by Lila Price
But I’m not a prostitute. No sex required.
I blow out a breath and survey the massive, curved double stairs, the umber tile, the iron chandelier that hangs over us.
“Want the tour right away?” he asks. “I suggest we start at the bedrooms.”
Bedrooms. More than one.
He chuckles. “I told you. This isn’t a sexual arrangement.” His gaze gets that mischievous glimmer. “Not until you tell me that you want it to be.”
Ah. So he hasn’t given up. Too bad for him.
He only grins, fully confident of his ability to make me say yes to him. And why wouldn’t I after I gave in to the proposal? And when he had me in the hallway, craving him with every electrified cell of my body?
As we go up the stairs, I say, “I’m still surprised you didn’t choose to do this thing with Lulu. After all, she’s a sure thing.”
He raises his eyebrows back at me. “Is that so?”
“It’s pretty obvious she has a thing for you, and I’m guessing that’s why Preston fired my family, in revenge over his little princess not getting the toy she wanted.”
“Interesting theory.”
“Any other disapproving parties I should know about?” I asked. “You’ve yet to mention how your family feels about our sudden engagement.”
“My father texted me, proclaiming his disapproval,” he says. “I’m sure he hates that I went and fell in love without his go-ahead.”
“He thinks you fell in love?”
“Yeah, and Randal agrees that I shouldn’t tell him the entire story. The less people who know about our deal, the better.”
That reminds me—I think there was some kind of story circulating about Eli’s father being incredibly demanding, pushy, and that perhaps they had a falling-out over Eli’s rebellion against his dad’s controlling ways.
But just how bad is his relationship with his dad? Eli’s mood seemed to shift the moment the subject came up.
We come to the top of the stairway. “It almost sounds like Preston is a second dad to you.”
Eli gets very quiet then says, “I’ll have to be careful around you. You see too much.”
The air still feels tight, as if he’s thinking the same thing I am—that I’ve seen something in him that he wishes I hadn’t. The clouds. The shadows.
Then he leads me toward a hallway, and it’s as if the moment lifts, putting us right back to where we were before the subject of Preston and Eli’s dad came up. He’s good at that—changing subjects. Maybe he’s been doing it his entire life.
“I won’t lie,” he says lightly. “Randal’s unhappy with my decision to choose you, but he isn’t really in a position to stop me, especially now that the media and the online universe has snatched up this story and run with it. They’ve already researched you, so they know about how you used to clean Randal’s house. They assume I met you that way, so there’s a Cinderella angle that the public seems to love, a fairy-tale quality they eat right up.”
“I guess everyone likes a good fairy-tale,” I admit.
Eli gives me a long look. “They don’t care if the tale is good or bad, just as long as you give them something to chew on. Maybe I learned that lesson the hard way.”
He brings me into a room where the bed of my dreams awaits me. It’s huge, with sheer material draped over the posts and a white bedspread that has patterns that look as if they’ve been etched in snow. Pillows are stacked one upon the other. There are creamy nightstands, beaded lamps, and even an old-fashioned dressing screen that stands next to a beveled mirror. A boudoir, I think. A fantasy nook for me to hide away whenever I need to.
Or does Eli ultimately have other plans for me and this room?
“This is a pretty sweet guest room,” I say.
“I don’t normally have overnight visitors, not when hotels are so much more convenient.”
Is he talking about the women he sleeps with? Could it be that after creating such public spectacles, Eli prefers to stay alone in his private cave at the end of the day and separate the girls from his home life?
Eli Brennan actually has a home life, I think, marveling at that.
I wander to a walk-in closet and nearly die of delight at all the shoe racks and hanger space. There are even some clothes already there.
“My personal assistant did some shopping,” he says. “She has great taste, and she’s efficient enough to have chosen some sundresses and what she calls ‘necessaries’ to start you off. After you get your measurements taken, we’ll get the gowns for charity events, then other clothing for the games and team functions.”
