Falling For Her Fake Fiancé (The Beaumont Heirs 5)

by Sarah M. Anderson

  He reached up and started to undo the tie at the back of her neck, but she grabbed his hand and held it at waist height. “We’re almost there,” she murmured in a coy tone. “Can you wait just a little longer?”

  No. “Yes.”

  Love and sex and, yes, marriage—that was all about waiting. There’d never been any instant gratification in it for him. He’d waited until he’d been eighteen before losing his virginity because it was a test of sorts. Everyone else was going as fast as they could, but Ethan was different. Better. He could resist the fire. He would not get burned.

  Frances shifted against him again, and he groaned in the most delicious agony that had ever consumed him. Her touch—even through his clothing—seared him. For the first time in his life, he wanted to dance with the flames.

  One flame—one flame-haired woman—in particular. Oh, how they would dance.

  The elevator dinged. “Is this us?” Frances asked in a shaky whisper.

  “This way.” He grabbed her hand and strode out of the elevator. It was perhaps not the most gentlemanly way of going about it—essentially dragging her in her impossible shoes along behind him—but he couldn’t help himself. If she couldn’t walk, he’d carry her.

  His suite was at the end of a long, quiet hall. The only noise that punctuated the silence was the sound of his blood pounding in his temples, pushing him faster until he was all but running, pulling Frances in his wake. Each step was pain and pleasure wrapped in one, his erection straining to do anything but walk. Or run.

  After what felt like an hour of never-ending journeying, he reached his door. Torturous seconds passed as he tried to get the key card to work. Then the door swung open and he was pulling her inside, slamming the door shut behind them and pinning her against it. Her hands curled into his shirt, holding him close.

  He must have had one lone remaining brain cell functioning, because instead of ripping that dress off her body so he could feast himself upon it, he paused to say, “Tell me what you want.”

  Because whatever she wanted was what he wanted.

  Or maybe she wasn’t holding him close. The thought occurred to him belatedly, just about the time her mouth curved up into what was a decidedly nonseductive smile. She pushed on his chest, and he had no choice but to let her. “Anything I want?”

  She’d pushed him away, but her voice was still colored with craving, with a need he could feel more than hear. Maybe she wanted him to tie her up. Maybe she wanted to tie him up instead. Whatever it was, he was game.

  “Yeah.” He tried to lean back down to kiss her again, but she was strong for a woman her size. She held him back.

  “I wonder what’s on TV?”

  * * *

  It took every ounce of her willpower to push Ethan back, to push herself away from the door, but she did it anyway. She forced herself to stroll casually over to the dresser that held the flat-screen television and grab the remote. Then, without daring to look at Ethan, she flopped down on the bed. It was only after she’d propped herself up on her elbows and turned on the television that she hazarded a look at him.

  He was leaning against the door. His jacket was half off; his shirt was a rumpled mess. He looked as though she’d mauled him. She was a little hazy on the details, but, as best she could recall, she had.

  She turned her attention back to the television, randomly clicking without actually seeing what was on-screen. She’d only meant to put on a little show for the crowd. If they were going to do this sham marriage thing in two weeks, they needed to start their scandalous activities right now. Kissing in a lobby, getting into the elevator together? She was unmistakable with her red hair. And Ethan—he wasn’t that hard to look up. People would make the connection. And people, being reliable, would talk.

  When she’d stroked his face at dinner, she’d seen the headlines in her mind. “Whirlwind Romance between Beaumont Heir and New Brewery CEO?” That was what Ethan wanted, wasn’t it? The air of Beaumont approval. This was nothing but a PR ploy.

  Except...

  Except for the way he’d kissed her. The way he’d kept kissing her.

  At some point between when he’d sucked on her thumb and the kiss in the lobby—the first one, she mentally corrected—the game they’d been playing had changed.

  It was all supposed to have been for show. But the way he had pinned her against the door in this very nice room? The way his deep voice had begged her to tell him what she wanted?

  That hadn’t felt like a game. That hadn’t been for show.

  The only thing that had kept her from spinning right over the edge was the knowledge that he didn’t want her. Oh, he wanted her—naked, that was—but he didn’t want her, Frances—complicated and crazy and more than a little lost. He’d only touched her because he wanted something, and she could not allow that to cloud her thinking.

  “What—” He cleared his throat, but it didn’t make his voice any stronger. “What are you doing?”

  “Watching television.” She kicked her heels up.

  She cut another side glance at Ethan. He hadn’t moved. “Why?”

  It took everything Frances had to make herself sound glib and light. “What else are we going to do?”

  His mouth dropped down to his chest. “I don’t mean to sound crass, but...sex?”

  Frances couldn’t help it. Her gaze drifted down to the impressive bulge in his pants—the same bulge that had ground against her in the elevator.

  Sex. The thought of undoing those pants and letting that bulge free sent an uncontrollable shiver down her back. She snapped her eyes back to the television screen. “Really,” she said in a dismissive tone.

