Stealing Amy

By Randy Jeanne

Amy Harrington can’t believe her pathetic life’s been hijacked. When getting falsely arrested
becomes a major inconvenience (not to mention a little sticky for her society conscious-mother), Amy tracks the identity thief to Mexico and
pulls a switcheroo--adopting the woman's identity by calling herself Casey Carlisle.
In the land of Margaritas and Mariachis, Amy (masquerading as Casey) meets architect Nick Cavenaugh whose got identity issues of his own. Seems some friend (some friend!) stole his company and his fianceé. Now he’s headed for a swank Mexican resort hoping to secure the lucrative contract that will jumpstart his new firm, only his assistant misses the trip and absentminded Nick’s not so reliable on his own.

Far be it from Amy to jeopardize the man’s second chance at success, but when she discovers the real Casey has moved on to the same swank resort, who can blame her for wangling a temporary job with the guy? So what if she doesn’t exactly come clean about her real name, who she’s after, or why she’s really in Mexico? What Nick doesn’t know can’t hurt him...can it?

When Amy gets them stranded in the sweltering Mexican jungle, the adventure begins...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randy Jeanne
• Release date: May 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458187123

Randy Jeanne

Randy Jeanne prefers traveling to far off lands over toiling at the dreaded day job; alas, pesky bills constantly get in the way. So instead, she daydreams-−creating people to meet, places to go, and things to do. As a lifelong serial dater, she loves to share misadventures-−er, successful tips-−with readers who, like Randy, are looking for love and laughter.

Book preview

Stealing Amy

Randy Jeanne

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Randy Jeanne

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Chapter One

Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. May I have your attention, please? Will the owner of a ‘97 Sebring convertible please report to the valet station? Your car’s being towed.

Amy Harrington bit her lip, tasting the chalky flavor of Beach Peach, while a collective snicker rolled through the groundbreaking ceremony for Santa Barbara’s newest art gallery.

I’d hate to be that poor sap, the blue-haired woman next to Amy chortled, helping herself to a cheese puff from the buffet table.

That poor sap craned her neck to peer past salon-fresh coifs and chic designer duds, finally locating the one woman in the room not wearing an amused expression.

Yours? her mother mouthed.

Who else’s, Amy wanted to scream. Clearly, a vehicle of such lowly heritage wouldn’t belong to one of Deirdre Harrington’s exalted guests. Besides, hadn’t she warned her mother to expect the unexpected these days?

Which left the one screw-up in the room. Again.

Amy suppressed an earthquake-sized shudder as her mother edged away from the head of the gallery and wove through the crowd, bearing down on her daughter with stains of color riding high on her cheeks. She came to a stop with hands fisted at a waist the size of a teenager’s.

How could you? she hissed, while managing to maintain a placid smile at passing acquaintances. On today of all days?

Nonplussed, Amy stared. Mother, I thought you understood. This isn’t my fault.

That’s what you keep telling me. But when is it going to stop, for heaven’s sake? Nancy’s almost got the board persuaded to name a wing after your father. How do you suppose they’ll vote when they get wind of these things that keep happening to you? Before Amy could respond, Deirdre’s gaze drifted past her and her eyes lit up. Jonathon, darling. I think we have a huge success on our hands, don’t you?

In a dazzling display of her uncanny manipulative skills, Deirdre linked arms with the man and steered him away before he could catch Amy’s cooties.

So much for motherly support.

Amy sighed and scurried to the parking lot where a burly guy dressed in navy blue overalls and a Dodger baseball cap climbed into the cab of his truck. No, wait. She pointed at her precious car, all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. You can’t take that.

Sorry, ma’am. He lifted a clipboard with paperwork. I’ve got my orders.

Not again. The McBreakfast she’d wolfed down hours before gurgled in her stomach. You don’t understand. This is all a mistake, but I’m sure if—

He slammed the door shut and revved the engine, drowning out the rest of her words. Only the sight of Jonathon, who’d apparently managed to extricate himself from Deirdre, kept her from pummeling the driver’s side door as the truck lumbered past.

Amy, Jonathon Dayton said, why in the world is that man towing your car away?

Well, um—

To her relief, Nancy Pendergast appeared right behind him with an agitated scowl for Amy. We have a problem.

