by Leigh James
She didn't even blink. "You think you're better than me."
"You stole my fiancé, and you just threatened to blackmail me. I am better than you."
She arched an eyebrow. "See? It's that. Right there."
"What?"
"That holier-than-thou routine. You think you're the only one who cares about Mom. You think I'm a lazy, no-good fiancé-stealer. And you're prettier than me—not that you think you're prettier than me; you just are prettier than me. People like you better than me. It's annoying. It's tired. And now you're married to a hot billionaire, and it's not fair." She sounded like a petulant teenager about to have a temper tantrum at the mall. "Mom didn't tell me anything, but I know you married him as a job. I just know it. So, you cough up the cash, or I'm going to cause you a world of hurt."
I looked at her defiantly. "No."
"What did you just say?"
"I just said no. You're not getting a dime from my hot billionaire husband. Go ask your sloppy seconds of an ex for money."
Chelsea pointed her finger at me. "You're going to regret this."
"Not as much as I'd regret funding your lifestyle and unleashing you on a bunch of poor, unsuspecting bachelors."
She picked up her fork and started eating her expensive lunch, her eyes never leaving mine. "We'll see about that."
Chapter Nineteen
Lucas
"What are you saying exactly?"
Blake looked at me miserably. "I'm saying that my sister's trying to blackmail me by outing me as an escort to I don't know who—your family, the press, anyone who'll listen."
"This is your sister who stole your fiancé?"
Blake looked pale. "The one and only."
My heart ached for her. "She makes Serena look good. Not an easy task."
"I know." She sank down on the couch. "I shouldn't have taken this job. I know my sister, what she's capable of. She was born to blackmail me in a situation like this. I'm so sorry." Her voice was wobbly.
Christ. Since my lunch with Serena, I'd been trying to keep Blake at a distance, except when I was plundering her with my dick. But I couldn't bear to see her hurting. I sat down and pulled her into my arms. "We'll deal with your sister. Don't even worry about it."
Blake was stiff against me, taking no comfort in the embrace. "I don't want to give her anything."
I ran my hands down her hair. "You don't have to. I'll take care of it."
She pulled back, eyes flashing. All traces of forthcoming tears had vanished. "Lucas Ford, don't you dare!"
I blinked at her. No one had said "don't you dare" to me since my mother had caught me sneaking the gin out of the liquor cabinet when I was sixteen years old. "I don't understand why you're upset. I'm offering to make the problem go away."
"She's not just a problem—she's my sister, and she's a pain in the ass!" Blake's face now had two hectic spots of color on it. "If you give in to her, you'll never get rid of her. This tuition and her wannabe-New-York-City-socialite lifestyle are just the tip of the iceberg."
"There's no reason to let her upset you."
Blake threw up her hands. "There's every reason in the world for her to upset me! She's a scheming, money-grubbing, lazy you-know-what that rhymes with blunt!"
"So let me take care of it like I'm offering to." I tried to keep my voice gentle, but I was becoming annoyed. This was something I could fix. Even though Blake’s sister didn't deserve anything, it was better to throw some money at the problem and keep her the hell away from my wife.
Blake stood up. "You can't just 'take care of it.' First of all, Chelsea's not an 'it'; she's a person! And you have to deal with people! You can't just throw money at everything all the time and then swagger back to your ivory tower, acting like you've solved the world's problems!"
I sat back. "I don't act like that."
She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "You bought a wife. So that you could keep your sister from inheriting your entire family fortune, in order to give money to worthy charities and to piss her off in the meantime. And now you want to pay off my sister to make her go away, so that I don't have to be bothered by her. Are you seeing a pattern here?"
"No." I could hear the defensiveness in my voice.
"You would rather deal with dollars than people."
I got up and headed for the bourbon. "I don't see why you have to make it sound like a negative personality trait."
Blake took a step toward me. "It's only negative if it isolates you. If it keeps you from having a connection with people. If it makes you forget what's real."
I poured two fingers of the amber liquid then, after a slight pause, made it three. "I'm all too familiar with what's real." My mother. Elizabeth. You…
"That's why you don't date. That's why you've never had a girlfriend since Elizabeth left you. That's why you hired me to live with you for a year—so you can give me money and send me on my way, without having to get attached!" Her whole face was flushed now, her hands clenched into tight fists.
I set the bourbon down without drinking it. "And you're so different?"
She looked slightly abashed. "I'm still close to people. And I'm not the one…"
"What?"
Blake shook her head. "Nothing. Never mind. I need to remember my place. I'm the hired help."
Her words cut me. "Don't say that."
She looked at me, her chin jutting out in an almost imperceptible sign of defiance. "The truth hurts, but don't worry. It hurts me, too." She headed down the hall. "Is it okay if I go to the gym and then take a shower? Today's sort of thrown me for a loop."
My shoulders sagged. "You don't need my permission. I'm not your jailer."
She stopped and turned to me. "So then, would you like to come with me? You've been so worried about that deal…" Her tone turned from angry to wistful. "We haven't hung out in a while."
"I have to go back to work," I said, hating myself.
The flash of disappointment across her features was clear. "Of course."
