“I want to pick up a copy of the Post.” I tried to keep a smile on my face and not stamp my feet in the back seat like a two-year-old.
“Definitely not that, Miss Jones.”
Shit, it was that bad?
“Carson, public relations is my job—”
“And this is mine, miss. I’m sorry.”
Hell, was he really going to pull the Cross-will-fire-me-if-we-stop card? That he thought he could was half my fault, I guess. I had to look like a soft touch, particularly compared to the female barracudas Carson must have chauffeured home when Blake was done with them.
I settled back against the seat, staring out the window as I bit at my lip.
No phone, no paper—that left me with too much time to think. By the time I arrived, I was positively seething. Not only was Blake controlling what I was reading, but he had also assured me Burke was in the wrong, neglecting to mention he was in love with her—or with some other woman he wasn't willing to drag through the mud with a fake marriage.
Walking into the conference room, I had half a mind to punch Blake in the nose and march back out. He smiled at me and pushed his cell phone in my face before I could act so rashly. A picture of Gorman filled the screen. I squinted, trying to make out the words on the building behind him. I could just read the first few letters B-a-n-c-o d-o...
“Is that Spanish?”
He took the phone back and pocketed it as he led me to the conference table. “Portuguese. He's in Brazil.”
A legal pad and paper were on the center of the desk and I reached for them, my mind racing with possibilities. “Where in Brazil? Banco means bank, right? Does he have an account—”
“Slow down, love.” Blake put one hand on my wrist, the other plucking the pen and paper from me. He pointed at the suit that had just walked into the room. “I've got people following him and the firm is working with the Brazilian authorities to find out. There are a lot of people looking into this—you weren't the only one he embezzled from.”
Maybe that was true but I was the only one who had to marry Blake Cross or lay-off my entire staff while Gorman spent my money on Brazilian hookers. I glared at Blake. Could I really go through with marrying him? Abigail knew him far better than I did and she thought he was in love with someone. Even if it was a fake marriage, some woman was going to be hurt by what I was going to do.
Fuck, I would be hurt by it—and not just from remarks some asshole at the Post might publish. My heart had done a somersault at Blake’s smile even before I saw the picture of Gorman.
I folded my arms across my chest, determined to get the truth from him. “About Burke—”
Blake lifted his hand, his open palm less than a foot from my face. “Focus on what's important, Pippa. The loan, getting Gorman, your business—”
“My integrity!” I shot back. “Why is Burke suing you?”
The suit I assumed was the attorney put his hand on Blake's shoulder. “Let me?”
Blake offered a terse nod, his steely gray gaze boring holes in my skull.
“Miss Jones, Mister Cross cannot yet discuss why Burke is suing him and the company.” He pulled a stack of papers from the folder he was holding and placed it on the table in front of me. “Not before you sign these and the marriage is legal.”
“But I understand your concern.” Moving around the table to sit opposite Blake, the attorney continued. “While Mr. Cross isn't free to discuss the facts with you, he has discussed them in detail with me. And I can assure you, while Anna Burke's motives may be personal, the basis of her suit is one-hundred-percent business. I give you my word.”
I lifted a brow to subtly communicate exactly how little value I placed on the word of a thousand-dollar-an-hour attorney paid by someone other than me. “Why then does Blake need a wife?”
A look passed between the two men, the attorney's cheeks flushing. I glanced at Blake, but he was smooth-faced and unreadable. Recovering, the attorney pushed the stack of papers closer to me.
“Professional ethics prohibit me from discussing our trial strategy until you've signed the agreement and the marriage is legal.”
Blake handed a pen to me. “Sign it, Pippa. It's the only way you're going to save your company.”
I glanced at the pocket he had shoved his phone in.
“Sorry, love,” he said, apparently adding mind reader to his bag of tricks. “Finding Gorman is just the first step to getting your money back. You'll have to fight everyone else he stole from tooth and nail for months or years just to get back half of what you lost—if you're even that lucky.”