Amy gulped. We?

This is highly embarrassing and I’m not sure what to do about it. Your mother won the bid on a lithograph but the credit card’s not clearing.

Uh-oh. Had her mother—?

She said she left her wallet at home, so she borrowed yours.

Yep, she had. Apparently, Deirdre still didn’t fully comprehend what was going on. Listen, I can explain.

Jonathon lifted his head. There’s your mother now, he observed, waving his hand high in the air. Deirdre, over here.

Only someone with years of training could detect the slip in Deirdre Harrington’s façade. It was all in the angle to the arch of her eyebrows, really. They tended to flatten out when she sensed a situation spinning outside her control. At the moment, they formed thin lines.

Mom, the funniest thing just happened, Amy ventured.

Not now, dear.

Huh?

Warning bells went off in Amy’s brain as she took in the additional signs of Deirdre’s distress. Slight pallor...twitch at her left eye...lock of hair straying from the bun anchored at her nape...

Crap. It all added up to deep trouble.

Deirdre smiled wanly at Jonathon and Nancy. I don’t mean to be rude, but if you’ll excuse us, we have a personal matter to attend to.

Jonathon frowned with concern. Anything I can help with, Deirdre?

She grabbed Amy’s arm. I appreciate your kindness, but—

Out of the corner of her eye, Amy noticed two uniformed men approaching. As if in a daze, she registered the sudden tug at her side, but caught between social niceties and the encroaching social disaster, her mother never had a chance. The police arrived before the end of her speech.

Mrs. Harrington, I presume this is your daughter? one of the cops asked, indicating Amy.

She nodded with eyes downcast. Yes, I promised to find her, and I did.

Grimly, he flipped open a notepad. Amy Harrington, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent....

*****

The frayed vinyl seat snagged her stockings–which she’d only worn to please her mother–and no matter how much she squirmed, finding a comfortable position was downright impossible. Especially with her wrists manacled behind her.

In the front seat, seemingly oblivious, Starsky and Hutch chatted about their baseball team. Or, it could have been a football team. Anyway, testosterone appeared to be involved, so Amy tuned out.

Not that she cared to focus on the scenario of moments ago–particularly the tri-part gasp from her audience as the cuffs clicked in place. The next thing she knew, she stared at Deirdre, Jonathon, and Nancy through the squad car window, trying to conjure up a rueful smile that said don’t worry...I’ll be fine. Deirdre, one hand covering her mouth, rolled her eyes and nudged her companions back toward the gallery.

God knew what line of BS she’d come up with to explain her daughter’s predicament.

As the black and white car drove on streets lined with eucalyptus, past neatly trimmed lawns, Amy cursed the person responsible for her messed-up life. And to top things off, she’d be late for her appointment with Helen, the author for whom she did illustrations. Visions of the high-strung woman pitching a trademark hissy fit only made Amy wince with additional consternation. What if Helen finally made good on her threat to get Amy canned?

At the station, when the time came to make the famous phone call, Amy hesitated, trying to decide which posse to round up. Her mother’s attorney made the most sense, of course, but ancient and semi-retired, Nate Stevenson had about as much get-up-and-go as a pregnant pig on a summer day. Plus, he didn’t make a move without consulting Deirdre first.

Which meant...damn.

So much for that New Year’s resolution to grow up and quit feeling guilty about failing to meet her mother’s expectations. Getting arrested twice in one month pretty much shot that plan to hell.

She nodded at the clerk to put the call through to Deirdre’s cell phone, then waited for his signal to pick up the receiver hanging on the wall.

Oh, Amy. What about Kelly? Can’t she help you?

Shelly, Amy corrected automatically. Her mother never got it right.

Whatever. I’m still tied up here at the gallery and–hold on a minute.

Amy held the phone away as Deirdre berated a server who’d had the audacity to carry out the tiramisu before the strawberries-dipped-in-chocolate. On the other side of the glass, the clerk who’d placed the call gestured at the clock.

Mother, I haven’t got time for this. Could you please get a hold of Nate and make sure he springs me? Offer him a round at your club or something. He loves a bribe.

