Best Man (Billionaire Bachelors Book 6)

by Lila Monroe

  Fitz reappears, just finishing up his call. “. . . We’ll all have to get together when we’re back in the city. Toast another successful fake relationship for the Agency.” He chuckles. “Will do.”

  He hangs up. “Olivia’s new assistant,” he explains. “Just wanted to check in and send out the final contract copies.”

  “Oh, great.” I nod.

  “Also, she wondered if we needed recommendations for our divorce lawyers,” he adds casually. “You know, for when this is all over.”

  Over.

  Right. That part.

  I clear my throat. “What did you tell her?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  He glances over. “I figure we should wait until the inheritance is settled? I mean, we want that squared away and safe from Brett before doing anything else.”

  “Right!” I blurt, relieved. “Good thinking. Who knows how long that might take? Another month, or two . . .”

  Or three.

  I’m not sure I should be so happy about it. After all, more time playing happily married with Fitz equals an even bigger risk to my heart. But today, the sun is shining, Fitz is smiling at me, and we have the whole city to explore. I push my doubts aside and lead him to the exit. “Come on,” I say, taking his hand again. “Let’s go to Harrods and buy something for me to wear tonight. You choose.”

  Fitz gives me a look. “Are you sure about that?” he asks.

  “Within reason.” I grin back. “And if it makes your mother have a heart attack . . . Well, I’m just a lowly office worker. No class or breeding at all. What else could they expect from me?”

  He chuckles. “You’re a devious woman, Rebecca Delaney. And I like it.”

  I’m bracing myself for Fitz to outfit me like one of the extras in Moulin Rouge, so I’m pleasantly surprised when the dress he picks turns out to be long and slinky and drop-dead gorgeous.

  “What do you think?” I ask, nervously emerging from the dressing room back at our hotel. I’ve spent an hour primping and fussing, but I’m still way out of my comfort zone with this whole black tie gala affair. I strike an awkward pose. “Enough to bring shame on the Fitzgerald family name?”

  “Wow.” Fitz’s eyes rake over me, making my skin tingle under his lustful gaze. “Never mind the family, let’s skip the whole thing and just stay here tonight.”

  He beckons, and I have to fight to keep from dragging him straight to bed. Because wow, can this man wear the hell out of a tux.

  “Fitz . . .”

  He kisses me slowly, and I’m glad I haven’t put my lipstick on yet. “Yes, sweet cheeks?”

  I laugh, then moan—which is pretty much the name of the game with Fitz. He slides my dress up my thighs, reaching as he finds the thigh-high slit in the silk. “Hmm, convenient,” he murmurs, his hands roving higher. “I knew I bought this dress for a reason.”

  I should end the clinch before he completely destroys my painstaking updo, but who am I kidding? The people at the gala will probably look down their noses at me whether my hair looks like a YouTube how-to guide or not.

  Plus, ruining it will be way more fun.

  “You know, there’s something else about this dress . . .” I murmur, as Fitz kisses a hot trail along my bare shoulder.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s so form-fitting, there just wasn’t any room for underwear.”

  Fitz freezes, then looks at me with a devilish smile. “Well, that changes everything,” he says—and releases me.

  “It does?” I ask, disappointed. My heart is already racing, and as for parts further south . . .

  “Yes, it does.” Fitz smooths down my dress and tucks my hair back. “Because now, I get to spend tonight deciding when to pick up what we started here . . . And you get to wonder when I’m going to . . . relieve your tension.”

  I laugh. “Evil man.”

  Fitz grins. “Hey, I need some way to make this shindig more interesting. Because I can promise you, insurance people wouldn’t know a good time if it smacked them in the face.”

  What they do know is how to throw a lavish party, which is what I discover when we stroll into the main lobby at the Natural History Museum later that evening. I gape. They’ve rented out the whole place for the night, so guests in ballgowns and tuxedos are mingling between massive displays of old dinosaur bones.

  “I feel like we’re in a scene from Jurassic Park,” Fitz murmurs, plucking us a couple of glasses of champagne from a waiter. “Right before someone kicks off an auction.”

