by Nancy Warren
She’d been fourteen years old and to this day no man could match the impact on her of first seeing David Wolfe.
Of course, as in all cases of unrequited teenage love, he’d barely noticed her existence. Now the grown-up David wanted her to playact the part of his lover?
“You haven’t heard the best part.”
“There’s a best part?”
“Because I am your lawyer—”
“No, you’re not.”
“I would be if you needed a lawyer. Quit interrupting. I negotiated terms.”
“Terms? I’m about to be homeless, I’m in no mood for your tricks. Play them on your brother.”
Sarah shook her head so violently her hair flew all over the place. “I’m not messing with you. I told him that if you were going to do him a huge favor and save his ass, then he had to do you a favor.”
“Which is?”
Sarah favored her with a huge smile. “You’re not homeless anymore.”
“What?” As the possible implication of what her best friend was saying sank in, her eyes opened wide.
“I told David you had to give up your sublet. I suggested that if you’re going to do him this huge favor, then he has to do you one and let you live in his guest room.”
Shoofly pie and the best way to cook a young pig were both forgotten. “You’re suggesting I move in with your brother?”
“Sure, his place is fantastic and there’s lots of room. The guest room’s professionally decorated, has its own TV, you’ll love it. But wait,” she said, sounding like a late-night TV commercial, “there’s more.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“He’s got this amazing kitchen. Designer everything, top-of-the-line appliances. All he ever uses is the microwave and the ice dispenser. I told him you’ll be running your catering business out of his kitchen until you can afford your own place.”
In spite of every rational brain cell—of which she used to have a lot more—she was starting to get excited. “And he said yes?”
“He said, ‘Thank you, Sarah. You are a goddess among women and I am privileged to be related to you.’”
“In other words, you told him he has to put up with me in his house or the deal’s off.”
“Pretty much.”
She sat back in her chair and sipped her latte as visions of stainless-steel appliances and a bedroom to call her own faded. “I don’t think so.”
“Are you crazy? This is everything you want. On a silver platter. I admit, having to pretend to be in love with David is going to be hard, and if I had to live with him again I’d kill myself, but you’re much nicer than I am.”
“It’s not that. I would be an unwanted guest in his house. It would be weird.”
“Believe me, that man is so desperate I could tell him he has to move out while you live there and he’d start packing.”
She chuckled. “How is it possible that an attractive man in his thirties doesn’t know any nice women?”
“He knows lots of nice women. They’re fluffies. Honestly, I don’t know where he finds these women. It’s like he orders them online. Point is, they aren’t the type of women you parade in front of your boss as corporate-wife material.”
“And you think I am?”
She made a scornful, half-laughing sound. “Hell, yeah. You’re nice to everyone, have good table manners, keep up with current events and you love to cook. Also, you’re hot, which is definitely a plus.” She stole the uneaten croissant off Chelsea’s plate and took a bite. “I’m half in love with you myself.”
“It would be nice to have a real kitchen again,” she said.
“Atta girl.” And before Chelsea could say another word, Sarah had whipped out her cell phone and hit speed dial. “Hey, bro. It’s the world’s greatest sister.”
Chelsea couldn’t believe it. Her friend was confirming the deal and she hadn’t even said yes.
“I talked to Chels and she says she’ll do it. She’ll need a three-month commitment, of course, since she needs that kitchen, so even if you get offered the VP job in a week, she still has a place to stay and a kitchen.” Chelsea was shaking her head and her hands, she couldn’t believe Sarah was making her sound so self-serving.
Her friend ignored her. She was in total business mode now. “Deal? Excellent.” She laughed again. “Of course there will be a contract. I’ll get it drawn up before the big date on Friday. Where should she meet you?”
Chelsea opened her eyes wide. They were meeting for this date?
He obviously had some objections, too, because she heard Sarah say, “No. You can’t get together with her ahead of time. Because she’s not here.” Her friend winked at her. “She’s on location catering. She’ll be back Friday. Don’t worry. I guarantee she’ll be there. You remember Hermione—she was always completely reliable. Now, tell me where and when.”
Chelsea wondered what on earth she was letting herself in for. And what sort of game was Sarah playing? She’d almost forgotten the Hermione nickname. She’d pretended to hate it, of course, but secretly she’d been thrilled that David had noticed her enough to give her a pet name. Even if it was because she reminded him of a too-smart, socially inept nerd girl.
“No. You can’t call her. Remember, she’s working on location, I told you. Her cell phone is still on some European plan. Way too expensive. No. I’m not giving you the number. You’ll have to trust me.”
Her tone changed. “Hey, I wouldn’t let you down, not about something important.” It seemed like David had a lot more to say, and Sarah did little talking for a minute or two, merely saying things like “yes” and “of course” and finally, “Look, if you want me to tell Chelsea to forget it, I will. We only want to help you out.” Her friend continued, “Okay. She’ll see you Friday at ten minutes before seven.” He said something else and Sarah rolled her eyes. “Don’t you remember her at all? Chelsea is the most punctual person you’ll ever meet.
“Call me Saturday and tell me how it all goes. Good luck, future veep.” And she hung up.
