by Eve Black
He was so caught up in the mystery woman that he just barely heard what his girlfriend said next.
“You obviously need donations if you can’t afford real shoes…or a real face,” Amanda had mocked. Then, she pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her wallet, made like she was going to hand it to the woman, then ripped the bill in half. The look of disgust on the woman’s face had stolen his breath. He’d never seen such vitriol in a single look before.
“My face is real enough, thank you very much. And, I do not need donations, these women do. And if you can’t see that other people are worth your help, then you aren’t worth the air you breathe. What a waste,” the woman said, her gaze landing on Michael. “I know your type—all glitz and glamor and pointlessness. You’re better off brain dead…” He’d stopped listening after that. Her words had struck him, right in the chest, and he would have stumbled back if Amanda hadn’t snaked her arm around his back in her usual cloying manner.
The woman had stormed off then… That was three years ago. Three years ago, he’d decided to become a new man. Someone who was more than just a waste of space. And he’d accomplished just that. Except…now the company he built was hanging over his head like a golden fleece he couldn’t reach. But he had to get it back. It was the one thing in his life he was proud of. And, if he played his cards right, he could take hold of it again.
He smiled to himself and cast one last look at the community bulletin board. He wished he could find that woman… He’d thank her.
Having dismissed his hired car, he decided to walk the rest of the way to his apartment. The weather was mild—which was unusual in LA in late spring—and his anxiousness needed an outlet. He hadn’t had the time to work out that morning, and the walk would work wonders on his nervous energy. He passed the usual shops, nodding and waving at familiar faces, then he entered the gleaming lobby of the upscale apartment building. He’d bought the building in 2015, and had taken up residence that same year. Though he didn’t spend as much time there as he’d like, he still made sure it was managed with the utmost professionalism.
“Mr. Donovan, welcome home!” Burns, the building concierge called from behind his polished desk.
Smiling at the smartly dressed man, Michael stopped. “Has she arrived yet?” he asked, knowing full well that Lorraine would have called ahead to let Burns know to expect a woman.
Burns nodded, his eyes snapping with excitement.
“That she has. She’s been here three hours already.”
When he’d first put the ad in with Diamond Bridal Agency, he hadn’t really cared what his wife looked like, as long as she didn’t expect him to act the husband to her. Hence the basic no sex clause. He didn’t want his wife to expect intimacy, especially if he didn’t find her attractive. But now, he was burning with curiosity. What did his future wife look like?
“Eh…Burns…”
“Yes, sir?”
“What did the woman look like?”
Burns furrowed his brow in confusion, then said, “About my height, red hair, curvy. Didn’t dress like the women who usually come through here—if you don’t mind my saying, sir.”
“Jewelry?” he asked, his suspicions forming in his mind.
“None that I could see. She looked…well, sir, she looked like someone who would come in to work housekeeping—before they changed into their uniform, of course.”
So, she looked…poor?
Suddenly not as excited, he strode to the elevator and keyed in the code.
“Thanks, Burns. Please send up my bags when they arrive.”
“Yes, sir,” the man saluted.
Sighing, Michael stepped onto the elevator as the doors opened. He leaned against the copper walls and let his thoughts weave with the doubts he should have had a month ago when he'd first contacted Mrs. Creed.
Had he made a mistake by not stipulating his prospective bride have her own fortune? Yes, he’d required that his bride know the ins and outs of society, but any grasping hanger-on would know who was who and which fork to use at dinner. No. It didn’t make sense. The Diamond Bridal Agency only contracted with men and women of wealth; they wouldn’t let a gold-digger slip through the cracks, would they? Being the only son of Gilbert Donovan meant he’d met and bedded his share of gold-diggers—but that was it. He’d never allowed one close enough to even set foot in his penthouse, and he’d gone and invited a complete stranger into his home.
Damn!
As the elevator climbed to the penthouse, Michael let his anxiety climb with it.
“I hope this wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life…” he murmured just as the elevator doors slid open soundlessly. He peered across the expanse of his living room and found it empty. So…where was she? Michael exited the elevator and looked toward the chef’s kitchen he rarely used. Empty. Then, he looked down the hall toward the bedrooms.
Which room had she chosen; the master bedroom or one of the two guest bedrooms? She could be one of the society women who were angling for money by forcing themselves on rich men. So, it was possible she’d moved into the master, assuming she could seduce him out of his non-consummation policy.
Or, she can be in a guest bedroom, respecting your space…a less snarky inner voice chimed in. He knew he wasn’t being fair—judging her before even meeting her, but there was a lot on the line. If she was the classless, greedy, grasping kind of women he’d seen plenty of in the oil money circles, he would have a hard time keeping her around for six months, which meant he could kiss his company goodbye.
Heaving a sigh, he determined to begin as he meant to go on. He headed down the hallway to find his bride.
