The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

by Ninya Tippett

  Chapter Four: The Fake First Kiss

  "You need shoes."

  We just got to his snazzy, shiny dark blue sports car that was probably more than double the value of my house. He'd held the door open for me but stopped me with a light hand on my shoulder as I was about to get in.

  I looked up at Brandon. "Excuse me?"

  He sighed and glanced down at my feet. "We're going to one of the most exclusive jewelry stores in the country and you're wearing flip-flops. How will they know you can afford it?"

  I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him a wry look. "They won't because I can't afford it. You're the one itching to marry me. You buy it."

  "I am buying it," he retorted, rolling his eyes. "I was hoping you'd at least look like a woman who deserves it."

  "Ah, we come to the crux of the matter," I scoffed. "I don't look like the kind of woman a man of your wealth and stature could possibly ever get engaged to. Let me point out two things. One, I really am not the kind of woman a man like you would marry—my brain is slightly bigger than my boobs which is not your preferred ratio. Two, what a shallow conclusion to arrive at simply because one is wearing flip-flops."

  "It's not shallow—it's etiquette—something that isn't lost in polite society yet," he shot back, stepping away from the car door and making a shooing gesture with his hand as if hurrying me to get inside. Once I was in, he got into the driver's seat, still grumbling. "But since you're going to be the future Mrs. Maxfield, they won't dare criticize you to your face. Who knows, I might get lucky and just have them think that you're slightly eccentric and not a total bedlamite."

  I laughed. "Oh, yes, an eccentric. That's what you call people who are rich and crazy. I'd almost think you're one but you don't have enough imagination to become crazy, even just a little."

  He pulled into traffic, checking over his shoulder before giving me a surly look. "I dare say I have plenty of imagination."

  "You can't even deal with the sight of flip-flops," I argued, throwing my hands up in the air. "You don't think beaches or cold fruit drinks or some reggae music and scorching hot summers. All you think is etiquette."

  "Etiquette was merely the only thing I said out loud," he countered. "Unlike you, I don't always say everything I'm thinking of but it doesn't mean that I have any less scorching imagination than you do."

  I broke into a grin. "Oh, intriguing. Why, what did you imagine? Billowy summer dresses? Tanned bikini bodies? Long, gorgeous legs?"

  I fought the urge to pump my fist in triumph when Brandon's gaze slid to my partly exposed legs, his eyes hooded and intense for a brief second before he cleared his throat and turned back to the road, the very faint tinge of pink on his cheeks the only proof of that stolen glance.

  Predictable. It would seem as if Brandon Maxfield is prone to the usual urges.

  I decided to let him off the grill, completely aware that I might just burn myself as well.

  Now that we've mentioned scorching hot summers, I couldn't help but imagine Brandon—shirtless, barefoot, only wearing black board shorts and a sexy smile. Despite having worn a jacket to each of our meetings, it didn't take much for me to know that he had broad shoulders and a powerful physique. In my fantasy, he would be showing off the hard planes of his chests and the tight, flexing muscles of arms.

  As my eyes traveled from his shoulders to his waist, I noticed something and frowned. "Why aren't you wearing your seatbelt? Strap it on."

  "We're five minutes away and hardly anyone can drive fast in downtown," he reasoned, sounding like a mutinous sixteen-year-old. "It'll be fine."

  "Strap your goddamned seatbelt on, Brandon Maxfield!" I exclaimed sharply. "I can't believe you're idiot enough to think yourself invincible. Don't you have a care for what happens to you? If you get thrown out the window and crunched under a truck, what would your family do? How would your father cope?"

  I saw his jaw clench as if he wanted to snap back at me with some smart-ass response but he wisely shut it and secured his seatbelt.

  "Thank you," I muttered in relief, glancing out the window as the tension drained out of my body.

  Silence filled the car for a long stretch of time.

  "That was how your father died, wasn't it?" he suddenly said, and a dulled edge of pain stabbed through me. It was dull but it didn't mean that it didn't hurt.

  I said nothing.

