“Tomorrow night. Mondays are not the most social day of the week. I think the roses today will accomplish everything we want them to.”
“Dinner? Or did you have something else in mind?”
Did he sound hopeful? “Dinner is good for now. I’m keeping my eyes open for an appropriate activity this weekend.”
He nodded, as if she’d announced that the sales projections for the quarter were on target. But then he stood and handed her computer back to her. As he did so, he leaned down and whispered, “I’m glad you liked the roses,” in her ear. And, damn it all, heat flushed her body.
She tilted her head up to him. “They’re beautiful,” she murmured. There was no audience for this, no crowd to guess and gossip. Here, in the safety of this office, there was only him and her and dozens of honest roses.
He was close enough to kiss—more than close enough. She could see the golden tint to his brown eyes that made them lighter, warmer. He had a faint scar on the edge of his nose and another one on his chin. Football injuries or brawls? He had the body of a brawler. She’d felt that for herself the other night.
Ethan Logan was a big, strong man with big, strong muscles. And he’d sent her flowers.
She could kiss him. Not for show but for herself. She was going to marry him, after all. Shouldn’t she get something out of it? Something beyond an art gallery and a restored sense of family pride?
His fingers slid under her chin, lifting her face to his. His breath was warm on her cheeks. Many things were warm at this point.
Not for the Beaumonts. Not for the gallery. Just for her. Ethan was just for her.
They held that pose as Frances danced right up to the line of kissing Ethan because she wanted to. But she didn’t cross it. And after a moment, he relinquished his hold on her. But the warmth in his eyes didn’t dim. He didn’t act as if she’d rejected him.
Instead, he said, “You’re welcome.”
And that?
That was sincere.
Oh, hell.
Eight
First thing Tuesday morning, Ethan had Delores order lilies and send them to Frances. Roses every day felt too clichéd and he’d always liked lilies, anyway.
“Any message?” the old battle-ax asked. She sounded smug.
Ethan considered. The message, he knew, was as much for Delores’s loose lips as it was for Frances. And no matter what Frances said, they needed pet names for each other. “Red—until tonight. E.”
Delores snorted. “Will do, boss. By the way...”
Ethan paused, his hand on the intercom switch. Boss? That was the most receptionist-like thing Delores had said to him yet. “Yes?”
“The latest attendance reports are in. We’re operating at full capacity today.”
A sense of victory flowed through him. After four days, the implied Beaumont Seal of Approval was already working its magic. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He switched off the intercom and stared at it for a moment. But instead of thinking about his next restructuring move, his thoughts drifted back to Frances.
She was going to kill him for the Red bit; he was reasonably confident about that. But there’d been that moment yesterday where he’d thought all her pretense had fallen away. She’d been well and truly stunned that he’d had flowers delivered for her. And in that moment, she’d seemed...vulnerable. All of her cynical world-weariness had fallen away, and she’d been a beautiful woman who’d appreciated a small gesture he’d made for her.
Marriage notwithstanding, she wasn’t looking for anything long term. Neither was he. But that didn’t mean the short term couldn’t mean something, did it? He didn’t need the fire to burn for long. He just needed it to burn bright.
He flipped the intercom back on. “Delores? Did you place that order yet?”
He heard her murmur something that sounded like, “One moment,” before she said more clearly, “in process. Why?”
“I want to change the message. Red—” Then he faltered. “Looking forward to tonight. Yours, E.” Which was not exactly a big change and he felt a little foolish for making it. He switched off the intercom again.
His phone rang. It was his partner at CRS, Finn Jackson. Finn was the one who pitched CRS to conglomerates. He was a hell of a salesman. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to let you know—there’s activity,” Finn began without any further introduction. “A private holding company is making noise about AllBev’s handling of the Beaumont Brewery purchase.”
Ethan frowned. “Link?”
“On its way.” Seconds later, the email with the link popped up. Ethan scanned the article. Thankfully, it wasn’t an attack on CRS’s handling of the transition. However, this private holdings company, ZOLA, had written a letter stating that the Brewery was a poor strategic purchase for AllBev and they should dump the company—preferably on the cheap, no doubt.
“What is this?” he asked Finn. “A takeover bid? Is it the Beaumonts?”
“I don’t think so,” Finn replied, but he didn’t sound convinced. “It’s owned by someone named Zeb Richards—ring any bells for you?”
“None. How does this impact us?”
“This mostly appears to be an activist shareholder making noise. I’ll keep tabs on AllBev’s reaction, but I don’t think this impacts you at the moment. I just wanted to keep you aware of the situation.” Finn cleared his throat, which was his great tell. “You could ask your father if he knows anything.”
Ethan didn’t say a damned thing. His father? Hell no. He would never show the slightest sign of weakness to his old man because, unlike the Beaumonts, family meant nothing to Troy Logan. It never had, it never would.
“Or,” Finn finally said, dragging out the word, “you could maybe see if anyone on the ground knows anything about this Zeb character?”
Frances. “Yeah, I can ask around. If you hear anything else, let me know. I’d prefer for the company not to be resold until we’ve fulfilled our contract. It’d look like a failure on the behalf of CRS—that we couldn’t turn the company around fast enough.”
