by Naima Simone
As if sensing his imminent denial, her eyes narrowed.
“Did I also mention Chelsea’s a level-ten clinger? Ask her last boyfriend. I think he had to go into Witness Protection.”
“And here I thought you said she was a sweetheart not a stalker,” he drawled. Christ, what would she come up with next? He had to give it to Morgan, though; she was a fighter.
She shrugged. “She is. But one who doesn’t know how to let go. Me, on the other hand? I’ll walk away at the end of this. Run. As fast as I can. Far, far away. Leaving only my skid marks behind me.”
Her promise to leave rang in his chest, striking something discordant inside him like a gong. Isn’t that what he wanted, though? Of course. This whole plan wasn’t about finding a wife but gaining his birthright. And afterward, he would send his “fiancée” away so he wouldn’t have to watch another woman walk.
With a hard, mental shake of his head, he shied away from that thought. He had one goal: become CEO of Bishop Enterprises. And finding the right partner to play the role that would help him attain that goal.
And that partner wasn’t…Chelsea Benson. Or any of the other women Kim had suggested. He’d rejected them for various reasons, but there’d been one thing that had been common with all the candidates.
Him.
His reaction to them. Or rather, lack of reaction.
He sighed.
His father was shrewd. He would take one look at the women and know something was up because of the absence of chemistry. And if Alex was going to convince his father the engagement wasn’t a farce, then he had to make Malcolm believe Alex was head-over-ass in love. That he couldn’t keep his hands off the woman and needed to make her his. Only one person fit that bill so far. The one person he might not like but damn sure kept his dick in a state of perpetual semi-arousal.
And from that display moments ago, Morgan could pull this act off.
He just had to keep his hands to himself.
Shit. He dragged a hand over his head, scrubbing the short strands.
“Look,” Morgan said, a note of resignation weighing down her voice. “I don’t know how much longer you have to find a fiancée, or who else you’re considering. But none of the women need this as bad as I do. This isn’t just about me, but about Phoenix House and all the women who depend on it. Yes, okay, we don’t really care for each other. But that’s a pro, isn’t it? You know I won’t demand more at the end of this. I damn sure won’t claim to love you and change up the terms. I’m walking into this with my eyes wide open. I don’t need more from you than the purchase of the building. And in three years, when I fully come into my inheritance from my father, I’ll buy it back from you. So, really, you’re not losing money. With another woman, you would have to pay off her silence and pray she keeps her mouth shut. After the shit with my own broken engagement, do you think I want people to know my next one was a business transaction?”
He turned away from her, from the pleading in those suddenly somber eyes. Rubbing a hand over the nape of his neck, he shoved out everything but the pros and cons of this decision that couldn’t be based on anything but logic, not emotion.
Two weeks ago, he’d had seven weeks to find a fiancée. Now he had five. He was running out of time. She’d made it clear she wanted him only for the building, and he’d actually planned on paying the person he chose more than $1.5 million. Living a lie for possibly months deserved to be compensated. Most importantly, though, she wouldn’t turn the tables on him and demand more than they’d agreed upon when the time to call it quits arrived. Not a relationship or real commitment. That had been one of his main worries.
But with Morgan, that concern didn’t exist. Not on her part, and damn sure not on his.
After several moments, he pivoted and faced her again.
“You can’t tell anyone—and I do mean anyone—about this arrangement. Not even your mother or sister,” he ordered.
She blinked, but then quickly nodded. “Done.”
“Second, I’ll purchase the building for you, and at the end of this, I’ll sign the deed over to you. You won’t pay me back for it.”
“Now wait, you can’t—” She shook her head.
But he held up a hand, halting her argument.
“Non-negotiable. I intended to pay whoever I chose, and you will be, too. This is a job. One that will entail social events, business functions, as well as personal family obligations several times a week. Your time should be well compensated. And third, I sign the paperwork to officially take over Bishop Enterprises on New Year’s Day. You have to agree to continue the pretense until two months after that date.”
