FIANCÉ FOR HIRE

by Pamela Burford

  Charli and Grant said, "He's a—" at the same time.

  With a little chuckle, Grant deferred to his wife, who answered, "He's a real estate developer." A fact Amanda already knew, from that conversation two and a half weeks ago when her Wedding Ring pals ambushed her at the office. Either this James Selden did indeed exist and was indeed a real estate developer, or Charli had also remembered the career Raven had mentioned.

  Or it could be that I'm paranoid and delusional, seeing conspiracies and flimflams where none exist.

  After all, why would her friends invent a nonexistent man for her to meet? How would that possibly fit into any matchmaking scheme?

  It didn't, Amanda decided. They just wanted her to be happy. They were misguided but sincere. Why couldn't she just accept that?

  Because she'd known these gals for a quarter of a century, that was why. The ill-fated introduction to this Jimmy guy might've been on the up and up, but the Wedding Ring had some underhanded plot perking away; she'd bet her best Prada handbag on it.

  Amanda jumped when a long, masculine arm snaked around her from behind, then she gave a self-conscious little laugh. She didn't have to look to know who it was; she recognized Nick's pleasant, subtle scent.

  Not for the first time, she felt a little thrill of pride at her man's good looks and raw sex appeal, and immediately squelched the foolish thought. That kind of pride had no place in this business arrangement. The only thing she should feel proud about was that she'd concocted such an effective plan and had had the confidence and nerve to put it into action.

  But how relieved she'd been the night of her birthday party when a scrubbed-shiny Nick had rung her doorbell! She'd fretted for five days, certain that the guest of honor would be making her appearance on the arm of Travis Bickle, Robert De Niro's scruffy title character from the movie Taxi Driver.

  As it turned out, De Niro at his best had nothing on Nick Stephanos. Nick's athletic physique looked just as scrumptious in a tailored suit as it did in snug jeans and a T-shirt. His eyes, once she'd gotten a good look at them, were a warm shade of brown that varied with his moods from amber to molasses.

  His hair was thick and short and black as jet, like the glossy pelt of some exotic animal. If he were her boyfriend for real, she'd give in to her curiosity and touch it. As it was, she settled for imagining how it would feel sliding between her fingers. Was the texture silky or coarse?

  She leaned back against Nick as he loosely wrapped his arms around her, just under her breasts. He'd gradually been doing that more and more, cozying up to her the way a real boyfriend might. With all these double and quadruple dates they'd been on recently, she and Nick had had ample opportunity to convince her pals that theirs was a bona fide romantic relationship. And they must have been doing something right—her friends had yet to challenge her sincerity.

  Nick's current demonstration proved just as credible. Grant and Charli seemed to accept without question the affectionate way Nick held her, the casual kiss he placed on her temple. His warm breath teased her ear, sending a shiver skating up her spine.

  This part of their playacting, the physical part, had turned out to be much less onerous than Amanda had anticipated. Perhaps it was because Nick was so relaxed about it. The guy was one hell of an actor.

  Either that or he found the experience as pleasurable as she did.

  Amanda couldn't lie to herself. She liked it. She liked it whenever she and Nick were sitting together and he'd slide his arm around her shoulders and pull her a little closer—a seemingly automatic gesture, devoid of subterfuge.

  She liked it whenever they were dining in a restaurant and he'd bring his fork to her lips so she could sample what he'd ordered, his eyes molten onyx by candlelight, his megawatt smile drawing her like a lighthouse beacon.

  She even liked it on those rare occasions when he bestowed a light kiss on her lips.

  All for the sake of their watchful audience, of course. Whenever her friends left and she found herself alone with her "boyfriend," he turned into the consummate gentleman, keeping his hands and his lips and his hot, seductive eyes to himself.

  The rational side of Amanda knew why she found pleasure in Nick's caresses, even though theirs was a fictitious relationship, even though they didn't really know each other and she'd never have chosen to go out with him under normal circumstances.

