by Naima Simone
“Since going home and talking to you wasn’t an option, I had to come here. I mean, telling your big brother you’re getting married isn’t something you should do over the phone.”
Luke froze, his hand stilling over a paper. Slowly, his head lifted, and astonishment darkened his eyes, his usually intense expression blank. He didn’t move except to blink. A couple of times.
Ezekiel should’ve felt even a sliver of satisfaction at shocking his brother—a remnant of the younger sibling syndrome. But only weariness slid through him, and he sank farther into the cushion, his legs sprawled out in front of him.
“What?” Luke finally blurted.
“I said, I’m getting married.” Sighing, Ezekiel laced his fingers over his stomach. “It’s a long story.”
“Start at the beginning,” Luke ordered. “And don’t skip a damn thing.”
Instead of bristling at the curt demand, Ezekiel sighed and filled his brother in on his very brief “courtship” of Reagan Sinclair. When he finished, ending with the tense dinner at his future in-laws’ house, Luke just stared at him.
Jesus, what if he’d broken his brain with this too-unbelievable-for-a-TV-sitcom story?
“So, wait,” Luke said, leaning back against the couch as if Ezekiel’s tale had exhausted him. “You mean to tell me, you’re willingly entering an arranged marriage—arranged by yourself, I might add—so a woman you barely know can receive her inheritance? And that woman happens to be the daughter of Douglas Stick Up His Ass Sinclair? My apologies for offending your future father-in-law, but not really, considering you’re the one who gave him that particular moniker.”
“Reagan is hardly a stranger. She and Harley are best friends—”
“How many years ago?” Luke interrupted.
“And we have always been acquainted,” Ezekiel continued despite his brother’s interruption.
“Right,” Luke drawled, his shock having apparently faded as that familiar intensity entered his gaze again. “But there’s ‘hey, great to see you at this nice soiree’ acquainted, and then there’s ‘hey, be my wife and let’s get biblical’ acquainted.”
“First, soiree? How the fuck old are you? Eighty-three?” Ezekiel snorted. “And second, I don’t plan on getting ‘biblical’ with her. This is a purely platonic arrangement. I’m helping her out.”
Purely platonic arrangement. Even as he uttered the words, liar blared in his head like an indictment. Yes, he didn’t plan on having a sexual relationship with Reagan. But the images of her that had tormented his nights—images of her under him, dark eyes glazed with passion, slim body arching into him, her breasts crushed to his chest, her legs spread wide for him as he sank into her over and over... None of those were platonic.
In his case, not only was the flesh weak, but the spirit was looking kind of shaky, too.
But he hadn’t popped the question to land himself a convenient bed partner. When it came down to it, his dick didn’t rule him. He could keep his hands—and everything-damn-else—to himself. Sex just muddied the already dirty waters.
Reagan had claimed to understand that he wasn’t looking for love, couldn’t give that to anyone else. But she couldn’t. Not really. It wasn’t as if he longed to climb into that grave with Melissa anymore; he didn’t pine for her. But her death—it’d marked him in a way even his parents’ hadn’t. At some point all children have to face the inevitability of losing a parent. And they even think about how that time will be. His mom and dad’s death had been devastating and painful, and to this day he mourned them. But he’d known it would come, just not so soon.
Losing a young woman who not only had her whole future ahead of her, but he’d imagined would be part of his future, had, in ways, been more tragic. More shattering. Because she shouldn’t have died. According to statistics, she should’ve outlived him. But she hadn’t. And part of her legacy had been a deeply embedded fear that nothing lasted forever. Anything important, anything he held onto too tightly could be ripped from him. Oh, there existed the possibility that it might not. But he’d played those odds once and his heart had been ripped out of his chest, and he didn’t believe he would survive the pain. Not again.
Melissa had taught him that he was no longer a betting man.
