“Reconstruction, not destruction,” he interrupted.
She ignored him. “In a starter marriage that has a built-in sunset at one year, no other strings attached?”
“That sums it up.”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t stab you in the hand with my knife.”
He flinched. “Actually, I was waiting for you to give me a good reason.” She looked at him flatly. “I read online that your digital art gallery recently failed.” He said it gently. He could sympathize with a well-thought-out project going sideways—or backward.
She rested her hand on her knife. But she didn’t say anything. Her eyes—beautiful light eyes that walked the line between blue and green—bore into him.
“If there was something that I—as an investor—could help you with,” he went on, keeping his voice quiet, “well, that could be part of our negotiation. It’d be venture capital—not an attempt to buy you,” he added. She took her hand off her knife and put it in her lap, which Ethan took as a sign that he’d hit the correct nerve. He went on, “I wouldn’t—and couldn’t—cut you a personal check. But as an angel investor, I’m sure we could come to terms you’d find satisfactory.”
“Interesting use of the word angel there,” she said. Her voice was quiet. None of the seduction or coquettishness that she’d wielded like a weapon remained.
Finally, he was talking to the real Frances Beaumont. No more artifice, no more layers. Just a beautiful, intelligent woman. A woman he’d just proposed to.
This was for the job, he reminded himself. He was only proposing because he needed to get control of the Beaumont Brewery, and Frances Beaumont was the shortest, straightest line between where he was today and where he needed to be. It had nothing to do with the actual woman.
“Do you do this often? Propose marriage to women connected with the businesses you’re stripping?”
“No, actually. This would be a first for me.”
She picked up her knife, and he unwittingly tensed. One corner of her perfect rosebud mouth quirked into a smile before she began to cut into her lobster tail. “Really? I suppose I should be flattered.”
He began to eat his steak. It had cooled past the optimal temperature, but he figured that was the price one paid for negotiating before the main course arrived. “I’m never in one city for more than a year, usually only for a few months. I have, on occasion, made the acquaintance of a woman with whom I enjoy doing things such as this—dining out, seeing the sights.”
“Having sex?” she asked bluntly.
She was trying to unnerve him again. It might be working. “Yes, when we’re both so inclined. But those were short-term, no-commitment relationships, as agreed upon by both parties.”
“Just a way to pass the time?”
“That might sound harsh, but yes. If you agree to the arrangement, we could dine out like this, maybe attend the theater or whatever it is you do for fun here in Denver.”
“This isn’t exactly a one-horse town anymore, you know. We have theaters and gala benefits and art openings and a football team. Maybe you’ve heard of them?” Her gaze drifted down to his shoulders. “You might consider trying out for the front four.”
Ethan straightened his shoulders. He wasn’t a particularly vain man, but he kept himself in shape, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered that she’d noticed. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
They ate in silence. He decided it was her play. She hadn’t stabbed him, and she hadn’t thrown a drink in his face. He put the odds of getting her to go along with this plan at fifty-fifty.
And if she didn’t... Well, he’d need a new plan.
Her lobster tail was maybe half-eaten when she set her cutlery aside. “I’ve never fielded a marriage proposal like yours before.”
“How many have you fielded?”
She waved the question away. “I’ve lost count. A quickie wedding, a one-year marriage with no sex, an irreconcilable-differences, uncontested divorce—all in exchange for an investment into a property or project of my choice?”
“Basically.” He’d never proposed before. He couldn’t tell if her no-nonsense tone was a good sign or not. “We’d need a prenup.”
“Obviously.” She took a much longer pull on her wine. “I want five million.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I have a friend who wants to launch a new art gallery, with me as the co-owner. She has a business plan worked up and a space selected. All we need is the capital.” She pointed a long, red-tipped nail at him. “And you did offer to invest, did you not?”
She had him there. “I did. Do we have a deal?” He stuck out his hand and waited.
* * *
She must be out of her ever-loving mind.
As Frances regarded the hand Ethan had extended toward her, she was sure she had crossed some line from desperation into insanity to even consider his offer.
Would she really agree to marry the living embodiment of her family’s downfall for what, essentially, was the promise of job security after he was gone? With five million—a too-large number she’d pulled out of thin air—she and Becky could open that gallery in grand style, complete with all the exhibitions and parties it took to wine and dine wealthy art patrons.
This time, it’d be different. It was Becky’s business plan, after all. Not Frances’s. But even that thought stung a bit. Becky’s plan had a chance of working. Unlike all of Frances’s grand plans.
She needed this. She needed something to go her way, something to work out right for once. With a five-million-dollar investment, she and Becky could get the gallery operational and Frances could move out of the Beaumont mansion. Even if she only lived in the apartment over the gallery, it’d still be hers. She could go back to being Frances Beaumont. She could feel like a grown-up in control of her own life.
All it’d take would be giving up that control for a year. Not just giving it up, but giving it to Ethan.
