by Naima Simone
Out of habit, he glanced in the rearview mirror, quickly surveying the Thursday morning traffic behind him before flicking a look to his right. Sloane stared out the side window. Good thing, too, because he couldn’t suppress the sardonic twist of his lips at the compliment. Nor could he stifle the flare of irritation at the reminder of her assertion that her family wouldn’t believe they were convincing as a couple—or squash the anger at himself for giving a damn.
My parents, sister, their friends. They’ll never believe we are a couple. They’ll never buy it.
That shit still bothered him like a pebble in a shoe that he couldn’t shake loose. The fact that it bothered him fucking bothered him.
Maybe because he agreed with her.
Anyone with half a working brain cell could take one look at her thick, gleaming hair, pure, pampered skin, that polite aloofness that announced her fine, cultured breeding and recognize him for the former grease monkey, public servant, working-class plebian he was. Until he’d stood close to her on a covered, dimly lit patio, inhaled her alluring scent, and spied the latent sensuality deepening her forest green eyes, he hadn’t cared about things as petty as money and social status. Hell, when the lights shut off, it didn’t matter how far back a last name or ancestor could be traced to the Mayflower. Lust and sex were great equalizers with funny ways of leveling the playing field.
But he hadn’t even had Sloane and instinctively understood and acknowledged she would be different. She was different. And standing next to her—within five goddamn feet of her—stirred the insane urge to go wash imaginary, long-gone car oil from under his fingernails or the grime from the streets off his body.
So yeah, that remark had struck a sore spot.
“Thanks,” he said, replying to her compliment and trying like hell not to resent it even as a tiny, stubborn sliver of pleasure wormed its way into his chest. The light-weight summer jacket, white button-down shirt, and fitted khaki slacks had been Fallon’s pick on the shopping spree she’d forced on him. Apparently, she’d taken exception to him showing up in the Hamptons looking like “fucking G.I. Joe”—her words, not his. He shot her another glance, dipping his gaze to the slightly frenetic twisting and clenching of her fingers on her lap. “What’s wrong? Are you nervous?”
She stiffened, and he resisted the need to reach across the middle console and massage the tenseness from the back of her neck and shoulders.
“No.” She shook her head. “Why do you ask?”
He snorted, but decided not to mention he’d overheard her low muttering about an ostrich’s eye size being bigger than its brain. Though their association hadn’t been long, he’d noticed Sloane seemed to recite nonsensical, but interesting bits of trivia when upset or nervous. Such as right now.
“Sloane, I know you still have reservations about this plan. But, I promise we’re doing everything in our power to keep you safe. Shane and the others at GDG are working on finding out who’s behind the stalking and attacks as we speak, and I’m not leaving your side the entire time. If someone does follow us to your parents’ estate, they’ll have to get through me to even come near you. I swear, sweetheart, that’s not going to happen.” Not again. Never again. Why he’d chosen Sloane as his chance at redemption for failing Sam and none of the other female clients he’d guarded over the years, he couldn’t explain. It just was.
“I don’t doubt you, I don’t. I mean, naturally I’m worried but that’s not…” She flipped her palms up in a helpless gesture, emitting a low chuckle heavy with self-deprecation and frustration. “In the past few days, I’ve had my tires slashed, been attacked in my home and at my job. But right now, my stomach is a mass of nerves because in four too-short hours I’m going to be spending nearly a week with my family and their friends. How shallow and silly does that make me sound?”
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Not really. My family drives me bat-shit crazy at least once a week.”
Her head whipped toward him, and her fingers stopped their incessant twisting. The tension stringing her as tight as a guitar string almost evaporated. Good. Satisfaction hummed through him. He detested the nervous fidgeting and strain coloring her voice.
“Your family?”
He snorted, merging onto the exit for I-95 S. “Yes, duchess, I have a family. What? Did you think I hatched from an egg?”
“No.” She paused. “I was thinking more like wolves were involved.”
He loosed a bark of laughter. “Cute. But I’m not so sure my mother would disagree with you.”
