by Naima Simone
An intriguing proposal
mixes romance and finance...
His friend needs a fiancé to claim a fortune.
But they both know it’s about more than money...
Ezekiel Holloway’s proposition could save his friend Reagan Sinclair’s inheritance and give her the freedom she craves. But when family scandals force Ezekiel to end their fake engagement, the heiress comes up with a counterproposal—and they elope to Vegas after all! Is there something more than mere convenience at stake here?
USA TODAY Bestselling Author Naima Simone
USA TODAY bestselling author NAIMA SIMONE’s love of romance was first stirred by Mills & Boon books pilfered from her grandmother. Now she spends her days writing sizzling romances with a touch of humour and snark.
She is wife to her own real-life superhero and mother to two awesome kids. They live in perfect, domestically challenged bliss in the southern United States.
Also by Naima Simone
Blackout Billionaires miniseries
The Billionaire’s Bargain
Black Tie Billionaire
Blame It on the Billionaire
Dynasties: Seven Sins miniseries
Ruthless Pride
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
Trust Fund Fiancé
Naima Simone
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-0-008-90455-5
TRUST FUND FIANCÉ
© 2020 Harlequin Books S.A.
Published in Great Britain 2020
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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To Gary. 143.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
About the Publisher
One
A man had a few pleasures in life.
For Ezekiel “Zeke” Holloway, they included kicking back on the black leather couch in the den of the three-bedroom guesthouse that he and his older brother, Luke, shared on the Wingate family estate. He had an ice-cold beer in one hand, a slice of meat lovers pizza in the other and Pittsburgh playing on the mounted eighty-five-inch flat-screen television. Granted, he might’ve been born and bred in Texas, but his heart belonged to the Steelers.
And then there was this. He lifted the dark brown cigar with its iconic black-and-red label and studied the smoldering red tip before bringing it to his lips and inhaling. A hint of pepper and chocolate, toasted macadamia nuts and, of course, the dark flavor of cognac. It could be addictive...if he allowed it to be. These cigars cost fifteen thousand dollars a box. Which was why he only permitted himself to enjoy one per month. Not because he couldn’t afford to buy more. It was about discipline; he mastered his urges, not vice versa.
And in a world that had suddenly become unfamiliar, cold and uncertain, he needed to believe he could control something in his life. Even if it was when he smoked a cigar.
He sighed, bracing a hand on the balcony column and slowly exhaling into the night air. Behind him, the muted hum of chatter filtered through the closed glass doors. Guests gathered in the cavernous parlor behind him. James Harris, current president of the Texas Cattleman’s Club—of which Ezekiel was a member—hosted the “small” dinner party. As a highly successful horse breeder in Royal, Texas, and a businessman, James commanded attention without trying. And when he invited a person to his elegant, palatial home, he or she attended.
Even if they would be rubbing elbows with the newly infamous Wingates.
Bringing the cigar to his lips again, Ezekiel stared out into the darkness. Beneath the blanket of the black, star-studded night, he could barely make out the stables, corrals and long stretch of land that made up James’s property. He rolled his shoulders, as if the motion could readjust and shift the cumbersome burden of worry, anger and, yes, fear that seemed to hang around his neck like an albatross. It was ludicrous, but he could practically feel the hushed murmurs crawl over his skin through his black dinner jacket and white shirt like the many legs of a centipede. He could massage his chest and still nothing would alleviate the weight of the censure—the press of the guilty verdicts already cast his and his family’s way.
Not even the influence and support of James Harris could lessen that.
Lucky for Ezekiel and his family that the denizens of Royal high society hungered for a party invitation from James more than they wanted to outright ostracize the Wingates.
Ezekiel snorted, his lips twisting around the cigar. Thank God for small favors.
“And here I thought I’d found the perfect escape hatch.”
Ezekiel jerked his head to the side at the husky, yet very feminine drawl. His mouth curved into a smile. And not the polite, charming and utterly fake one he’d worn all evening. Instead, true affection wound through him like a slowly unfurling ribbon.
Reagan Sinclair glided forward out of the shadows and into the dim glow radiating from the beveled glass balcony doors. It was enough to glimpse her slender but curvaceous body. The high thrust of her small bu
t firm breasts. The fingertip-itching dip of her waist and intriguing swell of her hips. As she drew nearer to him and a scent that reminded him of honeysuckle and cream teased his nostrils, he castigated himself.