  “The part where we’re rooting for the dinosaurs to eat everyone,” I agree, taking in the snooty expressions on everyone’s faces. My formerly classy red silk dress sticks out like a sore thumb amongst all the monochrome, and judging by the glances people are shooting me, I may as well have shown up in some Lady Marmalade costume.

  I shift, self-conscious. Fitz notices. “You look beautiful,” he says, and I flush.

  “You have to say that.”

  “Why, because I’m your loyal husband?”

  “And you’re the one who threw us into the lion’s den.”

  “Lions, dinosaurs . . . We should make a late-night trip to the zoo.” Fitz winks. “Pick up some hints from the chimpanzee mating rituals.”

  I laugh, finally relaxing. Which, I suspect, was the point. “If you’re planning on examining me for fleas later, you can forget it.”

  “Even if I’m thorough?” Fitz slides a hand lower.

  Right when his parents show up beside us.

  “Arthur,” his mother greets him with an icy tone. She stares at his hand. Resting on my ass.

  I blush and step away. “Hi!” I blurt. “Great to see you guys again. We’ve just been admiring the party, haven’t we, Fitz?”

  He nods. “Mother. Dad.”

  Silence.

  Oh boy. I thought my family reunions were chilly, but Lydia and Art Sr. could out-freeze my parents any day of the week. “So, what’s this event for, exactly?” I ask. May as well use my “classless yank” image to break the ice.

  “The Fitzgerald Company hosts the gala every year,” Lydia answers politely. “It’s a chance to catch up with our friends in the industry and give back.”

  “We raised over fifty thousand pounds last year,” Art Sr. adds proudly.

  “That’s great.” I smile. “And so nice of the museum to donate the space to host it!”

  Art clears his throat. “Well, of course we had to hire the space.”

  “And the caterers, and the decorations, and the party planners, of course,” Fitz adds. “Why, when you add it all up, you probably spend just as much throwing the party, don’t you? Makes you wonder why you don’t just write a check.”

  There’s another stony silence. I try not to laugh.

  “Well, I think it all looks lovely,” I manage. “Fitz, why don’t we go get something to eat? We’ll catch up with you both later.”

  I take his hand and drag him away.

  “Was it something I said?” Fitz asks, smirking.

  “Don’t.” I try to keep a straight face, but fail miserably. “Why do you bait them like that?”

  “It’s just too easy,” Fitz says with a shrug. “They already think I’m a lazy wastrel, I might as well play along. It’s fun.”

  It seems more sad to me.

  “It’s their loss,” I tell him, reaching up and landing a kiss on his cheek. “They’re lucky to have you as their son. Now, point me to the restrooms?”

  “Thataway.” Fitz points me in the right direction, and I slip through the crowd to a lavish bathroom just off the main hall.

  I’m in a stall when I hear the clatter of high heels, and a trio of women enter. “. . . Such a shame,” one of them is saying. “I thought for sure he’d be a bachelor forever.”

  “Or at least marry a supermodel,” her friend replies. “Did you see the new wife? She’s so . . . ordinary.”

  I freeze. Are they talking about me and Fitz?”

  The women loiter
by the sinks, fixing their makeup. “It’s a waste,” one of them continues. “Taking that ass off the market.”

  “Oh, come on,” another laughs. “You don’t think he’s serious? I bet you five pounds he’ll be shagging the cocktail waitress in a month. If he isn’t doing it already. I mean, what on earth could have possessed him to marry that woman?”

  “I can give you two big reasons,” her friend snorts.

  “A woman like that isn’t going to keep him occupied long. Her dress is so tacky. And you saw her pores.”

  “And her muffin top.”

  “And I heard she’s practically a secretary.”

  They all trill with bitchy laughter, until I storm out of the stall, dress them down with a perfectly cutting remark, and walk out with my head held high.

  Ha. Nope. I wish. Instead, I skulk there silently, hidden from sight, until the door swings shut behind them, and I’m alone again.

