by Leslie North
If she had known there were asses like the one on this man to be found back home where she came from, she would never have left England.
Focus, Diana. For Christ’s sake. Diana cleared her throat. Next, she heard herself speaking aloud, and she trusted what she was telling the media man were true and accurate facts about the organization she volunteered for... but that was putting a lot of trust in a brain that had been only half-functional since meeting him.
God, this Tony was a dreamboat. She had never thought to apply the term to anyone outside a film hero, but here he was: the boat that female dreams sailed on. He was tall, easily a head taller than her; Diana didn’t think she had an acquaintance that cleared his shoulders. And Lord, what shoulders. Broad and powerful in a way that made his easy, assertive posture natural, but didn’t look out of proportion to the rest of him.
Her gaze climbed him the way she herself wished she could. Over and over again, Diana allowed her thoughts to wander as she took in this gorgeous media man. His face was tan, youthful, but with a hint of laugh lines fanning out around those gorgeous baby blues. She wasn’t sure what the preferred haircut was around his office, but his blond locks were probably half an inch longer than typically met with professional approval, and his stubble a day or two overgrown. He even had a dimple at the dead center of his chin as if God had signed off there on His perfect work.
“Miss Tinsley?”
“Huh?” Diana blinked, belatedly realizing she had trailed off mid-sentence. Her only problem was, she couldn’t remember what the sentence had been. No hope of recovering her train of thought, or speech, rather.
“Water?” Tony offered her the bottle she had first handed him, and she accepted without thinking. It struck her midway through her first gulp that his lips had touched it first.
“Thank you. Sorry, I was distracted. Where were we?”
“I was just about to tell you that I’m not the man you should be telling all this to.”
Diana blinked, then choked. A trickle of water escaped down her chin. She drew her hand across her lips and demanded, “I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, I am Tony Harrington,” he informed her. “I’m just not with the marketing team.” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Wish you wouldn’t look at me that way. I didn’t know how to tell you, there in the bar.” He smiled. “You did seem rather keen on starting your tour.”
“I... you...”
The truth was, he hadn’t lied to her. She had assumed, and maybe more than half of that assumption had been built on wishful thinking.
Now she stood impotent before him, probably as wide-eyed and baffled as one of the dogtooths the fishermen were unloading behind her on the dock. She wished they’d cart her away along with the rest of their catch.
“My apologies,” she arrived at finally. “Clearly I had you mistaken for someone else.” Clearly. He might have said something sooner!
“Good to be mistaken.” This Tony character seemed completely unbothered that she had single-handedly hijacked his afternoon; in fact, he was looking rather entirely too pleased with the situation. “It was an easy excuse to spend the afternoon with you.”
“I—then what have you been scribbling down all this time?” Her cheeks burned so badly, she felt sunburned, though of course as a traveling Englishwomen, she had slathered on sunscreen less than an hour ago. She was embarrassed beyond belief and could scarcely bear to look at the human being in front of her.
“What, this?” Tony waved the notepad, then held it out to her. “Figured I’d take notes for our man. I didn’t mind standing in for him, but I’m sure he’ll be on time next time—once he lays eyes on you.”
Eyes on her? What was that supposed to mean? If it was a compliment, Diana refused to examine it long enough to come to some understanding. Her thoughts were a complete and hopeless muddle, and the way he was smiling at her only made it all the worse.
She reached for the notepad and was mostly unsurprised when Tony drew it away again. He had tricked her once—it made sense that his subterfuge wouldn’t end there!
“May I have those, please?” she asked. Given how she was feeling, her ask was closer to a demand than a plea.
“Of course. Only...” Tony wagged the pencil he’d clenched between his extraordinary teeth. Focus, Diana. “... only I hadn’t quite finished jotting down all that you told me on the tour. I could return it to you tonight.”
“Tonight?” Her confusion persisted. Damn, did she need to hydrate more, or what? Why had her normally knife-sharp brain ceased to function at its regular killing pace the moment she’d met this infuriating stranger?
“When you join me for dinner.” His eyes were wide and innocent, the devilish quirk in his mouth less so. If he thought he was being charming, he thought right. “It’s the least I can do, as a fellow ex-pat.”
“I...” Diana shook her head. “I’m sorry, this... this was my mistake. I need to get back to our offices and sort this out.”
“Miss Tinsley, wait.” Tony caught her arm as she moved to turn away from him. “I’m sorry. Use me as an excuse. Tell them I lied to you.”
“You did lie,” she said bitterly. “By omission.”
“And you were all too quick to believe that I was the one you were looking for.”
Diana flushed. “That doesn’t... mean anything.”
“Why don’t we find out if it means anything?” Tony suggested.
“Over dinner?” she guessed. Not much of a guess. He’d already mentioned dinner, after all.
“Yes. Over dinner.”
The offer was tempting. The man was tempting. Diana turned into him, and he released her arm... he seemed irritatingly certain that she wouldn’t try to escape a second time.
“Thank you, Mr. Harrington.” She rose up on her tiptoes and plucked the notepad from his fingers. The exchange brought her within inches of his nose: was it her imagination, or was his answering rapid blink a sign that she had put him on his toes? “But I’m afraid I have to decline. Again. Work calls.”
