Fiance for the Night

by Melissa McClone

  He placed two steaming cups on the table. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” She picked up the warm cup. “To your prosperous future.”

  Troy clicked his cup against hers. “This is a great way to end an equally great day.”

  As she stared at his long, thick eyelashes, she almost drifted back into one of her daydreams of the clothing-optional tropical island. Cassandra hadn’t noticed his lush lashes last night. She wet her dry lips.

  Enough. Stop admiring him. She couldn’t stand any more complications, and Troy McKnight would be a huge one. Any man would be.

  Cassandra sipped her latte. Too bad the hot liquid only added to the heat building within her.

  “I’ve been thinking about this weekend.” Troy set his cup on the table. “I need it to go well, especially after talking to Mick today.”

  “We wouldn’t want to ruin your good fortune.”

  “Especially since the partnership is not a sure thing,” Troy said. “You know, we’re going to have to act like an engaged couple. But it’ll only be for forty-eight hours.”

  Forty-eight hours didn’t sound too long. “I can handle it.”

  “Do the terms honey or sweetheart offend you?”

  Not bad, a politically correct fiancé. “I can live with them, what about you, darling?”

  His eyes widened and he sat straighter in his chair.

  She laughed. “You’re not the only one who gets to use terms of endearment, oh, love of my life. I hope you can live with the kissing and hugging and touching and—”

  “I get the picture.” He took another sip of his coffee. “How do you want to start?”

  Time to ruffle a few of those stiff feathers of his. She caressed the top of his hand. “Do you mean with the kissing and touch—”

  “No, with getting to know each other.”

  “I ask a question, then you ask one.” She enjoyed the way she had him squirming in his seat. This was turning out to be more fun than she thought it would be.

  “Sounds democratic,” he said.

  “You can start, since it’s your celebration.”

  “How old are you?” Troy asked.

  “Twenty-eight,” she said. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty.”

  “It’s your turn,” she said when he didn’t ask his question.

  Troy started, then checked himself.

  “Just ask. I won’t be offended.”

  He paused. “I don’t mean to pry.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Are you in love with Eric?”

  “No,” she said without hesitation. That was an easy one.

  “No, that’s it?”

  “You already asked your question, it’s my turn,” she said, not wanting to explore her relationship with Eric Wainwright any further. She hoped she didn’t sound too defensive. Nervous, she tapped her foot.

  “Can I continue, please?” Troy asked.

  So much for fun. She saw the compassion in his eyes. What could it hurt? After all they were supposed to be engaged. Well, sort of engaged. “Go ahead.”

  “If you’re not in love with him, why did you need a fiancé last night?”

  Unrequited love. So that’s what Troy thought. Politically correct and a romantic. Not a bad combination. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to know for some reason. She stopped tapping her foot. “I didn’t need a fiancé because of Eric.”

  Troy’s eyes narrowed. “Then who?”

  “It’s not important. Don’t you love the smell of freshly brewed coffee?” Cassandra asked, trying to change the subject.

  Troy didn’t bite. “Who? Your sister?”

  “My parents.” She swirled the contents of her cup. “They…it’s a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Troy sipped his coffee.

  “Eric and I broke up over a year ago,” she explained, hoping Troy didn’t ask why. Both Emily and Eric had betrayed her, but it wasn’t public knowledge. “After the wedding was canceled, I wasn’t interested in dating.”

  “Or haven’t been interested in dating since then?”

  How could Cassandra trust anyone when she didn’t trust her own sister? But it was more than that. She’d been hurt and she didn’t want it to happen again. Cassandra shrugged. “What’s the old adage, once bitten, twice shy?”

  Troy said nothing, but motioned for her to continue.

  “About six months ago, my parents invited me and a date to dinner. I wasn’t seeing anyone, so I asked a friend.” She smiled. “Some of my friends are a bit unconventional.”

  “Pierced body parts?”

  She nodded. “Rascal is very nice. He’d give you the shirt off his tattooed back if you asked.”

  Troy laughed. “I assume your parents weren’t thrilled meeting Rascal.”

