Man Candy

by Lila Monroe

  No more kissing allowed.

  But five minutes later, watching Alice slurp her milkshake with an expression of pure ecstasy on her face, business is the last thing on my mind.

  I’m positive that her expression wouldn’t look much different in the throes of sexual passion. And that satisfied hum? Might just be the death of me.

  Fuck me, but what I wouldn’t give to be a marshmallow right now.

  Or that straw.

  She leans back and licks her lips, causing my cock to twitch. “That was amazing . . .” She gives me a sheepish smile.

  “Need a cigarette?” I ask, because yep, that has to be her post-orgasm face.

  She laughs. “No, thanks, maybe just a minute to recover.”

  Likewise.

  She pushes her empty glass away, and I can almost see the gears switch track in her mind. “So, this mysterious job of yours. Do you want to tell me why you requested me? And don’t try claiming the thought only occurred to you when you came to the office,” she adds, warning. “You followed me to that movie, so I must have already been on your radar.” Alice’s forehead creases in a frown. “How long were you stalking me?”

  “Not long,” I reassure her. “And it wasn’t stalking. I just did some research, checked out your schedule and usual haunts, and . . .” I pause, hearing myself. “OK, maybe stalking you a little,” I admit. “But you have to understand, this is an important job. I usually work alone, so bringing on a partner—even just someone for cover—it’s a big deal. I have to make sure that partner is right for the job.”

  Alice watches me, looking thoughtful. “And I’m right?”

  Try perfect. Olivia sent me a number of profiles, but when I’d first scoped out the agency office and saw Alice running out of the brownstone in those red-soled heels, I knew instinctively she was the one.

  “Yes, you’ll be a good fit,” I say instead. “Especially after watching you devour that milkshake.”

  She snorts. “Why? Is this some sort of gluttony assignment? Will you be signing me up for eating competitions?”

  I notice a tiny speck of chocolate on her lower lip, and I want to taste her again. I want to explore all the flavors of Alice Jones.

  “Close.” I force myself to focus—on the business, not pleasure. I glance around to check nobody’s in earshot, and then lean closer. Alice mirrors me. “An old friend of mine is a chocolatier. She thinks CandyShack has ripped off her new recipe. She’s been planning a big launch, but if CandyShack beats her to the punch, then it will all be for nothing.”

  Alice blinks. “This top-secret, high-stakes assignment is to investigate chocolate espionage?” She laughs, and I don’t blame her, but I need her to take this seriously.

  “This isn’t just a bunch of Oompa Loompas bumbling around,” I explain. “This is theft of trade secrets. It could mean millions in lost sales, canceled franchises, and the end of Chocorella—Lainey’s business. Not to mention it’s illegal.”

  Alice’s smile fades. “Right. Sorry.”

  “I know it sounds silly,” I admit. “But look around, it’s big business. CandyShack is worth almost a billion dollars.”

  “For candy?!” Alice’s jaw drops.

  “Right?” I agree. “Which means the stakes are high. If they’ve stolen Lainey’s new recipe, they’ll make it a hit—and put her out of business.”

  “OK.” Alice nods, her thoughtful face back again. “So what’s your strategy?”

  “I’m going out to San Francisco to infiltrate CandyShack’s upper management,” I explain. “They’re a tight-knit, family-run company, so I’ll pose as a wealthy businessman and find a way to get invited to their parties and start digging around.”

  “And for this you need a fiancée.”

  I nod. “Having a partner helps me look more legit, to schmooze with the executives and their wives. Or should I say, helps my character. We’d be in disguise.”

  Alice brightens.

  “It won’t be dramatic,” I add, warning. “Just a lot of boring charity functions and society parties. But, as I said before, the package is very attractive, and it might be a fun break for you.”

  I pull some paperwork from my jacket and slide it over. I watch Alice scan the contract and wait for her jaw to drop at the retainer and bonus. But she keeps a remarkably steady poker face.

  “This might work . . .”

  I hide a smile. “So we’re all set?”