4
Helene placed the last pair of underwear in the nearly empty dresser drawer and slid it closed. It shouldn't have taken so long to unpack her one bag, but she kept getting distracted by the opulence of her new bedroom. She'd known that the large bedroom with the California King, dark wood paneling, and stark white furniture had to be the master, so she continued on her way to the second guest room she found. The first one was all white, cream, and gold. She didn't take that one because she was scared she'd never be able to make a mess. She'd wasn't a sloppy pig, but what human being didn’t get something dirty. No, she didn't take that room. Thankfully, the second guest room was more livable. It was light blue with silver and sea green accents. It reminded her of the ocean, which made her feel peaceful. Until she opened the dresser drawer and realized her clothes wouldn't even fill one-fourth the space.
“Guess I’ll have to go shopping…” she said to no one.
“Already spending my money, I see,” someone replied.
Gasping, Helene spun on her barefoot—she’d kicked off her heels at the first opportunity—and came face to face with the man who’d smiled at her while his girlfriend humiliated her.
“You!” she blurted.
His striking light blue eyes widened, then narrowed just as quickly. “Me,” he said simply.
“Tell me you’re not the man I’m supposed to marry,” she rasped, her heart pounding erratically. In the coffee shop, he’d been dressed in a lavender suit coat, a cream button down, and black designer jeans. Sexy as hell but just as douchey. Today, he was wearing a thin gray t-shirt, dark blue designer jeans, and a scowl. His blue eyes were a stunning contrast to his ink black hair. He was gorgeous—but he was also an asshole.
He shrugged, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. “That depends…are you Helene Collins?” he asked.
Unnerved, she nodded. “That’s me,” she admitted, doing her damnedest to keep her ham and swiss panini in her stomach.
He crossed his muscular arms over his broad chest and stared at her. “Then I am the man you’re supposed to marry.” His gaze skimmed her, taking in her bare feet, her thick hips, her breasts, and finally meeting her gaze again. “Interesting.”
Interesting? What the hell did that mean? She recovered from her shock quickly, her anger mixing with her anxiety to cause an explosion.
"Interesting doesn't begin to cover it," she countered, crossing her own arms over her ample chest, which only made the sweater slip further down her shoulder. If he thought that, because wasn't as pretty as the women he was used to dating, that he could skitter out from their contract, he was in for one hell of a rude awakening. "You signed the contract, I signed the contract, so you're as stuck with me as I am with you. So, suck it up buttercup." Having reached the end of her steam-powered outburst, she finally let the man's expression register in her mind. He was grinning, and by God is was mind-blowingly sexy.
“You’re right. We are stuck,” he drawled, dropping his arms to slide his hands into his pockets. “But I think I need to add a new clause…”
Wary, she asked, “What new clause?”
His grin remained, but Helene could feel the chill from across the room. “You get an allowance. $500 a week. Nothing more.”
Stunned by the edge in his tone, Helene let another wave of anger rush over her. Fine, he wanted to continue being an asshole, she’d deal. She didn’t need his money, not really.
Shrugging, she purred, “Fine with me,” before straightening her shoulders and striding past him. Good Lord, he even smells divine, she thought as she caught of whiff of him. Her back as straight as she could make it with the twenty pounds of boobs on her chest, she continued down the hallway and into the kitchen she’d seen earlier. It was huge, ridiculously large, and the fridge was stocked with foods she’d only ever seen on the Food Network.
“What are you doing?” his deep voice rumbled from behind her. Much too close.
She didn’t turn around, instead, she opened the closest cabinet to find an array of wine glasses. Not that one. She opened the next one. Bingo! The mixing bowls. She reached up and took hold of a ceramic mixing bowl, then placed it on the counter.
“I said, what are you doing?” he asked again.
She finally turned to peer at him from over her shoulder. She smirked, raising an eyebrow.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m making myself a snack.”
His penetrating blue eyes could cut like a laser, and he crossed his arms again.
“Why?” he asked. Her smile grew.
“Arguing with assholes always makes me hungry.”
Michael couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears. The woman from the coffee shop, the one who’d ripped a hole in his space-time continuum, was standing in his kitchen, whipping eggs. And, she’d called him an asshole! Her words from three years ago had rung in his ears, just that morning, and so seeing her, in his house, was like a punch in the face.
One he didn’t see coming.
“I know you’re making a snack, I can see that. What I meant is what are you doing in my house?” He’d have to call Mrs. Creed, there had to have been some sort of mix-up at the agency. The woman before him, wearing knock-offs and a saucy grin, couldn’t be the woman he was meant to marry.
He swallowed, allowing his gaze to slide over her generous ass, up her pin-straight back, and to the creamy skin of the neck peeking out from behind tendrils of silky-looking red curls.
This woman, Helene Collins, was exactly what he didn’t want when he’d placed the ad for a wife. His father told him to get married, so he contacted the Diamond Bridal Agency. He’d expected them to send him a demure, plain-looking, bookish yet socially adept woman. Now, looking at the woman they had sent, he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do.
He remembered her, clear as day, from the coffee shop, three years ago. She’d set his whole new life in motion, so…he expected he owed her something, even though she had no idea who he was or what she did for him. She’d been looking for donations for some women’s shelter, dressed in clothes that did nothing for her lush figure. It was clear she wasn’t from money—who put up fliers for donations if they had money to give? And who chose to wear yoga pants and flip-flops if they didn’t have to? So, she definitely wasn’t from money. Had she somehow slipped passed Mrs. Creed’s screening process? Was she a gold-digger looking for a free ride?
