Falling For Her Fake Fiancé (The Beaumont Heirs 5)

by Sarah M. Anderson

  “Phillip manages the Beaumont Farm,” Frances said, her voice slightly louder than necessary. Ah, that explained it. “He raises the Percherons. And this is Jo, his wife. She trains horses.”

  It was only then that Phillip let go of Ethan so Ethan could give Jo’s hand a quick shake. “A pleasure, Ms. Beaumont.”

  To his surprise, Jo said, “Is it?” with the kind of smile that made no pretense of being polite. But she linked arms with Phillip and physically pulled him a step away.

  “Would you like to join us?” Ethan offered, because it seemed like the sociable thing to do and also because he absolutely did not want Phillip Beaumont to catch a hint of fear. Ethan would act as though having his hot date with Frances suddenly crashed by an obviously overprotective older brother was the highlight of his night if it killed him.

  And given the look on Phillip’s face, it just might.

  “No,” Jo said. “That’s all right. You both look like you’re finishing up, anyway.”

  Phillip said, “Frannie, can I talk with you—in private?”

  That was a dismissal if Ethan had ever heard one. “I’ll be right back,” he genially offered. This called for a tactical retreat to the men’s room. “If you’ll excuse me,” he added to Frances.

  “Of course,” she murmured, nodding her head in appreciation.

  As Ethan walked away, he heard nothing but chilly silence.

  * * *

  “What are you doing?” Phillip didn’t so much say the words as hiss them. His fun-times smile never wavered, though.

  In that moment Phillip sounded more like stuck-up Matthew than her formerly wild older brother. “I’m on a date. Same as you.”

  Beside her, Jo snorted. But she didn’t say anything. She just watched. Sometimes—and not that Frances would ever tell her sister-in-law this—Jo kind of freaked her out. She was so quiet, so watchful. Not at all the kind of woman Frances had envisioned with Phillip.

  Which was not a complaint. Phillip was sober now and, with Jo beside him, almost a new man.

  A new man who’d tasked himself with making sure Frances toed the family line. Ugh.

  “With the man who’s running the Brewery? Are you drunk?”

  “That is such a laugh riot, coming from you,” she stiffly replied. She felt Jo tense beside her. “Sorry.” But she said it to Jo. Not to Phillip. “But no, thanks for asking, I’m not drunk. I’m not insane, and, just to head you off at the pass, I’m not stupid. I know exactly who he is, and I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  Phillip glared at her. “Which is what, exactly?”

  “None of your business.” She made damn sure to say it with her very best smile.

  Phillip was not swayed. “Frannie, I don’t know what you think you’re doing here—either you’re completely clueless and setting yourself up for yet another failure or—”

  “And thank you for that overwhelming vote of confidence,” she hissed at him, her best smile cracking unnaturally. “I liked you better when you were drunk. At least then you didn’t assume I was an idiot like everyone else does.”

  “Or,” Phillip went on, refusing to be sidetracked by her attack, “you think you’re going to accomplish something at the Brewery.” He paused, and when Frances didn’t respond immediately to that spot-on accusation, his eyes widened. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  “I don’t see what it matters to you. You don’t drink beer. You don’t work at any brewery, old or new. You’ve got the farm, and you’ve got Jo. You don’t need anything.” He had his happy life now. He couldn’t begrudge her this.

  Phillip did grab her then, wrapping his hand around her upper arm. “Frannie—corporate espionage?”

  “I’m just trying to restore the Beaumont name. You may not remember it, but our name used to mean something. And we lost that.”

  Unexpectedly, Phillip’s face softened. “We didn’t lose anything. We’re still Beaumonts. You can’t go back—why would you even want to? Things are better now.”

  If that wasn’t the most condescending thing Phillip had ever said to her, she didn’t know what was. “Better for who? Not for me.”

  He was undaunted, damn him. “We’ve moved on—we all have. Chadwick and Matthew have their new business. Byron’s back and happy. Even the younger kids are doing okay. None of us want the Brewery back, honey. If that’s what you’re trying to do here...”

  A rush of emotions Frances couldn’t name threatened to swamp her. It was what she wanted, but it wasn’t. This was about her. She wanted Frances Beaumont back.

  She turned to Jo, who’d been watching the entire exchange with unblinking eyes. “I’m sorry if this interrupted your night out. Ethan and I were almost done anyway.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Jo said. Frances couldn’t tell if Jo was saying it to her husband or to Frances. Jo then slid her arm through Phillip’s. “Let it be, babe.”

  Phillip gave his wife an apologetic look. “My apologies. I’m just surprised. I’d have thought...”