Luck. I stared down at the paper, the words blurring. Luck and I weren't currently on speaking terms—that much was clear. I thought about returning to my office—everyone gathering around me after they had read the Post that morning. With Blake's line of credit at my disposal, I could nod and smile and tell them there was going to be a wedding or, without his help, I could tell them that the IRS had frozen my accounts and I wasn't sure I'd be able to make the coming payroll.
I looked across the table at the attorney one last time. “It's just about business—the law suit?”
Nodding, the attorney frowned as if he expected me to have a better opinion of Blake. “Mr. Cross's behavior towards Miss Burke has always been exemplary. You have my word on that—make of it what you will.”
Pink Panties, Gray Tie
The attorney wasn’t the only one expecting me to have a better opinion of Blake. There was a distinct pout on Blake’s face once we were alone in the limo. Never, not on camera or during the dozens of meetings over the last year, had I witnessed anything approaching a pout on his face.
I called him on it.
“I am not.” He glanced my way, the pout instantly replaced by a scowl.
Good, I could deal with Blake being annoyed. It was the thought that I had hurt his feelings that bothered me.
Reaching into his brief case, he pulled out a stack of paperwork and one thick mailing envelope. Seeing him intent on entertaining himself with something other than my body, I relaxed against the seat and watched him work.
Breaking the seal on the envelope, he looked up and caught me staring at him. My face muscles tightened and I realized I’d been smiling—dare I say “dreamily” so?
His expression shifted, a dangerous light sparking in his gaze. Lips curving, brow lifting, Blake dropped the envelope into the briefcase.
“What’s in it?” Pointing at the package, I swallowed nervously and cursed myself. I didn’t want him thinking I was mooning over him—even if I had been. Worse, he looked like he wanted to devour me again. I wasn’t prepared and desperately needed more time to steel myself against his charms.
His hands closed around the top of the briefcase, ready to close it.
“Please.” I slid closer to my door. “What’s in it?”
His gaze sobered and I braced myself for another lecture on the charade being 24/7. Instead, he surprised me and pulled the envelope out. He looked at the sender’s address, his mouth quirking in irritation.
“Looks like another request to sell books in my store.” He turned the envelope upside down and shook it. A hardcover book landed in his hand, followed by one of the Cross neckties in Blake’s signature gray.
Laughing, I took the tie from him and ran it through my fingers. The sender had shoved the tie inside but it emerged wrinkle free. I smoothed my thumb along the edge. Fifty-ounce silk, British-milled in Blake’s own factory.
“Let me guess, you’re not thrilled by the idea.”
His nose crinkled as he looked at the book. “Well, PJ, should I be?”
I tilted my head, staring into his eyes and trying hard not to think about the book’s contents or the sudden change in the tie’s utility. “Are you asking your future wife or the head of your outside PR firm?”
“Both.” He looped the fabric around my wrist, the scowl that had started to surface replaced by a bad boy grin. He stopped me before I could shape my reply.
“Wife, first.”
My blush answered for me. I couldn’t admit that the thought of Blake using the tie to bind me, to claim me as his, made me wet in an instant. If I did—well, I had the feeling I’d quickly find myself tied in the back of his limo, my skirt up around my waist.
Suppressing a shiver, I decided to evade that part of his question as long as he would allow. “As your PR advisor, don’t do it. Vintage will be selling the books in Target, too, only next to polyester ties.”
He blanched at the thought and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Unwinding the tie, I dropped it onto the seat.
“Not funny, love.” Pushing his briefcase aside, he reached for me. “Maybe tying you up will teach you not to tease me like that again.”
“I won’t. I promise.” I tried to slide away, but he was too strong and quick, agile where I was awkward.
Pulling me onto his lap so that I straddled him, Blake lifted my skirt. “I was going to hide your panties this morning.”