“How does your family make you, uh, bat-shit crazy?”
“Every Sunday afternoon, my parents expect my younger brother, sister, and me home for dinner. And more often than not, a daughter or niece of a neighbor, church member, or, hell, a grocery store clerk my mother met five minutes earlier, joins us. This is right after she’s just browbeaten Sean and me about how she’s not getting any younger and wants grandchildren before God takes her home.” He shook his head at Sloane’s low chuckle. The husky, delighted sound of it warmed him like a low slide of heated syrup. He mentally shook his head, focusing on the road and his story. “I’ve begged her numerous times to stop with the match-making ambushes, but she doesn’t listen. And it annoys the hell out of me. Sometimes I consider skipping out on a dinner, but frankly, the woman scares me.” He waited until her laughter died down and threw her a glance. The sight of her relaxed, soft smile simultaneously lit the kindling on the desire that never fully banked around her, and squeezed his heart. Both were trouble. “So what has you so nervous about seeing your family, duchess? Are you afraid they’re going to have Quasimodo waiting for you when we arrive?”
The humor fled from her face as if chased, and that regal, aloof masked dropped back in place, shutting him out like a slamming door. The mask, too, he was learning, seemed to be as much of a defense mechanism as her trivia diarrhea.
“More like they’re waiting to berate me for the one I’ve already let go.” She chuckled again, but this time no humor laced it, no warmth heated it. Cold, brittle. Sad. “My parents and sister are…exacting. They have their ideas about what and who are acceptable, relationships, lifestyles. And if you don’t conform to those ideas, they can be”—another long pause—“critical.”
In other words, they were ball-busters just with a glossy, Brahmin veneer coating it.
Anger coalesced in his chest, gathering speed and heat. He didn’t need a 900 number and psychic license to guess what her parents found “unacceptable” about Sloane. She moved in a circle where the women worshipped at the altars of Louis Vuitton and Chanel, spent more time at luncheons than they did at home, and considered “food” a four-letter word.
Sloane might be from their world, but with her understated elegance and gainful, useful employment, he could see her garnering criticism. And then there were her curves.
Fuck. Those curves. When she’d opened the hotel room door that morning, he’d almost lost his shit, battling the urge to walk her back into that high-priced suite and press her against the nearest wall. The simple, sleeveless sheath with its gray and pink stripes was probably considered fashionable. Still, all he could think about was sliding the figure-hugging material up her legs, baring her sexy thighs until the hem cleared the triangle of cloth shielding her pussy. All he could imagine was cupping her gorgeous ass and nuzzling that damp material before tugging it to the side and tonguing the sweet, plump flesh until she came, hard, thighs trembling around his head, the sharp heels of those nude pumps stabbing his shoulder blades.
Yeah, he harbored all sorts of fantasies revolving around those beautiful curves her society peers most likely considered “unacceptable.”
“So what’s our cover story? Because we can expect the third degree over our…relationship,” Sloane said.
Part of him objected at the obvious shift in subject; the need to assure her that she wouldn’t have to put up with any bullshit while he was with her rode him like he wore a fucking saddle on his back
. But it was also that same surge of protectiveness that shackled his tongue. He’d agreed to guard her body from physical harm, not her feelings. Getting involved in her family dynamics wasn’t part of the job. Getting involved, period, wasn’t part of the job. Best he remember that. Just a cover story. Just an act. Do the job, and then on to the next one.
“We keep it as simple and close to the truth as possible. Less chance of messing up that way,” he said. “I work with Shane and met you through Fallon, except a month ago instead of one week. When we try to make it complicated is when we trip up.” The pretense hadn’t even started yet but all of this felt anything but simple. “Is there anything specific I should know about you and your family? Details they would pick up on?”
Sloane started relaying information about her parents and sister, Chelsea. Most of the surface facts he’d discovered on his own, but the smaller, more private tidbits couldn’t be learned through the internet or Fallon. Such as what were her mother’s pet peeves, guaranteed to prejudice her against him from the start. Or did her father enjoy sports, and if so, which teams? Or did she and her sister have a sibling rivalry?
