"I don't want her to care for me."
Drew chuckles. "I don't think there's any fear of that. Right now, you need to be more concerned about her running from you."
"And go where? Back to that shithole house?" Nathan takes a long pull of bourbon. "She's smart enough to know better than that."
"I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt to make her feel a little more comfortable. Especially if you want her to sign the papers."
Ah, yes. The papers. Just the thought of them filled him with a mix of anticipation and dread. In some ways, this plan was insane. In other ways, it was the only option.
He lifts the heavy tumbler to his mouth and buys a moment of time.
"Are we going to talk about tonight?" Drew's voice is as cold as he's ever heard it.
"Which part?"
"The part where you fucked her. I thought this plan was to do more of a wine and dine sort of thing."
The man has a point. But that plan had been concocted before he'd seen her body, before her lips had first wrapped around his cock. From that point on, it had only been a matter of when, and not if, he would fuck Candace Tapers.
He stands, glancing in the dark glass of the bedroom, the curve of her body barely visible under the spread.
"I'm gonna be married to the woman," he drawls. "It only makes sense that I know what I'm signing myself up for."
CHAPTER 10
Light streams through the open balcony doors, the smell of salt in the air, the sound of ocean waves soothing. I roll over, the sheets soft and smooth against my naked skin. I run a hand over the empty place where Nathan had slept. He had come to bed late, after I had taken a shower and lain in bed long enough to second-guess every minute of the evening. I had woken up when he had settled into the bed, the mattress moving slightly, the covers pulling across my hip. I hadn’t moved, had only waited, hopeful that he would slide an arm across my body, or plant a kiss on the back of my neck.
* * *
He hadn’t. He had lain as still as a corpse, his breaths shallow until the moment he had fallen asleep. I had wanted so badly, at that moment, to roll over and into his side, to rest my head on his chest and my arm across his body.
* * *
I haven't slept with a man since Seth. Most guys—the good guys—don’t want to date a stripper. Fuck them, sure. Actually sleep with them? Cuddle and caress? Nah.
* * *
“Good morning.”
* * *
I turn my head, my gaze colliding with a set of green eyes, ones that lead to a crooked nose, full lips and a few days of unshaven growth. The security guy. Some name that begins with a D. Drew.
* * *
“Mr. Dumont would like to speak to you.”
* * *
I stretch, a long and lazy motion that fully utilizes every inch of the king bed, then sit up, holding the blanket against my chest. “Do you mind getting my dress from out there?”
* * *
“There is a set of clothes for you in the closet. You may be more comfortable in those.”
* * *
I turn my head and eye the closet door. “Okay.”
* * *
When he leaves the room, I throw off the blanket and stand up.
* * *
The closet is empty, except for a few padded hangers. One holds a flannel set of pajamas, ones I would have appreciated last night. I roll my eyes and flip to the next hanger, which has a pale blue sundress and matching cardigan. I pull it loose, the tags snagging on the hanger, and I pause, carefully separating the items. My eyes catch on the price tag, and I let out a low whistle. Three hundred dollars for a sundress? A bit excessive for a sending-the-hooker-on-her-way outfit.
* * *
I pull the dress carefully over my head, leaving the tags on. I don’t work on Tuesday. Maybe I can return it then, assuming he bought it somewhere locally. I think again of the Nashville address on his license, and my stomach flips, a reminder of the fact that my life is about to return to normal.
* * *
“Candy?” There is the soft knock on the bedroom door, and I run a quick hand through my hair.
* * *
“Coming.” My eyes drop to the floor, where a pair of lace panties lie next to some wedge sandals. I crouch down, pulling the tags off the panties and snagging the wedges. Brian Atwoods, in my size, a fact that gives me a serious moment of pause.
* * *
Is this creepy? A pre-purchased outfit in my size? Maybe it’s sweet. Maybe he planned ahead and … I end that thought process. There is no “planning ahead” scenario that isn’t creepy.
* * *
I pull on the panties and straighten the lay of the dress, carrying the shoes and pulling open the bedroom door. The bodyguard steps away from the door, gesturing me forward.
* * *
“He’s at the table.”
* * *
I smile breezily at him, my excitement mounting at the thought of getting paid. I wonder if he’ll give me a fat stack of bills, something thick and impressive. Or maybe a check, though he doesn’t seem like that type.
* * *
I round the corner and slow, spying Nathan at the table, a spread of documents before him. He slides the chair backward and stands at my approach.
* * *
“Good morning, Candace. Please, sit down.”