“About that. I have a condition of my own.” She crossed her arms, her gaze shifting away from his to a point somewhere over his shoulder. “When we have to announce the end of the engagement, the story goes I broke up with you.” She dipped her head, but he caught the frown creasing her brow. “I don’t think my pride can take another hit,” she muttered.
He tamped down the urge to hunt down Troy Worthington, drag his ass out into the middle of Commonwealth Avenue, and slam his fist into him. Over and over again.
“I know that probably sounds really shallow to you—”
“No, it doesn’t,” he murmured. “And I agree.”
She lifted her head, and the vulnerability in those blue eyes punched him in the gut. Then, she blinked, and the emotion disappeared, and her clear stare, devoid of shadows, met his. The familiar smooth, unruffled mask fell back in place. She’d already shown him she was a consummate actress. But which side was the real Morgan? The cool socialite with a sharp wit and even sharper armor? Or the softer, compassionate philanthropist with pain in her eyes?
He didn’t want to know. Because that meant she stirred his curiosity. And he didn’t want to be curious about her, either.
“Should we shake on it?” she asked, extending an arm toward him.
Bracing himself for even this slight contact with her, he grasped her palm in his. And didn’t miss her almost hushed intake of breath, though her smile remained in place.
“We’ll shake on it,” he agreed, squeezing her hand. “Until I have the contract written up and delivered to you on Monday.”
She sighed. “And they say romance is dead.”
He grunted and released her, resisting the impulse to rub his hand along his pants leg to alleviate the tingle her touch had stirred.
“Since we’re technically engaged, does this mean I can call you Al?”
He snorted. “Not if you want me to answer.”
Humming, she tapped a fingertip against her full bottom lip. And just like that, his thoughts zeroed in on the caress she’d given him during that “audition.”
“What about Lex?” she proposed.
“No.”
“Aw, c’mon.” She pouted, popping her fists on her hips. “I should have a pet name for my fiancé. Something no one else calls you. Pookie bear. Pumpkin. Hufflepuff?”
Surprise threaded through his irritation at her insistence on—fuck—nicknames. Maybe it made him a narrow-minded asshole, but he’d pictured People and Vogue magazines on her bedside table, not YA novels. Not that he imagined her in bed. Much.
“Hufflepuff isn’t a term of endearment. It’s a house at Hogwarts.”
“A man who knows his Harry Potter. I’m impressed.” Pleasure lit up her face, a slow smile curling the corners of her mouth. “Okay then, how ’bout—”
“How about Mr. Bishop?” he suggested, sarcasm dripping from his tone.
“Ooh, kinky,” she purred, widening her eyes in an exaggerated innocence. “Yes, sir, Mr. Bishop. I’ve been a naughty girl, Mr. Bishop, sir. I need to be punished.”
That shouldn’t have been hot. But damn if it wasn’t.
“Alex,” he ground out. “Alex is fine.”
“Kind of meh, but…” She shrugged a shoulder. “Okay, we’ll go with it.” Closing the distance between them, she settled a hand on his upper arm. He stiffened, not
sure if he wanted to remove her touch or cover her fingers and press it into his flesh. Before he could make a decision, she lowered her arm and gave him a small smile. “Thank you. I…”
She dipped her chin, hiding her eyes from him, and he almost surrendered to the need to pinch her chin and lift her face to him so he could determine which Morgan stood before him. The eccentric, wise-cracking socialite or the vulnerable woman with the bruised heart. But he kept his arms down by his sides. Now that he’d agreed to accept her offer of posing as his fiancée, any touching, any tenderness had to be limited to the ruse. He couldn’t allow pretense to mingle with or muddy reality.
“Anyway.” She stepped back. “Thank you for helping me.”
