FIANCÉ FOR HIRE

by Pamela Burford

  "Oh, come on." Now that the stereo was no longer on, she heard the low rumble of activity from below. "What happens when that rock band starts up?"

  "Usually I listen for a while, and if I like the music, I go downstairs for a drink."

  She tossed up her hand. "There. See? You can't even have quiet on a Monday, Wednesday or Saturday night."

  "I'm not a big one for absolute silence. And anyway, the tunes from downstairs are never that loud up here. I always have the stereo or TV on anyway, and that drowns it out."

  "The smells, then."

  "What smells?"

  "Don't tell me the cooking smells from that bar never come in here."

  "Sure they do, a little, when I have the windows open. So what? It's a good smell. I eat a lot of my meals down there. Benny makes the best burgers around—ten ounces of prime sirloin on a big, crusty roll with nacho cheese and a pile of grilled onions. And their thick-cut fries! Now I'm getting hungry. Wanna go down for a bite?"

  "You're impossible."

  "Why? Because I like where I live? Amanda, you're out of touch. Over-the-store apartments have become a very desirable commodity."

  "Oh, please."

  "It's true. The whole social status of it has changed. Young people, singles and couples, are begging for places like this. Nowadays if you want one in this area, you have to get on a waiting list. Especially for a two-bedroom like this."

  Amanda eyebrows lifted. "You have two bedrooms?"

  Nick nodded. "The second one's my carpentry workroom. It's a very sociable way to live. I know all my neighbors and the shop owners around here and they know me—at the bakery, the produce stand, the coffee shop, everywhere."

  Amanda had to admit the small-town environment he described sounded appealing. The irony was that Nick lived in New York City, while she owned a lovely private home in a fashionable area of Long Island—a true small town. Yet she couldn't say when she'd last spoken to her own next-door neighbors, aside from hurried greetings in passing.

  "I'm getting a beer," Nick said, and disappeared through the archway leading to the rest of the apartment.

  Amanda picked up her garment bag, prepared to flee as soon as he returned. She shouldn't have come here. This had nothing to do with their business arrangement, nothing to do with her goal of derailing the Wedding Ring. She'd given in to childish curiosity and now she regretted it.

  Her nervous gaze skittered around, coming to rest on Nick's CD rack, crammed with what had to be hundreds of albums. She glanced in the direction of the kitchen—he was taking an awfully long time opening one bottle of beer—and started perusing his music collection. He owned an impressive assortment of classic rock, plus several albums that didn't fit neatly into any category, such as the fiddle music that had been playing when she'd arrived.

  A disk caught her eye. The Temptations. Amanda smiled. She ran her finger along the spines of the jewel box CD cases in that section of the rack. Stevie Wonder. The Four Tops. Diana Ross and the Supremes. The Commodores.

  With her free hand she pulled out a Marvin Gaye album, flipped over the jewel box and scanned the list of songs, hearing the lyrics in her head.

  "Aha." Nick's voice yanked her back to the here and now. "The lady's a closet Motown fan."

  Amanda realized with chagrin that she'd been bopping to music only she could hear, sort of dancing in place. She slipped the CD case back in its slot.

  "So much for you being an aficionada of classical music." He set two drinks—a glass of beer and orange juice on ice—on the coffee table, along with a bowl of honey-mustard pretzels.

  "I never claimed to be any kind of an expert," she said as he took the garment bag from her and tossed it back on the sofa, "but I do like classical."

  "How often do you listen to it?"

  "I … I listen to it. I mean, I don't play music all the time like you do. Sometimes I like it to be dead quiet so I can curl up with a good book."

  "'A good book' meaning one of the classics, right? Ms. Coppersmith wouldn't be caught dead curling up with the latest paperback page-turner." He handed her the glass of juice. "At least she wouldn't admit to it."

  "You really do think I'm some kind of elitist snob, don't you?"

  "No. What I think is that you've cultivated a particular image, and you're trying hard to live up to it."

  "That's worse. I'd rather be thought of as elitist than a fraud."

  "You aren't either, actually. You're just a little insecure."

  Amanda set down her juice without tasting it. "I'm leaving."