My gaze catches on a section of the closet where filmy nighties are hanging: pink chiffon confections, blue princess dreams, sexy angelic puffs. I walk over to touch the pink one. It’s so feminine, and I’m…
Well, I’ve never had the chance to be that way. But it’s not as if I’ll be wearing any of these things in front of Eli.
Still, I can’t help wondering if I’m sexy enough for them…
He’s right behind me, so close that I can feel the heat of him imprinting on my skin, making me his without any effort at all. But I’m not his.
No way.
He murmurs, “My assistant Natalie tells me that’s a vintage nightgown from the sixties, something like Betty Draper would wear.”
“It sounds like you and Natalie are very familiar with nightgowns.” Is that jealousy creeping into my voice?
He laughs, because of course he notices. “Natalie’s a grandma. Hip, energetic, and still turning heads, but she constantly keeps me under wing.”
“I didn’t ask who Natalie is.”
“You didn’t have to.”
As I hear him shift behind me, shivers flutter down my skin. Any moment he could touch me, and dammit, I want him to. I want it so bad that it almost hurts.
But this isn’t how it’s going to be with us, and I trail my hand off of the nightie then face him. I have to peer up to do it, but I keep my breathing steady, my heart cool.
“Tell me you’re not flirting with me here in private,” I say. “That’s not part of the deal.”
His cocky smirk says that I’ll change my mind, but I raise my hand to ward off his smugness.
“Remember the lawyer’s office?” I ask. “This is business. Everything that goes on between us is show, so no intimate contact when we’re alone in private. Holding hands, cuddling and kissing will be for the cameras and the public. Otherwise, when we’re alone, we’re just…friends.” Maybe not even that. “Business partners. Whatever.”
“Romance is for Twitter and Instagram,” he says. “Glad you reminded me of that, Jenna.”
There he goes with my name again. It’s between a growl and a purr, and it’s got me in its trap.
But all I have to do is remind myself that he’s a serial carouser, drinker, fighter, and troublemaker. He’s not serious enough to be trusted with anything, especially not my fragile heart. That’s why it’s so easy to walk out of that closet and away from him.
Even if I’m feeling easier than I have any right to be with such a bad boy.
Chapter 9
Eli shows me around the rest of the house: the expansive dream-porn kitchen with a marble island and every technological tool imaginable; the sunken fire pit in one of the living rooms; the dining room, movie theater, state-of-the-art gym where Eli works out with a personal trainer, and infinity swimming pool outside with its cabana and cottage.
When he suggests a late dinner—one of the many daily meals his assistant fetches for him and leaves in the fridge—I shake my head. My stomach is in knots, and I have no appetite. Instead, I tell him I’m going to turn in, completing day one of our contract.
He doesn’t seem to care much about my absence as his phone rings and he takes the call, so I head up to my room. But I don’t go right to bed. I’m still too wound up, and I find myself wandering around with a burn in my throat. This big, beautiful room belongs to me for ninety days, and best of all, I�
��ll have the first payment from Eli in my bank account soon, followed by another during the halfway point of our agreement. My family will believe that the money is coming from the goodness of my fiancé’s heart, even though that’s a lie. Meanwhile, I’ll smile for the cameras. I’ll be a perfect, good future wife, holding up my end of this deal.
I’ve already unpacked my pitiful few things from my bag, including a lightweight, long-sleeved button down and boxers that I usually sleep in, so I slip into them, then turn on the sound system to a digital station that plays soft world beat music. I glance at my luxurious bed—the kind that Lulu Preston probably sleeps in—and I suddenly feel like more of a pauper than ever in my ratty nightwear.
The walk-in closet lures me, and I go to the pretty pink sixties nightie, holding my breath. Like everything else, it’s so beautiful, fit for a princess. Would I look completely out of place wearing it? More importantly, did Eli’s assistant buy this lovely thing because she thought I’d like it, or did Eli request it, thinking he’ll get me into it and out of it soon?
