by Lila Monroe
“Don’t get lost,” he says, on his way to the door. “If you need, just ask Phillips for a map.”
The crazy part is, I can’t even tell if he’s joking. But when he steps out, I’ve got nothing left to distract me from the wild situation I’ve walked into.
I’m going to have to spend a whole week with those people. Acting as if I’m head over heels for Max—okay, maybe that part won’t be so hard—and pretending I don’t notice the many barbed comments directed our way. The sizing up and the sneers. I’m not getting any “Welcome to the family!” vibes here.
I look around for my suitcase to start unpacking, only to find it stashed neatly in a closet. Empty. Meanwhile, somebody’s already steamed and hung my new purchases in the dressing room, and filled the ornate dresser with . . . yup, my underwear: now perfectly pressed and folded in tiny lacy squares.
I sink on the bed and look around. The guest suite is the size of our apartment back home, with lavish furnishings and French doors leading out to a veranda with a view all the way down the acres of lush lawn to the ocean. I can even see the pale sandy curve of a beach—empty, private, Carlisle property—and a couple of boats bobbing by the jetty. And when I say boats, I mean freaking yachts.
Can I just hide in here for the next week?
I take a deep breath. A plan. That’s what I need. I signed up for wild and adventurous, after all. These twenty-four carat judgmental people are part of the deal. I just need to figure out how to handle everyone . . .
And not handle Max.
I grab my phone and call Olivia, pacing the polished floor while the phone rings.
“Hallie!” Olivia’s smooth voice answers. “You must be in Palm Beach by now. How’s it going?”
“He’s decided we’re engaged,” I tell her. “Also, his entire family seems to make a hobby out of biting people’s heads off.”
Olivia sounds amused. “There’s a reason our clients turn to the Agency. It is a job you signed up for, however unconventional.”
I flop on the bed. Fuck, that is the coziest mattress I’ve ever had the pleasure of setting my back on. Would it really be so bad if I spent the whole week in here? “I don’t know, Olivia. I’ve never done anything like this before. It’s way more intense than I was expecting.”
“You’ll adapt,” Olivia says, reassuring. “And you have done this before. How many times did you run interference for Jack Callahan? How many pushy business partners did you have to talk down? You’ve got this.”
Her confidence is infectious. She’s right. I’ve handled way worse than some snooty relatives before. This situation feels different because they’re all judging me, too—but it seems like they treat family like business anyway. I just have to think of it like that, and I’ll be fine.
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I can do this.”
It’s only a week, after all.
My newfound confidence gives me enough confidence to propel me out of the suite. After all, this is going to be the only time in my life I get to enjoy such over-the-top, billionaire luxury. I may as well soak in every solid gold minute of it.
I grab my vintage camera and stroll down the cavernous hallway and out onto one of the verandas. Up close, the detailing on the columns is impressive, and there are even marbled patterns inlaid on the edge of every path. I snap photos, meandering down the steps to a huge, sparkling pool that makes me incredibly glad I brought my bathing suit. It’s watched over by two sculptures that look as though they might have been imported straight from ancient Greece.
Then it’s on to the gardens. Maybe I should have changed into sneakers? Never mind, the gorgeous scent of roses distracts me from my aching feet. There’s a whole tangle of rose bushes, crawling across a lattice far above my head, and a neatly trimmed spread of hedge sculptures.
Yes. Sculptures. In the hedge. I snap a few of them, admiring the detail work, before I catch on to the theme. They’re famous historical figures. That one’s a hedge-y Winston Churchill. This one a leafy Abraham Lincoln. I think the shapely one next to him is . . . Cleopatra?
The things people decide to do with their money. You think Franklin ever lay awake as a boy, dreaming of the day he could order people to carve historical figures into boxwood bush?
I’m distracted from the topiary by a faint clanging of discordant music. I find Flora leaning against a majestic willow tree, earbuds in and sketchpad in hand. She glances up from her drawing and gives me a crooked smile.