She felt as if she was on the verge of passing out, but she refused to betray a single sign of panic. She did not breathe in deep gulps. She did not drop her head in her hands. And she absolutely did not fiddle with anything. She kept herself serene and calm and did all her panicking on the inside, where no one could see it.
“Well?” Ethan asked. But it wasn’t a gruff demand for an answer. His tone was more cautious than that.
And then there was the man himself. This was all quite noble, this talk of no sex and no emotions. But that didn’t change the fact of the matter—Ethan Logan was one hell of a package. He could make her shiver and shake with the kind of heat she hadn’t felt in a very long time.
Not that it mattered, because it didn’t.
“I don’t believe in love,” she announced, mostly to see what kind of reaction it’d get.
“You don’t? That seems unusually cynical for a woman of your age and beauty.”
She didn’t try to hide her eye roll. “I only mention it because if you’re thinking about pulling one of those ‘I’ll make her love me over time’ stunts, it’s best to nip it in the bud right now.”
She’d seen what people did in the name of love. How they made grand promises they had every intention of keeping until the next pretty face came along. As much as she’d loved her father, she hadn’t been blind to his wandering eye or his wandering hands. She’d seen exactly what had happened to her mother, Jeannie—all because she’d believed in the power of love to tame the untamable Hardwick Beaumont.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Ethan’s hand still hung in the air between them.
“I won’t love you,” she promised him, putting her palm in his. “I’d recommend you not love me.”
Something in his eyes tightened as his fingers closed around hers. “I hope admiration is still on the table?”
She let her gaze drift over his body again. It wasn’t desire, not really. She was an art connoisseur, and she was merely admiring his form. And wondering how it’d function. “I suppose.”
“When do you want to get married?”
She thought it over. Married. The word felt weird rattling around her head. She’d never wanted to be married, never wanted to be tied to someone who could hurt her.
Of course, her brother Phillip had recently had a fairy-tale wedding that had been everything she might have ever wanted, if she’d actually wanted it. Which she didn’t.
No, a big public spectacle was not the way to go here. This was, by all public appearances, a whirlwind romance, starting yesterday when she’d sashayed into his office. “I think we should cultivate the impression that we are swept up in the throes of passion.”
“Agreed.”
“Let’s get married in two weeks.”
Just saying it out loud made her want to hyperventilate. What would her brothers say to this, her latest stunt in a long line of stunts? “Frannie,” she could practically hear Chadwick intone in his too-serious voice. “I don’t think...” And Matthew? He was the one who always wanted everyone to line up and smile for the cameras and look like a big happy family. What would he say when she up and got herself hitched?
Then there was Byron, her twin. She’d thought she’d known Byron better than any other person in the world, and vice versa. But in the matter of a few weeks, he’d gone from her brother to a married man with a son and another baby on the way. Well, if anyone would understand her sudden change in matrimonial status, it’d be Byron.
Everyone else—especially Chadwick and Matthew—would just have to deal. This was her life. She could damn well do what she pleased with it.
Even if that meant marrying Ethan Logan.
Six
Ethan didn’t know if it was the wine or the woman, but throughout the rest of dinner, he felt light-headed.
He was going to get married. To Frances Beaumont. In two weeks.
Which was great. Everything was going according to plan. He would demonstrate to the world that the Beaumonts were behind the restructuring of the Beaumont Brewery. That would buy him plenty of goodwill at the Brewery.
Yup. It was a great plan. There was just one major catch.
Frances leaned toward him and shrugged her jacket off. The sight of her bare shoulders hammered a spike of desire up his gut. He wasn’t used to this sort of craving. Even when he found a lady friend to keep him company during his brief stints in cities around the country, he didn’t usually succumb to this much lust.
His previous relationships were founded on...well, on not lust. Companionship was a part of it, sure. The sex was a bonus, definitely. And the women he consorted with were certainly lovely.
But the way he reacted to Frances? That was something else. Something different.
Something that threatened to break free from him.
Which was ridiculous. He was the boss. He was in control of this—all of this. The situation, his desires—
Well, maybe not his desires, not when Frances leaned forward and looked up at him coyly through her lashes. It shouldn’t work, but it did.
“Well, then. Shall we get started?”
“Started?” But the word died on his lips when she reached across the table and ran her fingertips over his chin.
“Started,” she agreed. She held out her hand, and he took it. He had no choice. “I happen to know a thing or two about creating a public sensation. We’re already off to a great start, what with the confrontation outside your office and now this very public dinner. Kiss my hand again.”
He did as he was told, pressing her skin against his lips and getting a hint of expensive perfume and the underlying taste of Frances.
He looked up to find her beaming at him, the megawatt smile probably visible from out on the sidewalk. But it wasn’t real. Even he could tell that.
“So, kissing hands is on the table?” He didn’t move her hand far from his mouth. He didn’t want to.