  “You assume correctly. A couple of weeks after the infamous dinner I bumped into my parents near Union Square. I was with another friend who happens to be a biker.” She laughed, remembering the horrified look on her mother’s face. “My mother couldn’t take it. Otto was wearing a spiked collar and black leather.”

  “So your parents were concerned about the men you were dating?”

  “Concerned is putting it mildly, and I wasn’t even dating them,” she said. Now it seemed almost funny. At the time she’d been humiliated by the way her phone had rung off the hook. Humiliating enough that she invented a mythical fiancé. “All of a sudden I’m getting phone calls from men, sons and grandsons of my parents’ friends, asking me out on dates. My mother suggests I go into therapy or join a support group. My father tells me to join a health club or a singles club so I can meet suitable suitors. It drove me crazy.”

  “You’re lucky they care so much.”

  “I know they love me, but I couldn’t stand their interference. I figured a make-believe fiancé would be the easy way out. They could stop worrying and I could have my life back.”

  “Only you don’t have your life back, do you?” he asked, sounding almost regretful.

  His gentle voice, the tenderness in his eyes tugged at Cassandra’s heart. She wondered how many hearts Troy McKnight had broken. Several, if her intuition were on track. She wouldn’t want to join the list; she couldn’t afford to join the list. “Not yet, but I will soon, won’t I?”

  3

  She drove him nuts.

  What had Troy been thinking? Dealing with the wrath of Dixon Daniels would be easier than fighting his own raging hormones. After being crammed in the cab of his small pickup with Cassie for the past two and a half hours, Troy was reaching his breaking point. At least his zipper was.

  He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He enjoyed talking with her, but every time she turned her head, he caught a whiff of perfume, shampoo, soap—her. She smelled fresh, a bit like citrus. He felt as if he had completed a triathalon and desperately needed a cool drink. Cassie was a glass of lemonade on a hot summer day. Troy wanted to taste her, to quench his thirst.

  He was in over his head.

  For the last three days, he had thought about her at the most inopportune times—doodling her name during a MagicSoft board meeting and suggesting the name Cass Ale for a new beer during a meeting with a brewery.

  Cassie spelled danger.

  Troy even found her clothes a turn-on. And that surprised him. Nothing she wore could be considered “fitted” or “tailored.” Baggy, perhaps. Today, her oversize yellow sweater, calf-length gauze skirt and brown boots covered everything except her neck and head, but she looked sexier than the women wearing skimpy bikinis on “Baywatch.” It was a miracle he’d made it to Carmel without driving off the road. Luckily Cassie seemed not to notice. She questioned him about his background and seemed more interested in hearing about growing up in Missouri and his big family, than anything else.

  “Turn right,” she said, as they drove along a treelined street with large, well-kept houses on either side. “Stop on the driveway. The gate should ope
n automatically.”

  Troy stopped in front of a pair of closed wroughtiron gates. Suddenly they opened as if on cue.

  “Keep following the driveway.”

  What kind of house needed a gated entrance? As he drove, he found out. In the distance, a two-story house stood out against the horizon. Like a Mediterranean Villa, the white stucco house had archways, terraces and balconies. Dixon Daniels had made a lot of money, especially in the early days of computers and telecommunications, but Troy hadn’t expected a house, an estate, this sprawling.

  Someday. Someday, I’m going to live in a place like this. First step, becoming a partner.

  As he turned off the ignition, Dixon walked out to greet them. This had better work, Troy thought, feeling as though his career hung by a thin, unraveling string.

  Cassie slid out of the front seat. She greeted her father with a hug. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Good to see you, sweetheart.” Dixon studied Troy’s truck. “Nice truck. Practical, too.”

  Troy cleared his throat. He’d tried to rent a better car, but couldn’t find what he was looking for. Thank goodness he’d washed the truck before coming. “It gets me around.”

  “Does it have four-wheel drive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good in snow, I’ll bet.” Dixon smiled. “We have a cabin in Tahoe. Do you ski?”

