by Naima Simone
His lips grazed the rim of her ear on each word, and she fought not to betray how even that slight caress sent desire spiraling through her.
Only when he continued across the room did she turn around, inhaling a gulp of air, her lungs on fire from the breath she’d been holding. Her heart thudded against her rib cage, a primal rhythm that echoed in her head, drowning out the conversation between Cain and the tall, thin man who entered the office. They shook hands, and when Laurence Reese glanced in her direction, she forced a smile to her lips. Though it felt brittle and phony, the gesture must’ve passed muster because the photographer returned her smile, his brown eyes warm.
Behind him, a crew poured into the office toting equipment. Devon hung back as the photographer and his assistants worked. In short order, they had cameras, tripods and reflective umbrellas set up. Cables snaked across the floor and Laurence even had his people set up a green screen on one side of the room. They performed in a well-organized unit, and it wasn’t long before the photographer, camera hanging around his neck, directed them to stand in front of the window.
With Cain’s permission, several people had moved his massive desk out of the way, and Devon could imagine the picture would reflect a power couple with all of Boston stretched behind them like their kingdom.
And they said a picture was worth a thousand words. Right.
All of theirs would be lies.
“How about we start with you, Mr. Farrell, behind Ms. Cole. If you’ll wrap your arms around her...” Laurence instructed, lifting his camera over his head.
Damn. Damndamndamn.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Cain. With his arms wrapped around her. She stiffened, tension starting at her toes and racing like a lightning bolt up her body until she stood so tight, one tap would probably send her tumbling forward. And shattering into pieces.
It occurred to her that the first time Cain embraced her would be just for the sake of the camera and public consumption. There was something seedy about it. And yet, a secret part of her that she’d buried so deep she barely acknowledged it hungered to be held by this man. Yearned to know how his body would cover her—shelter her. Protect her. And that part, which had been wounded by rejection, by deceit, by blows to its self-esteem, wasn’t picky about how it happened.
A hard wall of expensive wool and muscle pressed to her back. She gasped, that initial contact smashing her paralysis. An electrical current zigzagged through her, making her body jerk. But strong, toned arms slid under hers and circled her waist, controlling the involuntary motion.
“Shh, easy,” Cain rumbled in her ear, his head lowered over hers. To the photographer, it probably appeared as if he were affectionately nuzzling her. “You love my arms around you, remember? Want my hands on your body.”
Oh God.
Her lashes fluttered, and she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, trapping the moan that crawled up her throat. His words elicited hot, erotic images of his arms holding her close in another setting. One with a wide bed, twisted sheets, air thick with the musky scent of sex. One where those big long-fingered hands swept over her bare skin, cupped her heavy breasts, pinched her beaded nipples...dipped between her trembling thighs...
“Yes, perfect,” Laurence praised, his camera snapping away in rapid-fire succession. Startled, Devon lifted her hands, cupping them over Cain’s. He immediately intertwined their fingers, and she couldn’t help but look down. Their fingers looked like puzzle pieces finding homes; it struck her as beautiful. And for a stupid, nonsensical moment, tears stung her eyes. “Beautiful,” the photographer murmured, edging closer to them, camera whirring and clicking. “Now look at me.”
They followed his instructions for the next thirty minutes, and the half hour flew by in a haze of simmering desire and embarrassment. She tried to pretend it didn’t faze her every time Cain cupped her elbow or pressed his chest to hers or curved an arm around her waist. Tried to act as if this was business as usual for a woman in love. And all the while she secretly prayed that the invasive and all-too-perceptive camera lens didn’t capture the dueling emotions waging an epic battle inside her—uncertainty, lust, vulnerability, a ravenous hunger that surpassed the physical, a hunger for the closeness they were making a sham of.
A hunger for pretense to be reality.
Oh God, she needed this to be done. And not just the shoot, but this mess her father had dropped her into. She was a motherless child, a neglected daughter, a rejected woman. In other words, so starved for love that she’d easily—willingly—turn to this man for affection. For scraps of kindness, even knowing they were faked for the eyes of others...
A sob clawed at her throat, desperation squeezing her, trapping her like the restricting sleeves of a straitjacket—
Cain strode over to the photographer to view some of the pictures on the digital screen, and she took advantage of the reprieve. Whirling around, she bolted back to the window. She stared sightlessly out, gulping in huge breaths and shoving back the edges of panic.
No. No, dammit.
The admonishment rang in her head, bringing her back from the emotional edge.
She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t fragile or damaged. Donald hadn’t broken her; she’d come out stronger for that. Smarter and not so naive. And Cain wouldn’t finish what Donald had started.
She wouldn’t allow him to.
“One more pose, if you don’t mind,” Laurence said, switching out cameras with one of his assistants. “How do you feel about a shot with a kiss?” He smiled. “Only if you’re comfortable with it, though.”
She turned from the window to find Cain’s hooded, blue-gray gaze on her. Her breath snagged in her throat and inside her head, the “hell no” bounced around, deafening. But she remained silent, returning that stare, certain he would decline. He didn’t want to kiss her. Hell, he’d pretty much told her their marriage, if they progressed that far, would be a cold one and she would have to find pleasure in someone else’s bed—as he planned to do. So, surely he would shoot down this suggestion.