"I'll see you later, though." I wanted nothing more than to be with Blake right now. I could probably retire and just spend the rest of my years being her gym buddy, letting her order for me, and worshipping her body, not necessarily in that order. But this had to stop. She was leaving in a few months. In fact, if Serena had the trust terms annulled, Blake was leaving any second. I had to get a motherfucking grip before I let what I was feeling inside rip me apart.
Nodding, she disappeared into the bedroom.
I was in a foul mood at the office. Shirley tried to ask me a few questions about our new HR initiative, but I practically ripped her head off and bowled it down the hall. In an effort to calm down, I downloaded all my quarterly reports and started analyzing them. My business holdings were performing better than expected. Normally, this would satisfy me, but I couldn't keep my mind off of Blake. She'd been reeling from what her sister had pulled, yet I'd pushed her away again.
I stood up and grabbed my cell phone. I needed to go back home and make this right.
The receptionist buzzed in. "Mr. Ford, there's someone here to see you."
"I don't have any appointments," I snapped. I never had any appointments. I made Shirley do all my dirty work, and I paid her quite handsomely for it.
Another example of throwing money at your problems, my inner analyst chimed in.
Fuck off, I chimed back.
"It's Chelsea Maxwell."
"I see." The sister has balls. Time to cut them off. "Bring her in."
My receptionist appeared shortly thereafter, followed by a young woman who looked strikingly similar to Blake. She had long blond hair and blue eyes, but she was slightly shorter and curvier. Where Blake's skin was smooth and fair, Chelsea's was a deep bronze, as though she spent a fair amount of time at M Street Beach with a big bottle of coconut-scented oil, a stash of wine coolers, and a red Solo cup at her side.
Her ample assets almost burst out of her black, low-cut dress that seemed to have a death
grip on her body. Spiked heels, big hoop earrings, and lots of black mascara completed the look—a Southie hottie in her prime, out for an afternoon stroll, an iced coffee with extra cream from Dunkin' Donuts, and a side of blackmail.
Someone had left Blake for her? I couldn't fathom it. But then again, Elizabeth had left me for my father, who favored ascots and wore argyle socks to bed. People were so fucking weird. That was why hiding in my office was awesome.
Not that I was actually admitting to that.
The receptionist closed the door behind her, and Chelsea batted her dangerously long lashes at me. "Lucas Ford, we finally meet! It's such a pleasure."
She held out her hand to shake mine, but I just motioned for her to sit. "What do you want, Chelsea?"
She pouted a little, her pillowy lips forming an annoyed O. "So formal! We're family now. You can relax." She positioned herself in her chair so that her breasts were jutting toward me. "I finally saw Blake. She seems like she's doing well."
"Really? She didn't mention it," I lied.
Chelsea sniffed. "She wouldn't, would she? Mom and I didn't even get invited to the wedding."
"I think you know the reason for that."
She peeked up at me from under her lashes, and I wanted to smack her. "You mean…"—she leaned forward—"because she's a… you know?"
"Episcopalian?"
Chelsea cocked her head, looking confused. "Huh?"
Not as pretty as Blake, and nowhere near as smart. "Never mind. You were saying?"
"I was saying that we didn't get invited to your wedding because my sister's a hooker, and you didn't want your family to know." She appeared satisfied with herself.
"Ah." I sat back in my chair. "That."
Chelsea sat there, waiting for me to say more, or at least look surprised. "Yeah," she finally said, "that."
I shrugged. "What about it?"
"You tell me," she said, her voice provocative.
"You called this meeting, Chelsea. I have no idea why you're here."
The smug look slid off of her face. "The hell you don't."
"Ah, I see your true colors run close to the surface," I said. "I appreciate that."
"Good." Her tone was all business now. "I told Blake today—I need money for school and to relocate to New York. She said she wouldn't give me anything, but she's holding a grudge against me for some old stuff. She wouldn't even consider it. She's not thinking clearly."
"What do you mean by 'old stuff'? The fact that you stole her fiancé a month before her wedding, and that you married him yourself?"
Undeterred, she looked at me coyly. "If you met Vince, you'd know I did her a favor. I helped her dodge a bullet."
I gave her a tight smile. "How very philanthropic of you."
She looked confused again but quickly shook it off. "Whatever. I need money to start my new life. I'm coming to you because you're the only person in our family who can help."
"I'm not in the business of giving handouts."
Her throat worked as she swallowed. "I'm not looking for a handout. You do something for me; I do something for you."
I leaned forward. "And what's that?"
Taking my stance as a cue, she also leaned forward. Her breasts seemed dangerously close to popping out of her dress. "That all depends on what you want, big boy. Some people like to call it a sister act. You get what you have with Blake, and you get me on the side." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I'm told that I'm a little spicier than my sister. She might be better-looking, but I can give you what you really want."
"I don't think you can."
She licked her lips and my skin crawled. "Lemme give it a try."
"Blake was right." I smiled at her again, sitting back against my seat. "You really are a piece of work. But you were sort of right, too."
She cocked an eyebrow, still looking hopeful.
