by Kati Wilde
“Oh my god,” she exclaims in wonder. “You’re finally wearing that smokin’ hot red dress!”
Because the only reason Caleb and I are attending this cocktail party is to draw attention and put the Wyndhams on notice. But my clothes probably aren’t the reason why she came in. “Did you secure a date for the ceremony?”
“Almost.” She gestures to her headset. “I’ve got the church on hold. They can squeeze you in at two p.m. on the twenty-fourth, but they have a Christmas Eve service at four, so we have to be finished by three-thirty. And they are asking us to leave our decorations there—which means we need to go with a Christmas theme.”
“That’s fine.” Or is it? Jessica and Jeremy have the twenty-fourth off, as do all of my employees, because even the most efficient ones become easily distracted that close to the holiday. So I shut down the offices from Christmas Eve to New Years’ Day. “Would you be willing to work that day?”
“Whether I’m officially on the clock or not, you couldn’t keep me away. And Jeremy wouldn’t miss it, either.”
“Good.” Before she turns away, I pick up Caleb’s presentation folder from the vanity. “Send a copy of this to Bradford right away so that he can draw up the marriage contract. I’ve written my amendments in the margins and included a brief description of how I want him to proceed regarding Eleanor’s will. I’ll follow up with an email later tonight.”
“Will do.” She takes the folder and glances down at the cover page—and the title of the proposal. A grin splits her face as she reads it, then she flips through the rest of the business plan. “Oh god. He even put in information about the Wyndhams and their lawyers under the ‘Competition’ section. This is so cute.”
No, it’s not. And Caleb Moore isn’t, either. I turn back to the mirror as Jessica heads out, still smiling and reading through Caleb’s proposal—a proposal which isn’t like him at all. Instead, it’s what he wanted me to think he was. But just like the broad shoulders that strained the seams of his suit, the person Caleb Moore really is kept pushing through the image he attempted to present. As if he couldn’t keep that person contained, no matter how hard he tried. Some of the language he used was straight out of that business proposal—but the way he really speaks slipped through, too. So did his resentment and anger toward the Wyndhams.
Certainly, he took an unusual approach by asking me to marry him. But that tepid business proposal does not faithfully represent a man who admits he’s pursuing his inheritance out of spite. No one has ever given a reason like that to me before. Yet Caleb Moore did.
He could have lied and given me some other, altruistic reason—a lot of people try to—yet he didn’t do that, either. Caleb probably can lie; he just doesn’t bother to. He’d rather say what he thinks.
And I like that about him. A lot.
I head into the closet to search for a pair of boots suitable for both a freezing town square and a cocktail party. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to go directly from the office to a social function, so I keep a selection of clothes and shoes in this apartment, which is essentially a glorified dressing room. I don’t sleep here, even if I work past midnight—and that happens far more often than I attend social functions.
The knee-high leather boots I find won’t do much good to insulate my feet from the snow, but unless the mayor decides to give a long speech—and he usually doesn’t—I shouldn’t be outside long. I zip them on and step in front of the mirror, critically assessing my appearance.
Smokin’ hot, Jessica said. I want Caleb to think so, too. But even if he does…if he’s anything like other men that I’ve dated, he might start off saying I’m hot. But he’ll end the night telling me that I’m too cold.
An unfamiliar emotion pangs deep in my chest. A touch of fear accompanies it. Is it nervousness? I’m not sure what to call it. But some part of me must recognize what the emotion is, or fear wouldn’t follow in response to it.
If it is nerves, though, that’s strange. I don’t get nervous. I’m usually never worried or afraid, either. That’s part of the reason many people—not just men I’ve dated—call me cold.
I’m not cold. But I don’t express myself in the same way many people do. I can barely tolerate people touching me or touching them in return. Affection isn’t physical for me; it’s mental and emotional. So I show affection by showing interest—and it’s impossible for me to feign interest if I don’t care about what someone is talking about or doing. But even when I do care, I know my manner comes off as lacking in warmth. If I could act, maybe I could fake it. But I’m not any better at pretending than I am at lying. So I can’t be anything other than who I am.