So while Reagan might claim to understand why she shouldn’t expect love and some happily-ever-after with him, sex would potentially change that. Women like her... She wouldn’t be able to separate satisfying a base, raw need from a more emotional connection. And he loathed to hurt her, even unintentionally. Though he’d never caught wind of her being seriously involved with anyone, something in those soft brown eyes hinted that she’d experienced pain before. And he didn’t want to add to it.
So for the length of their “marriage,” his dick would remain on hiatus.
“And what do you get out of it?” Luke asked, dragging him from his thoughts and back into the present. “Other than canonization for sainthood?”
Ezekiel shrugged. “Companionship. The knowledge that I’m helping a woman I respect and like achieve her goals. Plus, you can’t deny that news of a Wingate family engagement and wedding would definitely detract from the gossip and bad publicity surrounding us and the company at the moment. Who doesn’t love a whirlwind romance, right?” He sighed, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his thighs. “I know this doesn’t make sense—”
“No, to the contrary, it makes perfect sense,” Luke cut him off. “At least to me. I’m just wondering if it isn’t as clear to you.”
Ezekiel frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Luke leaned forward, mimicking his pose. “It means you couldn’t save Melissa, so you’re trying to rescue Reagan.”
“That’s bullshit,” Ezekiel snapped, anger sparking hot and furious in his chest. “One has absolutely nothing to do with the other.” He shot to his feet, agitated. Too fucking...exposed.
He paced away from his brother, stalking across the office to the windows that looked out over Royal. Seconds later, he retraced his path, halting in front of Luke, the coffee table separating them like a tumbleweed blowing across a dirt street. “You accuse me of having a savior complex, but I’m not the one who’s basically moved into his office, assuming the responsibility of saving this company all on his own. Analyze yourself before you decide to play armchair psychiatrist with me.”
The silence between them vibrated with tension and anger. His anger. Because instead of getting in Ezekiel’s face and firing a response back at him, Luke reclined back against the couch and stretched an arm across the top of it.
“Hit a nerve, did I?” he murmured, arching an eyebrow.
“Shut the hell up,” Ezekiel snapped.
That shit his brother had spouted wasn’t true. After Melissa, Ezekiel went out of his way to avoid becoming deeply involved with people outside of his family. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think he could rescue people like a superhero in a suit instead of in a cape and tights.
“Zeke.” Luke’s sigh reached him moments before he stood and circled the coffee table. “What you’re doing for Reagan? It’s a good thing. I didn’t mean to imply it wasn’t or that you shouldn’t do it. I’m just...concerned.” He set a hand on Ezekiel’s shoulder, forcing him to look into the face that was as familiar to him as his own. “I need you to be careful, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
Ezekiel shook his head. “This is more of a business arrangement than a relationship. We both understand that. You don’t have to worry about me. Everything is going to be fine.”
Luke nodded, but the skepticism darkening his eyes didn’t dissipate. And for the moment, Ezekiel chose to ignore it. Just as he’d chosen to disregard the unexpected urge to protect Reagan from her father’s censure tonight. To put her happiness before his own preferences when he’d agreed with her mother’s wishes to extend their engagement from two weeks to s
ix months.
Reagan had never come across as fragile to him; though slim and petite in stature, she possessed a confidence and self-assuredness that made her seem unbreakable...untouchable. But tonight? There’d been moments when he could’ve sworn her bones had been traded for glass. And he’d fought the insane urge to wrap her up and cushion her from the strange tension that had sprung up at moments between her and her parents.
Luke squeezed his shoulder. “Telling me not to worry is like telling the Cowboys not to pass Amari Cooper the football. Ain’t going to happen.”
Ezekiel snorted, and Luke returned to the couch and his spread of papers. Before he lost Luke’s attention completely to work, Ezekiel followed and swept up the empty coffee cup and takeout container. He crossed the room and tossed them in the trash can.
“Thanks, Luke,” he said, heading for the office door.
“For what?” his brother muttered absently.
“For being there.”