When had he lost his head this much? When had he been this swamped by raw, unadulterated want? He needed to get his head back out of his pants and focus. He had explicitly promised that he would not make sex a deal breaker. He needed to keep his word, or the deal would be done before it got started.
“Oh, yes,” she purred. Then she flipped her hand over in his grip and traced his lower lip with her thumb. “I’d imagine that there are several things still on the table.”
Such as? His blood was beating a new, merciless rhythm in his veins, driving that spike of desire higher and higher until he was in actual pain. His mind helpfully supplied several vivid images that involved him, Frances and a table.
He caught her thumb in his mouth and sucked on it, his tongue tracing the edge of her perfectly manicured nail. Her eyes widened with desire, her pupils dilating until he could barely see any of the blue-green color at all. He swore he could see her nipples tighten through the fabric of her dress. Oh, yeah—a table, a bed—any flat surface would do. It didn’t even have to be flat. Good sex could be had standing up.
He let go of her thumb and kissed her hand again. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“I’d like that,” she whispered back.
It took a few minutes to settle the bill, during which every single look she shot him only made his blood pound that much harder. When had he been this overcome with lust? When had a simple business arrangement become an epic struggle?
She stood, and he realized the dress was completely backless. The wide swath of smooth, creamy skin that was Frances’s back lay bare before him. His fingers itched to trace the muscles, to watch her body twitch under his touch.
He didn’t want her to put her jacket back on and cover up that beautiful skin. And, thankfully, she didn’t. She waited for him to assist her with her chair and then said, “Will you carry my jacket for me?”
“Of course.” He folded it over one arm and then offered his other to her.
She leaned into his touch, her gorgeous red curls brushing against his shoulder. “Did you ever play football?” she asked, running her hands up and down his forearms. “Or were you just born this way?”
There was something he was supposed to be remembering, something that was important about Frances. But he couldn’t think about anything but the way she’d looked in that green dress yesterday and the way she looked right now. The way he felt when she touched him.
He flexed under her hands and was rewarded with a little gasp from her. “I played. I got a scholarship to play in college, but I blew out my knee.”
They were walking down the long hallway that separated the restaurant from the hotel. Then it’d be a quick turn to the left and into the elevators. A man could get into a lot of trouble in an elevator.
But they didn’t even make it to the elevator. The moment they got to the middle of the lobby, Frances reached across his chest and slid her hand under his coat. Just like it had in the office yesterday, her touch burned him.
“Oh, that sounds awful,” she breathed, curling her fingers around his shirt and pulling him toward her.
The noise of the lobby faded away until there was only the touch of her hand and the beating of his heart.
He turned into her, lowering his head. “Terrible,” he agreed, but he no longer knew what they were talking about. All he knew was that he was going to kiss her.
Their lips met. The kiss was tentative at first as he tested her and she tested him. But then her mouth opened for him, and his control—the control he’d maintained for years and years, the control that made him a savvy businessman with millions in the bank—shattered on him.
He tangled his hands into her hair and roughly pulled her up to his mouth so he could taste her better—taste all of her. Diml
y, somewhere in the back of his mind where at least three brain cells were doing their best to think about something beyond Frances’s touch, Frances’s taste—dimly, he realized they were standing in the middle of a crowd, although he’d forgotten exactly where they were.
There was a wolf whistle. And a second one—this one accompanied by laughter.
Frances pulled away, her impressive chest heaving and her eyes glazed with lust. “Your suite,” she whispered, and then her tongue darted out, tracing a path on her lips that he needed to follow.
“Yeah. Sure.” She could have suggested jumping out of an airplane at thirty thousand feet and he would have done it. Just so long as she went down with him.
Somehow, despite the tangle of arms and jackets, they made it to the elevators and then onto one. Other people were waiting, but no one joined them on the otherwise-empty lift. “Sorry,” Frances said to the waiting guests as she curled up against his chest. “We’ll send it back down,” she added as the doors closed and shut them away from the rest of the world.
Then they were alone. Ethan slid his hands down her bare back before he cupped her bottom. “Where were we?”
“Here,” she murmured, pressing her lips against his neck, right above his collar. “And here.” Her teeth scraped over his skin as she pressed the full length of her body against his. “And...here.”
She didn’t touch him through his pants, not with her hands—but with her body? She shifted against him, and the pressure drove those last three rational brain cells out of his mind. “God, yes,” he groaned, fisting his hands into her curls and tilting her head back. “How could I forget?”
He didn’t give her time to reply. He crushed his mouth against hers. There wasn’t any more time for testing kisses—all that existed in the safe space of this little moving room was his need for her and, given the way she was kissing him back, her need for him.
He liked sex—he always had. He prided himself on being good at it. But had he ever been this excited? This consumed with need? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t think, not with Frances moaning into his mouth and arching her back, pushing her breasts into his body.
Falling For Her Fake Fiancé (The Beaumont Heirs 5) Page 5