  Cabin? Troy bet it was more like a lodge. “I love to ski.”

  “How was the drive?”

  Sixty-five all the way, sir. Not. “Fine.”

  “Did you take Highway 1?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a beautiful drive.” Dixon smiled as Troy nodded in agreement. “Did you hit much traffic?”

  “A little in Half Moon Bay.” Troy grabbed the bags and his golf clubs from the back of the pickup. Surprisingly Cassie’s flowered print bag was smaller and lighter than his.

  Dixon took her bag from Troy’s hand. “Vanessa’s fixing a snack. I hope you’re hungry, son.”

  Son? Dixon said the word as if he meant it. Troy swallowed the sudden lump of guilt lodged in his throat. Respected and liked in the industry, Dixon made killer deals and never showed any weaknesses. But Troy saw one now. Dixon Daniels was a powerful and intelligent businessman, but he had an Achilles’ heel—his daughters. “I’m starved.”

  Cassie took her father’s hand. “We didn’t want to arrive too late so we didn’t stop for dinner.”

  “You should always eat, Cassie,” Dixon said like a typical father. “Troy, make sure she eats three meals a day. If she doesn’t, she gets cranky.”

  “Daddy,” Cassie said, sounding horrified. She pursed her lips. “I’m never cranky. Emily’s the one who needs to eat, not me.”

  With his forehead wrinkled, Dixon looked deep in thought “It is your sister,” he said finally. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Troy, forget what I said.”

  As Cassie entered the house, Dixon grabbed his shoulder, holding him back. “Cassie gets cranky, too,” he whispered. “Make sure she eats.”

  Troy chuckled. “I will.”

  He stepped inside wondering if he’d stepped into a layout for Architectural Digest. Terra-cotta tiles covered the entryway. Original artwork, illuminated by recessed lights, hung on the textured walls.

  “Leave your bags in the entryway. We’ll take them upstairs later,” Dixon said. “Let’s go into the living room.”

  Cassie took Troy’s hand and led him into the large living room filled with elegant furniture. He’d grown up with five brothers and sisters in a four-bedroom farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. The sculpture in the corner of the room probably cost more than refurnishing his parents’ house after a flood destroyed everything. The painting over the fireplace would pay off the mortgage on the farm.

  Cassie stopped in front of an elaborate flower arrangement She broke a lily from its stem and tucked it behind her ear.

  Dixon motioned him to sit. “Have a seat, Troy.”

  The white couch looked too clean to sit on, but Cassie pulled him down next to her. As she and Dixon chatted, Troy took in the room. He wasn’t much into interior decorating, but he recognized quality. He’d visited mansions in Pacific Heights and estates in Hillsborough. He’d been impressed by more than a couple of places, but this house overwhelmed him.

  Cassie elbowed him. “Honey, do you want a drink?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  “What would you like, sweetheart, a beer?” Cassie asked.

  As Troy nodded, Dixon spoke up. “I’ll have one, too.”

  “But, Daddy, you always drink—”

  “I want a beer,” Dixon said with authority, ending further discussion.

  Cassie kissed Troy’s cheek. “I’ll be right back, sugar.”

  “Don’t forget to see if your mother needs any help,” Dixon added as she left the room. “You’re going to have your hands full with her, Troy.”

  He already did. “I can handle her.”

  “Vanessa spoiled both of the girls.”

  From what Troy had seen when picking Cassie up, she seemed remarkably unspoiled. She lived in a Victorian flat with peeling paint and squeaky steps. Her wardrobe consisted of casual and eclectic clothes. No designer labels that he could tell.

  “I suppose I had a hand in spoiling them, too. It’s difficult not to when we have all of this.” Dixon glanced around the room until his gaze rested on a picture of his two daughters. The portrait showed a younger Emily and Cassie. Both wore sweaters and strands of pearl. Cassie looked so…normal.

  “When was the portrait done?” Troy asked.

  “After they graduated from college.”

  “Cassie looks so—”

  “Different,” Dixon said.

  “Yes.”