CHAPTER 11
I look at the document in confusion, the pages filled with words that don’t belong near me.
* * *
Marriage.
Prenuptial.
Assumption.
Loyalty.
Confidentiality.
* * *
I set down the pages and look at him, sitting on the other end of the long dining table. The same table on which I had laid naked, touched myself on, begged him from.
* * *
“I’m confused…” I glance back down, my name in the first sentence, in clear block font. “Is this document for me?”
“It’s a proposal. Last night was an audition of sorts. To see if we are sexually compatible. I have strong sexual needs, and you prove equipped to handle them. I need, for various reasons, a wife. I’ve had you followed for several weeks. You seem to have a fairly despondent life, with no boyfriend, no family, no financial security. I am offering you a business proposition.”
* * *
So many bombs to deliver. I’ve had you followed for weeks. The statement fills me with a mix of anger and fear, my ignorance of the situation alarming. I think of Dib’s house, the overgrown yard, my dented car with duct tape holding on one fender, and flush from embarrassment. No family. That’s incorrect, an observation that is either truly ignorant, or disdainfully hateful. I have a father. Whether I visit enough, or lie to him about my life, or can’t afford to move him to a nicer facility—all of that is immaterial to the fact that he exists. I swallow. “I have family. My father. He’s in a hospital in Jacksonville.”
* * *
He says nothing, and if I expected sympathy, I was wrong.
* * *
I glance back down at the documents, my mind clogged with possibilities, in equal amounts fear and excitement. “I don’t see a compensation structure.”
* * *
That produces a laugh, one short bark absolutely devoid of humor. “Compensation?”
* * *
I meet his mocking eyes. “Yes. Business propositions involve compensation on both parts. I understand what I am giving up, but fail to see what I am getting from this arrangement.”
* * *
He holds out his hands, gesturing to the suite. “This life. You are barely struggling by. I am offering you a life of luxury, with everything you want, at your fingertips. You won’t have to work, will no longer have to straddle sweaty men with wandering hands.”
* * *
I arch a brow. “Oh. Like you?”
* * *
He pushes back from the table and stands. “Look at the paperwork. If you are interested, sign
the documents. If not, Drew will give you your money and take you home. Either way, you will be paid.” He turns, grabbing a jacket off the counter and shrugging into it.
* * *
I stand and the chair scrapes the floor, the raw sound loud in the quiet suite. “Is this your idea of romance?”
* * *
He stops on his way past me, turning slightly, his eyes lighting with amusement. “Romance?”
* * *
Just steps away, the close proximity gives me the full force of his eyes, the morning light turning them turquoise in color and I am surprised to see a hint of playfulness in their depths. “Yes, romance. Isn’t that what marriage is all about? Isn’t that what these papers are about? Me agreeing to be your wife?”
* * *
He chuckles, and I’m glad this entire thing is so entertaining to him. “I need a wife. I am not signing up for romance, or affection, or a full time job. The papers will discuss your duties. I want nothing more from you than what is stated there. And as far as you – you should never expect that from me.” His voice changes, the amusement gone, and the next words out of his mouth, I fully believe. “I will not love you. I will have no use for you other than sex and photo ops. That is something you might want to consider when making your decision.”
* * *
It is the most he has ever said, and what I understand from it far surpasses the short speech. I step back, tripping over the chair before catching myself. He doesn’t move, doesn't reach out, doesn’t offer a hand. He only watches me, our eyes meeting for a long battle of silent communication, one I don’t win.
* * *
Then he turns, and leaves, the door slamming against the frame.
* * *
I sit, my eyes drawn to the papers. I am now alone with Drew, a man whose presence is distracting, the weight of his stare heavy on my back. I read the first paragraph three times, the words blurring, my brain unable to focus. I turn my head slightly. “Do you mind leaving me alone? I’m trying to think, which is hard with you breathing down my neck.”
* * *
“There’s not really anything to think about.” His voice echoes in the small space, and I lift my head from my reading.
* * *
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
* * *
“I’ve seen your life. That creature you live with, that dirty club you work at. He picked you because you are better than that. Because you have the qualities he wants. Most women with your qualities are in a lifestyle that they are comfortable with. They aren’t going to leave their lives behind, no matter how big his bank account is. You are a unique breed in a unique situation.”
* * *
“And you are sharing this information with me because…” I set down the papers and lean back, looking into those green eyes, trying to sort the bullshit from the truth. The problem is, everything he is saying is just wretched enough to be true.