  “Not so fast.” Alice fixes me with a look. “I have some questions.”

  “Go ahead.” I spread my hands. “I’m an open book.”

  She snorts. “Uh, nope. I did my best researching on you and found nothing.”

  Not surprising. I shrug. “I keep a pretty low profile.”

  “Oh yeah?” Alice’s gaze stays fixed. “What’s your date of birth?”

  “I’m a Leo.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “Here and there.”

  “Any siblings?”

  “Some.”

  “Sure, open book.” She sighs.

  “Look, all you need to know is I’m madly in love with you.” I flash her my best charming smile. “And I’m going to shower my fake fiancée with gifts and affection as long as the job lasts. That doesn’t sound too bad now, does it?” I reach over to caress her hand, but Alice snatches it back.

  “If I do take the job, you know how the Agency operates, don’t you? The relationships are fake. All aspects of the relationship.” She fixes me with a look, like she knows exactly how I’ve been fantasizing about her—and that milkshake.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I mean it,” she warns me, but I swear, her cheeks get pink. “We need to be professional. Have boundaries. No more unexpected . . . encounters.”

  She looks so determined, I can’t help wanting to get under her skin.

  And that tank top.

  “But, Alice,” I drawl as I reach across the table again. I slide my hand over hers, tracing the line of her wrist. “If we are to be a convincing couple, there will need to be some touching.”

  The pink in her cheeks flushes darker.

  Fuck, she’s adorable.

  “For example, I would need to hold your hand . . .” I lace my fingers through hers. “And murmur sweet nothings . . .” I shift my chair closer and lean in, close enough to get a whiff of that scent again.

  My mouth waters.

  “And even give my beloved a kiss . . .”

  I touch her cheek. Soft. Alice gets a glazed expression, and sways closer . . . closer . . .

  “Nope!” Suddenly, she pulls away. “I haven’t signed the contract yet,” she says briskly.

  I grin. So close, and yet, so far. But it’s probably for the best. Another kiss, and who knows where it would lead?

  Getting arrested for rolling around in the middle of the store.

  Sure, that would help me fly under the radar.

  I get to my feet—before I can lift her off hers. “Let me know by tonight.”

  “One last question, Shmoopycakes?”

  I smile. “Yes, honeybunny?”

  “Should I trust you?”

  If I say yes, she’ll assume I’m telling her what I think she wants to hear. If I say no, she’ll never take the job—she’s just a little too safe to throw all caution to the wind. No matter how desperate she is for excitement.

  This woman has good instincts and I want her to use them. Trust them. That will always take her further than trusting someone else.

  So instead of giving her a bullshit answer, I smile and say, “I guess we’ll find out.”

  And then I leave her there before I can show her exactly why I can’t be trusted. At least, not around her.

  7

  Alice

  Hello, San Francisco!

  A week after Nick slid the ticket across the table to me, I’m winging my way across the country—first class, of course. I’ve been so busy getting things organized for my trip—and Olivia’s big romantic vacati
on—that it wasn’t until I was settled into the plush, roomy seat, sipping my complimentary champagne, that it hit me.

  I’m really doing this.

  And I’m in waaaaaaay over my head. Big time.

  I read the dossier Nick sent after I agreed to the job. And reread it. In fact, I have it memorized. I dream about it. I recite the details in the shower. I’ve even turned them into a song.

  I draw the line at interpretive dance, though.

  I’m still rehearsing as we touch down and I make my way to Arrivals. To keep things simple, Nick built on truths when preparing the dossier. We’ll even be using our real names—he has no searchable background, as I already know, and he said there are enough Alice Joneses out there to throw off avid Googlers anyway. “I” used to be an office manager at an accounting firm. Yup, that’s me, keeping it simple. I am so environmentally friendly, I even recycle my stories.

  But the job is backstory. Now that I’m engaged to a bazillionaire, I no longer need to work. Living the dream, ladies, I am a kept fiancée. Soon to be a kept wife.