  "He was driving drunk and hit a street lamp," he continued and I wasn't surprised by his knowledge of the details. Other than the fact that he researched me for this little marriage project, the facts of the accident were public record. "He wasn't wearing a seatbelt so he got thrown out of the window and was hit by a car."

  "Something like that," I bit out, still avoiding his gaze.

  "I'm sorry. No matter the circumstances, it's hard to lose a parent."

  I snorted, gripping the edges of my seat despite my casual tone. "It's harder to lose a parent who wasn't a very responsible adult and left you with a crap-load of mess to clean up. As if to spite you further even when they're dead and cold in the ground."

  We faded into silence again but I barely stifled my gasp when I felt his warm, large hand squeeze mine for a nanosecond before it was gone.

  I wasn't sure how to react to that. Since meeting Brandon, I've been armed with ready comebacks and an inflamed temper. I wasn't prepare for any hint of kindness.

  "We're here," he announced as he pulled over in front of a magnificent building with a glass facade. Two sharply-dressed doormen came over to hold the car door open for us and escort us to the entrance.

  Standing by the doorway of the vast space richly appointed with luxurious, if a little gaudy interior, and the endless rows of glass cases showcasing a mind-boggling and literally blinding array of jewelry, I felt conscious.

  Maybe it wasn't really etiquette but I couldn't deny the wisdom that was in Brandon's advice earlier about maybe wearing something more than an old sundress and rubber flip-flops to a place like this.

  Don't feel small. No one can do that to you but yourself.

  "Are you okay?" Brandon murmured as he slipped an arm behind my waist.

  I tensed at the touch but saw a beaming man in a suit barreling toward us excitedly, his arms gesturing so grandly I swore he was about to take a deep bow in front of us.

  "Mr. Maxfield, welcome, welcome!" the man greeted as he shook Brandon's hand. He turned to me, his smile curling a little into a near-sneer as he did a quick appraisal of my appearance—like I'd somehow dragged in the mud across his pristine floors—and offered his hand. "You must be the lucky lady who snagged this equally lucky man here—one of our favorite customers! I'm Wilson Barford, at your service."

  I gripped his hand firmly, giving him a sunny smile as my shoulders squared. "Charlotte Samuels. Nice to meet you Mr. Barf-old, I mean, Barford."

  Brandon's hand squeezed my waist. I snuck up a glance at him, ready to glower at him for his quiet reprimand but I could see that he had a ghost of a smile on his lips and his hazel eyes were bright with humor.

  "Barford, we'd like to see those exclusive designs you mentioned on the phone," Brandon said in a business-like tone. "Bring the other item as well and maybe give us a moment before your staff brings in the designs."

  Barford's head went up and down like one of those bobble-head cats on a taxi's dashboard.

  "Of course, Mr. Maxfield," the man answered before stepping aside."Please follow me to the viewing room."

  We followed the man down a private hall, a good two feet away behind him.

  I grasped Brandon's elbow and leaned close to murmur, "You know who I feel like right now?"

  "Who?" he asked.

  "Like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere went shopping with her," I said with a grin. "They were all fussing to please her so that he would be pleased in turn. The manager was so desperate to give her everything she liked, he even let her take his necktie."

  Brandon's lips curved into a slight smile. "I recall par
t of the movie where she waits for him to come home, wearing nothing but that tie. Will I be expecting anything like that today?"

  My cheeks instantly burned and I playfully jabbed him on the stomach, the hard muscles that came into contact with my elbow making me think of what would happen next if Brandon Maxfied walked in on me while I wore nothing but a tie.

  He'd probably tell you you're not adequately dressed as Mrs. Maxfield should always be. Then he'd turn around and walk out because he's probably got a hot model waiting for him somewhere, gloriously naked and perfectly toned—and not wearing flip-flops!

  "Pfft, dream on," I said in an attempt to get the ball back in my court. "That was Richard Gere, after all. Hollywood hunk trumps billionaire megalomaniac—always!"