“It’s not charity,” he said, turning and leading the way out of the living room and toward the foyer. He retrieved her coat and held it up. As she slipped her arms into the sleeves, several strands of her hair grazed his chin, teasing him. He dropped his gaze to the elegant column of her neck, focusing on the soft, exposed nape. It tempted him, invited him to trail his lips across the smooth patch of skin. Feel her shiver beneath him. Hear her gasp in pleasure as she leaned into him…
He moved away from the lure of that skin.
Striding past her, he headed toward the front door and grasped the door knob. Her scent reached him before she did.
“What now?” she asked, tightening the sash of her coat. “What’s our first step?”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning at twelve o’clock,” he said.
“What’s happening tomorrow?”
He pulled open the door and rested his palm high on the edge. A sense of finality filled him. There was no turning back.
Most men would find their engagement a time of happiness. After his divorce, he’d vowed not to end up here again, but now he found himself tied to a woman he wasn’t even sure he liked, but who tempted the tight leashes on his control as no other had…
Resolve filled his chest. Resolve and more than a little bit of unease.
Because Morgan Lett was trouble wrapped in an alluring package. Trouble that he’d invited through his front door. Literally.
But he couldn’t regret or question his decision now. Not when everything he’d wanted—his birthright, recognition, acceptance—was so close, he could brush his fingertips against its elusive edges. He had to remain focused on the goal, and Morgan’s new role in his life was just one of the steps there.
Keep focused.
Keep his mind clear and sharp.
And keep his hands off Morgan.
Meeting her gaze, he replied, “Ring shopping. We’re going to buy you an engagement ring.”
Chapter Six
Morgan paced the foyer of her Back Bay brownstone, the clicking of her boot heels against the hardwood floors providing a soundtrack for the epic shitstorm whirling around in her mind, clogging her throat, pressing against her rib cage.
She shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have opened the thick, cream-colored piece of mail with its elegant black scroll. One glance at the card-size envelope, stuck between mailers, bills, and magazines, and she’d known. She’d fucking known what it contained. And if her intuition hadn’t been enough of a warning, the return address at the left-hand, top corner should’ve been a huge, waving red flag clue. Cynthia’s name and address. The same address she’d used for eight years. She should’ve expected this. Hadn’t her mother just mentioned the night before that she’d received one?
But even the knowledge of its contents hadn’t prevented her from withdrawing the heavy piece of cardstock. Didn’t stop her from reading every word.
Mr. and Mrs. Troy Worthington, II cordially invite you to a dinner party to celebrate the engagement of their son, Troy Anthony Worthington, III to Cynthia Ella Carrington on Saturday, December 17, at 7:00 p.m. at…
The invitation went on to detail the location and RSVP instructions. Every word in the announcement sliced a thousand tiny cuts into her heart. And the semblance of peace, of confidence and strength she’d believed she’d gathered, bled out. If things had gone differently—if her fiancée hadn’t decided he loved her stepsister instead of her—this invitation filled with such joy and pride would’ve had her name etched into it. It would’ve been requesting people to come rejoice in her happy future filled with love, family, and security. But that future, just like the man, didn’t belong to her. It wasn’t meant for her.
And she held the proof in her hand.
A strangled cry she wasn’t quick enough to smother escaped her. No. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sting that heralded an onslaught of tears. She’d cried already. Cried until her eyes scratched like grit lined her lids, and her throat was a raw, sore mess. They didn’t get any more of her tears. They didn’t get any more of her.
Besides, if she started, by the time Alexander—Alex, as of last night—showed up, she would be a swollen, blotchy mess.
The sob transformed into a sharp crack of laughter that echoed off the walls. She was headed to buy a ring for a fake engagement while holding an invitation to a very real engagement—one that had almost been hers.
God, life wasn’t just fickle: it had one hell of a sick sense of humor.
The peal of “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll”—her custom-ordered doorbell—rang through the house, alerting her to a visitor on the other side of the front door. And the large, wide-shouldered shadow visible through the beveled glass clued her in on who awaited her. As did a glance at the wall clock. Twelve o’clock on the dot. Only one person in her acquaintance was that punctual.
