automatically save her work. Bracing herself, she had taken a deep breath. She’d had a feeling this was going to take a while.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” T.J. had looked at her watch. It was going on to nine o’clock. She wondered if Theresa was still home. It wouldn’t be the first time Theresa was late.

  She’d heard Theresa sigh dramatically. No one could sigh dramatically like Theresa. This had the makings of something big.

  “T.J., I need help.”

  T.J. had leaned back in her chair. Yup, big. “Help as in help with a campaign, help with an ad idea or...” Her voice had trailed off, waiting for Theresa to fill in the proper ending.

  Theresa had picked none of the above. And that was when she had laid the bomb at her feet and said, “I want
you to be me.”

  T.J. now raised her brows. Bangs the color of milk chocolate threatened to mingle with dusky eyelashes. “That wasn’t going to be my next guess.” Not at this point in their lives, anyway.

  Theresa didn’t seem to hear her. It was a habit she had long honed to perfection, shutting out everything that didn’t mesh with what she was thinking. “You’re the perfect choice, TJ.”

  Not for nothing was she called Hurricane Theresa, T.J. thought. T.J., on the other hand, liked things spelled out and neatly organized.

  “I think I missed a step here, Theresa. I’m a little slow before my fourth cup of coffee.” Forsaking the computer entirely, she gave her undivided attention to the woman on the telephone. “Fill in the gaps for me, will you?”

  There was a long pause, as if Theresa was searching for the right words. This probably had to do with conducting some meeting for her, T.J. mused. If she knew her cousin, there was a slope out there that needed skiing, or a man who needed her company at some secluded cabin hideaway. That left her to tie up ends for Theresa. Her cousin had a unique way of keeping a thriving business going while having a hell of a good time herself—elsewhere.

  But Theresa was gorgeous and charming and rich, so everyone forgave her. In that respect, T.J. was no different from anyone else. And in T.J.’s case, there was also the matter of genuine affection and a sense of protectiveness that, if Theresa had thought about it, would have made her laugh in delighted amazement.

  T.J. decided to prod Theresa along. “Why would I have to be you when you can be you so much better?” T.J. wanted to get to the end of the riddle before she grew too old to make sense of it.

  “That’s just the problem. I can’t. I’m in the hospital.”

  T.J. bolted to attention. “In the hospital? Oh, God, Theresa, are you all right?” She began searching with her bare feet for her shoes under the desk. “What hospital are you in? I’ll be right there.” She drove too fast. Theresa always drove too fast. Why didn’t she ever listen to her and slow—

  “No, don’t. I’m okay, really. But the car isn’t.” Theresa’s voice sobered. “It’s totaled. And it was such a beautiful shade of blue, too.”

  T.J. ran her hand over her face. If Theresa could express sorrow over the loss of a car, then she was probably all right. T.J. took in a cleansing breath and let it out slowly, calming down. She needed facts. “You were in a car accident?”

  “It wasn’t my fault.” Theresa’s voice was tinged with a note of defensiveness. “The other car ran a light.”

  Maybe, maybe not. What mattered now was Theresa. “But you’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Of course I’m sure. But the doctors are being difficult.” T.J. could visualize the pout on Theresa’s face as she said that. She wasn’t accustomed to taking orders. “They want to keep me here for observation. Of course,” she continued, her voice becoming loftier, “there’s this one who I wouldn’t mind having examine me by candlelight....”

  Theresa was fine, T.J. thought with relief. “You’re digressing.”

  “Right as always.” Assured of her audience and the response, Theresa pushed forward. “I need you to be me with Christopher MacAffee.”

  “Christopher MacAffee, as in MacAffee Toys?”

  “Yes.”

  A copy of the presentation T.J. had labored over for the man was housed on the blue disk on her desk. She’d scanned her hand-drawn sketches in just last night. Christopher MacAffee was the newly appointed president of MacAffee Toys, taking the position over from his ailing father. MacAffee Toys was a hundred-and-twenty-year-old toy manufacturing company that had managed to hang on to integrity as well as healthy profits through several generations.

  But knowing all this still didn’t answer any of the questions that were crowding T.J.’s brain. “You’re losing me again.”

  “Christopher MacAffee is coming down this afternoon to meet with me about finalizing the account. He has some questions about the presentation. You worked on the campaign,” Theresa reminded her needlessly.

  Some of her best work had gone into that campaign. “Yes?”

  “You know how stuffy that man is.”

  Actually, T.J. thought, she had no idea how stuffy the man was or wasn’t. She had dealt only with his production assistant, and then only by telephone, but she said nothing as Theresa continued.