Any minute now.
“Where do you want us?” Cain asked Laurence, not removing his scrutiny from her.
That was not a refusal.
“In front of the green screen,” he instructed them.
Cain slowly stretched his arm toward her, palm up. She stared at it, unmoving. But realizing everyone waited on her, she forced her feet forward...and slid her hand across his. Inexplicably, the nerves battering her calmed. Which made zero sense because he was the cause of those nerves.
Jesus, she was in so much trouble.
He quietly led her across the room to stand in front of the tall screen.
“Great,” Laurence said. “Just be natural. Pretend we’re not here.”
Seriously? She could feel the eyes of every person in that room on her, on them. Her senses were so sharpened, she could hear their inhales, smell the clean notes of Laurence’s Tom Ford aftershave. And if she glanced around, she’d glimpse the curiosity his team tried to hide behind their professionalism.
“Look at me,” Cain murmured, low enough that it only carried to her ears. Unlike before when he’d issued orders, she couldn’t help but obey. She lifted her gaze to his. “Your choice, Devon.”
Her choice. He was giving her what had been stolen from him by her father and her, or so he believed. And yet, he was offering a choice to her when he could just take.
A longing so deep it verged on pain filled her. A longing for the impossible. For time to reverse itself and all the events that had occurred—her father’s interference, this forced engagement—to have never happened. That the impromptu meeting in the garden had been the impetus for a true romance and this moment they shared right now was genuine instead of a phony prop for an equally phony relationship.
But even God couldn’t undo what was. They couldn’t go back. She couldn’t have that
fairy tale. Still... Maybe she could have an element of that fantasy. A kiss. A bit of romance. A little tenderness. It wasn’t too much to ask—too much to take.
She nodded.
Heat flashed in his eyes like dry lightning, lending his wolf eyes an almost eerie glow. And in that instant, she identified with prey. But instead of running away, she edged closer, tipping her head back. And if she resembled a creature exposing its vulnerable neck? Well, she credited it to the surreality of this moment.
Cain lifted his hand, but instead of cupping her face as she expected, he gripped the knot of hair twisted behind her head and tugged. Before the gasp could leave her lips, he’d freed the heavy, long strands. Shocked, she stared up at him, unable to contain her shiver as his blunt-tipped fingers dragged over her scalp then tangled in the wavy mass.
“I’d wondered,” he murmured, echoing the same sentiment she’d uttered to him back in the garden when she’d first seen his eyes.
“You wondered what?” she whispered.
His inspection shifted from his hands buried in her hair to her eyes. The unfiltered desire in his gaze punched her in the chest and, reeling, she grasped at anything to steady herself in the wake of it. Him. His waist, to be more exact. Her fingers dug into the firm flesh that seemed to sear her through his white dress shirt. Instead of snatching her hands away from the heat, she burrowed closer. Clung harder.
He didn’t answer her, but his hold on her thick strands tightened, and he pulled, tugging her head back farther. She shouldn’t like that tiny pricks danced across her scalp. Shouldn’t have loosed that low, needy sound that telegraphed exactly how much she liked it. But she did both, and when Cain’s eyes narrowed, lust flaring brighter, hotter, she couldn’t regret either.
She anticipated a conquering, passionate onslaught when the kiss came. But he surprised her again. He brushed his lips over hers. A gentle caress. A tender pursuit. And oh God. How she wished he’d overwhelmed her with lust. It would’ve been less confusing. Less devastating. She could’ve chalked up a hungry siege to lust and anger. Could’ve responded with the same. But this? She sighed. Or maybe whimpered. Either way, she melted. Her lips parted, and she couldn’t resist the lure of the mouth that could appear so hard and cruel, but in truth was so incredibly soft. And sensual. And beautiful.
Canting her head to the side, he molded that gorgeous mouth to hers, his tongue sweeping in, questioning even as he invited her to dance. And she did. No hesitation. With that decision, that surrender, the hunger she’d initially expected followed.
Now she understood why he’d gentled her first.
To prepare her for this.
He was a carnal marauder. A conqueror. And she, the willing captive. His for the seizing. And as he drove deep, licking, tangling and sucking, he razed a path of destruction through her senses. Through any past experience of what a kiss was or should be.
And she wanted more. Needed more.
“I think I have what I need.” Laurence’s voice, thick with amusement, penetrated the dense fog of lust that enshrouded her.
She stiffened, and Cain went rigid against her.
Mortification and despair roared to life within her, chasing away the passion that had blinded her to the fact that they had an audience. Mortification because she’d lost herself in his arms, had laid out her desire for him and in turn, offered him a tool to use against her. A damn novice’s mistake. And in this game, she was far from a novice.
And despair because even now, anger crystallized his light gaze. At her, at himself—she didn’t know. Not that it mattered. His remorse and disgust were plain for her to glimpse, and for a foolish instant, she mourned the loss of the tender, sensual stranger who had drawn both hunger and wonder from her with his kiss.
“Are we finished here, then?” Cain asked, stepping away from her. The cold rushed in, wrapping her in its chilly embrace.
