Fake Fiancée, Bride Forever (Billionaires of Europe Book 8)

by Holly Rayner

  “Choose one,” says a friendly voice. I open my eyes to see a red-haired man in coveralls watching us. He’s younger than I am by a couple of years, open-faced, smiling. “Hi again, Mr. Johansen,” he adds.

  “Good morning, Nigel,” Magnus says. “Anything new?”

  “Right over here,” the guy says. “I can show you.”

  “Wonderful. Leah, choose a car, and I’ll be right back with you.”

  “Wait,” I interrupt before he can walk away. “What’s this all about?”

  “I just want to see your racing skills.” Magnus grins.

  “I haven’t got any racing skills!”

  “Give her a helmet, Nigel,” Magnus says, and the red-haired man pulls a helmet off a hook on the wall and tosses it in my direction. Mostly out of surprise, I catch it.

  “Just pick out your favorite car,” Magnus advises. “It’s okay if you don’t know anything about cars. We’re just having fun. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  And just like that, I’m alone with the cars.

  I survey them, feeling altogether out of my depth. I feel like I shouldn’t even be in a room with cars this nice. There should be panes of glass separating me from them, making sure I don’t get any of my gross organic matter on their pristine bodies. I run my fingers over the hood of a yellow one and immediately feel slightly guilty, as if I’ve sullied it.

  Finally, I select a dark purple model with two wide stripes running from nose to tail, across the roof. The stripes are a light purple, so light that they’re almost white, and they give the car the illusion of speed. I have to admit I’d like to see this car on the racetrack. Unlike many of the other models, it’s streamlined and simple, almost basic in its design. It speaks to me.

  Just as I’m making my choice, I hear the engine of another car. It’s Magnus, slowly driving up the ramp in an orange vehicle, and as he passes me, he winks. I can only watch in stunned silence as he drives out onto the racetrack.

  Is he really about to race that car?

  Nigel joins me. “Is this the one?” he asks, patting the purple car. “You’d better put on that helmet, ma’am. It’s a safety requirement if you’re going to be driving on the track.”

  “Um,” I say, stupefied. “Okay.”

  I feel like I should protest that I’m certainly not going to be driving on the track, but what can I say? Magnus is already out there, waiting for me. Am I going to spoil the day for him because I’m afraid I can’t handle it? And besides…part of me really wants to try this. I want to take the controls of this expensive, powerful car—God knows I’ll never have the chance to do something like this again—and see if I can master it.

  So I put on my helmet, get in, and pull out of the parking space. Slowly, carefully, getting a feel for the way the car responds, I pull out onto the track, where Magnus is already waiting. My car’s nose levels with his. I look out and see that the light in front of the starting line, where our cars are idling, is yellow. About to go green. We’re going to have a race.

  I have only a few seconds to decide whether I’m ready for that kind of intensity on my first time out. I had imagined Sunday-driving this car around the track a few times, not diving headfirst into a race situation. But then the light turns green, Magnus’ engine roars, and a hot instinct that’s been buried, shoved down for five years, surges up in me.

  I want to beat him.

  I slam on the accelerator. Beside me, out of the corner of my eye, I can see Magnus pulling harder, going faster. I whip around the first turn, doing my best to keep the car firmly under my control.

  Now the straightaway. I push my foot all the way to the floor, leaning forward in my seat as if that could make me go faster. My car seems to eat up the track. Magnus is still there, still beside me, and it seems impossible that he hasn’t fallen back, impossible that my car’s outstanding speed hasn’t left him in the dust.

  I fishtail a little on the second turn and have to remind myself not to panic, to let my car’s trajectory level out. It does, but I lose an ounce of speed.

  Growling out loud, I step on the accelerator again, practically lifting out of my seat with the force of it. I can’t see Magnus anymore. I can only see the finish line. My car lurches forward, speeds up, speeds up more—and I’m there. I’m crossing it.