Her brother obviously had some misgivings and Chelsea realized she had a few of her own. Also a heavy dose of suspicion. “Why aren’t you letting him see me or even talk to me before Friday?”
“Little grasshopper, you must learn to be wise. Would you rather this little high school crush you haven’t seen in forever sees you at work up to your armpits in flour and food gunk in your hairnet or wearing one of those gorgeous Parisian dresses you bought home with you, hair all done, makeup perfect?”
She had to admit the woman had a point. If she had to see the teen god of her youth again, she wanted to look her best. “And the reason you won’t even let him talk to me on the phone?”
“’Kay, that was for me. On behalf of all women, he deserves to be a little bit nervous, don’t you think?”
Chelsea took the remaining half of her croissant back again. “Frankly, right now, I don’t know what I think.”
“This is going to be fantastic. Oh, one thing, David asked that you wear something sexy.” She shook her head. “You know what men are, they love to show off a gorgeous woman. Like it gives them extra points in the boy game or something.”
“Sexy, huh?” In a deep part of herself, she had to admit the idea of having David actually look at her as a desirable woman instead of a shy teen was appealing. She reviewed her options. “I’ve got just the thing. It’s red, pretty tight-fitting and kind of low-cut. You don’t think that’s too sexy for a corporate do?”
Sarah looked delighted. “That will be perfect.”
4
HE SHOULD BOOK AN appointment with a psychiatrist right now, David thought as he headed out for possibly the most important evening of his entire life, where his escort was not only a woman masquerading as his fiancée, but to add a little extra spice to the evening, was also essentially a blind date.
As he exited his Rittenhouse Square town house, which he’d had his cleaning service freshly clean today, including making up th
e guest room for a woman he barely knew, he contemplated just how much could go wrong tonight. He passed a street vendor selling soft pretzels and the scent reminded him that he’d eaten nothing for lunch but Tums. Not for the first time, he wondered what he could have been thinking. How arrogant to suppose he could pull off a scam like this. Why hadn’t he listened to Jane? She was right, she was always right. This deception had been a bad idea from the beginning.
Kids played in the wide green spaces of the park, horsed around the lion and goat statues. He wished he could go join them, anything but show up at this dinner.
If the big brass found out, he probably wouldn’t lose his job, but he would lose all possibility of promotion. Never mind the respect of people who had come to matter to him.
He walked by a few couples, normal-looking twosomes who obviously belonged together, and his collar grew even tighter. Long before he was ready, he found himself in front of a big hotel where he’d arranged to meet Chelsea. He was a couple of minutes early so he prepared to wait for his date.
He sauntered over to stand beside the entrance to the hotel, and as he did so noticed a stunning brunette looking like she was waiting for the World’s Luckiest Man. Every cell in his body zinged to attention. The woman was hot, hot, hot. On a scale of one to ten she was a fifty. Her hair was a sleek bob, dark and shiny, and her huge brown eyes looked out on the world with what he could only think of as a sophisticated innocence. Glorious mouth. Painted in rich, I-could-talk-dirty-all-night red. Red to match the body-hugging dress that outlined her centerfold curves. She took a step toward him on do-me-baby stilettos, and the sway of her hips almost did him in. He took one step forward himself, closing the gap between him and paradise, when he suddenly remembered why he was there.
“Sorry,” he said, with true regret. “I’m meeting someone.”
That killer mouth curved into a smile. “I think you’re meeting me.” Even the sound of her voice was a turn-on. Rich, slightly exotic, somehow.
Ooh, great line. He really wished he’d met her some other time. He laughed. “I wish.” Then took a quick look up and down the street, hoping Hermione would get there soon.
The smile disappeared and a puzzled frown took its place. “David! It’s me. Chelsea.”
“Chelsea?” He gaped at the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. He felt like a man having a sex dream that insanely turns into some horrible nightmare. This amazingly desirable woman? Hottie on heels was supposed to be his fiancée? What happened to drab, shy, smart girl Chelsea? Introducing this woman to the executives and board of directors of his firm would be like introducing nitroglycerin to gas.
Boom.
And he’d be the one exploding up in the air.
He could hear the echo of his sister’s words now. “She’s the same, David. She’s gained enough weight to fill out a little, but she’s exactly the same.”
And that’s the moment that he realized he’d been conned. He never should have signed Sarah up for that online dating site. In retaliation, she’d ruined his career.
“You’re Chelsea?” He looked her up and down, unable to believe the gawky teenager was now a goddess.
A delighted smile lit her eyes. “You didn’t recognize me.”
“I, uh, no. Honestly, I didn’t.” He felt aggrieved. “What happened to Hermione?”
“She grew up,” the woman said softly.
And wasn’t that the understatement of the year. If only it was winter, he could huddle her in her coat—hell, he’d buy her one. A nice wool trench coat that would cover her from neck to ankles. But it was July, hot, sultry July, and there was no way to cover her up.
She picked up on his doubt. “Am I dressed okay? Sarah said to put on the sexiest outfit I own.”
“Of course she did.”
Rapidly, he reviewed his options. Five minutes until they were supposed to meet for dinner.