“Agreed.” With that, Finn hung up.
Ethan stared at his computer without seeing the files. He was just starting to get a grip on this company, thanks to Frances.
This ZOLA, whatever the hell it was, felt like it had something to do with the Beaumonts. Who else cared about this beer company? Ethan did a quick search. Privately held firm located in New York, a list of their successful investments—but not much else. Not even a picture of Zeb Richards. Something about it was off. This could easily be a shell corporation set up with the express purpose of wrestling the Brewery away from AllBev and back into Beaumont hands.
Luckily, Ethan happened to have excellent connections here on the ground. He’d have to tread carefully, though.
He needed Frances Beaumont. The production lines at full capacity today? That wasn’t his keen management skills in action, as painful as it was to admit. That was all Frances.
But on the other hand...her sudden appearance happening so closely to this ZOLA business? It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?
Maybe it was; maybe it wasn’t. One thing was for sure. He was going to find out before he married her and before he cut her a huge investment check.
He sent a follow-up message to his lawyers about protecting his assets and then glanced over Frances’s art gallery plans again. He knew nothing about art, which was surprising, considering his mother was the living embodiment of “artsy-fartsy.” So as an art space, it didn’t mean much to him. But as a business investment?
It wasn’t that he couldn’t spot her the five million. He had that and much more in the bank—and that didn’t count his golden-parachute bonuses and stock options. Restructuring corporations was a job that paid extremely well. It just felt...
Too familiar. Like he was hell-bent on replicating his parents’ unorthodox marriage. And that wasn’t what he wanted.
He pushed the thoughts of his all-business father and flighty mother out of his brain. He had a company to run, a private equity firm to investigate and a woman to woo, if people still did that. And above all that, tonight he had a date.
* * *
This really wasn’t that different from what he normally did, Ethan told himself as he waited at the bar of some hip restaurant. He rolled into a new town, met a woman and did the wining-and-dining thing. He saw the sights, had a little fun and then, when it was time, he moved on. This was standard stuff for him.
Which did not explain why he was sipping his gin and tonic with a little more enthusiasm than the drink required. He was just...bracing himself for another evening of sexual frustration, that was all. Because he knew that, no matter what she was wearing tonight, he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off Frances.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she were just another pretty face. But she wasn’t. He’d have to sit there and look at her and then also be verbally pummeled by her sharp wit as she ran circles around him. She challenged him and pushed him to his very limits of self-control, and that was something he could honestly say didn’t happen much. Oh, the women he’d seen in the past were all perfectly intelligent ladies, but they didn’t see their role of temporary companion as one that included the kind of conversation that bordered on warfare.
But Frances? She was armed like a Sherman tank, and she had excellent aim. She knew how to take him out with a few well-chosen words and a tilt of her head. He was practically defenseless against her.
His only consolation—aside from her company—was that he’d managed to slip past her armor a few times.
Then Frances was there, framed by the doorway. She had on a thick white coat with a fur collar that was belted tightly at the waist and a pair of calf-high boots in supple brown leather. Her hair was swept into an elegant updo and—Ethan blinked. Did she have flowers in her hair? Lilies?
Perhaps the rest of the restaurant was pondering the same question because he would have sworn the whole place paused to note her arrival.
She spotted him and favored him with a small personal smile. Then she undid the belt of her coat and let it fall off her shoulders.
This wasn’t normal, the way he reacted to what had to be the calculated revelation of her body. Hell, it wasn’t even that much of a reveal—she had on a slim brown skirt and a cream-colored sweater. The sweater had a sweetheart neckline and long sleeves. Nothing overtly sexual about her appearance tonight.
She was just a gorgeous woman. And she was headed right for him. The restaurant was so quiet he could hear the click of her heels on the parquet flooring as she crossed to the bar.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
What if things were different? What if they’d met on different terms—him not trying to reconstruct her family’s former company, her not desperate for an angel investor? Would he have pursued her? Well, that was a stupid question—of course he would have. She was not just a feast for the eyes. She was quite possibly the smartest woman he’d ever gone head-to-head with. He couldn’t believe it, but he was actually looking forward to being demolished by her again tonight. Blue balls be damned.
He rose and greeted her. “Frances.”
She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “What,” she murmured against his skin. “Not Red?”
He turned his head slightly to respond but just kissed her instead. He kissed her like he’d wanted to kiss her in his office the other day. The taste of her lips burned his mouth like those cinnamon candies his mother preferred—hot but sweet. And good. So good. He couldn’t get enough of her.
And that was a problem. It was quickly becoming the problem. He was having trouble going a day or two without touching her. How was he supposed to make it a year in a sexless marriage?
She pulled away, and he let her. “Still trying to find the right name for you,” he replied, hoping that how much she affected him didn’t show.
“Keep trying.” She cocked her head to one side. “Shall we?”
Ethan signaled for the hostess, who led them back to their private table. “How was your day, darling?” Frances asked in an offhand way as she accepted the menu.