Just the possibility makes me heat up. I can imagine how he would look at me, how his gaze would undress me and caress me, how his expression would turn from believing he can control himself to having absolutely no control at all because he wants me so badly.
I want to do more than imagine that.
Falling into temptation, I peel off my clothes as if they’re an old skin then, with the clothing on the floor at my bare feet, I slide the nightie off its padded hanger. I hold the gown in front of me. A huff of air conditioning lifts its frilly hem, almost as if it’s a pink cloud.
I almost feel like I’ve snuck into someone else’s closet in one of the big houses I clean—or that I used to clean—but as I slip on the sheer panties, then the nightie itself, I sigh. The baby-doll chiffon whisks down to the middle of my thighs, and part of me is afraid to look in a mirror to see how I fit into something so pink and delicate.
I remember the floor-length mirror near my bed, and I can’t resist going to it. My pulse pads through me, getting louder as I approach the mirror, and when I finally stand in front of it…
Is this really me? Because I don’t see someone who’s curvy, thick and muscled from hard menial labor, someone who scrubs her days away with her head down, invisible. No, this woman has beautiful legs that are only accentuated by the shortness of the nightie. And underneath the filmy material, the curves of her hips and waist lead up to breasts that are nicely rounded, the tips stimulated.
This girl I’m looking at is sexy as hell. Sexy and maybe even confident in her own sexuality.
My God, I’ve been invisible to myself all along.
In giddy disbelief, I unclip my hair, allowing my curls to fall down my back. I toss the barrette aside then look in the mirror again, laughing quietly. What would Eli think if I strolled down to the kitchen like this? I’m damp just thinking about it, and, impulsively, I ease my hands beneath the nightie to cup my breasts. I can just see Eli’s face—how he looked in the dim Hula Shack hallway earlier in the day when he had me against the wall, when he eased down my blouse to touch me, circling his thumb over my nipple to arouse it. I know he would’ve done anything to have more.
As I relive our hallway encounter, I slide two fingers over one of my nipples, catching the distended tip, stroking myself. At the same time, I push my other hand down and into my panties, skimming my middle finger between the folds of my sex.
Wet. So wet as I think about the tall, muscle-bound demigod whose grin always undoes me…
I watch myself in the mirror, an act that I’ve never allowed before. There’ve been nights when I’ve touched myself like this, but it always seems like so much work, more than it’s worth, and I’ve never been this caught up in someone before, even if I’m only fantasizing about the big, bad man of my dreams. What would sex be like with Eli? Would he take what he wants, rough and ready, then be completely done with me after he gets his kicks? Or would he have a slow hand, thinking just as much about my pleasure as his?
I stroke my clit, biting the inside of my lip, aching for him. My pulse knocks at me, thundering, as if trying to let something in. My whole body is shaking, and it’s only when I catch something moving in back of me in the mirror that I realize I’ve lost all track of space and time.
There’s been knocking at the door, but I was too lost to notice it, and now the door is moving—swinging open.
As I see the door opening, I take my hands out of my panties and out from under my nightie. I turn around to find Eli’s gaze fixed to me, burning, devouring.
Did he see what I was doing?
My first instinct is to cover myself, blocking him from seeing me in this wisp of a nightie. But I like what I see too much: I revel in the power of how much he appreciates me, how his gaze goes from my breasts to my sex, as if he’s stripping everything off of me and leaving me bare to him.
Then he looks at my hair, and oddly, that’s what makes my clit throb the hardest. He’s seeing something about me that he hasn’t seen before. Everything about me is exposed.
For a pulse-suspending moment, I think that he’s about to stalk across the room, grab me and fuck me until I pass out. And, God, there’s nothing I want more. But then he clenches his jaw and averts his gaze to a spot above my shoulder, where he can probably see himself in the mirror. I don’t know exactly what he sees in his reflection, but it’s something that clearly changes his mind.
What? Isn’t he the scourge of the league? Doesn’t he fuck anything that tickles his fancy?
What’s stopping him?