Caleb seems to be the same. Not that his brain works like mine. But that he can’t help being himself.
Who that person is…I guess I’ll find out. But so far, I know that he’s a man who’ll kiss the back of a woman’s hand.
And the effect of that kiss had been a stunning onslaught of curiosity and desire. During our meeting, everything about the way Caleb looked and moved and spoke made me think of touching him. Yet actually doing so never crossed my mind—not beyond my usual handshake. I can tolerate those because handshakes are governed by rules that almost everyone understands and follows. A handshake is used as a greeting or to seal a deal—and it should be brief. So they’re only uncomfortable when someone lingers too long.
Caleb lingered. And I can still feel his warm breath against my knuckles and the firm press of his lips. Yet it didn’t make me want to pull away and put space between us again. Instead all I could imagine was those lips making their way up the length of my arm. Instead sheer lust nearly blazed through my skin.
Because I’m not cold. My emotions are always raging. But from an early age, I learned to contain those fiery outbursts of emotion—because when I didn’t, I was the one who got burned.
And that’s what most people see, I suppose. The container. Which, combined with all of my other tendencies, puts most people off.
But it apparently didn’t put Caleb off. Because he could have easily come in with a different plan and I probably would’ve agreed to it. Yet he wanted marriage. For spite. A proposal as unusual as it is fascinating—and as ballsy. Much like the man himself seems to be.
I like that about him, too. Very much.
Enough to marry him, at least.
If liking Caleb Moore was my only reaction to him, though, I might have proposed an alternative to his plan. But liking mixed with sexual attraction? That’s more than enough for me—and more reason to marry than I ever expected to have.
Especially since I never expect to marry for love. I wish for love, of course, yet I know the bulk of my appeal lies in my bank account. No one has loved me before and I don’t expect anyone to start now. So I always assumed that when I married, it would be a partnership rather than a love match—and the most I hoped for was liking the person I partnered with. A relationship of mutual respect and friendship, perhaps, while understanding that someone would only settle for such a tepid marriage because I’m rich.
Yet nothing about Caleb Moore is tepid. And although he needs my money to defeat the Wyndhams, he doesn’t seem to want a fortune for himself. Which means the entire arrangement is far more exciting and fascinating than anything I ever imagined for myself.
So is my body’s response to him. Because I don’t show affection physically, but sexual attraction is much different. And I cannot stop thinking of what he said. Just say that I fucked your pussy raw every night.
I know he didn’t mean it literally. That would be painful and not very sexy. He meant that I should say he fucked my pussy long and hard and repeatedly—and it made me yearn for something I never have before. A man who takes a woman long and hard and repeatedly must want her desperately. The thought of ever being wanted like that hadn’t ever occurred to me, yet the possibility must have occurred to Caleb for him to say such a thing.
Perhaps he will never want me that badly. He might find my manner as
cold as every other man does, and turn away from me. Yet he kissed my hand…so maybe he’ll want to kiss me again, in many other places.
I would like that very much.
And after the wedding, we’ll be living together. If he’s attracted to my appearance, perhaps he’ll want to consummate the marriage, too. Perhaps he’ll want to fuck my pussy raw.
I think I would like that very, very much. So if I can tempt him with my looks as well as my money…I will.
After a final check of my lipstick, I collect my coat from my office and head downstairs, where Jeremy and Jessica are both at the reception desk. Working late, and they probably won’t go home anytime soon. Not after what I just dropped on them.
Jeremy holds up a small black box. “Pierre came through with an engagement ring for you to wear tonight—and it’s as ostentatious as you requested. No one at that party will miss seeing a rock this big. He’ll return tomorrow with a selection so you can pick out a design you like.”