“Hey there, newest almost-family-member,” she says, popping out one of the earbuds.
She sounds almost friendly, which is officially the warmest welcome I’ve received so far today. “Hi! I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Nah, it’s fine. Can’t blame you for wanting to get away from the rest of those vultures.”
“Vultures?” I repeat.
She gives me a crooked smile. “I’m sure you didn’t miss the tensions around the lunch table. Let me tell you what no one else probably will: It’s got nothing to do with you. Everyone’s freaking out about their inheritances. There’s a rumor going around that Gramps had his lawyers change his will. And the big birthday event seems like exactly the time to announce the change.”
Ah. That explains a lot. So normally they’re more like mako sharks than great whites? No wonder Max wanted a girlfriend-shield for this particular get-together.
“You don’t seem that worried,” I notice.
Flora lets out a cackle. “Right, because I’d make a great CEO. If the rest of my family wants to squabble over Gramps’s bones before he’s even dead, I’m happy to leave them to it. And they call me morbid because I like to draw.”
She waggles her sketchpad, revealing a very detailed skull twined with thorny vines. It’s very striking in an, er, morbid kind of way.
“I guess I’ll just have to stay out of the way too,” I say.
“That’s the spirit. Just imagine you’re stuck in a social experiment gone wrong and try to enjoy the chaos. It’ll all be over soon.”
She pops her earbuds back in and leans over her sketchpad. Well, at least there’s one person here who isn’t looking for a feeding frenzy.
I keep strolling, glad at least I know the reason that everyone is on edge.
“Ugh!”
“Argh!”
“Gah!”
I stop. The grunting noises coming from the other side of the bushes are loud and energetic. I should probably turn back the way I came and leave whoever they are to their . . . afternoon workout.
“Crush him!” a female voice suddenly yells. “No mercy, babe!”
What the?
I clear the gardens and find myself looking at an epic battle of vicious determination.
Aka, a game of family tennis.
The court is set up like something out of Wimbledon, complete with umpire’s chair and a changing hut nearby. On the grass, Max is facing off against Brad, resplendent in tennis whites that make them both look like bronzed Greek gods.
Or something like that.
I try not to drool, but I can’t help noticing that sweat-damp tee-shirt clinging to Max’s chiseled chest and the sheen on his muscular arms as he swings the racket. His jaw clenches as he slams the ball toward Brad. And it’s hard not to notice the flex of his ass as he charges across the court to return a shot.
I fan myself, flushing. Wow, this Florida heat isn’t playing around.
“You’ve got him!” Parker yells from the sidelines. “Go for the kill!”
Brad nods, and sends a powerful serve smashing down the center line. Max lunges and manages to return. He’s playing like his life depends upon it. Actually, they both are. I’ve never seen tennis this intense. And I’ve watched the national championships.
They pause to drink some water and change sides. Brad and Parker lean in for a pep talk, then slap their palms together. “Three, two, one, WIN!” they chant. Max sees me and saunters over.
“So this is what you people do for fun?�
�� I ask, snapping a photo of him. For, um, professional purposes.
“When in Rome . . . And I like a challenge.” He winks. “How about a kiss for luck?”
I flush harder, but it is part of my official job description, so I lean up and land a quick peck on his cheek.
“That wasn’t the kind of kiss I was talking about,” Max says, with a smoldering look. “But we’ll pick up later.”
He heads back on court, and maybe I’m his lucky charm, or maybe Brad’s muscles get in the way of his swing, but Max steals the next points and wins the whole game.
“Woohoo!” I call, while Parker scowls.
“One win out of five games,” Brad says with a shrug, but he looks a lot madder than he’s trying to sound.
“Guess I just needed some time to warm up,” Max grins. He strolls over to me. “So how about that victory kiss?”
He pulls me close, but I duck out from under his arm, flustered. “Why don’t you show me the rest of the estate? I’ve walked around, but I bet I’m missing something.”