  It takes me another lap around the track to let my car slow down and stop. Finally, breathing hard with exhilaration, I pull over and climb out, whipping of my helmet. Magnus is waiting for me.

  “You won,” he says, and he’s smiling. “By a nose, at the last second, but you beat me. I had a feeling you’d be good at this.”

  I try to keep my face expressionless, but my heart is dancing a samba. I beat him! I actually beat Magnus Johansen at something. That’s the dream!

  He laughs. “Of course, I did let you win.”

  “Let me win?” I frown and tap him playfully on the arm. “You didn’t let me win. You’re saying that now because you’re embarrassed you lost to a girl. Or to a first timer. Or maybe you just can’t handle ever losing anything at all, period. That sounds like you. Let me win, don’t make me laugh.”

  “I thought it would be kinder, this being your first race,” he says. “I honestly didn’t want to race as hard as I’m capable of, and the reason is exactly what you just said.”

  “Because I’m a girl?”

  “Of course not. There are many fine racers who are women. It’s because this was your first time, and it wasn’t mine. It wouldn’t have been fair or considerate of me to leave you in my dust.” He smiles. “Which I could have, all too easily.”

  “If that’s true,” I say, “then prove it.”

  He shakes his head smirking. “Get in the car,” he suggests, gesturing at the orange beast he lost to me in.

  “Why?”

  “You asked me to prove it. Allow me to do so. Get in the car.”

  I get in.

  “Fasten your seatbelt,” Magnus suggests, and I do.

  And then we’re off, and the car is moving faster than I’ve ever moved in my life, except perhaps for on an airplane. But airplanes stifle the feeling of speed, make you feel as if you’re sitting still. In Magnus’ race car, speed is all there is. It’s like I’m on a roller coaster, like any moment could bring unexpected twists or drops, and I’m riding the edge of fear and exhilaration. Both feelings make me want to scream. Something euphoric is bubbling up in me, even as I’m realizing that Magnus was absolutely telling the truth about letting me win. If he’d been driving like this, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  When he pulls to a stop, I look up at the clock that reports his time. It’s considerably faster than the time I recorded when I raced the course. Part of me wants to be angry—I do feel a little toyed with, a little misled by the fact that he allowed me, however briefly, to think I’d won the race. That seems unkind. But my heart is still racing, and I feel joyful and exhilarated. It’s just a physical response to all the adrenaline, I’m sure, but it’s enough to push away my irritation.

  “Wow,” I say to Magnus. “You weren’t kidding about letting me win.”

  “I was not,” he agrees, beckoning Nigel over. “Did you have a good time here?”

  “I really did,” I say, and to my surprise I’m being completely honest. “I’ve never had a date like this before in my life. Even if it wasn’t, you know, a real date.”

  Magnus and I lean up against the orange car, and Nigel snaps a picture of the two of us to add to the social-media evidence that we are, in fact, a real couple. Then I insist on a solo picture in front of the purple car, just for me. Completely aside from everything that’s going on with Magnus, this has been a wonderful experience, and I don’t want to forget any of it.

  We drive our cars back into the underground lot, and Nigel helps us pull them into our parking spaces. I feel a twinge of sadness as I get out of mine. This has truly been a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I have to concede that I feel grateful to Magnus for today. As much as he both
ers me, as many issues with him as I do have, he gave me a gift by bringing me here. I could never have experienced something like this without him.

  The sun is setting by the time we make our way out of the stadium to Magnus’ car. The air is cool, but not cold, and I find myself walking a little closer to Magnus than I might have otherwise, seeking body heat.

  Strange.

  I consciously step away from him, putting deliberate distance between us. My emotions are whirling around in my head, and I can’t figure out how I feel about Magnus or about the day we spent together. Things no longer seem black and white, not at all.