  It was because she'd never have gone out with him. Nick wasn't her type, and anyway, he was only after a quick buck. With him, there was no danger of anything serious developing, no danger of the dreaded Commitment rearing its ugly head, no danger of her horrific personal history repeating itself. Not with this man, not with the "hired help." Thus she was free to simply relax and enjoy the physical sensations for what they were, the snuggling and the kisses and the flirtatious glances she shared with him when her eagle-eyed buddies were hovering nearby.

  After all, it wasn't as if she were going to hop into bed with the man. What harm was there in enjoying a counterfeit cuddle or two?

  Amanda twisted a little in Nick's arms to look at him. She should have expected his response: a warm smile and an even warmer kiss. Maybe a part of her had expected it; maybe that was why she'd done it.

  Maybe she should throttle back the physical stuff before she got to like it too much.

  Amanda eased herself out of his embrace. "Did you only get Mcintosh?"

  "Some Macs, some Red Delicious…" Nick had been stowing his harvest in a plastic grocery bag. He now upended the bag into Amanda's bushel basket, filling it to the brim.

  "Don't do that!" she cried, watching his apples mingle with hers. "How will we ever get them separated?"

  "Why separate them?" Nick waved away her concern. "We'll just keep them at your place. You've got more space for them anyway, your fridge is empty—if you don't count that lone carton of yogurt that's applied for permanent residence."

  She made a face at him as Charli rose to her defense. Sort of. "Hey, that's not fair. She's also got a bottle of Pellegrino water in there."

  "Okay," he said. "One itty-bitty container of fat-free, sugar-free yogurt and some fancy bottled water. I think we can find room for—" he gave the basket an experimental tug "—eighty pounds or so of apples."

  Nick's casual reference to sharing her refrigerator sent a jab of apprehension through Amanda, prompting her sensible side to kick in.

  It's all part of the act, she assured herself. He wasn't really encroaching on her space. He wasn't really going to be in her house every day eating these apples and leaving his razor in her bathroom and taking up all kinds of psychic space. He wasn't really her boyfriend, for crying out loud!

  "Are these good?" Nick plucked a Winesap off the free and chomped into it. "Not bad. Not a Mac, but it's got appeal."

  He left the lousy pun hanging there, not deigning to acknowledge his companions' good-natured groans as he quickly reduced the apple to a scraggly core and picked three more off the free.

  Amanda said, "You know, you're supposed to pay for those things before you eat them."

  "We're buying a hundred pounds—"

  "Oh, so now it's a hundred pounds."

  "—and I figure they can spare a free taste. Did you know I'm a man of many talents?" Nick started juggling the apples like a pro. It was really quite impressive.

  "Hey," Grant said, "you could've provided entertainment at Amanda's birthday party."

  "And compete with Lucky the Potty-Mouthed Clown? I'll stick to amazing my nieces and nephews until they get too worldly and sophisticated, and lock embarrassing old Uncle Nick in the cellar when their friends come over."

  Amanda flashed on an image of Nick juggling for a gaggle of children. She hadn't given much thought to his personal life, other than to ascertain that there was no Mrs. Stephanos to wreak havoc with her plans. She hadn't pictured him as a member of a family, with brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews.

  She knew he drove in from the city whenever he picked her up, but she had no idea where e
xactly he lived, whether in Manhattan or one of the outlying boroughs. She couldn't imagine he had the income to live in Manhattan, but if he'd been fortunate enough to snag a rent-controlled apartment, then she supposed it was possible.

  It embarrassed her now that she'd never bothered to ask Nick something so basic as where he lived. She'd never asked him anything about himself, for that matter, never expressed interest in him as a person, after that night when he'd driven her home from her birthday party and they'd played at interrogating each other. But that had been only a game, one she'd lost control of all too quickly.

  There it was again. Control. He'd called her a control freak. She'd denied it, of course. But Amanda wasn't very good at believing her own lies. If she were, perhaps she'd be a happier person.

  She was wearing the silver whistle Nick had given her. His arm bumped it where it rested just under the curve of her breasts over her taupe cashmere sweater. He lifted the whistle and absentmindedly toyed with it, rubbing it between his fingers, peering into it. As he did so, his flannel-clad forearm grazed her breasts, just slightly, sending tiny electric jolts through her.

