FIANCÉ FOR HIRE

by Pamela Burford

With obvious reluctance she pulled the ribbon off the present and plucked at the wrapping paper.

  "Will you hurry up?" Sunny demanded.

  "I think she's turning into my mother," Charli said with a smirk. "Mama folds wrapping paper and saves it—to reuse, she claims. 'What beautiful paper, such a shame to waste it.'"

  "Meaning," Raven interpreted with a small smile, "what a shame to waste it on her, as if she's undeserving of such an honor. Tell me, has she ever reused any of it?"

  "Never," Charli said. "She's got a ton of used wrapping paper stacked neatly in the attic. A real fire hazard. She always buys new—wouldn't be caught dead wrapping anyone else's birthday or Christmas gift in old paper!"

  Amanda balled up the wrapping paper and hurled it at Charli. "Here. For Mama." She glanced at Nick and appeared to be holding her breath as she raised the hinged lid of the tiny mauve box she'd revealed. Her eyes went wide; her mouth parted. "It's … a whistle."

  "A whistle?" Sunny craned her neck to see. Her eyes popped. "Wow! What a whistle!"

  While Amanda's friends exclaimed over the gift, Amanda's gaze locked with Nick's. He could tell he'd surprised her. Again. He decided he liked doing that.

  Jared lifted the small sterling silver bauble by its long, delicate chain and peered closely at it. The whistle had an old-fashioned shape, etched with curlicues and set with three semiprecious cabochon stones: green tourmaline, yellow citrine and purple amethyst. "Does it work?" he asked.

  Nick said, "Try it."

  He did. The result was a startlingly loud, shrill tone.

  Noelle was next to inspect it, before handing it to Nick. "Can we assume this gift has some significance?"

  "The first time I set eyes on Amanda," Nick said, as he fastened the chain around her neck, "she was hailing a taxi with a two-finger whistle that could've shattered glass."

  Jared gave her a proud thump on the back. "That's my big sister!"

  Amanda lifted the whistle off her dress to look at it closely. Her silver eyes flicked to Nick's, just for an instant, long enough to tell him the ride home would be interesting.

  "Thank you, Nick." She pasted a polite smile on her face. "It's beautiful. And very unique."

  Jared said, "He doesn't even get a kiss?"

  "I think a present like that deserves a real toe-curling, tongue-tangling lip-lock myself," Sunny said, "but hey, that's just me."

  Amanda gave Nick a quick peck on the cheek, obviously just to shut up her friends.

  "She'll do better later, Nick," Kirk chuckled, "when there's no audience."

  The guests who were congregated around Lucky the Clown let out a roar of salacious laughter. "If my ex-wife had ones like this," Lucky cried, wagging his latest balloon creation, "I'd still be married to her!"

  Raven's husband, Hunter, detached himself from the crowd and joined the small group at the sofa. "That is one sick clown." He glanced around. "Amanda, I'm surprised your folks aren't here."

  Nick had thought she'd been tense before, but that had been nothing compared to the sudden strain he now sensed, sitting so close to her. He turned to look at her; outwardly she appeared unchanged.

  "Liv told me she was sorry but they couldn't make it," Raven said, presumably referring to Amanda's mother. "She didn't say why."

  Amanda exchanged an unspoken communication with her brother, which Nick interpreted as Let me handle this.

  "Mom and Dad are at a wedding," Amanda said, "the daughter of one of his business associates. They'd RSVP'd months ago and couldn't get out of it." Sunny nodded in understanding. "We figured it had to be something important to keep them away."

  Charli added, "I know they'd be here if they could."

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  "So tell me, boss," Nick said, as he negotiated the long, meandering drive from Grant and Charli's house to the road. "Why'd you lie about when you and I met?"

  He felt her gaze on him, in the dim interior of his three-year-old Subaru Forester. "On Monday, Raven and Sunny and Charli left my office with me," she said. "They saw me get into your cab, though I'm sure they took no notice of who was behind the wheel."

  Of course not, he thought. He was just a taxi driver, after all. Who was more anonymous than a taxi driver?