  Nick’s dossier is a bit more detailed: his family is from the (notoriously reclusive and not easily searched) Rossi yacht-building family, based in Salerno, Italy. He got his MBA in the States, but moved back to Italy to run the family shipyard. We met at a mutual friend’s party in Monaco a few months ago. It was instalove. The plan is to get married next year at my vineyard in Tuscany. The one he bought me as an engagement gift.

  Isn’t he a sweetheart?

  The fake Alice Jones’ life is so glamorous, I’m already jealous. If I wasn’t so concerned about the ruse. Are we going to be able to pull off our roles? I mean, no one even knows me, but what about Nick? Doesn’t he already travel in these wealthy, affluent circles? How will he stay incognito? What does he know about yachts?

  I get to the gate and look around. Nick promised he’d send a driver, and I burst out laughing when I see a uniformed chauffer, standing there with a sign that reads Honeybunny.

  Suddenly, my anxiety disappears. Thank you, Nick Cameron.

  The driver whisks me towards downtown, and I rubberneck like a tourist, taking in the hilly streets and view of the bay, excited to be here. That reminds me . . .

  In town for work! I text my sister. Let’s get together soon.

  There, vague enough to make Nick proud.

  We arrive at a sleek, modern building, and the driver uses his key card in the elevator to whisk me up to the penthouse floor. The doors open right into the suite, and I step out of the elevator—

  My jaw drops.

  The entire place is encased in floor-to-ceiling windows, with an amazing view of the Bay.

  “Impressive, isn’t it, honeybunny?” Nick says from behind me.

  I spin around. “Oh. Hi.”

  I gulp. Somehow, his eyes are even bluer than I remember. He’s looking handsome and casual, clearly straight from the gym in a sweaty, torso-hugging T-shirt and athletic shorts.

  Damn.

  “Who’s paying for this?” I blurt. “I mean, wow.”

  Nick grins. “I told you, there’s a lot on the line with this gig. My client is sparing no expense to make sure CandyShack doesn’t steal her invention.”

  Who am I to argue?

  “She’ll be here in a while,” Nick adds, grabbing my bags. “I can get you up to speed. But you must be tired from that early flight. I’ll show you to your room.”

  I notice he says “your” room and not “our” room. Not that I expected less. Wasn’t it me who gave him the “we will remain professional” ultimatum?

  Not to mention Olivia is very clear in her client agreement paperwork. There are to be no unwanted shenanigans with her “operatives.”

  However much fun those shenanigans might be.

  As Nick leads me down the hall, I take a look around, focusing this time on the inside of the penthouse. For what must be a rental, it’s surprisingly homey—with plush white couches, airy design, and masculine touches like leather chairs and rustic wooden cabinets.

  My bedroom is just as lavish—and nearly the size of my entire Manhattan apartment. There’s a king-sized bed made up with crisp white linens, and a comfy-looking chair—perfect for reading in—is beside the window, a cozy afghan draped over the back.

  I poke my head into the en-suite bathroom. There’s a massive glass shower stall and a big free-standing jetted tub, big enough for five.

  Or one very energetic couple . . .

  “Will this do?” Nick asks. He’s standing behind me. Close.

  I smile. “Uh, yes, I’ll manage. Thanks.”

  “I need to go jump in the shower, but make yourself at home. Fridge is full. There’s a key for you on the kitchen island; it opens the parking garage, gym, et cetera.”

  “Great,” I answer faintly, struck by the image of him in the shower.

  He leaves my room and heads down the hallway. I hear a door open and then the sound of a shower turning on.

  I sit down on the bed with a whoomp.

  I’m starting to realize my biggest challenge on this job isn’t going to be pretending to be someone else. It won’t be helping Nick expose CandyShack’s nefarious business activities.

  It’s going to be remaining professional. Resisting that man. Keeping my itchy fingers to myself.

  Especially when I know he’s just a room away.

  Dripping wet.

  And naked.

  I quickly unpack my things—which take up about 10 percent of the massive walk-in closet—and then hear the main buzzer sound. I emerge from my room, ready to meet this old friend of his.

