Falling For Her Fake Fiancé (The Beaumont Heirs 5)

by Sarah M. Anderson

  “No. Brother or father?”

  He wasn’t surprised. Her brother Chadwick would probably recognize the name, but that wasn’t Frances’s world. “Father. Notorious on Wall Street for buying companies and dismantling them at a profit.”

  She tilted her head from side to side. “I take it the apple did not fall terribly far from the tree?”

  “I don’t take companies apart. I restructure them.” She gave him an arch look, and he gave in. “But, yes, you’re correct. We’re in nearly the same line of work.”

  “And...” she said. “Your mother?”

  “Wanda Kensington.” He braced for the reaction.

  He didn’t have to wait long. She gasped, which made him wince. “What? You don’t mean—the Wanda Kensington? The artist?”

  “I can’t tell you how rare it is that someone knows my mother’s name but not my father’s,” he said, stroking her hair away from her face.

  “Don’t change the subject,” she snapped, sitting all the way up. Which left her bare breasts directly in Ethan’s line of sight. The diamonds he’d bought for her glittered between those perfect breasts. “Your mother is—but Wanda’s known for her art installations! Massive performance pieces that take like a year to assemble! I don’t ever remember reading anything about her having a family.”

  “She wasn’t around much. I don’t know why they got married, and I don’t know why they stayed married. I’m not even sure they like each other. They never made sense,” he admitted. “She’d be gone for months, a year—we had nannies that my father was undoubtedly sleeping with—and then she’d walk back in like no time at all had passed and pretend to be this hands-on mother who cared.”

  He was surprised to hear the bitterness in his voice. He’d long ago made peace with his mother. Or so he’d thought. “And she’d try, I think. She’d stick it out for a few weeks—once she was home for almost three months. She made it to Christmas, and then she was gone again. We never knew, my brother and I. Never had a clue when she’d show up or when she’d disappear again.”

  “So you were—what? Another piece of performance art? The artist as a mother?”

  “I suppose.” Not that he’d ever thought about it in those terms. “It wasn’t bad. Dad wasn’t jealous of her. She wasn’t jealous of him. It wasn’t like there was drama. It was just...a marriage on paper.”

  “It was a sham,” Frances corrected.

  He skimmed his hands up and down her thighs, shifting her weight against him. His erection was more than interested in the shifting. “Didn’t seem like it’d be hard to replicate,” he agreed.

  But that was before—before he’d seen past Frances’s armor, before he’d stupidly begun to like the real woman underneath.

  She rocked her hips, and his body responded. He stroked her nipples—this time, without the roughness—and Frances moaned appreciatively. He shouldn’t want her this much, shouldn’t like her this much. Passion wasn’t supposed to figure into his plans. It never had before.

  He lifted her off long enough to roll on another condom, and then she settled her weight back onto him, taking him in with a sigh of pure pleasure. This was honesty. This was something real between them because she meant something more to him than just her last name.

  She rode him slowly, taking her time, letting him play with her breasts and her nipples until she was panting and he was driving into her. He leaned forward enough to catch one of her breasts in his mouth and sucked her nipple hard between his teeth.

  She might not like him in the morning, and she’d be well within her rights.

  But he was going to like her. Hell, he already did. It was going to be a huge problem.

  As she shuddered down on him, urging him to suck her nipples harder as she came apart, he didn’t care. Complicated and messy and his.

  She was his.

  After she’d collapsed onto him and he’d taken care of the condom, they lay in each other’s arms. He had things he wanted to say to her, except he didn’t know what those things were, which wasn’t like him. He was a decisive man. The buck stopped with him.

  “Are we still going to get married next week?” she asked in a drowsy voice.

  “If you want,” he said, feeling even as he said it that it was not the best response. He tried again. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about the deal tonight.”

  “We aren’t,” she agreed and then immediately qualified that statement. “It’s just that...this changes things.”

  “Does it?” He leaned over and turned out the light and then pulled the covers up over them both. When was the last time he’d had a woman spend the night in his arms? He couldn’t think of when. His previous relationships were not spend-the-night relationships.

  He tucked his arm around her body and held her close. Something cold and metallic poked at his side—the necklace. It was all she had on.

  “We were supposed to barely live together,” she reminded him. “We weren’t supposed to sleep together. We weren’t...”

  He yawned and shrugged. “So we’ll be slightly more married than we planned on. The marital bed and all that.”

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  “I’m okay with you.” He kissed the top of her head. “I guess... Well, when we made the deal, I didn’t think I’d enjoy spending time with you.”

  “You mean sex. You didn’t think you’d enjoy sleeping with me.” She sounded hurt about that, although he couldn’t tell if she was playing or actually pouting.

  “No, I don’t,” he clarified. “I mean, I didn’t think I’d want to spend time with you. I didn’t think I’d like you this much.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, he knew that he’d said too much. Damn it, they were supposed to roll over and go to sleep and not have deep, meaningful conversations until he’d recovered from the sex and had some more.

  Instead, Frances tensed and then sat up, pulling away from him. “Ethan,” she said, her voice a warning. “I told you not to like me.”