Dramatic scenes and bad manners, golf and surprisingly, the Patriots, and yes. The sisters entertained a classical older sister vs. little sister competition. Nothing Cain and Abel-ish, but with her younger sibling married and with a family, he could read between the lines.
He shifted in his seat, angling his body away from her. Again that urge to comfort her, touch her, flared inside him like the flash of a newly lit torch. And again, he resisted.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.” She sighed, and an “oh shit” knot clenched his stomach. “My ex-fiancé will be there.”
He blinked. Shot her a stunned glance, certain he hadn’t heard right. “What?”
“Since he was a business associate of my father’s before he was my ex, my parents didn’t see a reason to un-invite him just because our relationship ended.”
Wow. The flat, even tone of her voice didn’t betray her feelings about her parents’ decision to invite a man whose presence would undoubtedly hurt their daughter. At the least make her feel uncomfortable and awkward in her own family home. Maybe the rich just did shit differently so he shouldn’t—
“That’s fucked up,” he blurted.
Another sigh, so soft he almost missed it.
“Yes, it is.” She turned and stared out the window, but not before he caught the grim line of her mouth.
Whoever this ex was…Ciaran hated the bastard already.
Chapter Eight
“Are you kidding me?”
Sloane barely caught Ciaran’s grumbled question, but the awe, disbelief, and traces of disdain fairly emanated from his voice as he pulled the SUV to a halt in front of the opulent mansion in one of Southampton’s most exclusive neighborhoods. Even by the wealthy elite’s standards, her parents’ estate—even as a little girl the place had never felt like hers or home—was luxurious…and huge. The eight-bedroom, eleven-bath Tudor-style house with its turret-inspired wings spread over two beautifully manicured acres. A traditional English Garden, tennis courts, huge patio for outdoor entertainment, lushly decorated pool, and lavish pool house sprawled across the immaculate grounds, each amenity declaring the ostentatious wealth of the owners.
She’d never been embarrassed about her privileged upbringing—it’d been all she’d known—but seeing the mansion and evidence of excess through Ciaran’s guarded gaze, heat singed her neck and face. The duchess title never felt more appropriate than it did in this moment. Would he scoff at her if she confessed she’d never truly felt comfortable in this world? Like a child with her grubby hands pressed to the pristine window of a candy store, staring at the beauty and sweetness on the other side.
The passenger door opened, and a valet appeared, offering her his hand. She stepped from the vehicle, granting him a thankful smile—a smile that evaporated as soon as he released her. Ciaran appeared beside her, his large palm settling on the small of her back. Drawing in a deep breath, she climbed the shallow stone steps leading to the glass front door. Her stomach writhed with nerves, not even the soothing gurgling of the fountain was able to calm her. They stood, side by side, in front of the wide, tall doors, the handle awaiting her turn so they could enter the house.
In that moment, the twenty-six-year-old woman who’d forged a career path of her own and lived independent of her parents’ largesse reverted to the chubby, shy, oldest child surrounded by a family of thin, glittering, beautiful people. It was here, in this mansion’s open, airy rooms with their vaulted ceilings that she’d first learned to detest social situations. The luncheons, dinners, and parties had been torture for the little girl who’d hovered close to the refreshment table, more comfortable with the cucumber sandwiches and shrimp cocktail than the guests who were alternately cruel or dismissive. Years of endless social events had taught her how to pretend better, but mingling and striking up conversations with people had never been her forte. She left that grand fete to her younger, gorgeous, I-am-the-consummate-hostess sister. And here she was in for five days of her idea of masochism. Only worse. Ciaran would be right beside her to witness her insecurities…and failures.
“You’re doing it again. Breathe,” Ciaran softly ordered. Strong fingers slid under her hair and kneaded the nape of her neck.
“I’m doing what again?” Step away from his touch. Don’t lean back into it. The warnings screamed through her head with blaring caution horns. Yet she remained still.
“You just told me ants stretch when they wake up,” he said, voice dry with a hint of amusement. “Whatever we face, duchess, we’ll do it together.”