“All work and no play makes Fiji a dull vacay!” Tony called after her as she turned and sauntered away. “Do you want my number, at least?”
“I think your number’s up, Tony Harrington,” she fired back at him over her shoulder. “Have fun on your vacay! Some of us have lives to make better!”
“Well, when you want to make your own life better, let me know,” he replied.
Diana stifled a grin and shook her head. What was with that guy? No man on earth had any business being that arrogant—and that irresistibly charming.
Good thing her resistance was guy-proof.
The Tycoon’s Convenient Bride
Available 13 February 2020
LeslieNorthBooks.com
BLURB
Gregor Beaumont is in a world of hurt that all the charm in his gorgeous, well-toned body can’t fix. His late grandfather, God rest his soul, wanted to make sure Gregor and his two playboy brothers settle down. He had the brilliant idea of buying up a huge share of the brothers’ engine company and using that as incentive for each brother to find Mrs. Right. Settle down or lose the company to a competitor. Well, that’s just not happening to Gregor, not when life’s so good at the moment. Gregor likes racing fast cars and seducing fast women, and not necessarily in that order. Settle down? Not a chance. Gregor has his own brilliant idea: find some wholesome and desperate girl to pretend to be his girlfriend. No harm. No foul. Unless things start getting a little bit too real.
Kara Alerby knows she’s a sucker for blues eyes and a great smile, so when Gregor comes into her theater wanting to hire her to act the part of his adoring girlfriend, she’s already got her defenses on high alert. But Kara’s a practical girl, and Gregor’s offering a boatload of money that would go a long way toward making her dream of creating a fine arts school for gifted kids a reality. She can ignore his smiles, his charisma, and his kiss-me mouth if it means she’ll get her school. All she has to do is rem
ind herself, every second of every day they’re together, that it’s all make believe—even when it doesn’t always feel that way.
When Greg’s love of racing puts his life in jeopardy, Kara isn’t ready to watch another person die in front of her like her father did. And Greg isn’t about to stop doing the one thing that makes life worth living. The two are on a collision course, one that could break them apart forever if they don’t change directions…
Grab your copy of
The Billionaire’s Sham Girlfriend here.
EXCERPT
Chapter 1
Kara lurked in the back row of the grand old theater as students filed in. It was the first afternoon of a new session of summer improv, but inside, shadows clung to the corners and wings, casting the nearly one-hundred-year-old theater in a somber, reverent mood.
As more students filed in, filling the first three rows sporadically, Kara checked her email for what she promised herself would be the last time that afternoon.
She’d been waiting for news for what felt like an eternity, but really it had only been a semester. In the middle of last school year, she found out that her beloved community theater would be put up for sale—and the owner was motivated to sell. Too motivated for Kara’s tastes, since her long-held dream was to buy this space and open her own school for the arts. Maybe she’d held the dream too close to her heart, because the past six months had been a crush of grant applications and community pleading. Foster the Arts and Save Our Theater had been practically the only words on her lips since January.
And this week the grant decision was due to arrive.
The little circle spun in the middle of her screen as the app checked for new mail for the billionth time that day. Her belly clenched as her inbox refreshed. No new emails. Christ on a stick. She pocketed her phone with a sigh. The email should have arrived Monday, and now it was Wednesday. Every minute she had to wait for this decision was another minute when someone else might buy the theater and ruin her dream.
Because this was it. This was all she had. Acting, directing, teaching. She was born only to do this.
“Just keep filling in the seats.” Kara’s assistant Lexie waved people in as they hesitated near the door or got lost in conversation. “We’ll be starting in about five minutes.”
Kara watched the filling rows without really seeing them. What would she do if she didn’t get the grant? There was no way she could afford this theater on her meager high school drama teacher paycheck. Hell, these improv classes were the only way she could really live comfortably, afford the occasional night out. And only because she’d worked so hard to grow them and really make the improv classes popular in their Seattle suburb.
She blinked hard, trying to get a head count from her distant vantage point. She liked to keep her distance at the start of a new class, have a chance to observe without being observed, like an actor peering from the wings on the opening night of a new play. It gave her perspective. A chance to let her persona settle into place before she burst onto the stage, the bright and bubbly Ms. Alerby the community had come to expect.
Her hand gravitated toward the phone in the back pocket of her denim shorts. Before she realized it, she was checking her email again.
This time, the circle spun for a bit longer than before. Or maybe she just stared more intently at it, forcing time to slow. Her phone buzzed with a new email.
“RE: SEEKING GRANT FOR COMMUNITY THEATER”
Her breath caught in her throat, the conversation and chatter of the theater dulling to a whisper as she stared at the new arrival. It was here. Finally. She paused before swiping it open, mind circling back to revisit every doubt and worry she’d nursed for the past six months. They’ve got to approve it. You’ve got it. I know I got this.
She bit her lip and opened it, rereading the opening line almost five times before digesting anything.
And then she read it again. Just to be sure that she had understood it correctly.