  When Nick had said Lainey was an old friend, for some reason, I thought he meant she was old. Like, grandma old.

  So when the elevator doors open, I’m expecting to have to have to speak loudly to a sweet, elderly octogenarian.

  Boy was I wrong. Really, really wrong.

  What emerges is a tall, red-haired model-type who looks like she just strode off the runways of Fashion Week. A Fashion Week that was set on Wonder Woman’s island.

  Old friend? Or old girlfriend?

  Even in kitten heels, she’s taller than the six-foot-something Nick. “Babe, sorry I’m late. Traffic was a nightmare, and my Uber guy had no clue what he was doing.” She leans in and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “And you must be Alice!” she exclaims, turning to me. “So great to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” I say, managing not to cringe when she crushes my hand. Maybe she doesn’t know her own strength, being an Amazon and all.

  I wonder how much she knows about me. Nick would have signed The Agency non-disclosure agreement. But does she know I’ve been hired as Nick’s trophy fiancée?

  “I almost forgot!” Lainey adds, thrusting a bag at me. “These are for you, Alice. It’s a little thank you for helping out.”

  It’s pink, with a logo on it reading #Chocorella.

  “My new truffles,” she announces. “Not even launched yet.”

  Suddenly, I love Lainey. I smile at her as I take the bag.

  “Thank you so much.” I open it up. Because it would be rude not to try them right away.

  There’s a box inside, holding six perfectly round chocolate truffles. My mouth waters instantly. “Would you like one?” I force myself to offer. Lainey grins.

  “That’s OK, I eat them day and night.”

  Somehow, with her figure, I doubt it. “Nick?” I ask instead. Nick gives me an amused look but shakes his head. Smart man.

  I take a bite and have to stifle a moan. Rich and delicious.

  "What do you think?” Lainey asks. “I’m calling them Petites Morts.”

  Nick chokes on a laugh. My French is rusty high-school level, but I think petite mort means small death. Death by chocolate, I guess. Makes sense.

  “Well, whatever they’re called, they’re delicious,” I say brightly. “Thank you.”

  “So,” Nick says. “We have our first event in a few hours. It’s a big charity ball where we wi
ll be meeting the CandyShack CEO and the rest of the company’s executives,” he explains.

  “Perfect! I won’t take up much of your time,” Lainey beams. “And I’m sure Nicky has told you everything but I just . . . Well, it means so much that you guys are doing this for me.” She pauses and sighs, looking down at her lap. “Months of work. Hundreds of formulations to get that new bar and now those bastards are going to steal it all . . .” She sniffles as the first tears begin to roll down her cheeks. I spring up off the sofa and grab a box of tissues.

  She takes the box. “Thank you.” She dabs her cheeks.

  “Have you been able to narrow down the suspects?” Nick asks. “You were going to put a list together.”

  “There are a few.” Lainey nods. “An ex of mine I was dating back when the idea first came to me. Plus one of my chemists, Kent Hargreaves. He quit right after we perfected the recipe, so he would have known all the details.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” Nick reassures her. “I’m glad you called me.”

  “Really?” she asks, fluttering her eyelashes prettily. “We haven’t seen each other for so long. I didn’t want to be that person from your past who shows up out of the blue with a problem. Especially, well, with how it all ended . . .”

  I look back and forth between them, dying of curiosity. Star-crossed lovers? Toxic exes?

  “What happened is water under the bridge,” Nick says with an easy smile. “Come on, we were college kids. We all made mistakes back then. Mine were usually those Jager Bombs.”

  Lainey laughs. “Thank you. I knew I could depend on you.”

  She reaches over and squeezes his hand, fluttering him another grateful smile. I feel a spark of suspicion—or maybe that’s just jealousy that some other woman is touching my fake fiancée.

  “We’ll let you know how it goes tonight,” Nick says, releasing her hand. “But I’ll need a copy of the recipe, any details you have about who might have had access.”

  “What exactly is this new bar?” I ask, interrupting.