The casual nature of the question—or, more specifically, the lack of sexual innuendo—caught him off guard. “Fine, actually. The production lines were producing today.” She looked at him over the edge of her menu, one eyebrow raised. “And, yes,” he said, answering the unspoken question. “I give you all the credit for that.”
He wanted to ask about ZOLA and Zeb Richards, but he didn’t. Maybe after they’d eaten—and shared a bottle of wine. “How about you?”
They were interrupted by the waitress, so it wasn’t until after they’d placed their orders that she answered. “Good. We met with the Realtors about the space. Becky’s very excited about owning the space instead of renting.”
Ah, yes. The money he owed her. “Have you been monitoring the chatter, as you put it?”
At that, she leaned forward, a winning smile on her face. Ethan didn’t like it. It wasn’t real or true. It was a piece of armor, a shield in this game they were playing. She wasn’t smiling for him. She was smiling for everyone else. “So far, so good,” she purred, even though there was no one else who could have heard her. “I think this weekend, we should attend a Nuggets game.”
He dimly remembered her watching a basketball game on Saturday when she’d been pointedly not sleeping with him. “Big fan?”
“Not really,” she replied with a casual shrug. “But sports fans drink a lot of beer. It’d signal our involvement to a different crowd and boost the chatter significantly.”
All of that sounded fine in a cold, calculated kind of way. He found he didn’t much care for the cold right now. He craved her heat.
It was his turn to lean forward. “And after that? I seem to recall you saying something about how you were going to start sleeping over this weekend. Of course, you’re always welcome to do so sooner.”
That shield of a smile fell away, and he knew he’d slipped past her defenses again. But the moment was short. She tilted her head to one side and gave him an appraising look. “Trying to change the terms of our deal again? For shame, Ethan.”
“Are you coming back to the room with me tonight?”
“Of course.” Her voice didn’t change, but he thought he saw her cheeks pink up ever so slightly.
“Are you going to kiss me in the lobby again?”
Yes, she was definitely blushing. But it was her only tell. “I suppose you could always kiss me first. Just for a little variety.”
Oh, he’d love to show her some variety. “And the elevator?”
“You are trying to change the terms,” she murmured as she dropped her gaze. “We discussed that—at your request. There’s no kissing in elevators.”
He didn’t respond. At the time, it’d seemed like the shortest path to self-preservation. But now? Now he wanted to push the envelope. He wanted to see if he could get to her like she was getting to him. “I like what you’ve done with the lily,” he said, nodding toward where she’d worked the bloom into her hair. Because thus far, the flowers were by far the best way to get to her.
There was always a chance that she wasn’t all that attracted to him—that the heat he felt when he was around her was a one-way street.
Damn, that was a depressing thought.
“They were beautiful,” she said. And it could have easily been another too-smooth line.
But it wasn’t.
“Not as beautiful as you are.”
Before she could respond to that their food arrived. They ate and drank and made polite small talk disguised as
sensual flirting.
“After the game, we’ll have to deal with my family,” she warned him over the lip of her second glass of wine after she’d pushed her plate away. “I’m actually surprised that my brother Matthew hasn’t called to lecture me about the Beaumont family name.”
Ethan was wrapped in the warm buzz of his alcohol. “Oh? That a problem?”
Frances waved her hand. “He’s the micromanager of our public image. Was VP of marketing before you showed up. He did a great job, too.”
She didn’t say it as if she was intentionally trying to score a hit, but he felt a little wounded anyway. “I didn’t fire him. He was gone before I got there.”
“Oh, I know.” She took another drink. “He left with Chadwick.”
Ethan was pondering this information when someone said, “Frannie?”
At the name, Frances’s eyes widened, and she sat bolt upright. She looked over Ethan’s shoulder and said, “Phillip?”
Phillip? Oh, right. He remembered now. Phillip was one of her half brothers.
Oh, hell. Ethan was one sheet to the wind and about to meet a Beaumont.
Frances stood as a strikingly blond man came around the table. He was holding the hand of a tall, athletic woman wearing blue jeans. “Phillip! Jo! I didn’t expect to see you guys here.”
Phillip kissed his sister on the cheek. “We decided it was time for our once-a-month dinner date.” As the woman named Jo hugged Frances, Phillip turned a gaze that was surprisingly friendly toward Ethan. “I’m Phillip Beaumont. And you are?” He stuck out his hand.
Ethan glanced at Frances, only to find that both she and Jo were watching this interaction with curiosity. “I’m Ethan Logan,” Ethan said, giving Phillip’s hand a firm shake.
He tried to pull his hand back, but it didn’t go anywhere. “Ah,” Phillip said. His smile grew—at the same time he clamped down on Ethan’s hand. “You’re running the Brewery these days.”
The strength with which Phillip had a hold on him was more than Ethan would have given him credit for. Ethan would have anticipated her brother to be someone pampered and posh and not particularly physically intimidating. But Phillip’s grip spoke of a man who worked with his hands for a living—and wasn’t afraid to use them for other purposes.
Falling For Her Fake Fiancé (The Beaumont Heirs 5) Page 8