“I knocked,” he says tightly.
“I…” Maybe I should put on a robe. But I want him to look at me again. I’m dying for it. “I had the music on so I didn’t hear.”
The music is still playing, and it’s not very loud.
“I think,” he says, “you’d better keep the door locked from now on, just to avoid any awkwardness.”
Or maybe I should keep it open. But I’ve told him that this is only a business deal, and once I can clear my head, I’ll be sticking to that plan. One sexy nightgown isn’t going to change my determination to keep everything hands-off.
He turns to leave but then stops himself. He doesn’t even look at me as he says over his shoulder, “I came here to tell you what’s going on tomorrow. I should’ve told you earlier that there’s a sports rally for a local boys’ football league. Every guy on the team who has a wife or girlfriend is going to be bringing their significant other, so you’ll want to pick out a suitable outfit. Something casual but something that’ll look good on camera because the press is covering the event.”
And so it starts, I think. In public, I’ll be crazy in love with him, but here, away from prying eyes? All business.
I cross my arms over my chest. “When should I be ready?”
“Ten thirty. That’ll give me enough time for a light morning workout. After that, you can go shopping with Natalie and… Aw, shit. I came up here to give you this, too.”
He digs into his jeans pocket and comes out with something sparkly. A diamond ring? He holds it up as if he isn’t sure whether he should backtrack to me and put it on my finger or leave well enough alone.
Another surge of feminine power overwhelms me. Big, bad Eli Brennan just might be afraid that he’s going to lose control of himself to a girl in a nightie. Hah! I wonder if I should have mercy on him or tease him as he’s always teasing me. But if I’m serious about keeping him at bay, then I shouldn’t push it.
I go to him and take the ring, making no ceremony over the fact that I’m slipping the jewelry on my finger. The shine of the diamonds enthralls me as I admire the cut.
“Is this courtesy of Natalie, too?” I ask.
“Yeah. She wanted to see if you liked it before we committed to it.”
“I do.”
His shoulders stiffen at my choice of words. Oops.
“I mean,” I say, “that I do like it. Very much.”
&
nbsp; “Good,” he says. “The jeweler will come over tomorrow to size this before we go to the rally.”
I’m about to ask him for more details about what’s expected of me tomorrow, but he’s already out the door, clapping it shut behind him like more thunder that traces my veins in a brutal aftershock.
This is real. This is happening.
And I think I’m enjoying it way more than I should.
Chapter 10
“Jenna! Over here!”
The media already knows my name, and as I linger on the sidelines of the Youth Sports football rally that’s being held in a middle school gym before the season’s opening weekend, I oblige the cameras with a big, ecstatic smile. I reveal my newly fitted diamond ring to them, causing a firestorm of flashing bulbs. Then, with a shy, “wholesome” grin, I stroll away from the press area and return my loving gaze across the gym to where Eli is signing autographs for all the little future football players who surround him. He glances over at me and winks, and I keep beaming.
I am a sweet, unexpected fiancé, a media darling, a mystery who was unveiled to the public only a short while ago. There are already reports of the Cinderella story Eli’s PR flack has fed to the media, as well as tales about Eli’s generous heart when it comes to helping out with my mom’s illness. Isn’t love grand?
Natalie, Eli’s personal assistant, is walking next to me. “You’re quite good at this.”
She’s definitely grandma material, reminding me of my own grams before she passed on years ago. She’s even kind of hip with her pink-tinted silver hair and a pair of red glasses that hang from a jeweled chain around her neck.
“I think I already need a break,” I say out of the side of my mouth. “I feel like my face is going to freeze from all this smiling.”
“You’ll get used to it, especially when you see what an effect this has on Eli’s career. This PR plan was truly genius.”
As we keep walking, I scan the faces in the bleachers: wide eyes inspecting me, curious faces wondering why Eli Brennan, wild man extraordinaire, didn’t choose someone more his speed, like a hot woman with racecar curves and an equally fast reputation.