  Into the chaos of my thoughts, Magnus speaks. “Would you like to go out for a drink before I take you home?” he asks. “There’s a wonderful little bar just around the corner from here. It’s not too fancy, so we’d be just fine in the clothes we’re wearing, and they make a pineapple-juice cocktail I think you’d really enjoy. The drinks would be on me, of course.”

  I hesitate. A drink does sound nice, and if the circumstances were different, I would say yes. But can I really allow myself to say yes to Magnus?

  “Would this be…you know, part of our evidence building?” I ask. If that’s all he means to do, it wouldn’t be as emotionally weighty. It would be a much easier choice.

  But he shakes his head. “We’ve got the evidence we need for today,” he says. “This was just an idea I had. Something we could do together for fun, if you thought you might like it.”

  I do think I would like it. But I force myself to remember the promise I made to myself, the promise to keep things professional. Magnus said it himself—a trip to this bar wouldn’t be about laying evidence or legitimizing our eventual marriage. He just wants to hang out with me. And that is not part of our deal.

  Maybe I did have a better time today than I thought I would. Maybe I managed to forget, for several long stretches of time, that I was here out of necessity. For once, being with Magnus felt like a real date. But that doesn’t mean I can allow it to become one.

  So I shake my head.

  “No thank you,” I tell him. “I think I should get home. But I did have a good time today, Magnus, I honestly did. This was a wonderful idea, and I’m so glad you brought me here.”

  He looks pleased at the compliment. “I’m glad you had fun. I’ll have to think of something just as exciting for our next date, then.”

  I laugh. “I don’t think you’ll be able to top this one.”

  “We’ll see,” he says.

  As we ride home, I’m surprised to find that everything I said to Magnus was the truth. I really did enjoy our day together. If someone had told me, just a few weeks ago, that I would spend a day with Magnus Johansen and enjoy it, I would have said they were crazy. But I would have been wrong. This was pleasant, and I’m glad we did it.

  And I’m also more eager than ever to get to work. I need to fine-tune my tech project so it’s worth throwing all my energy and all Magnus’ money into. This marriage is starting to seem more and more real, and it won’t be long before it’s time for him to hold up his end of the bargain.

  Chapter 12

  Magnus

  I let a week go by before reaching out to Leah again. We had fun on our last date—at least, I did, and I’m pretty sure she did too. Her enjoyment seemed genuine. To tell the truth, that was why I chose the racetrack. It’s impossible to imagine anyone not enjoying themselves there, not cutting loose and feeling like a kid again. The speed and the adrenaline have always held that power for me, helping me shake off any worries or hang-ups I might be feeling.

  I’m determined not to let the fact that she turned me down for a drink after our race get to me. There was no animosity in her voice, no indication that on another occasion she might not have accepted the offer. I am, therefore, trying to take what she said at face value. She simply wanted to go home. She didn’t want to have a drink. It’s not that she didn’t want to have a drink with me, or that she resented the fact that we had to spend time together.

  It’s not a big deal.

  I’ve been worried about Leah’s feelings toward me. Not because she has the power to sell me out to immigration now—I don’t think she would do that, no matter how angry with me she might get—but because we are really going to be married soon and I don’t want her to hate me. I don’t know if she does hate me or not, but I’ve certainly never gotten the impression that she liked me very much. And releasing the news of our engagement without talking to her first was a stupid move. I don’t blame her for being angry about that. I just hope she’s able to forgive me.

  For all these reasons, I don’t want to call her again right away. It seems wise to let things settle a bit, let her process her feelings and relax, before pulling her back into our complicated dance.

  Eventually, though, I do have to call her. The pictures I’ve put on social media have been getting likes and comments, but keeping them coming is key.

  Still, I want to make a gesture. I want to make it clear that I know that she’s not just in this to do whatever I say. We’re partners, and this deal is supposed to benefit both of us. And in my opinion, that means every facet of it should be good for Leah as well as for me. So when I finally do call her on Saturday morning, I ask her to pick the location of tonight’s date.

