by Virna DePaul
I frown, thinking of Charles. He probably thought his lie was of the white variety, too, so small it didn’t really count, until it became a big, glaring, huge ball of deception. “I don’t believe in white lies. All lies count.”
“Normally I’d agree with you. But sometimes, well, we just can’t help ourselves. You understand, right? About those inconsequential lies you tell until you can decide how to tackle a problem?”
I blush even harder now, remembering how I’d lied to get my mom off my back. He is so on to me. Even though I’m in danger of wilting and falling under his every command, I force strength into my voice.
“Okay, Mr. Richards-Dale, how exactly can I help you out of your inconsequential lie?”
Chapter Three
Marissa
Simon glances over and studies me intently before he takes a breath and shrugs. “You said yourself, you know who I am. So you’re probably aware I have a bit of a reputation as a…playboy?”
I shift in my seat and murmur, “I’m aware.”
The mention of his bad boy reputation reminds me just how much I’ve wandered from my “play things safe” resolve. I take a deep breath and remind myself to be some version of the lady my mother would want me to be, so the next time I speak, my voice is much more in control. “I don’t see how I can help you with your reputation, Simon.”
“Just bear with me, please. I was at the club to meet with producers. You may have heard of them. Arnold Noble and Edward Spires? Of Noble and Spires?”
Of course. They’re only the most successful Hollywood producing duo that ever existed, and have produced half of the Oscar-winning pictures of the past decade. “They were at the club?”
“Yes they were.”
That’s not actually terribly surprising. Even though I’ve never met the men, my father has, and plenty of famous people go to the club. But like Simon, I recognize Noble and Spires by their names, not their faces.
“They’re focusing on their latest project. It’s an epic romance that’s to take place during the Civil War, between a union soldier and the daughter of a southern general.”
I’m nodding along with this. Perfect Union, I think it’s called. I’d heard it was going to have a bigger budget than any movie ever made.
“I’m up for the lead role.”
“Really?” My fangirl self takes over and I squeal the word before I realize what a teenager I sound like. “I mean, congrats.”
“Congratulations are premature at this point. They’re under pressure from the casting director to put Liam Hyatt in the role because a big name will be a box office draw. But they’ve previously said that if they found the right untested actor, with a strong screen presence and intense chemistry with Dakota, they’d make an exception.”
My mouth is just sucking air now, like a goldfish out of water. “Dakota?”
“Dakota Drake? Sweet kid. You know of her?”
I nod, dazed. Who the hell hasn’t heard of her? I look down at the bare skin of my forearm, wondering if now would be a good time to pinch myself, but then decide against it. If this is a dream and beautiful Borg from Alien Love really isn’t driving me home, why would I want to wake up? “Um. Okay. What do you need my help with?”
“My agent has been working them. I got an audition. Impressed them and the casting director enough to be seriously considered for the part. But my meeting today was a verifiable disaster. They expressed concerns about my reputation—are deathly afraid I’ll somehow tarnish the project—and I panicked. Told them I had a girlfriend and all my playboy tendencies have been tamed. They of course asked to meet my girlfriend, and when I hesitated...”
Realization washes over me. He’s not saying what I think he’s saying, is he?
He loosens that distinctive purple tie around his neck, then slides it off his neck and throws it behind the seats. “So I’m in need of a girlfriend, and based on what my sister told me, you’re in need of a boyfriend. My proposition is this: we play each other’s significant others until we both receive what we need. In my case, getting this part. In yours, getting your lovely mum off your hide.”
Oh, hell. He is saying what I think he’s saying.
“What do you think?” he asks, his voice soft and magnetic. “Are you interested, Marissa?”
Oh yeah, I’m interested, I think. I’m interested in you for real kissing me, for real touching me, for real screwing me in your for real bed…
I don’t respond. I don’t know if I even can respond. I don’t know if I should, because there’s a good chance I might say out loud what I was just thinking and that would really send me straight into an early grave.