"Your sister's much better-looking than you. She's also kind, thoughtful, intelligent, and altogether in another class of human beings. I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole wrapped in Clorox wipes."
She straightened, her cheeks heated. "Suit yourself."
"Are we done?"
"Not quite." She pursed her lips and adjusted the top of her dress, putting her boobs away. "I can always go to the press about my sister and her questionable work history. Or your dad. Or your work partners. Or whoever will listen to me. I'd gladly take money in exchange for my silence."
"Done," I said.
Chelsea looked stunned. "Really?"
"Really."
"What's the catch?"
"You'll have to sign an airtight confidentiality agreement and a contract with me," I said. "This is a one and done, Chelsea. I give you this money, and you agree to walk away forever. You can't come back and ask me for more, because there won't be any. And you have to leave Blake alone for good. No more threats. Understand?"
She nodded, her eyes glittering. "How much money?"
"More, much more than you deserve. Enough to pay your tuition and get you settled in New York. Enough to keep you comfortable for years to come, provided you don't blow it. But if you contact the press or take any other steps to harm your sister, I'm coming after you with an army of attorneys. We'll take your money and whatever possessions you have and leave you on the street—literally. Sound fair?"
She nodded quickly, as if she were afraid I would change my mind. "S-sure."
"Fine. Wait in the next room. I'll have my attorney prepare the documents right now. You'll be on your way with a check before the close of business."
She opened her mouth and then, thankfully, closed it. I buzzed Shirley and had Chelsea removed to a waiting room far from my sight. Sister act, indeed.
Then I called my attorney and started the process to have Blake’s leech of a sister removed from her side. Forever.
Chapter Twenty
Blake
Running on the treadmill helped clear my head. Afterward, as I stood underneath the hot water from the shower, I realized what I needed to do: just be there for Lucas. He'd been tense for the last few weeks, struggling with work, then I'd gone and thrown the episode with my sister at him.
He'd only been trying to help. What he maybe didn't understand was that I'd wanted him to just hold me, let me complain about Chelsea, and stroke my hair. I’d wanted him to go to the gym with me and let me rail against my sister some more. I'd wanted him to act like my husband—a normal, mere mortal one—not an alpha CEO billionaire fixer of all things.
But that was exactly who he was.
What I'd said to him about his personality was what I believed to be the truth. It was also completely inappropriate for me to have spoken to him like that. He was my fake husband, not my real one. I would do well to remember that. I'd found myself staring at the way my engagement ring sparkled in the sunlight one too many times lately, and I'd been inhaling his scent from the T-shirts he tossed casually on the floor of our room. I'd caught myself wondering what it would be like if this assignment could last forever.
But Lucas was my client, and it was my job to make him happy. So I quickly dried off, braided my hair, and threw on a dress. I decided to head to his office to say that I was sorry about my rogue mouth, and to see if he could sneak out to have dinner with me in the North End. Maybe we could even go back to Mio Fratello and have that olive-and-pasta appetizer.
I might even share with him.
Ian pulled up outside of Lucas's building in the Financial District. "I'll circle the block until you text me." He shot me a grin and rolled the window up, waiting until I was safely on the sidewalk before merging back into the light evening traffic. Ian had seemed a lot happier since we'd abandoned my sister at The Palm this afternoon.
Hope lit up my heart as I went into the lobby. Even though I knew the truth about our relationship, I still got a little thrill when I was about to see my handsome husband. But that thrill turned into a near heart attack as the elevator doors opened and Chelsea exited them.
She sashayed across the lobby and my jaw dropped.
I jumped back against a dark-paneled wall and hid behind a potted tree so she couldn't see me. What the hell? She was wearing a skin-tight dress and the pushiest of all push-up bras. She was also wearing a cat-that-just-ate-the-canary smile, and had a little extra jiggle in her step that made me cringe.
What was she doing there?
My stomach plummeted as I ran through the options. She was here to ask Lucas for money. She was here to hit on Lucas. She was here to ask Lucas for money and hit on him. Whatever it was, she had gotten what she wanted. I could tell that much from her saucy walk as she passed through the revolving doors.
Lucas had given her what she wanted without asking me. And whether that was money, attention, or something even worse—he had broken my trust.
I hadn't even realized that I'd trusted him until that point.
Waiting until my sister was gone, I hustled out to the street. I had to get away from him. And Chelsea. And whatever it was that had sprung up between them.
It's not that I was drunk, exactly, but I had just finished an entire bottle of wine. Then I'd just about finished another one. I sat on the bed in my hotel room, drinking straight out of the bottle and watching HBO. Unfortunately, Pretty Woman was on, and I couldn't make myself turn it off.
I refused to think about the pretty escort and her handsome billionaire client, but the images still captivated me. That was the problem with being drunk. You couldn't stop watching Pretty Woman even though it hit too close to home. You couldn't make yourself do what you should—stop drinking. And you couldn't control your thoughts so you would stop thinking about a certain someone—your hot billionaire husband who'd hired you to be his fake wife. And who was quite possibly cheating on you with your sister.
Or something. Maybe.
I tried to shake that thought off, but I was up to my esophagus with wine. Shaking or moving anything at all seemed like an Olympian feat right now.