At twenty-six, Reagan was only four years his junior, but she was good friends with his cousin Harley, and he’d known her most of her life. She was as “good girl” as they came, with her flawless pedigree and traditional upbringing. Which meant she had no business being out here with him in his current frame of mind.
Not when the dark, hungry beast he usually hid behind carefree, wide grins and wry jokes clawed closer to the surface.
Not when the only thing that usually satisfied that animal was a willing woman and hot, dirty sex. No...fucking.
Ezekiel blew out a frustrated breath. Yes, he’d had sex, but made love to a woman? No, he hadn’t done that in eight long years.
If he had any sense or the morals that most believed he didn’t possess, he would put out his cigar, gently grasp her by the elbow and escort her back to her parents. Away from him. He should—
Reagan touched him.
Just the feel of her slim, delicate hand on his biceps was like a cooling, healing balm. It calmed the anger, the fear. Leashed the hunger. At least so he could meet her thickly lashed, entirely too-innocent eyes and not imagine seeing them darken with a greedy lust that he placed there.
“I know why I’m hiding,” he drawled, injecting a playfulness he was far from feeling into his voice. “What’s your excuse?”
Those eyes, the color of the delicious chicory coffee his mother used to have shipped from New Orleans, softened, understanding somehow making them more beautiful. And horrible.
He glanced away.
On the pretense of finishing his smoke, he shifted to the side, inserting space between them. Not that he could escape that damn scent that seemed even headier with her so close. Or the sharp-as-a-razor’s-edge cheekbones. Or the lush, downright impropriety of her mouth. The smooth bronze of her skin that damn near gleamed...
You’ve known her since she was a girl. You have no business thinking of her naked, sweating and straining beneath you.
Dammit. He narrowed his gaze on the moon-bleached vista of James’s ranch. His dick wasn’t having any of that reasoning though. Too bad. He had enough of a shit storm brewing in his life, in his family, in Wingate Enterprises. He refused to add screwing Reagan Sinclair to it.
In a life full of selfish decisions, that might be the cherry on top of his asshole sundae.
And regardless of what some people might think, he possessed lines he didn’t cross. A sense of honor that had been drilled into him by his family before he’d even been old enough to understand what the word meant. And as a little dented and battered as the Wingate name might be right now, they were still Wingates.
That meant something here in Royal.
It meant something to him.
“Let’s see.” She pursed her lips and tapped a fingernail against the full bottom curve. “Should I start alphabetically? A, avoiding my parents introducing me to every single man here between the ages of twenty-two and eighty-two. B, boring small talk about the unseasonably hot summer—it’s Texas, mind you—gel versus acrylic nails and, my personal favorite, whether MTV really did need a reboot of The Hills. Which, the only answer to that is no. And C, karma—I avoided every one of Tracy Drake’s calls last week because the woman is a terrible gossip. And now I find out that I’m seated next to her at dinner.”
He snorted. “I’m pretty sure karma starts with a K,” he said, arching an eyebrow.
“I know.” She shrugged a slim shoulder, a smile riding one corner of her mouth. “I couldn’t think of anything for C.”
Their soft laughter rippled on the night air, and for the first time since arriving this evening, the barbed tension inside him loosened.
“And I just needed air that didn’t contain politics, innuendo or cigar smoke,” she continued. The velvet tone called to mind tangled, sweaty sheets at odds with her perfectly styled hair and immaculately tailored, strapless cocktail dress that spoke of unruffled poise. Even as Ezekiel’s rebellious brain conjured up images of just how much he could ruffle her poise, she slid him a sidelong glance. “One out of three isn’t bad.”
Again, the miraculous happened, and he chuckled. Enjoying her. “I know it would be the gentlemanly thing to put this out...” he lifted the offending item between them “...but it’s one of my few vices—”
“Just a few?” she interrupted, a dimple denting one of her cheeks.
“And I’m going to savor it,” he finished, shooting her a mock frown for her cheekiness. Cute cheekiness. “Besides, no one in there would accuse me of being a gentleman.”
Dammit. He hadn’t meant to let that slip. Not the words and definitely not the bitterness. He was the carefree jokester of the Holloway brothers. He laughed and teased; he didn’t brood. But these last few months had affected them all. Turned them into people they sometimes didn’t recognize.
Talk and accusations of corruption and fraud did that to a person.