Luke’s head snapped up, his light brown eyes focused and sharp.
“Always.”
He was right about that, Ezekiel mused, letting himself out and closing the door shut behind him. Through everything, Luke had always been there for him. Had never failed him.
Even when Ezekiel failed himself.
Seven
Reagan stepped off the elevator onto the executive floor of the Wingate Enterprises building. She barely noticed the tasteful, expensive furnishings or exquisite decor that prevented the office from feeling corporate but instead exuded welcome and competence.
She did notice the silence.
And not like the peaceful stillness of the cemetery where she and Ezekiel had encountered each other weeks ago.
No, tension reverberated in this quiet. It stretched so tight, screamed so loud she curled her fingers into her palms to prohibit her from reverting to her six-year-old self and slapping her hands over her ears.
She strode past the desks with people bent over them, hard at work, and the office doors shutting out the world. The anxiety that seemed to permeate the air like a rancid perfume twisted her stomach into knots.
She’d seen the news this morning. Had blankly stared at the screen as words like DEA, drugs and smuggling were thrown at her by solemn-faced news anchors who were unable to hide the inappropriate glee in their eyes over a juicy story. Her first thought had been to get to Ezekiel. To see if he was okay. To...protect him.
Reagan shook her head as she approached the circular, gleaming wood desk that sat outside his shut office doors. There was no protecting him or his family from this latest development in what had become a perpetual shit storm that circled the Wingate clan and their company. And he didn’t need or want that from her anyway. No, she was here to make sure her friend/fiancé wasn’t reeling.
Pausing in front of the desk, she met the curious gaze of the pretty woman behind it. Recognition dawned in her brown eyes seconds later, and she smiled.
“Good morning, Ms. Sinclair. How can I help you?”
Glancing down at the gold nameplate on the desk, Reagan returned the woman’s smile. “I’m well, Ms. Reynolds. I don’t have an appointment, but is Ezekiel free for a few minutes? I need to speak with him.”
“Of course. I’m sure he would love a visit from his fiancée this morning. It also happens he’s in between meetings, so it should be fine.” She lifted the phone from its cradle and punched a button. “Mr. Holloway, Ms. Sinclair is here to see you.” She paused. “I’ll send her right in.” Replacing the phone, she nodded. “He’s waiting on you, and belated congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thank you,” Reagan murmured, heading for Ezekiel’s office.
Would she ever get used to being called someone’s fiancée? No, not someone. Ezekiel Holloway’s. She doubted it. Three weeks had passed since they’d announced their intent to marry to her parents, and sometimes it still felt like a dream. Or a nightmare. There were days she couldn’t decide which.
Even though he expected her, she still rapped the door, then turned the knob. She entered and scanned the office, finding Ezekiel perched behind his desk, dark brows furrowed as he studied the computer monitor in front of him. For a moment, she entertained spinning around and exiting as quickly—and impulsively—as she’d made the decision to come here.
But Ezekiel glanced up, and she halted midstep, her heels sinking into the plush carpet.
God, he looked...exhausted. His brown skin pulled taut over the sharp slashes of his cheekbones, lending his already angular face more severity. Stark lines only enhanced the almost decadent fullness of his mouth, and guilt coiled inside her for noticing. Faint, dark circles bruised the flesh under his eyes as if it’d been some time since the last time he and sleep had been acquainted.
The news about the DEA investigation had apparently dropped sometime yesterday even though she’d just seen it this morning. That had probably been the last time he’d visited a bed. Weariness dulled his usually bright green eyes, and her fingertips tingled with the need to cross the room, kneel beside him and stroke the tender skin under his eyes, to brush her lips across his eyelids. Anything to remove the worry, anger and fear from those mesmerizing depths.
Instead, she remained where she stood. First, Ezekiel wouldn’t appreciate her noticing those emotions in his gaze—would most likely deny their existence. And second, that wasn’t what they were to each other. Business partners and friends, yes. But lovers kissed and comforted each other to ease pain. And they were most definitely not, nor ever would be, lovers.