  “You make it sound like I have a choice about it,” he said.

  “You do.”

  “No, I don’t. I can’t help it.” She didn’t reply, didn’t curl back into his arms. “We don’t have to rush to get married. I’m willing to wait for you.”

  “Jesus,” she said. The bed shifted, and then she was out of it, fumbling around the room in the dark. “Jesus, you sound like you want to marry me.”

  He turned on the light. “What’s wrong?”

  She threw his words back at him. “What’s wrong?” She grabbed her dress and started to shimmy into it. Any other time, watching Frances Beaumont get dressed would be the highlight of his day. But not now, not when she was angrily trying to jerk up the zipper.

  “Frances,” he said, getting out of bed. “Where are you going?”

  “This was a mistake,” was the short reply.

  He could see her zipping into her armor as fast as the dress—if not faster. “No, it wasn’t,” he said defensively, trying to catch her in his arms. “This was good. Great. This was us together. This is what we could be.”

  “Honestly, Ethan? There is no us. Not now, not ever. My God,” she said, pushing him away and snagging her coat. “I thought you were smarter than this. Good sex and you’re suddenly in love—in like?” she quickly corrected. “Unacceptable.”

  “Like hell it is,” he roared at her.

  “This is causal at best, Ethan. Casual. Casual sex, casual marriage.” She flung her coat over her barely zipped dress and hastily knotted the belt. “I warned you, but you didn’t listen, did you?”

  “Would you calm the hell down and tell me what’s wrong?” he demanded. “I did listen. I listened when you told me you expected to be courted with flowers and gifts and thoughtfulness.”

  “I did no
t—”

  But he cut her off. “I listened when you told me about your plans for a gallery. I listened when your family caught you off guard.”

  “I do not like you.” She bit the words off as if she were killing them, one syllable at a time.

  “I don’t believe you. Not anymore. I’ve seen the real you, damn it all.”

  She drew herself up to her full height, a look on her face like a reigning monarch about to deliver a death sentence. “Have you?” she said. “I thought you were better at the game than this, Ethan. How disappointing that you’re like all the rest.”

  And then she was gone. The door to the room swung open and slammed shut behind her, leaving Ethan wondering what the holy hell had just happened.

  Fourteen

  When had Frances lost control? That was the question she kept asking herself on the insanely long elevator ride down to the hotel lobby. She asked it as the valet secured a cab for her, and she asked it again on the long ride out to the mansion.

  Because she had. She’d lost all sorts of control.

  She slipped into the mansion. The place was dark and quiet—but then, it was late. Past midnight. The staff had left hours ago. Chadwick and Serena and their little girl were no doubt asleep, as were Frances’s younger siblings.

  She felt very much alone.

  She took off her shoes and tiptoed up to her room. She jerked her zipper down so hard she heard tearing, which was a crying shame because this dress was her best one. But she couldn’t quite care.

  Frances dug out her ugly flannel pajamas, bright turquoise plaid and baggy shapelessness. They were warm and soft and comforting, and far removed from the nothing she’d almost fallen asleep wearing when she’d been in bed with Ethan.

  God, what a mess. And, yes, she was aware that she was probably making it messier than it had to be, just by virtue of being herself.

  But was he serious? Sure, she could have believed it if he’d said he loved being with her and she was special and wonderful before the sex. It was expected, those words of seduction. Except he hadn’t said them then. He’d said things that should have been insults—that she made his life harder than he wanted her to, that she drove him mad, that she was a complicated hot mess.

  Those were not the words of a man trying to get laid.

  Those were the words of an honest man.

  And then after? To lay there in his arms and feel as if she’d exposed so much more than her body to him and to have him tell her that he enjoyed being with her, that he liked her, that—

  That he’d happily push back their agreed-on marriage because she was worth waiting for?

  It was all supposed to be a game. A game she’d played before and a game she’d play again. Yes, this was the long game—a wedding, a yearlong marriage—but that didn’t change the rules.

  Did it?

  She climbed under her own covers in her own bed, a bed that was just as large as Ethan’s. It felt empty compared with what she’d left behind.

  Ethan wasn’t following the rules. He was changing them. She’d warned him against doing so, but he was doing so anyway. And it was all too much for Frances. Too much honesty, too much realness. Too much intimacy.

  Men had proposed before. Professed their undying love and admiration for her. But no one had ever meant it. No one ever did, not in her world. Love was a bargaining chip, nothing more. Sex was calling a bluff. All a game. Just a game. If you played it right, you got diamonds and houses and money. And if you lost...you got nothing.

  Nothing.

  She curled up into a tight ball, just like she’d always done back when she was little and her parents were fighting. On bad nights, she’d sneak into Byron’s room and curl up in his bed. He took the top half and she took the bottom, their backs touching. That’s how they’d come into this world. It felt safer that way.

  Once, Mom had loved Dad. And Dad must have had feelings for Mom, right? That’s why he’d married her and made their illegitimate child, Matthew, legitimate.