“Thank you.” I don’t like wearing rings because I can always feel them. As if the band around my finger constantly calls attention to itself. But I’ll ignore the discomfort as best I can.
As I slip the diamond on, Jessica asks, “Do you want one of us to come and help you deal with the crowd?”
“No. I’ll ask Caleb to stay at my side. So I should be okay.” And I couldn’t ask for better assistants. But since my gratitude might not be as obvious to them as it feels to me, I say it aloud. “I realize that giving you less than two weeks to plan a large wedding creates a substantial amount of extra work for you both. Please know that I deeply appreciate your efforts.”
Jessica grins. “We’ll earn our Christmas bonuses this year simply by getting these invitations out on time.”
“You earn your bonuses every year, or I wouldn’t give them.” I glance at her tablet. “Did Caleb send you the names of his guests or should I remind him?”
She shakes her head. “He said he doesn’t have any family. So I asked if he wanted to invite his friends and he said not to bother.”
“Ah.” I pull on my coat, considering that. “He was surprised that I accepted his proposal and hadn’t thought beyond that. So perhaps he also isn’t prepared to think about inviting anyone yet. Ask again in a few days. We can send those invitations later this week. It’s only the Wyndhams’ invitations that I want to rush.”
“About that...” Jeremy starts off hesitantly before plowing ahead. “When the city council looks at the rezoning request for your camp project, Christopher Wyndham is likely going to be the deciding vote. At least, that’s what you said before.”
“Yes. I said that.” Because it’s true. A few of the city council members are making noises about my project potentially increasing noise and crime in the area, along with a bundle of other ridiculous complaints that I’ve already countered with studies and data from similar projects. I suspect they fear losing donations from wealthy constituents who are concerned about property values on that side of the lake. A worry that I’ve also countered with data, but it’s an unfortunate truth that many people believe what they want to believe, regardless of statistics and logic.
“If you go in with Moore against the Wyndhams,” Jeremy continues, “that might piss off the councilman.”
“I’m sure it will.”
He looks at me in confusion. “This project is your baby. Yet you’re going to risk him voting against you?”
“Yes.” And do everything I can to make sure he doesn’t.
Jeremy and Jessica share a stunned glance, then she laughs and says, “You must really want that property.”
I’m not good at lying. So I say nothing and let them believe what they like. But it’s not the Wyndham estate that I want.
I want Caleb Moore.
4
Caleb
What the hell have I done?
Between the time I leave the Clarke building to the time I arrive at the town square, that question pops into my brain a thousand fucking times. The answer’s easy enough—I’m marrying Audrey Clarke to make certain the Wyndhams get what they deserve—but I can’t wrap my head around it. But by the time seven o’clock rolls around, it finally starts sinking in.
I’m marrying Audrey Clarke.
Which might be the biggest goddamn mistake I’ll ever make. But if the Wyndhams lose their shit, even a nightmare of a marriage will be worth it.
Maybe it won’t be so bad, though. She wants me to move into her place, wherever that is. Probably some giant house on the lake. I’m not the kind of shithead who’s going to complain about living in a mansion. She probably has an army of cooks and housekeepers, so it’ll be like staying in a fancy hotel. And she’ll likely stick me into a room as far from hers as she can. Chances are that our paths won’t even cross on a daily basis.
But whether the marriage is a mistake or not, how much time are we talking about—a year? Maybe two? It’s not like I’m doing anything else important in that time.
I won’t be doing anyone else in that time, either. Maybe that won’t be so easy, especially since Audrey will be so damn close. But I’ve got a hand. So I’ll invest in some lotion.
Lotion that smells like she does. Not that she’ll ever let me get close enough to smell her. Don’t touch me. That message was clear after I kissed her hand.
And I’ve got to keep reminding myself of that, because the second my gaze lands on her pale blonde head, I’m acutely aware of the hot weight of my cock. As if it’s a dog ready to sit up and beg for her attention. Christ. It’s one mutt that better behave. And hopefully it’ll learn real damn quick not to react to her presence, because she’s sure as hell not going to offer us any treats.