  Nick retrieved the album she'd been looking at. He removed the Eileen Ivers CD from the stereo and popped in the Marvin Gaye disk. "I know which song you were playing in your head." He pushed the play button, advanced to the cut he wanted and adjusted the volume. "I could tell by the way your hips were wiggling."

  "I said I'm leaving." Amanda turned to grab the garment bag and her purse, but Nick was faster. He spun her into his arms just as the speakers pumped out the throbbing instrumental lead-in to "Heard It Through the Grapevine."

  How had he known?

  The music was hypnotic. Amanda found it impossible to be still with the song's irresistibly earthy beat pulsing through her—and with Nick leading her with surprising grace and skill.

  He flicked a glance to her high-heeled pumps. "Get rid of them."

  She kicked off her shoes, and so did he. A willowy five-seven, Amanda always thought of herself as tall, but being barefoot magnified the height difference between her and Nick. At that moment she felt downright petite.

  And it wasn't simply his height, which, at just under six feet, wasn't all that lofty. Nick possessed a presence that few men could claim. He garnered people's notice and, more important, their respect. People tended to listen to Nick. Some might call it charisma.

  Whatever it was, Amanda wasn't altogether comfortable with it. She hadn't bargained on charisma when she'd hired a taxi driver to pretend to be her beau. She felt the reins of control slipping inch by inch from her fingers, and she didn't like it one bit.

  There was no question that Nick was in control now, shoving the coffee table and sofa toward the wall, swiftly rolling the rug out of the way, clearing dance space on the gleaming hardwood floor in all of about five seconds. Then she was back in his arms, dancing to the magnetic tune, which urged her to move her hips in a way that could only be called inviting.

  She couldn't not move her hips that way. Not with this song. Damn that Marvin Gaye, anyway.

  Nick was masterful, whirling her out, reeling her in, spinning her under his arm, smoothly switching hands as he guided her movements. She'd never considered herself much of a dancer, but with him leading, it was effortless. He'd cleared plenty of space, making Amanda thankful for her short hem and the uninhibited range of motion it afforded. The polished oak floor felt cool and glassy under her stockinged feet. After about half a minute she was so warm she had to toss off her pale blue suit jacket and push up the sleeves of her ivory silk blouse.

  When the song ended she was actually disappointed—but not for long. As she upended the frosty glass of orange juice and drained it, Nick started playing another song of Marvin's, "Got to Give It Up," followed by several more high-energy Motown hits: Stevie Wonder's "Superstition," "The Tears of a Clown," by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Thelma Houston's "Don't Leave Me This Way," and "Give It to Me, Baby," by Rick James.

  They danced to every one.

  Amanda had always loved this kind of music, on a gut level that was hard to explain. So why didn't she own any Motown albums? Was it true what Nick had said? Was she one big put-on, a bundle of insecurities obsessed with appearances? The thought that he saw her that way embarrassed her, and it shouldn't.

  He was the hired help, after all. She shouldn't care what he thought of her.

  Amanda was ready to collapse, but Nick wasn't even winded. When he placed a fresh CD in the stereo, she signaled wearily that she'd had enough, and commenced a controlled fall
with her butt aimed at the sofa.

  Nick seized her arms before she made contact and pulled her back onto the makeshift dance floor. She began to groan pitifully until she recognized the languid strains of "Just My Imagination Running Away with Me," by the Temptations. Too tuckered out to object, she allowed him to hold her close. Gradually the slow, sweet tune melted any last shreds of resistance and she leaned into him, rested her head on his shoulder and swayed with him to the music.

  "This is a good one to cool down to," he murmured into her hair.

  "Mmm…" Amanda let her eyes drift half-closed, let Nick saturate her senses. His humid warmth seeped into her, teasing her nostrils with the clean, appealing scent of his exertions, layered over the lingering woodsy fragrance of soap. She felt the strong, steady beat of his heart against her own chest. His powerful arms surrounded her, supported her. Protected her.

  That was how she felt at that moment, as exhaustion liquified her brain and turned her limbs to oatmeal. Protected. Cherished.

  Not alone.

  It was a tantalizing sensation for Amanda, more seductive than sex, more irresistible than a ten-course feast to a starving woman. Greedily she soaked up this extraordinary feeling, absorbing every scrap of it, recognizing it for the fleeting thing it was. At least for her.