He could either tell her to go home and make up some tale about his fiancée being sick, or he could go through with this charade. Maybe he could break up with her much sooner than planned, since the fiancée he’d imagined would help forward his career seemed in imminent danger of destroying it.
He forced a smile. He didn’t have any options. “You look fine.” He stepped forward, leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for helping me out.”
“I could say the same. I guess we’re helping each other out.”
He almost groaned. He’d forgotten his sister’s conditions. Not only was she single-handedly destroying his career, but she’d also finagled him into allowing this woman to stay in his house for three months.
No doubt there were morality tales about the consequences of telling lies, tales that would terrify children into behaving perfectly. He felt like he was living a morality tale right now. The Liar is Punished.
“Can you walk in those heels? The restaurant is a couple of blocks that way.”
“I think I can manage.”
They headed off to the restaurant. He had five minutes to prime her, when he’d planned to spend hours telling her everything he figured a fiancée would need to know. But she’d so addled his brain he couldn’t think of any of the things he’d imagined would be so important.
What did it matter, anyway?
He was doomed.
Chelsea didn’t seem to appreciate she was his doom. As she walked beside him, her body seemed to dance to the tap of her shoes on the pavement. “Who are these people I’ll be meeting tonight?”
“Right.” Luckily she was smart, and obviously not as thrown off stride by seeing him again as he was by seeing her. He gave her a quick rundown of all the players and she listened intently, with a tiny line between her eyes, reminding him for the first time of the girl he’d known.
“Is there anything in particular I should say or not say?” she asked, as though she were cramming for an exam. But he’d pretty much already accepted the failing grade.
“Just be yourself,” he said, “and if you’re unsure of anything, defer to me.”
“What have you told them about me?” Her hair swung against her jaw, sleek and sophisticated, and he noticed how long and elegant her neck was.
“Nothing. They didn’t even know your name until a couple of days ago. Oh, we went to the Caribbean in March. You got sunburned.”
“Foolish of me.”
“I might have told them you love skiing.”
“Foolish of you.”
“Yeah. I think we went to Vail in February.”
She turned to stare at him. “From Paris?”
“I didn’t know you were in Paris when we got engaged.” He threw his hands up in the air. “You know what I mean. We’ll wing it.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said.
Even with her in those ridiculous heels they made good time and before he was remotely prepared, they were standing outside the restaurant. He drew in a quick breath. “Ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Okay.” He reached for her hand. “Hope you don’t mind. We should act like, you know…”
“Lovers,” she replied, wrapping her fingers around his. The clasp was perfect. Her hand felt surprisingly reassuring in his. Even if the word lovers, and the way she’d said it, had him conjuring up a vision of the two of them in bed, hot and sweaty and orgasmic. Which was not what he wanted to be thinking about when he saw his bosses.
They walked into the restaurant, an upscale French place, and were directed to the upper floor, where a private space had been reserved.
There weren’t many people there yet. Only the key ones. Piers and his wife, Helen. Piers’s brother, Lars, and his wife, Amelia, and several board members and their wives. Damien Macabee nodded to him affably, and David was already so rattled he barely thought about any awkwardness that might be attached to him coming to dinner with the man he planned to replace. Macabee’s wife also nodded and under her scrutiny he felt even more uncomfortable. But then, the woman was a judge, and he was always co
nvinced she could see right through him.
Not only were he and Chelsea the youngest by a few decades, but bringing Chelsea into this room was like bringing a gorgeous parrot into a flock of drab pigeons.
For a second total silence fell over the assembled company. Piers recovered first. He walked forward with a welcoming smile on his face. “Well, David, good to see you. And please introduce me to your lovely lady.”
“Glad to, Piers. Piers Van Horne, this is my fiancée, Chelsea Hammond.” His tie was choking him again. He’d been engaged once and never, ever planned to put himself in the same position again, where a woman had the power to gut him. Not that this one did—obviously, he didn’t love her. Barely knew her, but still, introducing her as his fiancée left him feeling like he needed to down a bottle of Maalox.
She held out her hand and shook her host’s. “Thank you for inviting me,” she said.
“We’re so glad to finally meet you. We’ve heard a lot about you.”
“David’s told me a little about you, too.” But not nearly damned enough to prevent disaster, he was certain.
“Come and meet some of the other people we work with.”
He ushered her forward. “My wife, Helen. Helen, this is Chelsea.”
Helen was not what you’d call well-preserved. She’d let her hair go gray long before it was fashionable to do so, and always wore the same hairstyle, a simple bun at the back of her head. She was on the heavy side and wore clothes and shoes that were comfortable rather than stylish.
Helen and Chelsea shook hands and he couldn’t imagine two women in the world who could have less in common.
“Let’s get the women drinks, shall we?” Piers said.
He hated to leave them, but what choice did he have. “Sure. Honey? What do you want to drink?”
“I’ll have my usual Pernod, if they have it,” she said. “White wine, if they don’t.”
Pernod. Why the hell couldn’t she drink something normal. Scotch or a martini or something.
“Pernod,” he heard Helen say and inwardly cringed. “I remember my brother used to drink that. He picked up the habit when he was living in France.”