  "They saw me get in." Her voice was clipped. "And they saw the cab take off. With just me in it. My story, remember? About how we met? I said you grabbed the taxi at the same time I did. They'd know it couldn't have been Monday."

  "Yeah, about that story." Nick stared through the windshield at the dark street, inadequately illuminated by streetlamps made to resemble quaint, old-fashioned gas lamps, complete with frosted glass and scrolled ironwork. Their hosts lived in one of the North Shore's most exclusive neighborhoods—a world away from the congested section of Astoria, Queens, that he called home. "Why couldn't we have just stuck to the truth?" he asked. "That I drive a cab."

  He knew the answer, of course, but it gave him a wicked sort of satisfaction to watch her squirm.

  "Well, it's just…" Amanda chose her words with obvious care. "My friends are all familiar with the type of man I usually go out with." She seemed to think that was explanation enough.

  "What type is that?" he asked.

  "Um … professional men."

  "Taxi driving is a profession."

  "Yes. Of course. And a very honorable one." In the next instant she blurted, "Oh God, that sounded so condescending! You must think I'm the snottiest, most stuck-up bitch you've ever met."

  He glanced at her just as they passed under one of those silly Victorian streetlamps, and saw nothing but sincerity. Still…

  "I just need to know the rules of the game, boss," he said, "if I'm going to be convincing in the role of your lover."

  She gave a little start at the word lover, and the physical relationship it implied.

  "So what you're trying to say," he interpreted, "is that your meddlesome pals know you'd never be caught dead with a lowly taxi driver."

  Her sigh was eloquent. "You seem determined to put the worst possible spin on this."

  "But it's nothing more than the truth, isn't that so? You don't strike me as someone who shies away from telling it like it is."

  "Are you enjoying this?" she muttered.

  "Not especially, no. But hey, at least I own a fleet of limos."

  "What was I supposed to tell them? That you're a neurosurgeon? A financial analyst? What if one of them asked you about it? It would look pretty suspicious if my new boyfriend couldn't converse intelligently about what he does for a living."

  "You might be surprised what I can converse about—intelligently."

  It took her a moment to respond. In a chastened tone of voice she said, "I suppose we should have discussed stuff like this beforehand."

  "That might've been a good idea."

  "Listen, Nick. Despite the way it looks, I'm not elitist. I just … I want this whole farce to be as convincing as possible. But somehow I've managed to insult you, and that was never my intention. Please accept my apology."

  His fingers relaxed on the wheel. "Apology accepted, if you answer one more question."

  "Okay," she said wearily, "let's have it."

  "Why weren't your folks at the party?"

  A thick silence was his only answer. He glanced at her. She stared straight ahead at the approaching headlights, her features set.

  "Come on," he wheedled, "I won't tell your nosy buddies. I'm just curious."

  "I explained it already."

  "This important wedding they supposedly went to. Right. What's this business associate's name? The one whose daughter is getting married tonight?"

  "I will not be interrogated by you."

  "Not by a mere hireling, you mean. Tell me, if I were a neurosurgeon, would you give me a straight answer?"

  "Okay. I've got a question for you." She shifted in her seat to half face him. "Why did you buy me that expensive present?"

  "It wasn't that expen
sive. It's silver, not gold or platinum." But with her obvious love of shopping and knowledge of jewelry, she no doubt realized the thing had cost about two hundred bucks—the equivalent of what she'd paid him so far for his services.

  She said, "I can't accept it."

  He laughed.

  "I'm serious. I don't know what you thought you were doing, spending that kind of money on me—"

  "Can't you just accept the thing gracefully?"

  "It's not like it's a regular gift," she said. "It's not like we really know each other. Oh, why am I trying to explain this to you! You know exactly what I'm talking about. You're just trying to irritate me."

  "And jeopardize a cushy job like this? Now, why would I do that?"

  "I have no idea, but I'll tell you one thing. Any more stunts like that and this 'cushy job' is history. I'll find someone else to help get the Wedding Ring off my back."

