The Weekend Wife

by Toni Blake

  And here she’d thought she was over him. Completely. And totally.

  “How do you explain that?” she whispered, scowling at herself in the mirror.

  Perhaps it had to do with the nature of this case. It centered on sex, after all. And the guy who would want the sex from her was going to be an icky, lecherous thief. But the guy who was supposed to be her husband—her protector, sort of—was not icky. Far from it. So that was it. She was being forced to think about sex because of the case and the way it had caused her to dress. And she had to vent those sexual feelings in some direction. Which meant Max.

  She smiled into the mirror, feeling much better. She still didn’t like the way she felt, but maybe it made sense now that she’d given herself a logical explanation. This would go away. It was just a preliminary feeling brought on by the role she was being asked to play.

  Hearing footsteps in the hallway, she turned to see Max enter the large foyer where she stood. He gave her a long, slow perusal that turned her hot inside, and in some places more than others. And which also made her think—drat, everything she’d just told herself was obviously a crock.

  “Well?” she finally said.

  “Sexy as sin itself,” he replied, voice seductively low.

  She swallowed, hard. Because she could have sworn she’d detected just a trace of emotion this time, a faint hint of passion. Enough to send a wave of heat traveling the length of her spine.

  Oh yes, a complete crock of shit, that crap about feeling sexual because it was part of the job. No truth in it whatsoever. She wanted the guy. God help her, but she did. And as for thinking she was over him because she didn’t want to sleep next to him—more crap.

  Because right now, right at this moment—she did want to sleep next to him. Only she didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to do other things, and lots of them. It was hitting her hard, nearly stealing her breath. And if she’d been sick before—well, she was sick now, too. Sick with wanting it. Sick over feeling so much for him, even when he obviously detested her. But this time the sickness didn’t diminish her desire. Nope, not one little bit.

  Nonetheless, she had to pull herself together and try to continue the conversation. “So you think he’ll like me then?”

  He flashed a knowing look that said quit playing games. And then he raked his eyes over her once more, fueling the fire inside her. “Yeah. He’ll like you.”

  Max wore a black Armani suit and looked pretty damn good himself. Okay, more than pretty good. Devastatingly handsome. Which was part of why she was becoming so painfully aware of how much she wanted him. “Aren’t you overdressed?” she asked anyway, for the sake of curiosity.

  He shook his head. “I just got home from work. I’m a stockbroker, remember.”

  “Oh, right.” And she hadn’t meant to imply that she minded at all. Max always looked incredible in an expensive suit. In fact, she couldn’t help thinking that they probably made a very striking couple.

  It was only a shame that it was all pretend.

  With a fresh rush of nervousness, she decided she’d better prepare for whatever was coming because, knowing her “husband,” she wouldn’t have much of a choice either way. So she took a deep breath and said, “Max, have you thought about…how to convince this guy we’re married?”

  When he didn’t answer right away, she felt silly and went on. “I mean, we don’t act married.”

  “We’re not acting married because the guy’s not here yet,” he said, looking unduly worried. “When he gets here, then we’ll act married.” He narrowed his gaze on her critically. “Frank said you could pull this off. You’re not going to let me down again, are you?”

  The words hit her like a blow to the gut. His veiled, snide comments were one thing, but this was, this was…she was suddenly so furious she could barely think straight. And as for wanting him—well, he’d just very efficiently squelched every ounce of desire that had just been flooding her—which was just as well.

  She instantly resolved that she wouldn’t sleep with him if he were the last man on earth, and she thought of telling him that, but decided it would be more appropriate to the conversation to say instead, “Of course I can pull it off, you arrogant bastard! And no, I’m not going to let you down. In fact, I’m going to prove to you once and for all exactly how good of a P.I. I am.”

  “Well, that would be a pleasant surprise.”

  She glared at him, for lack of any better response—because the only one she could think of was the I-wouldn’t-sleep-with-you-if-you-were-last-man-on-earth thing, which might tip him off that she was thinking about sex, and she wasn’t about to give him the pleasure of knowing that.