Shh, Amy. You’re at a police station, for heaven’s sake. Don’t worry, honey. He’ll have you out in no time.

No time, Amy thought three hours later. Easy for her mother to say. She didn’t have to spend the afternoon in a holding cell with Prostitute Pam and Murderous Mary for companions. Okay, so technically, Mary’s cheating boyfriend had survived the attack with a six-inch kitchen knife. Still...

And what did you do? Mary asked, seemingly oblivious to bloodstains dotting her denim overalls.

Me? Uh, actually, I’m innocent. They have me mixed up with someone else.

Her cellmates exchanged knowing looks and identical tsk tsks. Amy leaned her head against the cool cement wall, closed her eyes, and plotted revenge against the woman responsible for ruining her so-called life.

*****

That does it, Amy said to her next-door neighbor, Shelly two days later. I have to get to Mexico, and I’m leaving today.

Shelly raised auburn-tinted brows and lowered a steaming cup from her lips. Was it something I said? Honestly, I only came by for coffee. If you’re having a bad day, I can disappear.

Amy ignored the attempt at humor and slammed her laptop shut. Going by the book and following the rules is getting me nowhere. To top it off, Helen’s agent called yesterday, and in between all the heretofores, whereins, and therefores, I found myself out of a job. Meanwhile… She pointed at her computer and shook her head. It looks like all the flights are sold out, but I’ll take my chances. Come on. You can help me pack.

Shelly cringed and took refuge behind the kitchen counter. With the previous evening’s makeup smeared across her lids and the hand holding the mug displaying a slight tremor, Shelly didn’t look capable of forming words, let alone folding clothes. I’ll stay out of your way, if you don’t mind. Got any Alka-Seltzer?

In the cabinet behind you. Come on. Follow me to the bedroom.

She heard a sigh followed by the sound of plop, plop, fizz, fizz and moments later Shelly collapsed on the unmade double bed and moaned. Remind me not to drink apple martinis until dawn again, will you? My head feels like a human boom box.

Watch out for Mr. Cat’s tail, Amy cautioned as the feline hissed. Not to mention my clean clothes.

Shelly apologized to the animal and managed to move slightly. I still don’t understand why you can’t contact the credit card companies and have them flag your accounts.

Amy snorted at her friend’s naiveté. She just opens more. Only she doesn’t use my address, so I don’t even know about it until the company tracks me down, and by that time, the outstanding balance is the size of Mt. Everest. The worst part of it is, she’s actually cloned my identity.

Shelly’s bloodshot eyes nearly popped from her head. What do you mean?

I mean the little bitch doesn’t stop at credit cards. She applies for loans, rents apartments–she even got my name on an arrest warrant for a crime she committed while using my name.

That sucks.

Precisely.

But why don’t they just arrest her?

That’s the eighty-four thousand dollar question, Amy said, adding twenty thousand for inflation. As far as the authorities are concerned, I’m plankton on the victim food chain because I’m not out the actual cash.

But what about your car?

Amy sighed. Already back in the carport. It only took eight phone calls, a trip to Kinko’s, a couple overnight express mails…voilá. She shook her head. Not a victim.

So how long will you be gone? What about Mr. Cat?

The blob of black fur taking up space on her pillow raised his head, then resumed laundering his paws. He’d shown up six months earlier and hadn’t stirred much since. He’ll be fine if you look in on him for me. Mr. Cat doesn’t need anybody, do you, you old, fat puss? She paused to stroke his furry tail and he responded with a baleful glare. Right. Mr. Cat didn’t need anyone. Just like his roommate. You see my beige cargo pants anywhere?

They’re doing an excellent job hiding your treadmill.

So they were. She plucked them from their convenient storage spot, folded them at the knee, and added them to the heap in her bag. Let’s see. What else? I’d better throw in some shorts and tops. And a bathing suit or two. Shoot. I haven’t shaved my legs since–what month are we in?

May.

And the last man in her life exited just prior to Easter, so that meant at least a full month of growth. Better pack a brand new razor.

After cramming in the last essentials, Amy zipped up the bag. That does it, she announced to the closest thing she had to a best friend. I’m off to the airport.

Shelly shook her head. Wish I had the strength to talk you out of this. Sure you can’t wait until later this afternoon when my brain starts to function?