  “He is completely inflexible about his policies and he insists on only dealing with the head man—or head woman in this case.”

  Despite Theresa’s sometimes capricious nature, T.J. knew that her cousin took pride in the fact that she was the head of a large, respected advertising firm. An advertising firm with a quality reputation.

  A sinking feeling was beginning to take hold. T.J. felt herself being drawn in. “And you want me to go in your place. Completely. Not just represent you but be you?”

  “You have to.”

  “Theresa, I don’t have to do anything but raise Megan, pay taxes and die.” Now there was a pretty thought, T.J. mused. But there were times when her cousin got her frustrated. And she really didn’t like the idea of trying to fool the president of a large company whose account they were courting.

  “T.J., I know what this is about. You don’t have any confidence. Listen to me. You’re solid, dependable, and if you tell him you’re me, he’ll believe you.” As if rolling her own words over in her head, Theresa quickly added, “If you do something with your hair besides run your fingers through it and put on something decent, you could carry it off. You know you could.” It wasn’t the first time they had pretended to be each other, although the last time had been years ago. “We do have the same bone structure, even though mine is a little finer.”

  The additional comment was pure Theresa, so pure that T.J. merely shook her head at the evaluation. Theresa didn’t mean anything by it. As children, they had been almost carbon copies of each other. But while Theresa had devoted herself to zealously enhancing what nature had so bountifully granted in the first place, T.J. had shrugged it off and concentrated on her studies and being her father’s daughter.

  That meant vanity never entered into the picture. Shawn Cochran had a selflessness that bordered on religious fervor. He had long ago detached himself from the family firm, leaving it to his younger brother to develop. Instead, Shawn had devoted himself to whatever cause needed him the most at the moment. It was T.J.’s mother who had supported the family. Responsibility and hard work had been a part of T.J.’s life for as long as she could remember. That didn’t leave much time for being carefree and frivolous.

  Or spending hours looking into a mirror, perfecting the perfect pout.

  Theresa took care of that in spades.

  Like her father before her, Theresa knew just how to hire and retain good people who in turn made her look good. She rewarded them well and expected a great deal in return. Her cousin was no exception.

  Theresa’s father, Philip, had seen T.J.’s creative talents early on and, in his own no-nonsense way, had decided to nurture them. Accepting no excuses from his sister-in-law or his niece, he sent T.J. to Harvard when T.J.’s parents had had barely enough money to send her to a community college.

  Upon graduation, T.J. had come to work for the family firm out of gratitude, loyalty and a need to create. She had been at it for seven years now and she loved her work as well as her cousin. But this was asking for something above and beyond the call of duty.

  And T.J. had a bad feeling about it. “I’d rather you played you. After all, you’re better at it.”

  “You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Theresa insisted. “Remember high school?”

  The feeling of déjà vu turned icy.

  “When I took your SATs for you?”

  “You saved my skin, then.”

  That was because they hadn’t been caught. But they easily could have been. “It could have very well been both our necks,” she reminded Theresa.

  T.J. still hated thinking of that. It had be
en a stupid thing to do, risking both their futures, but Theresa had come to her in tears, completely unprepared for the test that T.J. had taken the month before. Theresa had been terrified of not doing well and bringing down her father’s wrath on her head.

  Moved, TJ. had gone in for Theresa. Shaking inwardly, she had managed to fool everyone and take the test. She had scored high enough for her cousin for Philip Cochran to reward Theresa with a keepsake diamond.

  The diamond was the first of many she was to go on to collect.

  This time, though, there was a very simple solution before them and TJ. couldn’t understand why Theresa was missing it. “Look, Theresa, it’s not like you’re deliberately standing him up to go skiing. Why don’t we just tell him the truth? That you were in an accident and are being held hostage against your will by a muscular doctor. I can’t see MacAffee not being reasonable about it. We could reschedule—”

  “Can’t.” The single word cut T.J. short. “This was the only pocket of time he had available that I could accommodate. Besides, if we reschedule, he might just decide to go with that other company that’s been courting him. Whitney and Son.” Theresa fairly spat out the name of their number-one competitor. “C’mon, T.J. You could do it again. MacAffee is coming by just to give me the once-over. You’re probably more his type than I am.” Theresa meant it without malice, unaware of the way the appraisal hurt. “You know, serious.”

  Defensively, T.J. slipped on the oversize glasses she used for reading and went back to work on her computer. “Stuffy.”

  Theresa glossed over the wounded tone, only vaguely hearing it. There wasn’t much time. “You said it, I didn’t.”