  "Do you use this?" Nick asked. "To hail taxis?"

  "When I'm wearing it."

  She felt his eyes on the side of her face, as if gauging her veracity. He asked, "Really?"

  "Well … I usually forget I have it. Habits of a lifetime are hard to break."

  His chuckle warmed her cheek, and she tried to imagine the picture her words conjured in his head. An elegantly attired New York businesswoman flagging down a cab with a two-finger whistle that, as he'd so aptly noted, could shatter glass—while a dainty yet perfectly functional whistle hung around her neck. Amanda smiled.

  Grant said, "Maybe you should've given her a megaphone."

  Nick let the whistle drop. "There's always next year."

  Well, no, there wasn't. January 11 would mark the three-month point in their "relationship." As long as she and Nick had become legitimately engaged in the eyes of her Wedding Ring pals by January 11, she could call it quits and be officially immune from further matchmaking efforts.

  Raven and Sunny had both tried to weasel out of the Wedding Ring pact, and failed, because they'd waited until they were already seriously involved with the chosen man and things had begun to get complicated. Even Charli had finally given up on her coldly practical marriage of convenience to Grant, with more than a month to go on her three-month "obligation" to the Wedding Ring.

  Of the four of them, only Amanda was a successful entrepreneur in the true sense, the CEO of a corporation with a payroll, 401K and dental plans, and dress-down Fridays. Thus only Amanda possessed the acumen and foresight that had allowed her to predict the unhappy tangle her life could become if her well-meaning friends had their way. Not to mention the superior negotiating skills that had allowed her to nip the Wedding Ring pact in the bud.

  Come January 11, she'd be a free woman. If Nick's mention of next year's birthday present made her a tad wistful, she blamed her sentimental friends and their insistence that they knew better than she what she needed to make her happy.

  Grant turned to his wife. "Are you ready?"

  "I think so." Charli lifted her bulging grocery bag. "I'll be busy for weeks trying out new recipes."

  "We'll meet up with you by the car," Grant called over his shoulder as he and Charli started down the row of trees.

  Nick said, "I take it Charli likes to cook."

  "Oh, she's a fabulous cook. You should taste her spinach-stuffed ravioli. She puts me to shame."

  He was watching her closely. "That isn't just an expression for you, is it? You really feel that way—that she puts you to shame."

  "Well, when it comes to cooking." Amanda picked an apple and turned it in her hand, admiring the shape of it and the dark red skin. "I've honestly tried to learn. I even took a class to learn how to construct sushi. Figured at least that was something I couldn't burn."

  "Ah yes, you did say you like Japanese food. Did you get any good at it?"

  Amanda shook her head. "My maid rolls fall apart. And my other efforts resemble chum on a bed of sticky rice. The class was a waste of time and money."

  "Did you enjoy it?"

  "What?"

  "Taking the class. Watching the teacher. Schmoozing with the other students. Eating the samples. Did you enjoy it?" he repeated.

  "Well, yeah, I guess so."

  "Then it wasn't a waste. And as for being a failure as a sushi chef—"

  Something inside Amanda flinched at the word failure.

  "—just remember, there's no shame in trying and failing. If you were too wimpy to even try, now, that would be something to be ashamed of."

  "No one's ever accused me of being wimpy. Mouthy, opinionated and bitchy on occasion, but never wimpy."

  "Bitchy? You?"

  He gave her a charmingly dubious smile, and Amanda wondered whether he seriously couldn't picture her as a bitch or he had no problem doing so and was simply being sarcastic. For some reason, it mattered.

  "That's another of those words used to keep women in their place," she said.

  "I've heard how that one goes. When a man takes charge, everyone admires his assertiveness. When a woman does the same thing, she's called a bitch."

  "You don't think that double standard really exists, do you?" Prickles of angry heat stung Amanda's face. "Or maybe you know damn well it does and you think that's just fine—the natural order and all that."

  He laughed. "Not that you're trying to put words in my mouth. What did I ever say or do to come off looking like a troglodyte?"

  Another ten-dollar word. No, Amanda mused, she really didn't know all that much about Nikolaos Stephanos.