  "The what? The wedding ring?"

  She dammed up, shifting back around to face forward once more.

  "Is that code for something?" he asked.

  Silence.

  "Come on, boss, give it up. It's not like I'm someone who's really in your life. It's not like we really know each other," he said, parroting her words.

  "Stop calling me boss."

  "Why are you so determined to keep your friends from setting you up with some guy?"

  "That's none of your business," she snapped.

  "You don't want to get married again, is that it?"

  After a brief pause, she asked, "How did you know I was married before?"

  He said, "Grant mentioned it."

  "I didn't hear him say anything."

  "Were you monitoring all my conversations tonight?" She chose not to respond, and he asked, "Was it a bad divorce?"

  "Try two bad divorces."

  He gave a grunt of sympathy.

  "Both within three years," she said. "The last one was final eleven months ago."

  He whistled. "You don't fool around."

  "I wish I did. If I'd just 'fooled around' instead of marrying the bastards, I could've saved myself a lot of pain."

  "So that's what this is about. After two Mr. Wrongs, you've sworn off marriage forever."

  "An oversimplification," she said tightly, "and I could do without the flip attitude."

  "But that's it in a nutshell, right?"

  "Did I mention this is none of your business?"

  "Well, actually, it is my business. You've made it my business. Why would anyone believe you and I are an item if I don't even know the most basic things about you—like that fact that you've been divorced twice?"

  She made an exasperated little sound, conceding the point, but not happy about it

  "Anything else I should know?" he asked. The only thing she'd shared with him on the ride to the party was what she did for a living.

  "You should know I listen to classical music," she answered, "and that caffeine never touches my lips."

  "Are you a natural blonde?"

  "Yes. How long have you been a cabbie?" she shot back.

  He grinned. "Six years. What's your favorite food?"

  "Ethnicity or specific dish?"

  "Ethnicity."

  "Japanese."

  That was what he would have guessed. "Specific dish."

  She said, "My grandmother's steak-and-kidney pie."

  "You're kidding."

  "My turn. What kind of undies do you wear?" she asked. "Boxers or briefs?"

  "Such a prosaic question," he drawled. "I'm disappointed in you."

  "How come a New York City cabbie tosses out words like 'prosaic' in casual conversation?"

  "I didn't realize it was such a stumper. You want me to tell you what it means?"

  "I know what it means! Okay, let's get back to the undies. Boxers or briefs?"

  "What makes you think I wear either?"

  Amanda gave a snort of disbelief. "Briefs," she declared with authority. "Plain white ones, but you've been toying with the idea of trying those clingy boxer briefs that come in different colors."

  "Is that the kind that spins your wheels?" Nick asked. "Or is it what you figure an overeducated cabbie would go for?"

  "Have you ever been married?"

  "Hey, that's your third question in a row. It's my turn."

  "You aren't, are you?" Suddenly she sounded worried. "Married?"

  "Why? What difference would that make?"

  "Can't you just answer the question? It would make a difference."

  "I don't see why. I'm just doing a job. Putting on a performance for your friends."

  "I wouldn't want to … disrupt your personal life. Take you away from your wife on weekends. She might not understand that it's just, you know…"

  "Business," he supplied, before putting her out of her misery. "I'm not married, Amanda. Never have been."

  "Oh. Any particular reason?"

  "I'll answer that if you tell me why you tied the knot with two losers who weren't right for you."

  Predictably, that put an end to marriage-related talk. She pulled herself up straighter and reached behind her neck.

  "You're going to return this for a refund," she told him, replacing the silver whistle in its little box.

  "Yeah, right."

  "Don't be stubborn."

  "Your friends will expect to see you wearing it."

  She chewed this over. "Then I'll reimburse you. How much was it?"

  "What a rude question. I'm surprised at you."

  "Don't make this difficult, Nick. I'll just guess at the amount and tack it onto your final payment."

  "I won't take more than the fee we agreed upon. You tip cabbies, not actors."

  "I refuse—"

  "It's a gift, Amanda. Say thank you and enjoy the damn thing."