  Then she made a concerted effort to calm down, because Carlo Coletti would be here any minute and she couldn’t let Max rile her like this—she had to stay professional. She drew in a deep, cleansing breath, tried to banish all the crazy, mixed up emotions from her mind, then spoke in a very calm tone. “I just wanted to know if you’d given any thought to how—”

  The chime of the doorbell cut her off. “Show time,” he said.

  Oh God, what ridiculous timing. She rolled her eyes. And Max placed both his strong hands on her nearly bare shoulders. “Are you ready to be sexy?”

  Not particularly. You just ruined that. But she didn’t exactly have a choice, did she? And she remained completely determined to show him she could do her job. So she nodded. “Yes. I’m ready.”

  “Then here we go,” he said. And he opened the door.

  “Max!” said the man standing on the other side, who was surprisingly youngish and tall and blond, and even kind of handsome. Still, just viewing him from where she stood behind Max, she could sense the smarmy guy lurking beneath the nice sports jacket—something tailored clothes and a handsome face couldn’t hide.

  “Carlo, come in.”

  Max stepped back and motioned the other man inside—and then Carlo’s eyes fell on her and he stopped cold. Yep, he was sleazy all right. He looked at her in that way—the way other men couldn’t see but women could sense, with a stare that bore right through her, demeaning her into a piece of flesh instead of a person.

  She couldn’t help thinking instantly of Carlo’s victims. You’d have to be in a desperate place to let this guy get the best of you. But that wasn’t her concern right now.

  “My God, Max,” he said, but he still leered at her—and she smiled her way through it, even forcing herself to meet his gaze. He looked like a guy who’d just hit the jackpot at Caesar’s Palace. “This is a beautiful woman, Max! Where on earth did you find this delectable creature?”

  “Honey, meet Carlo Coletti,” Max said with a huge smile.

  She held out her hand and Carlo took it, holding onto it too long, until he extended his other hand to squeeze her elbow—always the giveaway of a true letch. Then his voice dropped an octave to say, “It’s my deep pleasure to meet such a lovely lady.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you, too, Carlo,” she returned, succeeding in sounding incredibly pleasant even as his smarminess seemed to coat her skin. He reeked of it.

  That was when Max stepped forward and slid his arm around her, planting his hand firm and warm on her bare shoulder, giving a snug squeeze. “Carlo,” he said, “this is my treasure of a wife, Kimberly.”

  And then he kissed her.

  Chapter Five

  And it was no small, chaste kiss, either. He kissed her long and slow and deep, his tongue gliding past her lips, stealing her strength, leaving her instantly weak. Kimberly had no choice but to twine her arms around his neck and hold on lest she faint with the utter deliciousness of him.

  Well, this answered one question. Yes, apparently he’d given this some thought.

  Actually, it answered several questions, the rest of which had to do with her wanting him with every ounce of her being despite him deeming her responsible for lots of bad things in his life. She definitely did. And it was definitely way out of her control.

  His tongue to
uching hers was like electricity, shooting a bolt of lightning straight into the lace panties she wore beneath her sexy dress. His mouth on hers, the very scent of him, the feel of him, all brought back something familiar and masculine and distinctly Max that she remembered and cherished. She clutched at him still, one hand in his hair, bits of it wrapped tenderly in her fist, as her her entire body pulsed with the power of his incredible kiss.

  And then he was gone, pulling back, ending it.

  And she was trying to breathe again, get her balance, and remembering she had to look sexy and sophisticated in spite of the fact that Max had just kissed her senseless.

  “You’ll have to forgive me, Carlo,” her pretend husband said, tainting his voice with a deep chuckle. “But I was…overcome. When you have a woman like this, you spend every second wanting to be alone with her.”

  Getting her senses back about her, she couldn’t quite believe he’d done it. Because it might have rocked her world, but it didn’t seem smart to her, character-wise. He was a stockbroker. They were supposed to be dignified people. She peeked up at Carlo for a reaction.