“Blake!” My mouth dropped open and he chuckled. Noticing that the clothes that morning were from the same boutique, his having selected a loose flowing skirt and a top with a plunging neckline, I’d guessed his intent and promised myself I’d retrieve clothes from my apartment as soon as possible. The man was impossible—acting like a horny teenager in love for the first time. If he didn’t drop the act soon, I was in danger of believing him. And that would only lead to heartbreak.
I pushed at him, tried to leverage my weight to the side and break free.
He captured my wrists and pulled my arms behind my back, one strong hand hooking my thumbs to keep me trapped. Slowly he reached for the tie.
“Blake, no.”
Ignoring my protests, he started to loop the tie around my wrists. “I thought all the trendy New York ladies were fainting with the need to be tied up by a billionaire.”
“I’m not trendy, Blake.” My wrists secured, Blake wrapped his hands around my bottom and slid me higher up his lap. I could feel him hard at the juncture of my thighs. My pussy contracted at the thought.
I wanted him to fuck me last night, offered myself up. As wet as I was, I knew it wouldn’t take much before I repeated the offer.
His mouth landed against my throat and then I felt the pull of his teeth. My nipples, already painfully hard, tightened. His lips sealed around my throat and I felt the wet push of his tongue as he sucked at my flesh.
I squirmed. “You’ll leave a mark—”
His hand gliding beneath the back band of my panties, Blake pinched my bottom.
Fighting the urge to let him do whatever he wanted to me, I pushed at him with my shoulders, my bound hands useless. “I don’t go to work with hickeys, Blake.”
“You do now, love.” He kissed the soft underside of my chin, his tongue trailing up to my mouth.
There was that word again. It fell effortlessly from his lips. I knew it could fall effortlessly from mine, as well, for different reasons. If I ever said it to him, I’d mean it. But he was in love with another woman. Hell, for all I knew, he was thinking about her now—the source behind his very real arousal and why he sounded so damn convincing.
I drew back. He jerked me closer with a growl. He gave my bottom a rough squeeze, his tongue plundering my mouth. Another tug had my mound flush with his cock straining against his pants.
“Baby, I’m going to make you come before I say good-bye.”
We both knew he could. Only I didn’t want it. Rather, my brain didn’t want it.
My pussy, on the other hand...
A moan left me as Blake reached around front and cupped my breast. His thumb brushed along my nipple, followed by the pad of one finger. A slow grind of thumb and finger had me lifting off him, another moan clawing at my throat.
His free hand slid between us as I rose up. When I landed, his palm was against my pussy, his fingers pulling the gusset of my panties to the side. He eased a tip between my labia to slowly circle the muscled gate.
“So wet, PJ.” He bit the edge of my jaw, his tongue following after to lick the hurt away before his mouth found mine again. “And tight, baby...I want to slide inside you, feel you squeezing me.”
His hand moved, my hips moved with him. The pad of his thumb came to a stop against the kernel of my clit. He rubbed a slow clockwise circle and then another. Gazing into my eyes, he increased the pressure as his thumb took another trip around the clock. “Are you going to make me wait until after the wedding, baby.”
I couldn’t nod or shake my head or say anything. I could only lift higher, the slow pace of his circles controlling me, wearing my resistance down until my hips bucked and I bit at my lips to stop the cry ripping from me as I came.
“Every time, PJ.” He cupped my mound, gently rocking his palm against my clit as the crescendo inside me began to ebb. “Every time you’re in this car, in our bed, I’m going to touch you, love you until you have to let me in, baby.”
“Blake...” The knowledge that I’d just signed the pre-nup weighed at me. Tears threatened. My hands were still tied. The first fat drop of liquid landed and I couldn’t stop it from spilling down my cheek or wipe it away. “I don’t think I can go through with this.”
He blinked, his pupils expanding. The jaw that had been relaxed as his lips teased my flesh hardened. The hand that had been tugging relentlessly at my nipple as I arched against him landed on my hip with a dreadful finality. “Love, you don’t have a choice.”