Still... God, she wanted to touch him.
Inhaling a deep breath and cursing the madness that had brought her here, she moved forward until reaching the visitor’s chair in front of his desk. She didn’t sit but curled her fingers around the back of it and studied him some more.
“You look terrible,” she said without preamble. Blunt, but preferable to do you need a hug?
A faint smirk tilted the corner of his mouth before it disappeared. “Thank you for that. But I doubt you drove all the way out here just to critique my personal appearance. What’s going on?”
“I—” Damn. Now that she was here, awkwardness coursed through her. She smothered a sigh. “I saw the news this morning. I wanted to make sure you were...okay.”
“Am I okay?” he repeated, loosing a harsh bark of laughter. She tried not to flinch at the sound but didn’t quite succeed. “Drugs were found at the WinJet plant. Now, on top of falsifying inspection reports and causing injury to our employees, we’re being accused of drug trafficking. The DEA has been called in. And we’re the subject of a drug smuggling investigation. No, Reagan, I’m far from okay.”
He shoved his chair back and shot to his feet.
“Dammit.” He cupped the back of his neck, roughly massaging it. He stalked to the floor-to-ceiling window that offered a view of the Wingate Enterprises property and the town of Royal. It was picturesque, but she doubted he saw anything but his own demons. “I’m sorry,” he rasped several seconds later. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s been a rough couple of days.”
“I can only imagine,” she murmured. After a brief hesitation where she silently ordered herself to stay put, she disobeyed her better judgment and crossed the floor to stand next to him. “No, actually, I can’t imagine. And I’m sorry. The last few weeks must have been hell for you and your family.”
“The workers who were injured in the fire sued, and we decided to settle the lawsuit. Just when we believed the worst had started to blow over, this happens. I can’t—” He broke off, his jaw clenching so hard, a muscle ticked along its hewn edge. “It’s like we’re cursed. Like one of those bedtime stories where the family lives this golden, blessed life and then an evil witch decides to strike them with trouble from every turn.” Emitting another of those razor-sharp laughs, he shook his head. “Goddamn, now I’m talking in fairy ta
les.”
Her chest squeezed so hard, she could barely push out a breath. Ezekiel’s big frame nearly vibrated with the strength of his tightly leashed emotions. His frustration, his confusion, his...helplessness reached out to her, and she employed every ounce of self-control to stop herself from reaching back out in return.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, rubbing his palm down his face, the bristle of his trimmed beard scraping in the silence. “Thank you for coming by. That was sweet of you, and though I didn’t act like it, I appreciate it.”
“It’s what friends do,” she replied, reminding herself out loud why she couldn’t touch him.
“And fiancées?” Ezekiel asked, a hint of teasing underneath the weariness in his voice.
“Of course,” she added with a casual shrug of her shoulder. “A real one would offer sex to comfort you, but the way our arrangement is set up...” Oh hell. Had she really said that? She’d been joking, but... Oh. Hell. “I was just kidding...”
She trailed off as he stared at her, the fatigue in his green gaze momentarily replaced by an intensity that vaporized the air in her lungs. The tension in the room switched to a thickness that seemed close to suffocating. She should say something, try to explain again that she was kidding. But was she? If he asked her for it, would she give her body to him? Let him lose himself for just a little while with her?
No.
Yes.
Images crowded into her mind. Images of them. Of him surrounding her, his thick, muscled arms encircling her and grasping her close as his large body surged inside her. Her thighs trembled, and her suddenly aching sex clenched. Hard. She swallowed a gasp at the phantom sensation of being possessed by him, stretched by him. Branded by him.
“But you’re not my real fiancée, are you, Ray?” he finally said, and if his tone sounded rougher, well, she ignored it. She had to.
“No,” she whispered. “I’m not.”