  There was a moment where the only noise in the room was the sound of Ethan breathing heavily and some salesman on TV yelling about a cleaning cloth.

  “Then what was that all about?” Ethan gruffly demanded.

  “Creating an impression.” She did not look at him.

  “And who were we impressing in the elevator?”

  She put on her most innocent look—which, granted, would have been a lot easier if her nipples weren’t still chafing against the front of her dress. “Fine. A test, then.”

  Ethan was suddenly in front of the television, arms crossed as he glared down at her. “A test?”

  “It has to be convincing, this relationship we’re pretending to have,” she explained, making a big show of looking around his body, rather than at the still-obvious bulge in his pants. “But part of the deal was that we don’t have sex.” She let that sink in before adding, “You’re not going to back out of the deal, are you?”

  Because that was a risk, and she knew it. There were many ways a deal could go south—especially when sex was on the line.

  “You’re testing me?” He took a step to the side, trying to block her view of the screen again.

  “I won’t marry just anyone, you know. I have standards.”

  She could feel the weight of his glare on her face, but she refused to allow her skin to flush. She leaned the other way. Not that she had any idea of what she was watching. Her every sense was tuned into Ethan.

  It’d be so easy to change her mind, to tell him that he’d passed his first test and that she had another test in mind—one that involved less clothing for everyone. She could find out what was behind that bulge and whether or not he knew how to use it.

  She could have a few minutes where she wouldn’t have to feel alone and adrift, where she could lose herself in Ethan. But that was all it would be. A few minutes.

  And then the sex would be done, and she’d go back to being broke, unemployed Frances who was trading on her good looks even as they began to slip away. And Ethan? Well, he’d probably still marry her and fund her art gallery. But he’d know her in a way that felt too intimate, too personal.

 
Not that she was a shy, retiring virgin—she wasn’t. But she had to keep her eye on the long game here, which was reestablishing herself and the Beaumont name and inflicting as much collateral damage on the new Brewery owners and operators as possible.

  So this was her, inflicting a little collateral damage on Ethan—even if the dull throb that seemed to circle between her legs and up to her nipples felt like a punishment in its own right.

  Okay, so it was a lot of collateral damage.

  She realized she was holding her breath as she waited. Would he render their deal null and void? She didn’t think so. She might not always be the best judge of men, but she was pretty sure Ethan wasn’t going to claim sex behind tired old lines like “she led me on.” There was something about him that was more honorable than that.

  Funny. She hadn’t thought of him as honorable before this moment.

  But he was. He muttered something that sounded like a curse before he stalked out of her line of vision. She heard the bathroom door slam shut and exhaled.

  The score was Frances: two and Ethan: one. She was winning.

  She shifted on the bed. If only victory wasn’t taking the shape of sexual frustration.

  Frances had just stumbled on some sort of sporting event—basketball, maybe?—when Ethan threw the bathroom door open again. He stalked into the room in nothing but his trousers and a plain white T-shirt. He went over to the desk, set against the window, and opened his computer. “How long do you need to be here?” he asked in an almost-mean voice.

  “That’s open to discussion.” She looked over at him. He was pointedly glaring at the computer screen. “I obviously didn’t bring a change of clothing.”

  That got his attention. “You wouldn’t stay the night, would you?”

  Was she wrong, or was there a note of panic in his voice? She pushed herself into a sitting position, tucking her feet under her skirt. “Not yet, I don’t think. But perhaps by next week, yes. For appearances.”

  He stared at her for another tight moment and then ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. “This seemed like such a good idea in my head,” he groaned.

  She almost felt bad for him. “We’ll need to have dinner in public again tomorrow night. In fact, at least four or five nights a week for the next two weeks. Then I’ll start sleeping over and—”

  “Here?” He made a show of noticing there was only one bed and a pullout couch. “Shouldn’t I come to your place?”

  “Um, no.” The very last thing she needed was to parade her fake intended husband through the Beaumont mansion. God only knew what Chadwick would do if he caught wind of this little scheme of hers. “No, we should stick to a more public setting. The hotel suits nicely.”

  “Well.” He sagged back in his chair. “That’s the evenings. And during the day?”

  She considered. “I’ll come to the office a couple of times a week. We’ll say that we’re discussing the sale of the antiques. On the days I don’t stop by, you should have Delores order flowers for me.”

  At that, Ethan cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “I like flowers, and you want to look thoughtful and attentive, don’t you?” she snapped. “Fake marriage or not, I expect to be courted.”

  “And what do I get out of this again?”

  “A wife.” A vein stood out on his forehead, and she swore she could see the pulse in his massive neck even at this distance. “And an art gallery.” She smiled widely.

  The look he shot her was hard enough that she shrank back.

  “So,” she said, unwilling to let the conversation drift back to sex just quite yet. “Tell me about this successful long-distance relationship that we’re modeling our marriage upon.”

  “What?”