He probably meant to reassure her, and it did. But not how he intended. She straightened her shoulders, inching forward so Ciaran’s hand fell from her neck. After Phillip, she’d vowed not to depend on another man for her strength. No one—not Phillip, Ciaran, or the next man she became involved with—could strip away her self-esteem, her power, her independence unless she permitted it.
Besides, it didn’t matter a damn if Ciaran witnessed her social ineptitude or not. They were actors, pretenders. This was a business transaction between them. Nothing more.
Bullshit, her subconscious coughed. Flipping a mental bird at, well, herself, she opened the front door. And entered.
“Sloane.” Mallory Johanna Sloane Barrett, one of Boston’s and the Hamptons’ most popular socialites—and Sloane’s mother—sailed into the foyer. Sloane had always envied her mother’s cool, blond beauty and composure. She’d never seen her mother falter in the face of any social situation…until today.
The welcoming, hostess smile wavered on her lips. The confident stride stuttered. The emerald green eyes, identical to Sloane’s, widened as they shifted to the tall, broad-shouldered, and silent man beside her.
“Uh.” Her mother blinked, for once speechless, but only for seconds before a lifetime of training kicked in. All traces of shock and confusion evaporated from her face, and her smile notched up its wattage as she resumed gliding forward, her arms outstretched. She clasped Sloane’s hands within hers, and air-kissed both of her cheeks. Then she turned to Ciaran, curiosity gleaming in her gaze. “Sloane didn’t mention she was bringing company. Although I’m delighted she did. Mallory Barrett, Sloane’s mother.” She extended her hand. “And you are?”
Ciaran clasped her fingers and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. Sloane gaped as her mother—her never-shaken-never-stirred mother—blushed. Sloane cast a surreptitious glance around the entry, searching for a robed and bearded Jesus Christ. Surely He must’ve returned if Mallory had blushed and been flustered in the matter of minutes. That just didn’t happen.
“Ciaran Ross, Mrs. Barrett,” he drawled, releasing her hand. “I’m a friend of your daughter’s.” The “friend” was accompanied by a possessive grip of Sloane’s hip. From the slight narrowing of her eyes, her mother didn’t miss the gesture. An act. That’s all it is. Pretend. But
the heat branding her even through her dress felt like the furthest thing from a pretense. It felt entirely too real and…and visceral for a business deal.
“Please call me Mallory.” He nodded, and she returned her attention to Sloane, brushing a kiss to each of her cheeks. “I was just about to call and see what was keeping you. Your sister is here, and our guests have already started to arrive.”
Oh, joy.
“If we’re late, Mallory, then it is my fault,” Ciaran interjected, his deep voice smooth. “I asked Sloane to drive rather than fly so I could hoard more time alone with her since I imagine it will be in short supply in the next few days.”
“Oh.” There went that flush again, staining her mother’s cheeks a light pink under her perfectly applied foundation. “I, uh, understand. That’s sweet of you.” She cleared her throat, her slim, bejeweled fingers fluttering around the base of her neck. “Let me introduce you to my husband and the rest of the family. I’m sure they will be delighted to meet you.”
Ciaran inclined his dark head. “Thank you. I’ve heard so many good things about you from Sloane, I’ve been looking forward to it.”
His hands slid from her hip to the small of her back, the weight of his palm a quiet, but stalwart reassurance. An assortment of emotions trickled through her: gratefulness at his quick defense of her; relief at his steady, strong presence; anxiety over…everything, and that ever-present desire flickering and pulsating in her stomach like a dancing flame on a candle.
The spinning coalescent ball of feelings whirled and whirled inside her as they neared the cavernous, exquisitely decorated formal receiving room. About twenty people milled about in small groups of three or four, sipping from glasses, their laughter and conversation like the drone of bees in a hive. The scene, so familiar yet dreaded, didn’t ease the mass of nerves. Here, surrounded by her golden, beautiful family and their perfect friends, she’d never been more aware of being the “changeling Barrett.” And Phillip had slid that point in as often as possible.