“Dear Ms. Alerby, we regret to inform you that your grant was not selected for…”
Her mouth parted, her gaze drifting away while the email shone up at her. It couldn’t be right. She checked the text again—“While carefully crafted, your proposal was not the strongest that reached our table…”—and the truth shuddered through her, leaving a sick, hot wake behind it.
Her ears rang, and she stuffed the phone in her back pocket. Class would start in just a few minutes. She had to shake this off. She’d pore over the email later, beat herself up for losing this opportunity, and begin the mourning process.
Lexie was looking at her from the front of the auditorium, worry knit into her brow. Maybe she’d seen her staring aghast at her phone. And then Kara noticed Mr. Hofstadt, the theater manager, beside her, squeezing her shoulder, sending a smile her way before excusing himself from the side doors. Kara’s stomach wrenched again. Why had he stopped by? Could this possibly be more bad news? Maybe he’d come to tell her that her improv classes would be cancelled immediately, due to the theater selling to someone else.
Lexie strode up the middle aisle, her clipboard clutched to her chest. Her dark tresses looked shiny, pulled back into a smooth ponytail, as she walked toward Kara at the back of the theater.
“What was that about?” Kara whispered, even though she didn’t have to.
“Why are you whispering?” Lexie whispered back.
Sometimes, it felt like speaking in a regular volume would make something real. And this news was not something she wanted to be real. “Because I feel like it. What did he say?”
Lexie nibbled on her bottom lip. “Mr. Hofstadt said that he spoke with the property owner.”
Kara stilled, immediately reaching out for Lexie’s wrist. She’d almost forgotten, in the whirlwind of waiting for the overdue grant response, that she’d been expecting a reply from the property owner about her request to postpone the sale.
“Tell me he’s going to throw me a bone,” Kara whispered.
Lexie shook her head, and Kara’s stomach clattered to the ground. “Mr. Hofstadt can’t get a word out of him. Mr. Walton won’t share any information about the theater, and every time Mr. Hofstadt tries, he gets shut down. The owner just doesn’t want to negotiate anything that isn’t an immediate sale.”
Kara clenched Lexie’s wrist a bit tighter before letting go, shifting her gaze to the few rows of heads looking toward the stage. Despair circled inside her, but class needed to start, and this wasn’t the time to lament. No, that would come later, with a bottle of wine and lots of screaming into her pillow.
Your dream is about to be flushed down the toilet.
She cleared her throat, sending a pointed look to Lexie. In a normal voice, she said, “We should start the class. Go close the door, and I’ll start introductions.” This could be the last class you ever teach inside this place.
Lexie nodded, still nibbling nervously at her lip. “Also, I wanted to tell you that we had a walk-in.”
“That’s fine.” Kara waved her hand dismissively.
“He paid for the whole class, even though he said he’ll just be able to attend today.”
Kara creased her brow. “Weird. But I’ll take his money if he insists.”
Lexie scanned the front of the house, then pointed toward someone on the left side of the theater. “There he is. See him?”
Kara struggled to follow Lexie’s finger, but couldn’t discern which head his might be.
“He’s mega-gorgeous,” Lexie added, dropping her hand. “You won’t miss him.”
Kara nodded tersely. Probably another early-twenties Hollywood hopeful who was too attractive for his own good. She got enough of them as it was. But she knew better than to fall for their fawn-over-me charm. “Grab the doors.”
Lexie ran toward the side doors, and Kara counted to ten before beginning a slow walk down the center aisle. She absorbed the clamor of voices, the echoes off the elaborately arched and decorated walls. As she reached the first row of stu
dents, her voice cut through the chatter.
“Hello, students!” The forced brightness of her greeting rang false to her, but she knew it carried perfectly. No one would suspect the dark clouds inside her right now. “Welcome to the first day of summer improv.”
Her students turned, almost thirty faces in various shades of curiosity, anxiety, or excitement. Improv classes attracted as many introverts as they did extroverts, and while everyone who signed up always did so of their own free will, nerves usually abounded. Especially once the welcome games began.
Kara introduced herself and Lexie and then got down to business. “We’ll be here for six weeks, two days a week, with ample homework and plenty of comfort zone–destroying games ahead of us.” The class tittered nervously. She swept her gaze across the students as she spoke, trying to get familiar with the new faces.
“If you’ve ever wanted to get more comfortable speaking in front of a crowd, ace your next audition for a play, or just generally learn how to respond quickly to basically anything that anyone could ever throw your way, you’ve come to the right place.” Kara offered a reassuring smile, her skin prickling when she noticed someone in the farthest seat, close to the door, with their head down. Probably buried in their phone already.
She headed that way as she made a slow stroll in front of the stage, glancing discreetly at the offending student. It wasn’t often she got disrespectful students in the summer classes. High school was another story. Her exasperated-teacher hackles had already risen.
“To begin, let’s do introductions.” Kara watched the student, clearly a grown man, his tousled, dark-blond hair shrouding his face as he bent over his phone. He cut a boxy profile, strong square shoulders under an expensive-looking button-down shirt. “This is both practical and a memory test.” She grinned devilishly as she explained the game in which every student introduced themselves by alliterating their name with a descriptive word, making a gesture, and repeating the introduction of the person that came before them.