  As she and Nick shuffled together in a slow circle, the words of the song penetrated her fuzzy mind. She'd never realized before how poignant the lyrics were, telling the story of a man dreaming of a future with the woman he loves. The man tells himself how lucky he is, and that he will surely die if someone takes her from him. But it turns out that it really is just a dream—his imagination running away with him. Because in reality, "she doesn't even know me."

  Amanda's eyes opened. She doesn't even know me.

  She wondered whether Nick chose this song for its lyrics, as a statement, and decided she didn't want to know. He mustn't think of her that way. She mustn't let him.

  His big hand pushed aside her hair to slide over her nape and cup it. Amanda felt the leashed power in his warm, rough fingers as he tilted her head up. His eyes were more intense than she'd ever seen them, darkly penetrating. Her gaze fluttered to his mouth. Was he going to kiss her?

  She mustn't allow it, she knew that, even as every nerve in her body hummed in anticipation. It was as if some kind of magnetic force pulled her to him.

  Raising her eyes to his, she saw desire and indecision, saw him struggling with his own headstrong impulses.

  And she saw the instant sanity prevailed. His gaze sharpened as he pulled back to a safer emotional distance.

  It all happened in the blink of an eye, but it left Amanda shaken. A surge of adrenaline snuffed out the last of her dreamy languor and revved her pulse.

  What almost happened here? Had she imagined it? Watching Nick now, as she stepped away from him, hastily scooped up her purse and garment bag and mumbled an awkward goodbye, she decided that yes, she had indeed imagined it. She must have. His expression now was blandly neutral. No heated looks. No almost-kiss. Just my imagination, she thought.

  Running away with me.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  «^»

  "Let me guess," a throaty female voice purred.

  Nick turned from the bar, two fresh drinks in hand, to find himself cornered by the leather-clad dominatrix who'd been eyeing him all evening.

  Having driven a cab in New York for six years, Nick had thought he'd seen everything. That was before he and Amanda had arrived at the private Halloween costume party being held at Hunter's comedy club, Stitches, where most of the two hundred or so guests appeared to be vying for most outrageous costume—with attitude to match. By comparison, Nick and Amanda's Samson and Delilah outfits belonged in Sunday school.

  The club was a study in controlled chaos, the food and top-shelf booze abundant, the dance band loud and energetic, and the decorations delightfully overdone, including all those pumpkins he and Amanda had helped pick three days earlier, now standing sentry as hilariously gruesome jack-o'-lanterns.

  The dominatrix would have been tall even without her stratospheric high-heeled mules, the perfect accompaniment to her black fishnet stockings and a studded leather push-up corset that would have made the Marquis de Sade weep for joy. She sported painful-looking piercings in a variety of body parts that were visible and, he had little doubt, in a few that weren't The lethal-looking cat-o'-nine-tails that she stroked over his chest appeared a bit frayed, making Nick wonder if her search for a costume had ended at her bedroom closet.

  She pressed closer in the crush of partygoers, crowding him against the bar, enveloping him in a fog of heavy, musky perfume. "You're a Roman centurion, aren't you?" She gave him a lingering once-over, her hungry gaze zeroing in on his legs, bare below the thigh-length tunic except where the leather thongs of his sandals crisscrossed his calves.

  "But you've been defeated in battle, haven't you?" she said. "Now you're held captive. They've taken your helmet, your shield and your sword. And put you in these." She tugged hard on the fake manacles that encircled his wrists. Pellegrino water sloshed out of the goblet in his right hand, and he nearly lost his grip on the slippery beer glass in his left.

  He said, "Uh, listen, I've gotta go find my—"

  "All that brute strength of yours shackled. Ruthlessly imprisoned." Her heavily made-up eyes glittered as her talon-tipped fingernails raked his biceps.

  "Ow!" If he hadn't been holding the drinks, he might have been able to peel her off of him.

  "How humiliating it must be, for a man of such obvious potency, such virility—" her voice was now a breathless growl "—to be chained like an animal, controlled, forced to do things against his will." She stared at him evenly as she added, "Wicked, wicked things. What's this?" She grabbed the pair of sunglasses that he'd hooked onto his belt.