* * *
“Because I know what you are thinking. I know that you are about to take the ten thousand dollars and ask me to take you home. And you will have a temporary reprieve from your misery. But then life will return and you will be in the same position as before. You cannot rise above your current life if you are always one paycheck away from homelessness.”
* * *
One paycheck away from homelessness. A sobering thought. Was it true? Jez would take me in for a week or two, offering up her couch and a worn sheet. But she struggles as I do, all of us selling our bodies at an exchange rate that is far too low. My college friends have all moved on, my shame causing me to cut all ties when I began to strip. As for family… my mother passed on four years ago, ovarian cancer taking her quickly. My father… he needs my help right now, not the other way around.
* * *
The doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong with him. Six months ago he fell sick, and now his health insurance is close to maxing out, our last conversation one of heavy stress. Ten thousand dollars would be swallowed by his bills. I haven’t seen him in almost two years. He thinks I’m a wedding planner, that my busy schedule won’t allow a visit. The reality is that I haven’t had the money to take time off and stay with him in the hospital. Plus, there is the five hour drive in my car. With the dry cough of my engine, the shimmy that occurs over forty miles per hour, and the worn tread of my tires, the probability of being stranded on the side of the highway is too high.
* * *
It’s depressing to take such a critical life inventory. I've never allowed myself to dwell on it before because, really, I’ve had no options. I’ve focused on one day at a time, and the years have passed, the time marked by late rent payments and the appearance of wrinkles – tiny ones, on the corners of my eyes. They are a reminder of the hourglass that we all live in, grains of sand slipping through the gap of time, each granule adding another wrinkle, another pocket of fat, another sag that I will have to fight to overcome, another grey hair to pluck or dye. My earning potential is at the highest point of the arc right now, and that is a terrifying reality.
* * *
But we all know that our best chances lay in the clients. And here is my client, offering—not romance, but a contract, a business proposition. A proposition that I should strongly consider.
* * *
The man speaks, interrupting my thoughts. “There is another piece of the process. If you decide to stay here, the contract is contingent on acceptable test results.” If I didn’t know better, I’d say there is almost an apology in the words.
* * *
“What kind of tests?” I laugh. “Is there an intelligence requirement?”
* * *
“We already have your college records and test scores. I’m referring to blood tests.”
* * *
My face flushes at the thought of my college transcript. My grades had been average at best, indicative of my lack of interest in anything but keg stands and happy hours. “What’s the reason for the blood tests?”
* * *
“A combination of things. A full STD workup, pregnancy test, genetic markers, drugs. Do you foresee a problem with any of those things?”
* * *
I shake my head, though I’m not certain of what they might yield. I've been practically celibate since Scott, the strip club not a conducive environment for meeting quality men. But they say you can get STDs from oral sex, a fairly important piece of information I have conveniently ignored.
* * *
“Great.” He steps away from the table. “I’ll let Mr. Dumont know.”
* * *
I clear my throat. “Please let Mr. Dumont know that I will require my own set of tests. Anything I am being tested for, I would like him also tested for. I may not be happy with the results of his tests.” I huff out the words, frustrated with the tests, the legalese of the contract, and being sideswiped with this life-changing decision. I let out a low growl and pick up the document, attempting to work through the fourth paragraph.
* * *
“Very well, Ms. Tapers. I’ll let Mr. Dumont know your demands. I don’t imagine he will have an issue with that.”
* * *
There is the blessed sound of his exit and I am alone at the table, trying to make sense of eight pages of legal confusion. Ms. Tapers. Proof that they have done their homework, proof that I have been watched, followed, researched. And all I have about my prospective husband is a name. Nathan Dumont.
* * *
I reach out, my fingers struggling to snag the handle of my purse without standing up. When I finally get it, I pull out my phone to Google him, but the battery is dead.
* * *
Good thing these people don’t seem crazy. Next time I decide to be kidnapped by a group of strangers, I’ll pack a charger. I set down the phone and turn back to the document.
CHAPTER 12
The contract loses me more than it guides me, covered in wherefores and hereafters. When I don’t understand something, I forge on,
hoping that the next sentence will give me a clearer understanding. When I reach the second page, I pick my purse back up, shifting through it until I find a pen. I return to the first page, underlining, circling, and scribbling words into the margins. I’m not exactly sure what the hell I am doing. It’s a waste of time reading this. I could be in the limo, ten grand richer, headed back home.
* * *
I turn the page.
Trophy Wife Page 5