“You’ve overestimated me,” I tell him. “I can’t pretend half as well as you can. Plus, my father has connections in Hollywood and he knows Noble and Spires.”
“How well? Enough to discuss his daughter’s love life with them?”
“Probably not. But—”
“Then chances are, our little ‘relationship’ would never come up with your father. And given how you handled your mum back at the club, I have faith in your acting skills.”
“Really?” I say drily. “If you were listening, then you know exactly how unable I am to manage my mom.”
He shrugs. “Mums and their kids. A difficult dynamic, yes?”
I just sigh.
He upshifts again and I notice the hint of a tattoo on his newly bared, strong forearm, mingling with the faint blond hairs there. It makes me shiver in all the wrong—or right—places. Even though my head is saying no, every pore in my body is saying HELL YES.
I never thought I’d be in a car with him. Talking to him about being a stand-in for a part that Dakota Freaking Drake will fill later.
Is this really my life right now?
I look out the window for the first time. We’re going in the complete opposite direction of my house. “Um, my house is that way.” I point behind us.
“Ah.” He swerves across three lanes of traffic and takes the next exit without his breath even quickening. “So are you game?”
No! Say no! “I don’t know. Pretending…I mean…how far do we have to take it? Just a few appearances together now and again until you get the part?”
He winks at me over those dark sunglasses. “We can take it as far as you want, love. I’m up for anything. Or down for anything. I’m particularly fond of going down.”
It’s a cheesy line, but sounds tantalizing coming from him. I blush, torn between desire, amusement, and dismay. Men never, ever talk to me like this anymore—why should they? I usually ran from the bad boys, and I’d been with Charles since college; even he never flirted with me like this.
I find myself gazing up at Simon, breathing hard. I have to get away before I completely humiliate myself, but he’s already crossed the overpass and is barreling back onto the freeway. “Excuse me—or should I say, excuse you. I don’t care if you are up for that big part. I don’t get all hot-and-bothered by B-list playboy actors with major egos. And I’m not some floozy you can sleep with after speaking to me like that. I’m not—I’m not that kind of woman.” I refuse to be that kind of woman again. The last time I was that kind of woman, I almost ended up dead, with my bastard boyfriend leaving me in that wreck of a car to protect his own ass.
My voice trembles, but I have to admit, it feels good to stand up for myself for once. To feel like I can do so without terrible repercussions. Furthermore, my mind whispers that I’m not a foolish teenager anymore. That Simon isn’t Brian Hall. That I’d like to be a version of my old self again, but this time with the benefit of experience, and this time with Simon, but I tell that voice to shut up. I tip my chin up, daring him to get angry with me. To my surprise, he laughs.
“What a prickly darling you are. It’s nice to see you do have the ability to stand up for yourself, at least with me. You make me want to ruffle your feathers merely to hear that snooty voice of yours again.”
Snooty? Snooty! God, I want to slap him and
kiss him at the same time. “I am not snooty. And that’s my exit.”
He downshifts and we cruise off the freeway. Just another few minutes and I’ll be away from him.
Shit.
Simon is still grinning. “You, Miss Woodcrest, are snootier than the Queen of England. But luckily for you, I have a thing for women who make me work for it.”
I scowl. “I’m not trying to make you work for it. I’m telling you I’m not interested.”
Liar.
He runs his eyes over me. I never experienced being undressed by someone’s eyes until now. I tug at my still-damp skirt and lock my legs together at the knees, but he sees right through that. “And yet, your body seems to be saying otherwise.” His soft voice wraps around me, silky and seductive. “You’re breathing quickly, and you’re flushed all over. And I can see your nipples beneath your sweater, like they’re begging me to touch them.”
My mouth drops open. I cross my arms over my breasts. “You, sir, are an ass,” I hiss. “That’s my driveway. Pull in and let me get out.”