  “Oh, don’t apologize,” he said. “I understand perfectly.” And then he took the opportunity to cast her a wildly lusty look that made her want to retch, but instead she smiled and hoped it reached her eyes.

  Which was when she understood—Carlo was as sleazy as sleazy got, and Max had played him correctly. Carlo didn’t realize classy people didn’t make out while greeting guests at the door. Carlo only wished it could have been him. It had done nothing but fuel his desire for her.

  “Shall we have a drink before dinner?” Max suggested, and she flashed him a smile, too, because that suddenly seemed to be her business in the last two minutes—kissing and flashing smiles—and he smiled back, a really great smile that pretty much melted everything inside her to molten lava all over again. And then he even put his hand at the small of her back to escort her down the hall.

  Though as they walked, and Max and Carlo made manly small talk about Max’s Porsche out front, it hit her anew—Max had kissed her! Full-on and passionate. The kind of kiss young girls dreamed of. And the kind of kiss older girls wanted more of—and oh, how she wanted more; she’d wanted more the moment his mouth had left hers. It had been the kind of kiss that drenched her soul in desire and heat and weakness and left her knowing the world would never be quite the same again.

  She released a long, deep sigh and let the afterglow of it roll through her.

  And then she remembered.

  Oh God, she’d forgotten so quickly.

  It was only pretend.

  “To new friends,” Carlo said, clinking his glass first against hers, then Max’s.

  “New friends,” Max echoed.

  Kimberly only smiled. Like before, it seemed adequate.

  But now that she’d recovered—at least somewhat—from Max’s unexpected kiss, she decided it was time to get to work. “So, Carlo, Max tells me you want to learn about the stock game.” They stood on a vast patio that overlooked the pool, and she took a step closer to him, giving her head what she hoped was a slightly flirtatious tilt.

  Carlo smiled, almost sincerely—but he blew it when his gaze dropped ever-so-briefly to her cleavage before lifting it back to her eyes. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to pursue.” And now his expression told her that what he was actually interested in pursuing stood right in front of him.

  “Then you’re not in banking?” she asked, not only to draw out his cover, but also to make him think she was interested in finding out more about him.

  Carlo shook his head. “Shipping.”

  “As in boats?” she asked, confused.

  He shook his head again, with a soft laugh. “My company ships merchandise, mostly glassware and fragile items.”

  “Ah,” she said, flicking a short glance to Max. She’d expected their guest to come up with something a little more exotic or at least impressive. “And how did you meet Max?”

  “We both frequent Chester’s,” Max answered for him. She knew the place—an upscale bar on the ground floor of one of the shiny glass office buildings downtown.

  “Max is quite a pool shark,” Carlo said.

  “That he is,” she agreed, although she’d never seen Max play pool. But he’d always told her that a good P.I. possessed a variety of skills to help fit into any social setting, and she supposed this was one example—a guy who could play a decent game of pool probably made friends in a bar much easier than a guy who didn’t.

  “Do you play?” Carlo asked, a suggestive light twinkling in his eyes.

  She almost released a laugh at what he’d surely intended as a double entendre, but instead held her response to another smile. So far, that seemed to be the only real skill required from her—but when the time came to make their way to the dining room, she steeled herself, knowing things were bound to get more challenging, probably starting now.

  Max let Carlo take the place at the head of the table, and he and Kimberly took the seats to either side. It was strategic placement—let the guy feel important, let the guy get close to her. At the same time, though, he hoped Carlo wouldn’t move in on her too quickly. The idea of the slimeball sliding his hand onto her knee beneath the table rankled.