  “She was, but…Let’s just say, Cassie got my stubborn streak. Once she makes a decision, there’s no turning back. And she’ll go to the extreme to prove her point.”

  “She’s strong-willed,” Troy said. “I respect that.”

  “Good.” Dixon smiled. “But remember, she’ll always assume she’s right. Compromise isn’t one of her strong points. Don’t let her get away with too much, Troy.”

  He didn’t understand what Dixon was trying to say, but since Troy wasn’t going to marry her it didn’t matter. “Cassie and I will do fine.”

  “It makes me happy to hear that.” Dixon smiled. “So, tell me. How is Mick treating you at the office? Has he offered you a partnership yet?”

  Her mother was cooking and her father wanted a beer? Who were these strangers? Aliens, perhaps. Where were her real parents?

  Cassandra entered the kitchen. A pan of brownies sat on the stove. Her mother stood at the granite counter, working on a tray of vegetables.

  She blinked, wondering if the image would disappear. “Can I help, Mom?”

  Vanessa turned and smiled. Usually the definition of refinement and elegance, she wore a pale pink apron over her black knit pants and white knit blouse. “I didn’t hear you come in. I told your father to let me know when you arrived.”

  “He sent me in for beers. I think he wants to talk to Troy alone.”

  “I’m sure of it.” Vanessa returned to arranging the broccoli florets. “He’s been talking about Troy all week.”

  Cassandra swallowed hard. Convincing her parents she and Troy didn’t belong together might be more difficult than she thought. Not that it wasn’t obvious they came from different worlds, had different goals. Maybe if he were still a farmer from Missouri, but he was a venture capitalist from San Francisco. Talk about repeating similar patterns. Her parents would have to realize the relationship would never work. If only Troy didn’t want them to act like the perfect couple. “Do you want me to do anything?”

  “Why don’t you get the beers? I chilled some mugs in the freezer.”

  Chilled mugs? Cassandra stared at the bowls and pans in the sink. The scent of the cooling brownies lingered in the air. With custom cabinets and state-of-the-art appliances, the kitchen was a cook’s
dream. The remodeling job had been a present for her mother last year, after their longtime cook retired but Vanessa never had any interest in cooking. Her parents hired a caterer when they had company, even for Christmas dinner, and usually ate out or had their meals delivered. When had her mother turned into Martha Stewart?

  Cassandra grabbed two mugs from the freezer and set them on the counter. Opening the refrigerator, she saw three different brands of bottled beer. “Does Dad prefer a specific kind?”

  “Any one will do, but give them both the same brand. I’m sure your father will want to know Troy’s opinion about the beer.”

  “When did Dad start drinking beer?” She opened the bottles. “I thought he only liked Scotch.”

  “Your father’s always liked beer, but he enjoys the ones from microbreweries best. He’s got a database of all the brands he’s tasted.” Vanessa laughed. “He likes one so much he’s going to invest in it.”

  As Cassandra started to pour the beer, her mother stopped her. “Make sure you tilt the glass. Your father hates too much head.”

  Her father, a beer connoisseur? It was hard for Cassandra to believe, but she poured the beer as her mother suggested. “What are you making?”

  “A light snack.” Vanessa wiped her hands on the apron. “Stuffed mushroom caps, a vegetable tray and brownies.”

  Cassandra eyed the chocolate batter on a wooden spoon. “I thought you gave up cooking.”

  “I did, but I missed it.” Vanessa removed her apron. “Your father had this wonderful kitchen remodeled for me so I figured I should at least attempt to get a small return on his investment.”

  Cassandra grabbed the spoon and licked the chocolate off. “Dad must be happy.”

  Vanessa nodded. “But he’s gaining weight again.”

  “I’m sure the beer isn’t helping.”

  “It isn’t,” her mother agreed, but didn’t seem to mind as long as Dixon was happy.

  “Thanks for going to all of this trouble, Mom.”

  “I want Troy to feel like this is his home, too. After all, he’s practically family.”

  Practically family. The key word was “practically.” “Well, almost.”

  Vanessa sighed. “There’s something you should know, Cassandra.”