  His eyes narrowed at me slightly. "Too bad for you, you're marrying the billionaire megalomaniac and not the old Hollywood hunk."

  Seriously. He couldn't have possibly gotten a bruised ego from that.

  I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please, pot, stop calling the kettle black. You're what? Forty?"

  His cheeks flushed and his shoulders stiffened and he grabbed my elbow just as we were about to step into the viewing room where Barford was already pulling back the chairs for us.

  "I am not forty," he said emphatically. "I just turned twenty-nine."

  That was still a big chunk of years between us even if I was turning twenty in a couple of months—which was another thing that made Martin's idea even more ridiculous.

  Looking at Brandon though, the age gap didn't seem to really register.

  He looked smoking hot for a guy his age. His handsomeness had depth and character—not just a pretty face with a boyish charm. He could've told me he was forty-five and I wouldn't have batted an eye.

  I must've been staring quite a bit because his frown relaxed into a smug smile as he slowly released me. "I can see that you don't really give a damn about my age."

  And then he goes and ruins it by opening his mouth.

  "Why should I?" I retorted. "You made it clear that the best thing I get out of this is a million dollars. You didn't seem concerned about what I thought about you."

  That made him angry. I could tell by the way his beautiful hazel eyes glittered and his nostrils flared.

  Damn me if that didn't make him sexier. What was the point of antagonizing someone who just drove you crazier when he reacted because he was so damn breathtaking?

  "You'll pay for that later," he murmured in a low, husky voice as he leaned close to my ear, his breath warm and sensual against my skin.

  An unidentifiable ache shot through my body that I was momentarily speechless.

  Before I could snap out of it, Brandon straightened, took me by the arm, and guided me into one of the two leather-cushioned seats in front of a long, beautifully hand-crafted wooden table. A row of four crystal pendant lights shone brightly down on the table, reflecting against the glass cases and the various stones that glittered among the impressive jewelry collection laid out for us.

  "We've already set this up here for you but I'll instruct the staff to bring in the rest in ten minutes or so, Mr. Maxfield, Ms. Samuels," Barford said before he bowed deeply and took his leave, shutting the door softly behind him.

  "Everything is so... shiny," I said as I glanced at the blinding display of rings and the opulent interior of the cozy room. "And expensive."

  He smirked. "I always want the best. If you're going to be Mrs. Maxfield, you're going to want the same."

  I brightened. "Can I have the best husband then? I clearly drew the short straw on that."

  Instead of a prickly come back, he just barked a laugh, the deep, rich sound rumbling from his chest.

  "No, I clearly drew the short one," he said with a sardonic grin. "How tall are you? Do you even reach five feet?"

  "I'm five-two, for your information!" I protested, swatting him on the shoulder. "Not all of us are towering giants! I'll have you know that I can be five-eight in four-inch high heels."

  His brows furrowed. "The math doesn't work in that equation."

  I gritted my teeth. "Heard of in-soles and platforms, genius?"

  He just laughed. "I have but I thought you didn't wear platforms."

  I crossed my arms over my chest grumpily. "I don't but it doesn't mean I've never worn them. It doesn't mean that just because I'm practical, I don't go a little crazy sometimes and wear high heels."

  Like once in a blue moon.

  "You could've worn them today," he said, eyeing my flip-flops.

  "They don't go with this dress and I've got only one pair. I only take those beauties out on really special occasions and going shopping with you is hardly special," I rambled on. "Besides, who runs errands in hooker heels?"

  If the light in his eyes changed even for just a second, I couldn't tell because he quickly looked away.

  "So, I have something to give you," he said after clearing his throat, the playfulness gone from his voice.

  He reached for a small, black velvet-wrapped box sitting on the table and lifted the lid up slowly.

  "What is it?" I asked excitedly, leaning forward to look.

  I sucked in my breath, my eyes literally bulging.

  "Holy moly, is this an asteroid?" I said through my suddenly dry throat, glancing up at Brandon who was watching me closely instead of gazing at the engagement ring he was holding.

  It needed a zip code of its own.