She’s tall enough that she can see over most of the crowd—and I’m tall enough that it isn’t hard to spot me as I make my way toward her. She stays where she is, not a part of the crush of people but standing at the edge of the square, a slender figure wrapped in a cream trench coat, her hands tucked in the pockets. It’s not snowing anymore, but the wind off the lake is bitterly cold, brightening her pale cheeks and nose.
She’s wearing lipstick now, a velvety red that makes it impossible not to notice how lush and soft her mouth is. Especially when a smile lights up her face as I draw close.
And there goes my fucking dick. Not hard yet, but feeling real damn thick and heavy.
A high school band is playing some shitty-ass Christmas music as loud as they can, so I don’t try to speak until I’m only a few feet away. Then I greet her with a “So I guess you didn’t change your mind, then.”
“Change my mind?” She frowns slightly. “Of course I didn’t.”
As if she didn’t even consider changing her mind in the past few hours. But I did. A hundred million fucking times. And each time I reminded myself why I brought that ridiculous proposal to her in the first place.
And because backing out on the deal now might ruin the whole damn thing. Rescinding an offer of marriage might sting her pride and fuck everything up. Probably not, because she obviously wants that estate. So she’d likely agree to a different deal and offer to just pay the lawyer fees in exchange for a reduced sale price.
But I still want that whole pie and the certainty that the Wyndhams won’t squeeze their way out of this. No matter what happens.
She continues frowning at me, and the wind picks up a strand of her blonde hair from her ponytail and blows it against her cheek. She brushes it away. “Have you changed your mind, Caleb?”
“No.” And I see she came prepared to announce our engagement to everyone. “Nice rock.”
She glances at the giant diamond before shoving her hand back into her pocket. “It annoys me. And I couldn’t put my gloves on over it. But if we are to be…”
Whatever we’re to be, she doesn’t finish. Instead her pale blue gaze settles on something behind me. I glance back, see a teenage couple exploring each other’s tonsils with their tongues, and look away again because no one wants to see that s
hit out in public.
But Audrey is still watching them, and she says, “I should have done that. Right?”
“Done what?”
“Kissed you as a greeting.” Now her gaze returns to me—and settles on my mouth. “That is what engaged couples do. Kiss each other hello.”
Shit. All at once, tonsil hockey in a public place isn’t such a turnoff. Because the crowd seems to disappear as she takes a hesitant step forward, her attention focused on my mouth.
Moving in to kiss me. But not because she wants to. Because she should. Like wearing that ring, even though it’s annoying her. And no matter how badly I’m aching to taste her, I’m not interested in a kiss from a woman who doesn’t even want to touch me. Who’s just doing it for show.
“No,” I tell her abruptly and she immediately freezes. “You don’t need to.”
“Oh?” Her gaze searches my face for a brief moment, then she turns to face the tall pine tree set up in the middle of the square. “Okay.”
I expected relief, but that sounds like disappointment in her voice. Is it? I study her profile but she’s hard to read. I decide the disappointment was just my imagination when she starts talking again, because she’s obviously not thinking about my mouth the way I’m still thinking of hers. Of tasting all that sweet heat, then watching those lush red lips suck their way down my cock.
Christ. I’m hard as hell now, but it’s not my dick that needs to heel. It’s my brain. I need to stop thinking about fucking her.
I force myself to focus on what she’s saying. About our wedding. And a date. Followed up by a “Will you have any scheduling conflicts?”
“On Christmas Eve?” I shake my head. “I’ve got the day off. Christmas, too.”
“And what of the following week? A honeymoon will help sell the appearance of consummation and a legitimate marriage. We could stay that week at my lodge—unless you would rather travel? We can stay anywhere in the world you wish to go. Perhaps you prefer the tropics over the snow.”