So did a headlong tumble from a pedestal, only to discover those you’d known for years were only wearing the masks of friends, hiding their true faces underneath. Vultures. Sharks.
Predators.
He forced a smile, and from the flash of sadness that flickered across her lovely features, the twist of his lips must’ve appeared as fake as it felt. For a moment, anger that wasn’t directed at himself for fucking caring about the opinions of others blazed within him. Now it was presently aimed at her. At her pity that he hated. That he probably deserved.
And he resented that more.
“Gentlemen are highly overrated,” she murmured, before he could open his mouth and let something mean and regrettable pour out. Her quiet humor snuffed out the flame of his fury. Once more the utter calm of her presence washed over him, and part of him wanted to soak in it until the grime of the past few months disappeared from his skin, his mind, his heart. “Besides, I want to hear more about some of these vices.”
“No, you don’t,” he contradicted.
Unable to resist, he snagged a long, loose wave resting on her shoulder. He pinched it, testing the thickness, the silkiness of it between his thumb and forefinger. It didn’t require much imagination to guess how it would feel whispering across his bare chest, his abdomen. His thighs. Soft. Ticklish. And so damn erotic, his cock already hardened in anticipation. As if scalded by both the sensation and the too-hot mental image, he released his grip, tucking the rebellious hand in his pants pocket.
Giving himself time to banish his impure thoughts toward his cousin’s friend, he brought the cigar to his mouth. Savoring the flavor of chocolate and cognac. Letting it obscure the illusory taste of honeysuckle, vanilla and female flesh.
“You’re too young for that discussion,” he added, silently cursing the roughness of his tone.
“Oh really?” She tilted her head to the side. “You do know I’m only four years younger than you, right? Or are you having trouble with remembering things at your advanced old age of thirty?”
He narrowed his eyes on her. “Brat,” he rumbled.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” she said, something murkier than the shadows they stood in shifting in her eyes. But then she smiled, and the warmth of it almost convinced him that the emotion had been a trick of the dark. “So don’t hold back. And start with the good stuff. And by good, I mean very, very bad.”
He exhaled, studying her through the plume of fragrant smoke he blew through slightly parted lips. “You think you can handle my bad, Ray?” he taunted, deliberately using the masculine nickname that used to make her roll her eyes in annoyance.
Anything to remind him that he’d once caught her and Harley practicing kissing on his cousin’s pillows. That she used to crush on boy bands with more synthesizers t
han talent. That he’d wiped her tears and offered to pound on the little shit that had bullied her on the playground over something she couldn’t change—her skin color.
Anything to reinforce that she wasn’t one of the women whose front doors would witness his walks of shame.
With an arch of a brow, she leaned forward so she couldn’t help but inhale the evaporating puff. “Try me,” she whispered.
A low, insistent throb pulsed low in his gut, and his abs clenched, as if grasping for that familiar but somehow different grip of desire.
Desire. For Reagan? Wrong. So damn wrong.
Coward, a sibilant voice hissed at him. And he mentally flipped it off, shifting backward and leaning a shoulder against a stone column.
“Let’s see,” he said, valiantly injecting a lazy note of humor into his voice. “I can put away an entire meat lovers pizza by myself and not use a coaster for my beer. I’m unreasonably grouchy if I’m awake before the god-awful hour of seven o’clock. Especially if there’s no coffee to chase away my pain. And—this one I’m kind of embarrassed to admit—I buy at least five pairs of socks every month. Apparently, my dryer is a portal to a world where mismatched socks are some kind of special currency. And since I can’t abide not matching, I’m constantly a spendthrift on new pairs. There. You now know all of my immoralities.”
A beat of silence, and then, “Really?”
He smirked. “Really,” he replied, then jerked his chin up. “Your turn. Regale me with all of your sins, little Ray.”
As he’d expected, irritation glinted in her chocolate eyes. “I have no idea how I can follow that, but here goes.” He huffed out a low chuckle at the thick sarcasm coating her words. “Every night, I slip downstairs after everyone has gone to bed and have a scotch by myself. No one to judge me, you see? Since my nightly ritual could be early signs of me becoming an alcoholic like my uncle James. What else?”
She hummed, trailing her fingertips over her collarbone, her lashes lowering in a pretense of deep thought. But Ezekiel knew better. She’d already given this a lot of consideration. Had already catalogued her perceived faults long before this conversation.