I wait for him to tell me I’m a bitch—that’s what Charles would’ve done—but Simon isn’t Charles. He keeps smiling, not the least bit offended. He pulls up the driveway in front of my cottage, stopping in front of the door. As I struggle with the seatbelt, he reaches around to help me, his body pressing up against mine. It’s such a light touch that it’s like a butterfly’s wing, but it sets my body on fire. I freeze, leaning into his touch.
“You never answered my question: will you be my faux girlfriend, Marissa?”
My body is screaming, yes yes yes! But I can’t. I can’t let myself get entangled like this. I know how this will end, and it will end badly. Bad boys aren’t good boys for a reason. They’re bad. Very bad.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “This sounds like a disaster in the making.”
“Worse than having your mum harass you to get back with your ex?”
I wince. “Well, maybe not.”
Simon pulls away again to give me a little breathing room, and I have to admit, I’m kind of sad.
“I’m meeting with Noble and Spires again for dinner. My last chance to sway them in my favor. If you change your mind—”
“I won’t. But surely you know other women who’d be willing to be your fake girlfriend?”
He runs his fingers through his hair. “I have a long list of women who’d gladly take me to bed, yes,” he says, not proudly, just matter-of-factly. “But they’re not exactly the type who’d impress these producers. I need someone reserved, as it were, well-turned-out, girl-next-door—”
I don’t know if I should be flattered or annoyed. “Maybe you should have better taste in women,” I counter.
He looks me over: slowly and deliberately. “I have quite the taste for you right now. Hence my previous and admittedly rather bold statement about how I love going down. It’s really that I’d love going down on you. And we can keep white lies and favors out of it.”
I let out a gasp. I need to get out of this car, not because I want to get away from him—in fact, I feel this strange, magnetic pull. Any more talk like that and I’m sure to burst into flames. But it’s not real. It’s not safe. It’s not my world. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and shove open the door to his car. Then I force myself to go back to where I belong, knowing that his eyes are on my ass the whole time.
But that’s when I get the text.
Chapter Four
Simon
Just as I’m settling into the defeat, telling myself I should enjoy the view of this country club cutie’s heart-shape ass while I can, even from afar because I’m never going to get so close to sink my teeth into it as I was hoping, she about-faces and comes rushing back to the Porsche as fast as her high heels will carry her.
“Come inside,” she says, biting her lip and playing nervously with her pearl necklace.
She doesn’t have to ask me twice. After making sure no paparazzi vans are following me, something that’s become second-nature to me, I step out of the Porsche and double-time it up her driveway. “Where’s the fire, love?”
She jabs her key at the doorknob, and it takes her three tries to insert it. “Hold this.” She hands me her phone.
I see the problem right away. Someone, a Larissa, who must be the pinched-face sister she’d been sitting next to—goddamn, what kind of sadistic parents give their children rhyming names?—has sent her a text: Wanted to warn you, Mom’s popping by. You owe me.
Marissa finally gets her door open and practically pulls me inside. “Just stay here. For a little while.” She kicks off her heels and looks around helplessly. “I’ll go make coffee.”
“I’d love something harder.” Looking around her little cottage, I can instantly see this country club cutie has a problem. There are bodice-ripper romance novels and entertainment magazines scattered over every surface in her living room and her television is nearly the size of an entire wall.
“I have vodka?”
“On the rocks.” I walk through the living room and peer into her yard. It’s a straight shot to the beach.
She comes out of the kitchen with two tumblers and hands one to me. She’s flushed. “You see…”
I take a swig of the drink and hold up a finger. “No need to explain.” I set the drink down and start to unbutton my shirt.
Her eyes widen and she quickly averts her eyes. “Oh! What are you doing?”
I grin. She’s not a child, and yet she seems so damn innocent. It’s fucking sexy. I pull off my shirt and start to work on my pants. “Making sure your mother gets what she came for. Proof that we’re indeed a couple.” I point to the zipper. “Would you like to help?”
She flushes a delightful red. “No!”