Instead of answering, Amy leaned down to kiss the top of Mr. Cat’s head, hefted the bag onto her shoulder and pointed at the doorway. "Vamanos, she ordered. We’re outta here."

Shrugging, Shelly did as ordered and dragged herself to her feet. Tell me what was on that computer. Why are you going to Mexico?

"Because that’s where she is."

*****

Three hours later, Amy reached Los Angeles International Airport and made her way to a sour-faced clerk at the Mexican Air desk. I need a seat on your next flight to Puerto Vallarta, please.

Without looking up, the woman answered in a too-many-customers-so-little-time voice. Impossible. The last flight boards in thirty minutes and you’re not even through security. Besides, the flight’s sold out. You’d have to go standy-by. Take my advice and try again tomorrow.

Not tomorrow. Today. I’ll take my chances.

She shrugged. How do you wanna pay?

Gulping, Amy offered a credit card, crossed her fingers and held her breath.

I’m not guaranteeing anything, the clerk admonished a few minutes later, handing over documents. And you’d better get yourself to Gate C-4 quick.

Wonderful. But at least the credit card had cleared.

Taking a deep breath, she hiked the duffel bag higher, anchored the laptop at her waist, and took off in the direction of the concourse.

At eleven o’clock in the morning, the terminal buzzed with foreign languages, passengers scurrying to make connections, and bewildered travelers without a clue. Amy suddenly found herself caught in a traffic jam of all three.

Excuse me, she said, shouldering her way past a woman covered in veils. Pardon me, she said, trying to avoid the man who’d stopped dead in his tracks.

His gaze traveled to her face, and she cringed at the impatience in his expression.

Move, please, she said. You’re blocking the way. Couldn’t he see that? Everyone in the whole blasted place was in a hurry except this guy. This tall, handsome guy. Geez, no wonder the traffic had collected around him.

He ignored her plea and pointed at his bare wrist. Have you got the time? he asked, plainly aggravated.

Distracted by his smoky voice, she took a second to remember. Uh, it’s eleven o’clock. And I have a plane to catch… Can you let me past, please?

Frowning, he edged sideways and she made a break for it. Too bad. She would have enjoyed studying the attractive roadblock longer.

The security area loomed ahead and her heart sank. A ragtag throng of people trying to sort themselves into two orderly lines was enough to dash the hope of any late passenger. Nope. There had to be a way.

Late for a flight, she sang, gently inching her way past the first cluster. So sorry. Can I go ahead? she asked, smiling when the crowd magically parted.

Ah, the kindness of travelers. In seconds, she made it to the front of the line, showed her ticket and passport, then grabbed a couple of gray baskets. In one, she slung her duffel and in the other she placed her laptop after unsheathing it from its bag. With a parental nod in their direction, she watched her belongings slide toward the car wash curtains and stepped to her place in line before the security arch.

And promptly-oof-bumped into the guy with the distinctive voice.

How had he managed to beat her? The long legs and ragged breathing, not to mention the beads of sweat dotting his brow, gave him away. He was in a hurry too, after all.

Fidgeting, she bit her tongue, not trusting chivalry to rear its adorable head. Oh, well. One more person wasn’t going to make much difference.

Ping! Ping!

Oh, no.

Amy tapped her foot, waiting for him to pirouette and try again. Instead, he pointed to his leg and explained something about a metal rod to the uniformed clerk across the great divide.

Ping! Ping!

This time, the guard ordered him to step aside for extra groping. With the coast clear, Amy breezed through, snatched up her things and only stopped long enough to deposit the laptop back in her bag before dashing toward C-4.

When she arrived at the gate, she made her way past passengers preparing to board and waved her hand at a woman dressed in a crisp blue suit with matching striped scarf at the check-in desk. Have you called standbys yet? Amy asked, still panting from the sprint.

No, but we’re not likely to have any. Flight’s booked. Sorry.

Think positive, Amy. Has everyone checked in?

The woman frowned and consulted a computer display. As a matter of fact, you may be in luck. I’ve got a couple of stragglers who haven’t shown up yet.

Perfect. She only needed one. And you have my name on your standby list? Amy Harrington?