Plum Wine and a Kiss
The rest of the limo ride passed in silence. Blake's office was closest and Carson dropped him off first. From there, I went to my brownstone to pack a few things. It had been made clear in the attorney’s office that I was expected to stay at the penthouse until the end of the trial—even before we were legally married.
I still had no idea when the actual wedding would occur. I only knew that the contract called for a “valid” marriage. I didn't need it spelled out in black and white, in all caps bolded, to understand the term meant fucking would be required.
Once.
Post-ceremony.
Despite my quivering liquid state in the back of Blake’s limo, I was in no hurry to walk down the aisle with Cross.
He had me in such an emotional state that I didn’t check the online version of the Post while I was packing. I judiciously avoided it at work, as well. I had counseled more than one client under comparable circumstances and my advice was always the same. Stay offline. Don’t watch TV. Let someone trusted field your calls and emails.
Otherwise, it always ended with a drunken or hysterical tweet by the client and a week’s worth of #fail hash tags bearing their name until some other famous person fucked up and replaced them in the spotlight. My firm didn’t need that kind of scrutiny—neither did Cross Incorporated.
Thankfully, every damn member of my staff knew not to hand me a copy or mention the coverage when I arrived in the office. Even without the media distraction, I didn’t manage to get any work done. Kevin was in my office the entire time, angling for all the juicy details and every single staff member came into my office, in ones and two, to offer their congratulations. I was almost relieved to escape to the penthouse where I could at least put the lies to rest for an evening.
Abigail greeted me at the door, her jacket and purse over one arm as she gave me a lopsided hug. “Mr. Cross is expecting you on the terrace. I hope you like sushi, dear?”
I forced myself not to clutch at her arm as she stepped into the foyer. “Are you leaving?”
“Six o'clock, dear. Did you need something?”
I shook my head. She had a husband waiting for her at home; I couldn't ask her to stay and hold my hand while I ate dinner with Blake.
“There's always a bit of nerves once it's official.” She rubbed my arm, smiling. “I tried to climb out the bathroom window at the church. Can you imagine? Me, in a wedding dress, one leg already on the outside, my maid of honor Bernice dragging me back in!”
I mu
stered up a small laugh at the image. “And you're still married?”
She nodded. “Going on thirty years, three boys, five grandchildren. Blake won't let you down, you'll see. He's a good man—and he loves you.”
Abigail gave me another one-armed hug then disappeared, leaving me alone with a man who—if Abigail knew him as well as she seemed to—might actually be crazy in love.
Just not with me.
I mean, it was completely impossible, right?
My answer came a few seconds later from the most unexpected of sources. I had gone into the master bedroom in search of safer clothes when my phone rang. I needed pants if I was going to have dinner with him on the terrace. Not because it was cold, but because it was Blake.
I didn't trust him. Didn’t trust me, either. No matter how much he had to be faking it, Blake had a way of making me feel like it was my body arousing him, my essence that had captivated him and made him renounce his single status.
I was starting to believe his act, just a little. And then the phone rang.
I flipped it open. No caller ID but I recognized the first three numbers—the area code to the Madison, Wisconsin, suburbs I’d grown up in. Press coverage has a way of making the insects come out of the woodwork. I hit talk and waited for the cold voice of my mother to speak. When she did, she wasted no time crushing my spirit.
“Bad enough you’re fat, Pippa, but you’ve got to be a slut, too?”
Foul words played along my tongue, but I only managed two—not the two she deserved. “Excuse me?”
“You’re pregnant, aren’t you? Why else would he marry you?” She sucked a breath in, a thin wheeze telling me that she still hadn’t dropped her two-pack a day cigarette habit. “Fat, slutty and stupid. I’m ashamed you’re my daughter.”
“I’m not.” I swiped at the tear rolling down my cheek, furious at myself that she could cut me so deeply, so quickly, after all these years.
Crazy About Curves: 10 Luscious Reads Page 13