Max seems amused. Sweaty and rippling, and amused. “Sure thing, pookie-bear.”
He offers me his arm like an old-fashioned gentleman. “Tough break, Brad,” he calls back, to where Parker is berating him in a whisper-hiss. “Work on that backhand, why don’t you?”
“He’ll probably be out here practicing all night,” I murmur, as we head away from the court.
“I don’t doubt it.” Max shakes his head. “Those two take ‘competitive’ to a whole other level. You know, when we were kids, we used to have a big family Olympics every summer: tennis, sailing, swimming. The winner got a trophy and everything. Until Parker started sabotaging all her competition. We had to cancel the year she left broken glass on Artie’s bedroom floor; he was in stitches all summer.”
“Seriously?” I blink. “Wow, that’s extreme.”
“She was ten at the time,” Max adds.
I laugh. “Remind me never to cross her.”
Suddenly, Max takes my hand and pulls me off the main path, ducking through an arbor and towards a low, windowless building.
“Where are we going?” I ask breathlessly.
“My favorite place on the whole estate,” Max says mysteriously. He leads me to a door, and I follow, wondering what OTT extravagant luxury is waiting on the other side. Indoor circus? Twenty-foot Jacuzzi? Endangered species petting zoo?
Close enough.
We step into a vast room with gleaming floors, containing . . .
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I look around, amazed. We’re surrounded by pretty much the most gorgeous vintage cars on the planet—row after row of sedans and convertibles, and— My head is spinning. Lamborghini, Cadillac, Aston Martin . . .
“This is insane!” I exclaim, trailing my fingers over a polished hood. “I’m not even a car person, but these are works of art.”
“Right?” Max says. A pleased glow has come into his face. He walks between the cars, looking over them like a kid in a toy store. “This was always my favorite part of the estate when I was growing up. My grandfather would come out here with me, and show me how to work on his new acquisitions. He taught me how to take apart an engine—and put it back together again, although that part’s harder.”
I think of the Franklin Carlisle I met at lunch today. “Are we talking about the same person? I can’t imagine him getting his hands dirty.”
Max smiles ruefully. “He’s cantankerous and a little crazy now, but he was good to me when I was a kid. I could count on him more than my dad. He was busy going through wives number two and three.”
“It seems like Franklin isn’t thrilled about your current hobbies,” I note, remembering the comments at lunch. “Especially the whole traveling thing.”
“No.” Max sighs. “He’d rather I stayed close to home, took my place on the company board and ran things here. But I don’t want to be stuck behind a desk. The traveling isn’t just a hobby, it’s my job,” he explains. “I report for some of our news magazines and papers. I really was in the Sahara. And Turkey. Uganda.” Max gets a spark of excitement in his eyes, then looks around. “And then I come back here, and it’s like a war zone in miniature. Good times.”
His tone is dry, but I know I didn’t imagine his reaction at lunchtime. He wishes his grandfather respected his work more—and the rest of his family too.
I feel a surprising pang. Max may come from this life of unbelievable privilege, but my family have never been anything but one hundred percent supportive of my photography.
“I’m sure he’s proud, in his way,” I say encouragingly. Max gives me a look.
“He just cares about the bottom line these days. Which my reporting only helps. I’ve brought in a bunch of big exclusives that really helped circulation, but, I guess he doesn’t see it that way. But he’s getting old, he sees things a certain way.” He shrugs. “I try to cut him a little slack. The others? I just pummel them in tennis.”
I laugh. “And you do that so well.”
“Glad you appreciated the show.” His smile turns smoldering, and I wonder if my ogling was really that obvious.
I clear my throat, flustered. “So, which one of these beauties is yours—” I start to ask, until
my foot skids out from under me. I yelp and throw out my arm to try to catch myself.
A second before my butt hits the floor, I hit Max’s arms instead.
“Careful there,” he says, easing me back onto my feet.