  I slowly emerge and go wash my hands. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and pause. The elegant hairstyle I labored over doesn’t seem too refined, and in the harsh fluorescent lights, my dress does look kind of tacky.

  And as for my pores . . .

  I gulp. Sure, those women are bitches, but they’re only asking the same question everyone else does the minute they see me with Fitz: what is a guy like that doing with a woman like me?

  Besides the whole confidential legal contract part of things.

  This is why I need to keep my guard up. Because our arrangement is just temporary, and however swept up in his charm and smoldering hotness I may be, it’s all still a ruse.

  Not real.

  Not even close.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun while it lasts . . .

  I swallow back my insecurities, touch up my lipstick, and head back out to the party. It’s busier now, and the champagne is flowing. I look around for Fitz and spot him across the room.

  “Wow, this beats tea and stale biscuits,” I remark, taking in a buffet table laden with so many delicious-looking treats, it would put Marie Antoinette to shame.

  “Go crazy,” Fitz says, passing me a plate. “You’ll need your energy later.”

  He winks, and just like that, the bitches in the bathroom fade from my mind.

  Let them gripe about my muffin top. Only one of us is going to be fucking Fitz senseless tonight.

  I’m just loading my plate with crab puffs and mini-skewers, when we’re set upon by a couple about our age—although, that’s where the similarity ends.

  “Fitz, old boy. You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

  The man is red-cheeked and thinning on top, and already showing a paunch, squeezed into his shiny tux like an overstuffed sausage.

  Maybe he goes to the same tailor as Brett.

  “Your mother said you’d be here, but we couldn’t believe it,” the woman with him adds. She’s blonde, with a long face, trussed into a little black dress, enormous diamonds buried in her substantial cleavage. “Feckless Fitz gracing us with his presence.”

  I tense. She called him what?!

  “And this must be your latest plaything,” the man continues. “Do we need to learn her name, or will she last as long as the rest?” He guffaws, spraying champagne.

  “Actually, this is my wife.” Fitz puts an arm around me. I can’t believe he hasn’t punched the guy out already.

  “What?” The blonde shrieks loud enough to raise those dinosaur bones from the dead. She elbows her partner. “I knew it, Marty, you owe me a hundred pounds. I told you he’d run off to Vegas with some cocktail waitress.”

  “Right you have it,” Marty agrees, still chortling. “I should have known Fitzy would pull a stunt like this. Hope you got a good pre-nup,” he tells me, winking. “He’s never stuck with anything in his life.”

  I glare at them. Are they serious right now? “Actually,” I start, ready to tell them exactly where they can stick their snooty noses. “Fitz is—”

  “Wondering how that land deal worked out,” he interrupts me. “Didn’t I hear you sunk your life savings into it?”

  Marty’s smile disappears. He coughs. “I, uh, we’re still working out the kinks. Hiccups with the government zoning, you know how it is.”

  “Interesting.” Fitz gives a bland—but deadly smile. “I heard it’s under a conservation banner and will never see construction. Ever. Looks like you bought a dud.”

  The blonde’s head whips around. “Marty?” she squawks, her voice rising. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Nothing.” Marty turns redder. “Just business, that’s all.”

  “Is this why you wanted to sell the house in Bermuda?” she wails. “Oh my God, it is, after I told the girls at the club all about our renovation.”

  “Not now, Araminta!” Marty hisses.

  “Well, I’m going to steal my lovely wife away,” Fitz says, smirking now. “Give my regards to your parents.”

  He offers me his arm, and I take it. We walk away.

  “Who the hell were those awful people?” I demand as he leads me down an echoing hallway, away from the crowd. Even though Fitz cut them down to size, I’m still mad on his behalf. “I can’t believe they would say that stuff to your face! And what do they even know? You’re smart, and successful, and—”

  Fitz cuts me off with a kiss.

  “And you’re very good at that,” I finish, when we finally come up for air.

  He grins and pushes a lock of hair from my face. “You’re cute when you’re all riled up.”

  “Just give me another five minutes with those assholes, and I’ll be sexy as hell,” I retort.