  “You said at dinner that you’ve seen long-distance relationships work quite well. Personally, I’ve never seen any relationship work well, regardless of distance.”

  The silence between them grew. In the background, she heard the whistles and buzzers of the game on the TV.

  “It’s not important,” he finally said. “So, fine. We won’t exactly be long-distance for the next two weeks. Then we get married. Then what?”

  “Oh, I imagine we’ll have to keep up appearances for a month or so.”

  “A month?”

  “Or so. Ethan,” she said patiently. “Do you want this to be convincing or not? If we stop being seen together the day after we tie the knot, no one will believe it wasn’t a publicity stunt.”

  He jumped out of his chair and began to pace. “See—when I said long-distance, I didn’t actually anticipate being in your company constantly.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” She batted her eyes when he shot her an incredulous look.

  “Only if you keep kissing me like you did in the elevator.”

  “I can kiss you less, but we have to spend time together.” She shifted so she was cross-legged on the bed. “Can you do that? At the very least, we have to be friends.”

  The look he gave her was many things—perhaps angry, horny—but “friendly” was not on the list.

  “If you can’t, we can still call it off. A night of wild indiscretion, we’ll both ‘no comment’ to the press—it’s not a big deal.” She shrugged.

  “It’s a huge deal. If I roll into the Brewery after everyone thinks I had a one-night stand with you and then threw you to the curb, they’ll hang me up by my toenails.”

  “I am rather well liked by the employees,” she said, not a little smugly. “Which is why you thought up this plan in the first place, is it not?”

  He looked to the ceiling and let out another muttered curse. “Such a good idea,” he said again.

  “Best laid plans of mice and men and all that,” she agreed. “Well?”

  He did a little more unproductive pacing, and she let him think. Honestly, she didn’t know which way she wanted him to go.

  There’d been the heat that had arced between them, heat that had melted her in places that hadn’t been properly melted in a very long time. She’d kissed before, but Ethan’s mouth against hers—his body against hers—

  She needed the money. She needed the fresh start that an angel investor could provide. She needed to feel the power and prestige that went with the Beaumont name—or had, before Ethan had taken over. She needed her life back. And if she got to take the one man who embodied her fall from grace down a couple of pegs, all the better.

  It was all at her fingertips. All she had to do was get married to a man she’d promised not to love. How hard could that be? She could probably even have sex with him—and it would be so good—without love ever entering into the equation.

  “No more kissing in the elevator.”

  “Agreed.” At least, that’s what she said. She would be lying if she didn’t admit she was enjoying the way she’d so clearly brought him to his knees with desire.

  “What do people do in this town on a Sunday afternoon?”

  That was a yes. She’d get her funding and make a few headlines and be back on top of the world for a while.

  “I’ll take it easy on you tomorrow—we need to give the gossip time to develop.”

  He shot her a look and, for the first time since dinner, smiled. It appeared to be a genuine smile even. It set off his strong chin and deep eyes nicely. Not that she wanted him to know that. “Should I be worried that you know this much about manipulating the press?”

  She brushed that comment aside. “It comes with the territory of being a Beaumont. I’ll leave after this game is over, and then I’ll stop by the office on Monday. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  They didn’t shake on it. Neither of them, it seemed, wanted to tempt fate by touching again.

  Seven

  “Becky? You’re not going to believe this,” F
rances said as she stood in front of her closet, weighing the red evening gown versus something more...restrained. She hated being restrained, but on her current budget, it was a necessary concession.

  “What? Something good?”

  Frances grinned. Becky was easily excitable. Frances was pretty sure she could hear her friend bouncing up and down. “Something great. I found an investor.”

  There was some screaming. Frances held the phone as far away from her face as she could until the noise died down. She flicked through the hangers. She needed something sexy that didn’t look as if she was trying too hard. The red gown would definitely be trying too hard for a Monday at the office. “Still with me?”

  “Ohmygosh—this is so exciting! How much were they willing to invest?”

  Frances braced herself for more screaming. “Up to five.”

  “Thousand?”

  “Million.” She immediately jerked the phone away from her head, but there was no sound. She cautiously put it back to her ear. “Becky?”

  “I—it—what? I heard you wrong,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I thought you said...”

  “Million. Five million,” Frances repeated, her fingers landing on her one good suit—the Escada. It was a conservative cut—at least by her standards—with a formfitting pencil skirt that went below her knee and a close-cropped jacket with only a little peplum at the waist.

  It was the color, however—a warm hot pink—that made her impossible to miss.

  Oh—this would be perfect. All business but still dramatic. She pulled it out.

  “What—how? How?” Frances had never heard Becky this speechless before. “Your brothers?”

  Frances laughed. “Oh no—you know Chadwick cut me off after the last debacle. This is a new investor.”

  There was a pause. “Is he cute?”

  Frances scowled—not that Becky could see it, but she did anyway. She did not like being predictable. “No.” And that wasn’t a lie.