  "I already said thank you," she muttered.

  "You could say it like you mean it. A bit of a challenge for a control freak like you, but—"

  "Control freak? Oh, please. Anytime a woman asserts herself, she's automatically a 'control freak.'"

  He started to speak, but she cut him off. "The conversation is over," she snapped. "Just get me home. And in the future please keep in mind that ours is an employer-employee relationship. No more gifts. No more prying questions. Got that?"

  "Got it. Boss."

  Nick couldn't help but wonder how his "employer" would react if she knew the truth—that his participation in this charade had nothing to do with earning an easy grand.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  It's a conspiracy, Amanda thought with wry amusement, as she reached through the branches of a small tree, plucked a Winesap apple and dropped it into the bushel basket at her feet. Their fifth double date in two weeks! It seemed that every time she picked up the phone, it was either Charli or Raven or Sunny inviting her and Nick to do something as a foursome. And just last Tuesday, all four couples had spent an exhilarating evening at a Cajun restaurant with live zydeco music and a pecan-crusted catfish filet that was practically a religious experience.

  For some reason, Amanda had never before gone apple-picking at any of the orchards open to the public, though it was an autumn tradition for many Long Islanders. It had taken yet another invitation, this one from Charli and Grant to bring her and Nick out here to the North Fork for the day.

  They'd stopped first at a pumpkin farm, where, at Hunter's request, the four of them had combed the sprawling field on a quest for several dozen various-sized pumpkins. These would be carved into jack-o'-lanterns to help decorate Stitches, the comedy club Hunter owned, where he and Raven planned to throw a spectacular private costume party for Halloween, only three days away.

  "You know what's good, I see."

  Amanda turned at the sound of Grant's voice. He set down his half-full basket and started pulling Wine-saps off the same tree. The orchard was arranged in neat rows of small trees, each row bearing a sign identifying the variety of apple growing there. Beneath each tr
ee lay a scattering of fruit that someone had judged imperfect. The afternoon was overcast; a chilly breeze bore the scents of the orchard to her nose: earth and cidery must and the green tang of the leaves.

  She asked, "Where did my boyfriend and your wife wander off to?"

  "Charli likes Golden Delicious, and she also wants to lay in some Cortlands for cooking. Nick is concentrating on McIntosh, I believe."

  "They don't know how yummy these babies are," she said, picking another Winesap.

  "More for us."

  With his fortieth birthday a mere month away, Grant was nearly a decade older than his bride and her Wedding Ring friends. A high-powered matrimonial lawyer, he possessed a dignified bearing and a mature outlook on life, but he knew how to have fun, and he was the best thing that had ever happened to Charli. And he was a handsome devil, with thick, light brown hair and lively hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

  "Listen," Amanda said, "I hope that business about your friend James didn't cause any trouble for you."

  Grant frowned. "James?"

  "You know, your golfing buddy, the one Charli and the others tried to set me up with and I refused. And then I met Nick anyway, so…" She shrugged.

  After a moment of cogitation he said, "Oh, you mean Jimmy! I always think of him as Jimmy, so when you said James…" He mimicked her shrug.

  "I couldn't recall his last name," Amanda said. Either Grant's reaction was a little fishy or Amanda was letting her suspicious nature get the better of her. "What is it again?"

  "What?"

  "Jimmy's last name."

  "Oh, uh…" His gaze landed beyond Amanda's shoulder, and she realized why when she heard Charli answer for him.

  "Selden," Charli said, as she came up behind Amanda. "James Selden."

  "I always look forward to golfing with Jimmy." Grant tossed another two apples into his basket. "His swing's so bad, he makes even me look good by comparison."

  "So anyway," Amanda said, "I hope it wasn't too awkward for you guys, having to rescind Jimmy's invitation to my birthday party."

  "Don't worry about it." Grant winked. "He met a Norwegian architect named Olga."

  "So it all worked out," Charli said.

  "That's great." Amanda cocked her head. "An architect, huh? What does Jimmy do for a living?"