  I mean, he could certainly buy one with it.

  "It's your engagement ring," he said with a sigh as I beamed up at him. He lifted the ring out of the box and held out his hand to me. "I picked it out a couple of days ago but I wanted to make sure you liked it."

  I watched as he took my hand and slipped the ring over my finger, the cold band contrasting the feel of his warm skin against mine. "What if I hated it? Would you have picked something else?"

  "No," he said as he released my hand and sat back, studying the ring on my finger. "I thought this was perfect and it is."

  I rolled my eyes at him and lifted my hand to admire the ring. "I don't know why you even bothered to wait to buy it if you didn't care for my opinion."

  "It's already been purchased, Charlotte. If you didn't like it, I would've persuaded you."

  I cocked a brow at him. "You sounded so sure that I would just give in. Don't be so cocky, champ. I'm immune to you."

  Liar, liar, pants on fire!

  Well, I wasn't but he didn't need to know that. He didn't need more ammunition against me.

  He let my comment pass and nodded to the ring. "So, do you like it?"

  I glanced at it again, mesmerized by the large, princess-cut diamond sitting on an elegant platinum band with a diamond-encrusted V-shaped prong setting that held the rock together.

  "It's gorgeous and frightening at the same time."

  Its substantial weight had a conflicting effect on me. I felt the dreadful weight of the scheme I was going along with Brandon, and the secret thrill of a material symbol to show that I really was binding myself to a man who had long been cast in my childish dreams and fantasies.

  Not counting the million dollars, I felt like all of the risks were on my side of the bargain. I was selling my soul for a hefty price, lying to a man I absolutely adored and respected probably more than my own father, and catapulting my life into the complex web of high society where I would be completely out of my element.

  This was no joke or prank.

  I was really marrying Brandon Maxfield for money and survival and it left an ugly taste in my mouth.

  Suddenly, he reached for my hand and gave it a light squeeze before he turned his attention to the display.

  "Anyway, we have to pick out our wedding rings," he said just as two sales people walked into the room behind Barford. He smiled broadly at us before seating himself from across the table.

  Barford spent the next half hour singing praises for each set we looked at and I was nearing the end of my patience. Brandon, meanwhile, was going through
the motions of inspecting each piece with a certain detachment as if he wanted to be somewhere else but here with me, choosing rings for our phony marriage.

  To end both our misery, I pointed to a plain platinum band with a narrow, pale gold stripe on the center. "I want that one."

  Barford looked crestfallen. "This? We have more unique designs featuring—"

  "I want it simple and uncomplicated," I said firmly. "I don't like a lot of trappings. Marriage is complicated enough, don't you think?"

  "Um," Barford said, his voice trailing off, casting a hopeful glance at Brandon.

  I tensed, worried that he was going to contradict me right then and there, in front of a the manager who already treated me as if my opinion was garbage.

  "Charlotte can have whatever she chooses," Brandon said quietly, nodding at the set I'd chosen. "I like it too. Have it sized accordingly and have it ready next Friday."

  Barford rose and dispatched orders to his minions, leaving us for a moment to get some paperwork.

  When he was gone, I leaned close to Brandon. "So, do you really like it or did you just say that to show a united front?"

  He studied me from the corner of his eye and smiled faintly. "I liked it. It was the only thing that didn't look overdone. I'm glad you didn't go for that three-tiered band one with diamond stripes on it."

  I grinned. "It was a bit ostentatious. Well, I'm glad we agree. That's a first for us. And hopefully the last."

  "The last?" he asked, his brows wrinkling in amused confusion. "I thought we made a pact to try to get along."

  I shrugged. "To get along, sure, but that doesn't equate to me agreeing with you all the time. I've decided that if I didn't want to shrink up and die from too much etiquette and propriety, I'll need to disagree with you on a lot of things."

  He arched his brows at me. "How will we get along if you don't agree with me?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Well, you can agree with me. You just did, with the rings. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

  Brandon looked at me as if he couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or amused at me. "Only because it served my purpose."