  She said, "This from the man who insisted that driving was the prerogative of testosterone-based life-forms."

  "Anyone ever tell you you don't know how to take a joke?"

  "You were joking when you said that? So you won't mind if I drive us back."

  Nick gave a be-my-guest shrug, fished his car keys out of his pocket and held them out to her.

  Amanda reached for the keys. Her hand stalled in midair. There hadn't been any space left in the orchard's parking lot when they'd arrived, and excess vehicles were parked haphazardly on the shoulder of the gravel road. Nick, with his prodigious skill, had barely managed to wedge his white Forester between a couple of Harleys and a camper, their bumpers practically kissing. She'd never get his car out of that automotive jigsaw puzzle without sacrificing some paint at the very least.

  "I'm … not used to driving an SUV," she said.

  "There's nothing to it." He jangled the keys. "It's just like a regular car."

  "Well, I really don't know. I'm not … it's not that I…" He returned the keys to his pocket, with a knowing smile that made those prickles burn hotter.

  Damn it, she never blushed!

  "Next time," she said tightly, "we'll take my car."

  "You got it, boss."

  "Don't call me—"

  "If we don't get a move on, Charli and Grant will think we decided to camp out here."

  He easily lifted the overburdened bushel basket. His biceps inflated, straining the seams of his flannel sleeves; the cords stood out in his wrists. Those flimsy wire handles had to be digging into his fingers, but he never uttered a complaint as he led the way to the counter where the fruit was weighed and paid for, and down the road toward the car. She insisted she could carry some of the apples in bags or in another basket, but all he said was, "Why? It's not that heavy."

  "Nick, I was wondering. Where do you live?"

  "Queens."

  "Oh." The city's largest borough. "Where in Queens?"

  "Astoria."

  "Astoria! I know Astoria."

  He glanced at her. "You've been there?"

  "Well, no. I mean, I know something about it. Weren't the old movies made there?"

  He nodded. "It was the original Hollywood. There's still a big studio complex in Astoria. A b
unch of movies and TV shows are made there."

  "Huh. I didn't know that."

  "Then I'll tell you something else you didn't know. There's a strong Greek presence in Astoria."

  "And a strong Greek present here," Amanda teased, touching his upper arm as they walked side by side. It was as solid as a free trunk.

  He smiled; the dimple winked. She had to look away. Sometimes this man was just too damn appealing. She found it was getting harder and harder to keep the point of all this in perspective.

  And she had to keep it in perspective. Otherwise…

  She had to keep it in perspective! "Otherwise" was not an option!

  She spotted Nick's white Forester. Getting it out of there would be an even greater challenge than before, courtesy of a double-parked silver Miata. Grant and Charli, leaning on the hood and munching apples, waved to them.

  "Tell me something," Nick asked. "Why couldn't you have just admitted you don't trust your driving skills enough to get my car out of that tangle?"

  She could have denied it, and made herself look even more foolish. Amanda wasn't used to feeling foolish. She found she didn't like it.

  When she remained mute, he said, "You don't have to be good at everything, Amanda."

  The quiet understanding in his tone slammed through her defenses like a battering ram. She blinked against the sudden burning behind her eyelids. She felt his gaze on her, fleetingly. Just before they reached the Forester he muttered, "I never could stomach sushi, anyway."

  A watery snort of laughter erupted from her.

  "Ah, ever the lady."

  Grinning, she wiped her eyes. "Shut up and drive."

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  «^»

  He lives over a bar.

  Amanda stood on the sidewalk of a busy block in Astoria, Queens, craning her neck to stare up at the plain little second-story windows above Benny's Clubhouse Tavern. It was close to 8:00 p.m., the sky fully dark. Light shone between the slats of the closed wooden blinds. He was home.

  Her gaze slid down the building's redbrick facade. The names of featured beers glowed neon-bright in the windows of the tavern, and a large sign advertised Live Music Every Monday, Wednesday. And Saturday! Another sign informed her that a band called Bad Habit would be playing tonight and Wednesday, followed by Little Sammy and the Underachievers on Saturday.