Yes, Ms. Harrington. I’ve got it. She turned to the clock on the wall behind her, then back to Amy. I’ll be making last call in a few minutes.

For the first time in hours, Amy relaxed.

*****

Nick Cavenaugh outpaced the swarm of people surging toward the outbound flights with ease. Good thing since he refused to make a spectacle of himself by doing an OJ through the airport. With his luck today, he’d probably trip and splatter himself across the concourse.

How he’d managed to miss a connection, wind up at the wrong terminal, lose his watch, and–of all things–forget the damn rod in his leg, he couldn’t fathom. Not a promising start to an important trip.

To top things off, Jane hadn’t been where they’d planned to meet. As efficient as they come, his assistant was always in the right place at the right time. More importantly, she made sure he was always in the right place at the right time. No wonder today had been a disaster so far.

Thank God, that would all change in a few minutes when he reunited with her at the gate.

Moments later, giving in to a last minute gallop, he rounded the corner to Gate C-4 and stopped, dumbfounded. No Jane. Only a clerk and that wild woman in the garish skirt and ridiculous straw hat who’d practically shoved him out of the way earlier. He inhaled deeply, calming himself. Jane must have boarded already. Striding toward the desk, he reached inside his suit jacket for his boarding pass and came up empty. Of course. It must be in the other pocket. He patted the left side of his chest and felt nothing. I’ve got it right here, he assured the clerk. I had it a second ago.

Try your back pocket, a female voice whispered from behind him.

What? Oh. She was right. He handed the document across the desk and frowned. I’m traveling with my assistant, Jane Pierson. Can you tell me if she’s arrived?

Let me look. Um, no sir. I don’t see her checked in.

Dammit.

The clerk’s eyebrows rose.

Sorry. Look, I’ve misplaced my cell and I have to get in touch with her. Where’s a public phone?

An outstretched hand appeared under his nose. Use mine. He followed the route from long, slender fingers up the milky skin of an arm to the smiling face of the straw-hatted woman.

Thanks. He paused and tried to remember Jane’s number. What the hell was it? Something to do with an animal. No. A bird. Wren! That was it. Same prefix as his own, then w-r-e-n. He dialed the area code and number. While waiting for it to ring, his eyes met those of the woman who’d loaned him the phone. Hers sparkled with...anticipation? Hope? Suddenly, he heard Jane’s voice, and thoughts of the stranger disappeared.

Nick! Thank God, you finally called. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.

Uh-oh. Obviously, Jane wasn’t coming. Is everything okay? How’s your sister?

Sarah’s fine but she went into labor early, then there were complications and they ended up doing a C-section. She’s going to need me for a while.

Nick knew how close the sisters were. But she and the baby are all right? That was all that mattered.

They’re both doing great, she assured him. I feel terrible about this, Nicky. You were so generous to let me skip the L.A. stop, but to miss the entire trip to Mexico...I know how crucial your meeting is.

Don’t worry, I’ll get by. That sent Jane into a fit of coughing on the other end, and he grimaced. Hey, give a guy a little credit, huh? I’m capable of traveling on my own. Too late, he realized he hadn’t lowered his voice and looked over to catch flower lady rolling her eyes. Oddly, his end of the conversation seemed to please her.

I’m trying to line up a replacement, Jane said, but it may take a day or two. How will you cope in the meantime?

Ego kept him from answering truthfully. That won’t be necessary, he assured her. As long as the old man’s son meets me at the airport, no problemo.

She groaned. Problema, Nick. With an a. And not the old man’s son, for goodness sake. He’s got a name.

Well, sure. It’s...well, it’s...

An exasperated sigh came over the line. For a brilliant man, you’re a catastrophe with names. It’s Santiago–Manuel and Jorge Santiago. As in...I don’t know...think about the capital of Chile. Will that work?

It would have to since Jane wouldn’t be there to prompt him. Got it. Manuel and Jorge Santiago. He even tried rolling the r in Jorge. Um, Jorge’s the father, right?

What am I going to do with you?

He held the phone away from his ear until the decibels abated. Five feet away, the woman waiting for her phone raised inquisitive brows so he turned his back on her. "Quit worrying so much, Jane. I’ve got