  I’m curious as to what she’ll say. Where does Leah like to go on dates? Will she take me to her favorite place in the city? Does she have a restaurant she especially loves? Or maybe she’d like to go see a show?

  “Actually,” Leah says, sounding as if she’s rushing around. “Do you think we could meet at your office? I’d like to show you the work I’ve been doing. I’ve got the bare bones of an app ready. It still needs a lot of work of course, and under normal conditions I wouldn’t dream of presenting it to an investor at this stage, but…”

  “But these aren’t normal conditions,” I say.

  I can’t pretend I’m not disappointed. I was hoping Leah would choose something more like a traditional date for us to do together. But from her brisk tone and the fact that she wants to use the occasion of our date to meet in my office, it’s clear she’s still looking at this as just business.

  I know our marriage isn’t going to be a real, romantic one, but I’d like to think that at some point we could figure out how to be friends. But Leah just called me an investor. That’s all I am to her, and I can hardly ask her for more than that.

  “I know we need to get a picture for the accounts,” Leah says, still all business. “And we probably don’t want to do that in your office, right? Because that isn’t very romantic.”

  My thoughts exactly.

  “We can get lunch first,” I suggest. “There’s a deli across the street from my building. It’s not fancy, but the food is good. And the casual atmosphere will make it seem like we’re a couple who’s been together for a while, like we’re not worried about impressing each other all the time anymore.”

  “Yeah,” Leah agrees. “That sounds good. Can I meet you there at noon? I need to run a few errands first, and I’m going to want to stop by my own office to pick up some things I need for my presentation.”

  It really does bother me that she’s treating this so formally. I like Leah. The more time I spend with her, the more I’m glad she’s the one I chose for my green card marriage. Not only is she startlingly attractive, but she’s also fun to be around—at least when she’s not shutting me out entirely, making sure I’m aware that there’s absolutely nothing personal between us, that is.

  And she’s one of the few people I know who is unafraid to give me a hard time. I could use a little more of that in my life. She’s never deferential when she speaks to me. She seems to see me as an equal. I appreciate that. I have too many yes-men around me, too many people who make a hobby of telling me what they think I want to hear. Leah has never once done that. She’s not afraid to pick a fight with me. She’s not afraid to tell me I’m wrong.

  We hang up, and I set about preparing for our
meeting. Despite the fact that we’re going to the office, I don’t want to show up in a business suit. I want to take some of the formality out of the occasion, to put Leah at ease. This isn’t a normal pitch to an investor. I’m already committed to backing her product, whatever it is. She doesn’t have to impress me in the usual way.

  But at the same time, I don’t want to show up for our date in just anything. It was hard enough to convince myself to wear a T-shirt to the racetrack. For lunch and an office sit down, I can dress it up a little. I finally decide on black slacks and a burgundy sweater. For good luck, I tie on a leather corded bracelet my sister gave me before I left Norway. It’s always seemed to swing situations in my favor.

  I’m five minutes early to the deli on purpose, allowing me to stakeout my favorite table and sit facing the door so I can see Leah walk in. She looks lovely, as usual, in a pleated skirt that swings pleasantly around her thighs and a button-down white shirt. It’s the perfect blend of sexy and professional, and for a moment I allow myself to believe that she’s deliberately dressed to impress, just as I did.

  Then she sits down, sets her briefcase on the bench beside her, and pulls out a folder.

  “I have printouts of my screenshots in here,” she says and starts to pull them out to show me.

  I place a hand over hers. “Maybe we can wait on that until we get back to the office?” I say. “Let’s relax and enjoy lunch for now. We’ll have plenty of time to talk business, I promise.” I slide the folder out of her hand and across the table, settling it on my own bench, and then pass her a menu. “You’ve got to try the hot steak sub,” I say, pointing it out. “It’s my favorite.”

  Leah shakes her head. “I can’t eat anything that heavy for lunch,” she says. “I’ll turn into a slug for the rest of the day.”