Pride constrained her arms at her sides, refusing to let her wrap them around herself in protection.
“Yes,” Laurence nodded, apparently oblivious to the undercurrents of tension running between her and Cain. Or maybe he just interpreted it as sexual, considering the display they’d just put on. “I think you’re going to be very pleased with the photos, Mr. Farrell.”
Cain spoke with the photographer as he and his crew packed up, negating the need for her to engage in conversation. Thank God. Because she couldn’t string two sentences together right now if she’d wanted to.
She glanced at Cain, scanning his tall, wide-shouldered frame, the powerful chest, flat stomach and long, muscular thighs. A sizzling coil of desire unfurled within her, and she raised her hand to her mouth, touching her trembling fingers to her tender lips.
As if he sensed the movement, Cain’s regard shifted from Laurence to her. That gaze dropped to her mouth, and Devon dropped her arm as if caught mid-sin. Maybe thinking about wanting her fake fiancé to kiss the ever lovin’ hell out of her wasn’t on God’s list of sins, but it was on hers.
Falling for the enemy might be a great romance trope, but this was real life. If she allowed Cain close, when he moved on, she wouldn’t be left unscathed. And he would move on. If there was anything she’d learned since her mother’s death it was that anyone could be ripped away at a whim.
Better she remember that the next time she wondered if his body looked as powerful without clothes as it did in them.
Starting now.
Seven
Cain remembered the first time he saw the Mona Lisa.
He’d been fifteen, and his father had taken him along on a business trip to Paris. It’d been boring as hell. For the five days they’d been in one of the most beautiful cities on earth, he’d spent ninety percent of it locked in conference rooms with his father and other businessmen. He hadn’t cared about acquisitions or profits and losses. At fifteen, three things had consumed him: the Boston Red Sox, beating his best score on Call of Duty and getting to third base with Cassandra Ransom.
But then his father had allowed his assistant to take Cain on a tour of Paris. And he’d visited the Louvre and seen her. Mona Lisa. He’d spent at least an hour staring up at the painting of the mysterious Italian noblewoman with her dark beauty, wearing her enigmatic smile. The epitome of grace and yet, he always imagined that smile hinted at the woman’s passion, joy, mischief. But especially her passion.
No flesh and blood woman had ever intrigued and captivated him as much as that piece of art.
Until now.
As Laurence and his staff exited his office, Cain ordered himself not to turn around and study the silent woman who hadn’t moved from the wall where the green screen had stood. Not to turn and skim the interesting features only a blind man would call plain. Not to survey the breasts that had pressed against his chest, confirming every suspicion he’d had about their firmness and weight. Not to regard the almost dramatic flare of her full hips and the sensual thickness of her thighs. Not to stare at the mouth that had damn near brought him to his knees in front of an office full of people.
Jesus, the soft give of it, the heady, sultry taste of it—he’d lost control, forgotten about everything and everyone else except the woman sweetly surrendering to him, granting him her passion like a gift wrapped with a bow. That never happened with him, to him. Ever. And as he’d surfaced from the dark pool of lust, anger lit in him, but so did fear. Who had he become in those moments when he’d been drowning in her?
He’d suspected passion hot enough to reduce him to ash had existed behind that innocent demeanor. Had glimpsed it in the garden in those beautiful, deceptive eyes. And in the occasional flashes of temper and sarcasm. But to confirm it? To be on the receiving end of that lovely flame?
Goddamn. Since meeting her, his sleep had been disturbed with dreams of her. Now that he’d tasted her? He would be lucky if he ever slept again.
Clenching his jaw, he shut the door cl
osed behind the last of the photography crew and crossed the room toward her. What else did she hide behind that Mona Lisa face? What else would he discover was a mask, a lie? If anything, today had shown him he could trust nothing about her.
The cherry on top of this shitty sundae would be for him to become a slave to his lust. To willfully turn a blind eye to her true nature just so he could be kissed by fire again. That’s probably what her father intended.
Well, he was no one’s puppet. Including his cock’s.
“I should probably go—” Devon began.
“We need to—” he ground out simultaneously.
Whatever they would’ve said remained unfinished and hanging in the air as his door flew open and Achilles and Kenan strode in as if it was their office instead of his. Technically, they weren’t wrong. Everything in this company belonged to them as much as it did him.
With that reminder, the bitterness he’d felt since the reading of Barron’s will simmered to the surface. And spilled onto the men who’d barged into his life much as they’d done his office.
“Please, come in. My obviously closed door is always open,” he drawled from between gritted teeth.
“Well, obviously,” Kenan drawled back, a smile curving his mouth. His sharp gaze, identical to Cain’s own, lit on Devon. “We heard a ridiculous rumor through the office gossip grapevine that you were in here with a photographer for an engagement photo shoot.” He surveyed the room with an exaggerated turn of his head and body. “No photographer, but we do have a possible fiancée.” Though his tone remained light and teasing, his gaze narrowed, and his smile hardened around the edges. “But that can’t be true. Because surely Achilles and I wouldn’t discover you were engaged to be married through the secretary pool? We would be devastated, right, Achilles?”