Alexander.
Her fiancé as of fourteen hours ago.
She unlocked the door and yanked it open. And met the storm-heavy grey eyes that were both her torment and her pleasure.
Since the night of the bachelor’s auction, he, with his cold and distant demeanor, had haunted her dreams. Except in that nebulous place where reality bent to her subconscious’s will, he was neither cold nor distant. There, his liquid silver gaze burned, the aloof mask dissolved by lust, his hard, swimmer’s body void of his customary suits, bared to her touch. And damn, did she touch.
In her fantasies, Alex needed her, was damn near feral to have her. But the real, flesh-and-bone Alex only tolerated her, and even now stood on her doorstep because she represented his last option.
Then why did she want to fall against flesh-and-bone Alex’s chest, wrap her arms around his narrow waist, and bawl?
He was the last person who would welcome any kind of emotional outburst. Especially from her. Seeing as he didn’t seem to have any emotions himself, he probably abhorred any messy display of feelings.
That didn’t stop her from longing to curl up against him like a kitten who’d found a warm, solid, safe space to nap.
God, maybe she was as crazy as he believed her to be.
Alex surveyed her from her hair that she’d taken the time to curl into loose spirals, down her coat and denim-clad legs, and lower still to her knee-high brown boots. She resisted fidgeting under his direct perusal, and when he returned his attention to her face, she notched her chin up, portraying a confidence that had taken a hit minutes before he arrived.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
The blunt, brusque question almost rocked her back on her stiletto heels. She blinked, surprised, but that piercing stare didn’t waver.
“You mean besides the fact that I’m up and dressed at noon on a Sunday? I’m just peachy, pumpkin.” The flippant response tumbled off her tongue on reflex, and she forced the slightly mocking smile that she’d perfected.
A muscle ticked along his jaw, telegraphing his irritation. But then again, this was Alex, and annoying him had become a pastime for her. Could anyone really blame her? It was so easy.
“What’s wrong?” he repeated, though a low rumble had entered his voice.
Again, shock shot through her. No one—as in no one—ever saw past what she wanted them to see. Through the years, she’d mastered the impenetrable arm
or comprised of sarcasm, ennui, with a dose of I don’t give a damn. Especially since the shit hit the fan with Cynthia and Troy. Even her mother and sister had started to believe she’d recovered from their very public betrayal. And to everyone else? She was the same sharp-tongued shew. Business as usual.
That Alex—Alex, who didn’t even like her, barely knew her—could peer past the iron curtain covering her true scattered and bruised emotions…unnerved her. For an instant, he had her second-guessing this decision to be his fake fiancée.
Because her reaction to the engagement party invitation and her inexplicable longing to lay her head on his chest and let him block out the world blared a warning that her defenses were compromised. The last time she’d allowed a man even a glimpse of the real her, had opened up just a little, he’d rejected her.
And the strangest, but strongest, intuition niggled at her. If she let Alex inside, what Troy did to her would look like a gentle summer shower compared to the natural disaster Alex already felt like he’d leave behind.
“Nothing, sunshine,” she said, pouring false cheer into her voice as she strode out of the foyer onto the doorstep and turned to pull the door shut behind her. The envelope crinkled in her hand, the edges poking her palm as she grabbed the knob. Damn it. She’d forgotten about the invitation. Shaking her head in disgust, she stuffed the mail into her coat pocket and finished locking the door.
Using the excuse of her turned back to compose herself, she whipped around and stuck her hand into the air, wiggling her fingers.
“Just imagining the rock you’re going to buy.” She cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. “The ring I’m going to choose will need a 24-hour armed security detail. Are you sure you can afford me?”
“Yes, though I don’t love the idea of it costing me another $1.5 million,” he drawled, cupping her elbow as they descended the brownstone’s front steps.