  But they couldn’t live together. They couldn’t share a roof. They’d have been better off like Ethan’s folks, going their separate ways 85 percent of the time and only coming together when the stars aligned just so. And in the end, her father had won and her mother had lost, and that had been the game.

  She almost got up and got her phone to call Byron. To tell him she might have been rash and that she needed to come hang out for a couple of days until things cooled off. Mom was out there, anyway.

  It was late. Byron was probably still asleep.

  And then there was Friday. Donut Friday.

  She had to face Ethan again. With an audience. Just like they’d planned it.

  She had nothing to wear.

  * * *

  Delores walked in with a stack of interoffice envelopes. Ethan glared at her, trying to get his heart to calm down.

  He hadn’t heard from Frances since she’d stormed out of his room two nights ago, and it was making him jumpy. He did not like being jumpy.

  “Any donuts yet?” he made himself say casually.

  “Haven’t seen her yet, but I can check with Larry to find out if she’s on the premises,” Delores said in a genial manner. She handed him a rather thick envelope. It had no return address. It just said, “E. Logan.”

  “What’s this?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” When Ethan glared at her, she said, “I’ll go check on those donuts.”

  The old battle-ax, he thought menacingly as he undid the clasp and slid out a half-inch-thick manila folder.

  “Potentially of our mutual interest—C. Beaumont,” proclaimed a small, otherwise benign yellow sticky note on the front of the folder.

  The only feeling that Ethan did not enjoy more than jumpiness was uncertainty. And that’s what the manila folder suddenly represented. What on earth would Chadwick Beaumont consider of mutual interest? The only thing that came to mind was Frances.

  And what of Frances could merit a folder this thick?

  The possibilities—everything from blackmail to depravities—ran together in his mind. He shoved them aside and opened the file.

  And found himself staring at a dossier for one Zeb Richards, owner of ZOLA.

  Ethan blinked in astonishment as he scanned the information. Zeb Richards, born in Denver in 1973, graduated from Morehouse College with a bachelor of arts degree and from the University of Georgia with a master’s in business administration. Currently resided in New York. There was a small color photo of the man, the first that Ethan had seen.

  Wait—had he met Zeb Richards before? There was something about the set of the man’s jaw that looked familiar. He had dark hair that was cropped incredibly close to his head, the way many black men wore it.

  But Ethan would remember meeting someone named Zeb, wouldn’t he?

  Then he flipped the page and found another document—a photocopy of a birth certificate. Well, he had to hand it to Chadwick—he was nothing if not thorough. The certificate confirmed that Zebadiah Richards was born in Denver in 1973. His mother was Emily Richards and his father was...

  Oh, hell.

  Under “Father” was the unmistakable name of one Hardwick James Beaumont.

  Ethan flipped back to the photo. Yes, that jaw—that was like Chadwick’s jaw, like Phillip’s. Those two men had been unmistakably brothers—full brothers. The resemblance had been obvious. And they’d looked a fair deal like Frances. The jaw was softer on her, more feminine—more beautiful.

  But if Zeb’s mother had been African-American... That would account for everything else.

  Oh, hell.

  Suddenly, it all made sense. This agitation on behalf of ZOLA to sell the Beaumont Brewery? It wasn’t a rival firm looking to discredit Ethan’s company, and it wasn’t an activist
shareholder looking to peel the Beaumont Brewery off so it could pick it up for pennies on the dollar and sell it off, like Ethan’s father did.

  This was personal.

  And it had nothing to do with Ethan.

  Except he was, as of about two nights ago, sleeping with a Beaumont. He was probably still informally engaged to be married to said Beaumont, although he wouldn’t be sure of that until the donut situation was confirmed. And, perhaps most important of all, he was currently running the Beaumont Brewery.

  “Delores,” he said into the intercom. “Was this envelope hand-delivered to you?”

  “It was on my desk this morning, Mr. Logan.”

  “I need to speak to Chadwick Beaumont. Can you get me his number?”

  “Of course.” Ethan started to turn the intercom off, but then she added, “Oh, Ms. Beaumont is on the premises.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He flipped the intercom off and stuffed the folder back into the envelope. It was no joke to say he was out of his league here. A bastard son coming back to wreak havoc on his half siblings? Yeah, Ethan was way out of his league.

  Chadwick must have a sense of humor, what with that note about Zeb Richards being “potentially” a mutual interest.

  But Frances—she didn’t know anything about her siblings from unmarried mothers, did she? No, Ethan was certain he remembered her saying she didn’t know any of them. Just that there were some.

  So Zeb Richards was not, at this exact moment, something she needed to know about.

  Unless...

  He thought back to the way she’d stood before him last night, all of her armor fully in place while he’d been naked in every sense of the word. And she’d said—No, be honest, he told himself—sneered that she’d thought he’d be better at the game.

  Was Zeb Richards part of the game?

  Just because Frances said she didn’t know any of the illegitimate Beaumonts didn’t mean she’d been truthful about it.

  She’d asked Ethan why he wanted to marry her. Had he asked why she’d agreed to marry him? Beyond the money for her art gallery?