  Max hated the way the guy looked at her. That was why he’d kissed her like that when Carlo had walked in the door—part impulse, part instinct. It was as if he’d thought acting territorial would protect her. And he knew he was supposed to want the guy to react to her this way, but maybe it had happened a little easier than he’d expected. Maybe it was going to be a little tougher to play dumb than he had anticipated. He’d thought this role would be a fairly easy one—the real job falling on Kimberly—but maybe it wouldn’t be so easy on his ego to have his “wife” stolen right under his nose while he pretended to be oblivious. Especially by a piece of garbage like Carlo.

  Next to him, the thief ogled her. Which was, of course, exactly what he was supposed to do. But already, Max felt the need to interrupt. “So, Carlo, what do you think of the place?” He motioned to their surroundings like a man who was the king of his castle.

  “Fabulous, Max. Incredible.” But then he turned his gaze right back on Kimberly. “And a wife like this to share it all with? You’ve got the life, pal. What I wouldn’t give to be in your shoes.”

  Subtle the guy wasn’t.

  “Oh, now, Carlo,” Kimberly said in a half-bashful, half-flattered tone, “you’re too kind.” Then she fluttered her eyelashes at him like a teenager in heat. Subtlety wasn’t her strong suit, either. But, he had to remind himself, her job right now was not to be subtle—it was to be seducible. By another man. Another rankling idea.

  “Where’d you find this beauty, Max, old buddy?”

  Old buddy? I’ll old buddy you, asshole. And what was this guy’s fascination about where he and his “wife” had met? But he reined in his irritation and exchanged it for a smile. “We met in college.”

  Carlo’s leer managed to increase and Max imagined thoughts of naughty co-eds dancing through his head. Kimberly was leering right back at him, too, her eyes wide, her lips pretty and pouty with lipstick the color of the red wine they were all drinking. Max’s gaze felt stuck to her.

  “I knew the moment I saw her,” he said without planning it, “that she was the woman for me.” And then she turned her hazel eyes on him, which had been his hope. Although he didn’t know why. But it made him remember—how some days her eyes seemed more brown, other days gold as amber, and how, at still other times they would glitter green. Tonight they took on a warm honey-colored shade. He didn’t hesitate to hold the gaze. “She was wearing a short red skirt and a white blouse, and she had a great tan. It was September.”

  He watched her tense slightly, then swallow hard, liking the effect the words had had on her. Because that really was what she’d been wearing on the day they’d met, although it hadn’t been at college. It had been on an elevator—she’d heard him mention b
eing a P.I. and started asking him questions about it.

  “We had lunch,” she reminded him, her voice silky.

  Yes—her questions had turned into an invitation for lunch, and lunch had turned into a job for her. And then more.

  “You ordered quiche,” he said, their eyes still locked.

  He could tell by her expression that this one surprised her—she’d always accused him of having a bad memory for details. She smiled. “That’s right.”

  “What did I have?” he quizzed her.

  Her expression turned slightly saucy with the game they were playing. “You think I don’t remember?”

  “Prove me wrong.”

  “An Italian sub,” she smoothly replied. “Extra pepperoni.”

  He grinned slightly at the correct answer.

  “So…” Carlo interrupted uncertainly, drawing Max back to the present, and making it clear he was desperate to be the center of attention again—which Max apparently needed reminding. What had he been doing strolling down memory lane like that, anyway? He couldn’t explain it, except to again chalk it up to his ego, something he certainly hadn’t expected to come into play here. He’d have to squelch it in the future.

  “Sorry about that, Carlo,” he said easily. Then glanced down to see that all their glasses were nearly empty. “More wine?”

  Though he didn’t wait for an answer before excusing himself to get more. He wasn’t sure why, but he needed a quick break—from all the sexual tension, he guessed. And to get his head back on straight about what was taking place here. It was only a job, all just a means to an end, catching a crook.

  Grabbing the already open bottle from a kitchen counter, he asked Mrs. Leland, the woman he’d hired to cook for them this evening, to uncork another.

  Returning to the table with a bottle in each hand, ready to resume the game he’d set in play, he found his guest already ogling his “wife” again—something he’d have no choice but to get used to, and get used to pretending he didn’t see, fast.