  He said, "Uh, can I have those—"

  "Since when do Roman centurions wear shades?"

  She looked very cross. Nick kept one eye on her whip as he explained, "I'm Samson."

  "What?"

  "I'm supposed to be Samson, not a centurion. You know, Samson and Delilah?"

  The cat-o'-nine-tails whooshed through the air and struck the bar next to him with a menacing thwack! "You told me you're a centurion!"

  "Well, no, I didn't. You guessed—"

  "Samson had hair. Lots and lots of hair."

  "Yeah, and then he got a trim. Get it?" Nick lifted the drinks, indicating his manacles.

  She put on his sunglasses. He had to admit, they went better with her getup than his. "Do you know what happens to naughty, naughty Samsons with very little hair who pretend to be Roman centurions?"

  He snorted. "I can imagine."

  She offered a wry smile and retrieved something from her ample cleavage. A business card, flamboyant crimson lettering on gold card stock. "If you'd like to do more than imagine…" She tucked the card into his belt. "Leave Delilah at home."

  Resignedly he said, "You're not going to give me back my sunglasses, are you?"

  "You'll have to come get them." She leaned forward, and just when he'd decided she was going to kiss his cheek, she bit his earlobe. Hard.

  "Ow! Stop that!"

  "We'll work on your pain threshold."

  "Sounds like fun," Amanda said, suddenly materializing to Nick's left. "Too bad I'm not invited."

  Nick could only swallow his groan and wonder how much she'd heard. Nodding toward the dominatrix, he offered a strained chuckle. "Great costume, huh?"

  Amanda coolly plucked the card out of his belt, glanced at it and handed it back to the lady. "Save it for some other potent, virile captive. This one's not interested."

  The lady disappeared through the crowd, but not before mocking Amanda's possessive display with a feline hiss and a clawing gesture.

  Nick handed her the goblet of Pellegrino water. "I was going to go look for you, but I couldn't get away from…" He shrugged and took a sip of his beer.

&nbs
p; And nearly choked on it when Amanda said, "Madame Hertz. That's her name. H-e-r-t-z."

  "You made that up."

  "Says it right there on her card. Along with her address, phone, fax and cell numbers, e-mail address and Web site. Yeah," she added dryly, "great 'costume.'"

  "Your jealousy is flattering."

  "Oh, please." Amanda glanced around and lowered her voice. "It's all part of the act. Do you know any woman who'd stand by and watch some trollop crawl all over her man and not do something about it?"

  "Well, you're a hell of an actress."

  "I had to make it convincing. What's the matter? You wanted to keep her card? You were looking forward to paying a visit to Madame Hertz and learning all about tough love? Maybe you're already into that stuff and could teach her a thing or two."

  "I thought we only needed to pretend for your close friends. Is that charming lady one of them?"

  "Of course not! But I figure Hunter or Raven must know her. Who knows what she might tell them? We have to stay in character. You know, like a couple."

  "I guess you're right." Nick slipped his arm around Amanda's waist. Pulling her closer, he nuzzled her temple, nosing aside one of the beaded tassels dangling from the gold-colored ornamental band encircling her forehead. "You look incredibly sexy in this outfit. Do you know that?"

  The filmy, low-cut dress, with its gold trim and body-hugging cut, bore no resemblance to the tailored suits she wore to work. Of course, the giant pair of fake scissors hanging from her belt didn't contribute much to her allure, but it beat him having to wear that hideous wig. Insinuating his hand under the gold-shot teal cape, he rubbed her back in lazy circles.

  She tensed. "What—what are you doing?"

  "What you said," he murmured close to her ear. "Staying in character. Putting on a show for your nosy friends. And their nosy friends. And anyone they might know. We can't be too careful."

  "All right, well, I think that's enough." Amanda eased out of his arms. "For the time being." She sipped her drink.

  The fact was, no one was paying a whole lot of attention to the two of them just then—everyone was too busy having a good time. Glancing toward the dance floor that had been set up near the stage, Nick spotted Grant and Charli trying to follow the steps of a complex line dance. The problem was, their clothing got in the way. No stranger to the domestic arts, Charli had sewn the padded costumes herself: she was a fast-food cheeseburger and he was a super-size order of fries.