  He laughs. “I know a way for us to blow off some steam . . .” he says, kissing me again. I can feel his body, taut through his tux, and damn if I don’t want to push him back amongst the Victorian folk art and have my wicked way with him.

  Clearly, Fitz feels the same, because he grabs my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Already?” I ask, even as I’m following him to the exit. Stick around with these awful people, or go ravish Fitz?

  It’s no contest.

  Fitz shoots me a smoldering look. “We came, we saw . . . Now it’s time for you to come.”

  He doesn’t even wait until we’re back at the hotel for making good on his promise. The minute we’re in the backseat of the cab, Fitz drapes his jacket over my lap and proceeds to use that slit in my dress to full advantage.

  “Is there much traffic on the road tonight?” he asks the driver, sounding infuriatingly casual considering what his fingers are doing under that jacket.

  “Not much, mate,” the driver replies. “You missed the worst of it. Accident on Embankment, had the whole place backed up for miles.”

  “Lucky us,” Fitz says. He strokes the inside of my thigh in a maddening rhythm.

  Oh my God. Is he really going to do this? Here?

  His fingers move higher, brushing against my clit, and I have to bite back a moan.

  Yes, yes he is.

  “You OK there, babe?” he asks, looking innocent.

  His finger slides deeper, dipping inside me.

  “Uh huh!” I manage to yelp.

  “You’re looking kind of flushed.” He smirks. “Maybe we can get the windows down?” he asks the driver.

  “You’ve got it.”

  The windows open a couple of inches— and so do my legs. I sink my head back against the seat, melting into Fitz’s wicked, hidden touch.

  What is it about this man that drives me crazy? I mean, getting felt up in a London cab shouldn’t be so sexy, but with him, I can’t get enough.

  He keeps chatting to the driver, about sports and politics, and all the while, his fingers stroke and delve, turning me into a writhing ball of tension. Slow. Deep. Achingly consistent. He knows just how to touch me, to make me melt. By the time we reach the hotel, I’m almost panting, close to the edge.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Fitz hands over a couple of bank notes. “Keep the change.”r />
  I want to moan in protest—or order him around the block a couple more times, but Fitz is already opening the doors.

  Can I walk like this?

  Debatable. But somehow, with superhuman strength, I manage to make it inside and up to our room. The moment the door slams behind us, I grab for him.

  “You’re wicked,” I say between kisses, tearing off his jacket. My blood is running hot, and I’m wound so tight, I can barely think straight. Fitz laughs against my mouth and slips my straps over my shoulders. The dress slides over my body and pools around my ankles on the floor.

  “And you’re fucking spectacular.”

  I shiver under the intensity of his gaze, and then he’s scooping me in his arms, carrying me over to the bed. He lays me out, and I reach for him impatiently, but Fitz takes his time, kissing his way over my body, lavishing attention on my breasts until I’m moaning, fingers tangled in his hair. He lifts himself briefly, to strip off his clothes and grab a condom, and then—hallelujah—he’s back, positioning himself between my thighs.

  He pushes into me slowly, and God, I nearly lose my mind.

  We move together, surging, over and over, and somehow, it’s even better than it’s been before. Hotter. Deeper. More intense. He pins my hands above my head, driving into me with a hard, fast rhythm, and I can’t hold back; I come apart, crying out his name as he buries himself deep with a final thrust and comes, groaning against me.

  Oh. My. God.

  I hold him, my heart racing . . . and feeling more than just a few tender pangs. How am I supposed to keep my guard up when Fitz makes me feel this way?

  He rolls off me, then pulls me close, spooning me against his chest. I can feel his breathing slow as he relaxes, totally at ease.

  But I’m feeling anything but relaxed. In fact, that mind-blowing orgasm has made me even more tense, and it’s all because of the questions bubbling up in my mind.

  What are we doing here?

  He’s not the reckless playboy I thought he was. The man who married strangers because he was bored on a Wednesday night and seduced everyone in a skirt. But the real Fitz isn’t like that, at least, not beneath the surface. No, the man I’m getting to know is kind, and thoughtful, and actually has his shit together.