But…that didn’t make any sense. Back in the bedroom, he’d told her, point blank, that she’d only get $500 a week. She didn’t bat an eye. If she were after his money, she would be stomping around, screaming, and throwing around some serious pouting—and with as lush and delicious looking as her lips had been, he would have probably changed his mind.
Except, she hadn’t done as he’d expected. And that intrigued him…just like whatever it was she was making.
He stepped up to the counter and sat at the island that separated where she was cooking and the main living area.
“Don’t talk while you’re cooking?” he asked, a little curious about the food, and a lot curious about the woman.
She shrugged, reached into a cupboard for a plate, and he nearly lost his damn mind. When she reached up like that, the fabric of her jeans cupped her lush ass perfectly. The round mounds were just the right amount of curved to give a man a little push back when he thrust into her.
His cock thickened at the image of her, on her knees in front of him, her face planted in the mattress, and him pounding into her, watching those ass cheeks bounce with the force of each thrust. She’d groan in ecstasy, and he’d come harder than he ever had in his life.
Stunned by the vividness of his thoughts, he didn’t hear her when she spoke.
“Huh?” he murmured, blinking to focus his eyes on her face. Her chocolate eyes glinted with barely reigned annoyance, and her pillowy lips were puckered—but not in a beseeching pout. Not that he minded.
“I said, I hope you like your eggs a little runny,” she repeated, sliding a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs across the counter to him. She slid open a drawer and pulled out two forks, sliding one toward him and stabbing at her own plate of eggs with the other.
He blinked down at the plate, then looked up at her, confused and dumbstruck at once.
“You made eggs?” he asked, sounding like an idiot. He cleared his throat. “I mean, you snack on eggs?”
She forked in a mouthful of eggs and then pulled the fork out, wrapping her lips around the tines and sliding the fork out slowly…and he watched the movement like a man searching for the Holy Grail. Her mouth was far too fascinating.
What would it feel like to have that mouth around my cock? He shoveled eggs into his mouth to keep from moaning, and she eyed him curiously.
“Eggs are cheap, easy to make, and packed with protein.”
He choked, sputtering. When he finally swallowed, he said, “Are they? I wonder why you care about any of that.” What did a woman, contracted through the elite Diamond Bridal Agency care about money? And if she came from money, wouldn’t she have a chef to make her whatever she wanted. And…protein? Really? He fought the urge to let his gaze drop to her ass again. She didn’t need protein, she was already a healthy shape. She was getting more and more intriguing. And he was getting more and more erect.
Since when did you appreciate curves over fake tits? Sure, he liked made-up girls like Amanda and her friends, but he didn’t mind looking at a woman who was as confident and sexy as the woman standing in front of him now. The woman wearing the hell out of those jeans.
And he was going to marry her… If he could figure her out. If she was only in it to seduce him for his money, getting him to break his clause so she could take off with her payment, he had to break it off now. But…if she was the real deal, and willing to stick around for six months, he’d pay her whatever she wanted and then kiss her ass goodbye.
Hmmm…and he’d enjoy that, too.
She put her plate in the sink and shrugged, and he remembered he'd asked her a question. "Cheap and easy are better than expensive and difficult. Also, protein is good for a growing girl like me," she said, grinning. The charm in that one smile was enough to light up the whole damn penthouse. Without a word, she spun, opening another cupboard. This time, she reached up to pull out a glass, and as she did, the globes of her heavy breasts shimmied, tugging
on the sweater that did nothing to hide the perfect circle of her nipples. The fabric was worn thin, which meant she wore the sweater often, which meant she probably preferred comfort over cost. Another check in the poor, gold-digger box. But, he couldn't understand why that thought didn't bother him like it should.
Curiouser and curiouser.
He continued watching her as she moved around the kitchen, looking like a goddess at home in his house. Everything she did was sexy—even pouring water into her glass showed off the elegance of her hands, and when she lifted the glass to her mouth, her lips puckered just right, and he couldn’t stop wondering what those lips would taste like.
Seriously, Mike, dude, get a grip. If you marry her, you’ve got to keep your dick in your pants. Sex only complicated things, and if things got complicated, six months would seem like sixty years.
But, God, she wasn’t a morsel of a woman like Amanda, she was a full meal of surprises, decadent curves, and sassy delights. He might have just eaten a plate loaded with eggs without tasting a single bite, but he was suddenly starving.
5
Helene didn't know what to make of the man standing at the windows, staring out over the smog-cloaked city, hands in his tight designer jeans. And she certainly didn't know what think about that ass of his, either. From where she was sitting on the overstuffed white couch, she could see every angle of him from behind. He was more than sexy, he was drop-dead gorgeous, perfectly sculpted man candy with a body any woman would want to climb.
Where’s my climbing rope when I need it?
So…why was she having second thoughts about going through with the marriage?