For a moment, I’m crushed against the solid heat of his body. So close, I can feel his breath, hot on my cheek. So close, I can feel all those muscles I was admiring earlier today.
So close, I could just lean in and kiss him.
I don’t know if he can read my mind, but suddenly, Max’s lips are on mine. Hot, and slow, and dangerously sensual.
Oh my God.
And also, yum.
I kiss him back, lost for a moment in the surge of heat, and how damn delicious it is to be back here again. The wedding was like an appetizer, compared to the slow, thorough exploration Max’s tongue makes of my mouth, teasing deeper, stroking against me and making my whole body weak with—
Something clatters to the ground, bringing me out of the moment.
What the hell are you doing, Hallie?
I come to my senses just in time, and pull back, flustered. I’m pretending to be his fake fiancée here. Emphasis on fake!
“Sorry!” I blurt. “I, um, don’t know what came over me.”
“I know what could be under you,” Max says, reaching for me with a hot look in his eyes.
Damn. Double damn.
“No! Thank you.” I leap back. “I mean. This arrangement is complicated enough. We should probably not do that again. You know, for clarity.”
Max blinks.
“It’s just pretend,” I add, my heart racing in a very not-pretend way. “Our engagement. We don’t want to blur the lines.”
“No, of course not,” Max exhales. “You’re right. Here, you’ve got . . .” He brushes down my wrinkled dress, and his hand seems to linger on my waist just a few seconds longer. The touch of his fingertips burns through me, and for a moment, I think about throwing caution to the air-conditioned breeze, hopping up on the hood of one of these gorgeous cars, and begging him to take me now.
Real professional, Hallie.
“Ready for round two?” Max asks, and my brain snaps straight to that kiss. Yes please. And rounds three, four, and five . . .
“You know, the big birthday party tonight,” he adds, and I try to scrape my mind out of the gutters.
“Oh. Yeah. Define ready?” I say, wincing at the thought of facing the entire Carlisle clan—plus a few hundred movers and shakers for good measure.
“I’ve got your back,” Max promises. “Besides, you’re my fiancée now.”
“Don’t remind me.” Now there’s an even bigger spotlight shining on me, the interloper. And despite his kidding, I d
on’t want to let Max down.
I’m here to do a job, and I can’t let his gorgeous mouth distract me. It’s time to show these back-stabbing, ultra-competitive, totally judgmental people what we’re made of.
Ah, family.
10
Hallie
The next day is thankfully low-key, with just a tense family breakfast before everyone breaks off to do their own thing. Max disappears to work on a freelance article, and I spend the day lounging on the beach before heading back to get ready for the big party. I picked out a floor-length sweeping gown in the boutique on the way over for tonight’s big event, but looking at myself in the mirror with only minutes to spare, I’m struck with nerves. Is it too much? Or maybe not enough? From the way Max described the party tonight, it’s more like a red carpet gala, the Oscars meets a Presidential Inauguration—with the guest list to match.
And I’m supposed to blend right in. Ha. As Max’s one true love. Double ha.
The door swings open, and my supposed fiancé comes barging in without so much as a knock. “Hey!” I protest. “For all you know I’m naked in here!”
“I . . . uh . . .”
Max is stammering uncharacteristically. I turn. He’s staring at me—the kind of slow, heated stare that makes me flush from head to toe.
He lets out a low whistle of appreciation. “Wow. You look incredible.”
“Thanks.” The fabric felt cold when I put it on. Now my skin is sizzling. Max is looking pretty wow himself. His usually-ruffled hair has been tamed smooth, and that divine body of his fills out his fitted tux to perfection.
“Well, don’t you clean up nice?” I say, trying to pretend the heat I’m feeling isn’t desire.
Florida. Too humid by half.
Max strolls over all casual, but I swear I can feel the temperature rising with every step he takes. He dips his hand into his pocket and produces a ring box.
I blink at it for a few seconds. “Um . . .”
“We’re supposed to be engaged,” he says. “And I figure my betrothed deserves a ring.”