I pull off my pants and throw them on her overstuffed leather sofa. “Come here.”
Her gaze is focused dazedly on my crotch, and I can feel myself start to swell within the confines of my boxers. “Oh my god,” she breathes. “What… I—”
I take her wrist and pull her toward me. The flush crawls straight down her neck, under her sweater, and I wonder if it’s everywhere. Her eyes are now fixed on a tattoo of a spider I’d gotten when I was a lad, on my ribcage. I suppose it’s quite shocking even to the most ardent Alien Love fans, since the green makeup covers my tattoos. I wonder what her hands would feel like roaming over my body, instead of her eyes, but they are clenched, one around the glass and the other at her side. She takes a shaky sip of vodka.
Good. She needs about a dozen more of those, and maybe we’ll be in business.
I reach into her hair and pull out the comb that holds it back, letting her dark hair spill over her shoulders. I run my hands through it, mussing it up. Then I start to undo the tiny pearl buttons on her cashmere sweater. All the while, she won’t meet my eyes, but she doesn’t move away, suggesting she wants to be here. As much as she won’t admit it, she wants this.
I expose her delicious cleavage, a beige bra, and what do you know…the flush is everywhere. I want desperately to dip my head down and bury my face right there, between those glorious, full tits of hers. But at that moment, the doorbell rings.
I inspect her—not bad, but not good either. To be good, she’d be sitting on my face and moaning my name right now. But there’s still time. I grin. “Allow me.”
She opens her mouth to protest but I pull open the door. “Why, hello, gorgeous,” I say in my most charming voice.
I suppose it isn’t fair or gentlemanly of me. After all, heart disease runs in the Woodcrest family, as June so eloquently informed the entire club earlier. I hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but that woman had a set of pipes on her. Her eyes roam from my face, down to my chest, stopping at the bulge in my shorts. Like mother, like daughter, I think with amusement. At least in this.
“Oh, my,” June breathes dreamily.
“We didn’t expect you. Your daughter and I were in the middle of something.” I wink. “Is there something you needed?”
> Marissa creeps behind me, peering out the door. “Mom?” she asks. “Everything okay?”
June blinks, snapping out of her daze. “Oh. Yes. Yes! I just came to…” She looks down at her obviously expensive handbag, grasping at straws. Then she blithers, “Invite you to dinner at the club! Tomorrow! We’ll be dining there again, this time with Marissa’s father.”
I smile at her graciously, leaning on the door jamb so she can get a full look at my nakedness and the erection her daughter’s inspired. “Why, that would be lovely.” I look at Marissa and notice she’s trying to button up her little sweater. I swat her hand away—those fabulous tits need to be bare as often as possible. “Don’t you think, Marissa?”
She nods absently, her hand reaching up to her cleavage again. I grab it and hold it.
“You can tell us about your work,” June says. “Where you’re from, everything. And all about England. Have you ever met Kate Middleton?”
Marissa rolls her eyes—I wonder if she’s even aware she’s doing so, since she seems so bound-and-determined to placate her mom—and I bite my cheek to keep from laughing.
“I’m not acquainted with the royal family, but I’ve played water polo with their butler more than once,” I say, deadpan. For the record, I’ve never played water polo and certainly not with anyone’s butler.
June doesn’t realize I’m being sarcastic, and it’s apparent she’s wrapped around my finger. I have a feeling she’s already planned my and Marissa’s wedding and the names of our five children. If only she knew who I really was…
“Well, if you’ll excuse me. Your daughter and I have a little business to attend to.” I whisper the last part conspiratorially, with a suggestive wiggle of my eyebrows. Then I motion for June to shoo along.
June giggles. “Oh, yes, of course. Goodbye, Simon. It was lovely meeting you.”
When I close the door I look back, expecting Marissa to thank me.
She’s red as cranberry sauce, still unable to meet my eyes. “Oh. My. God.” She covers her face with her hands. “My mom thinks you and I are…”