  She knew what Phillip would have thought—and she knew what Chadwick and Matthew and even Byron would all be thinking, just as fast as Phillip could text them. Another Frances misadventure. “Trust me, okay?”

  Phillip’s gaze cut back over her shoulder. Even without looking, Frances could tell Ethan had returned. She could feel his presence. Warm prickles raised the hairs on the back of her neck as he approached.

  Then his arm slid around her waist in an act that could only be described as possessive. Phillip didn’t miss it, curse his clean-and-sober eyes. “Well. Logan, a pleasure to meet you. Frances...”

  She could hear the unspoken be careful in his tone. She gave Jo another quick hug and Phillip a kiss on the cheek. Ethan’s hand stayed on her lower back. “I’ll come out soon,” she promised, as if that was what their little chat had been about.

  Phillip smirked at the dodge. But he didn’t say anything else. He and Jo moved off to their own table.

  “Everything okay?” Ethan said. His arm was firmly back around her waist and she wanted nothing more than to lean into him.

  “Oh, sure.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. For someone who’d been playing a game calculated on public recognition, Frances suddenly felt overexposed.

  Ethan’s fingertips tightened against her side, pulling her closer against his chest. “Do you want to go?”

  “Yes.”

  Ethan let go of her long enough to fish several hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet, and then they were walking toward the front. He held her coat for her before he slid his own back on. Frances could feel the weight of Phillip’s gaze from all the way across the room.

  Why did she feel so...weird? It wasn’t what Phillip thought. She wasn’t being naive about this. She wasn’t betraying the family name—she was rescuing it, damn it. She was keeping her friends—and family—close and her enemies closer, by God. That’s all this was. There was nothing else to it.

  Except...except for the way Ethan wrapped his strong arm around her and hugged her close as they walked out of the restaurant and into the bitterly cold night air. As they walked from the not-crowded sidewalk to the nearly empty parking lot, where he had parked a sleek Jaguar, he held her tighter still. He opened her door for her and then started the car.

  But he didn’t press. He didn’t have to. All he did was reach over and take her hand in his.

  When they arrived at the hotel, Ethan gave the keys to the valet, who greeted them both by name. They walked into the lobby, and this time, she did rest her head on his shoulder.

  She shouldn’t feel weird, now that someone in the family was aware of her...independent interests. Especially since it was Phillip, the former playboy of the family. She didn’t need their approval, and she didn’t want it.

  Bu
t...she felt suddenly adrift. And what made it worse?

  Ethan could tell.

  They didn’t stop in the middle of the lobby and engage in heavy petting as planned. Instead, he walked her over to the elevator. While they waited, he lifted her chin with one gloved hand and kissed her.

  Damn him, she thought even as she sighed into his arms. Damn Ethan all to hell for being exactly who he was—strong and tough and good at the game, but also honest and sincere and thoughtful.

  She did not believe in love. She struggled with believing in like. Infatuation, yes—she knew that existed. And lust. Those entanglements that burned hot and fast and then fizzled out.

  So no, this was not love. Not now, not ever. This was merely...fondness. She could be fond of Ethan, and he could return the sentiment. Perhaps they could even be friends. Wouldn’t that be novel, being friends with her soon-to-be-ex husband?

  The elevator doors pinged open, and he broke the kiss. “Shall we go up?” he whispered, his gaze never leaving hers as his fingers stroked her cheek. Why did he have to be like this? Why did he have to make her think he could care for her?

  Why did he make her want to care for him?

  “Yes,” she said, her voice shaky. “Yes, let’s.”

  They stepped onto the elevator.

  The doors closed behind them.

  Nine

  Before she could sag back against the wall of the elevator, Ethan had folded her into his arms in what could only be described as a hug.

  She sank into his broad and warm and firm chest. When was the last time she’d been hugged? Not counting when she went to visit her mother. Men wanted many things from her—sex, notoriety, sex, a crack at the Beaumont fortune and, finally, sex. But never something as simple as a hug, especially one seemingly without conditions or expectations.

  “I’m fine,” she tried to say, but her words were muffled by all his muscles.

  His chest moved, as if he’d chuckled. “I’m sure you are. You are, without a doubt, the toughest woman I know.”

  Against her wishes, she relaxed into his embrace as they rode up and up and up. “You’re just saying that.”

  “No, I’m not.” He loosened his hold on her enough to look her in the eyes. “I’m serious. You’ve got some of the toughest, most effective armor I’ve ever seen a woman wear, and you hardly ever expose a chink.”

  Something stung at her eyes. She ignored it. “Save it for when we have an audience, Ethan.”

  Something hard flashed over his eyes. “I’m not saying this for the general public, Frances. I’m saying it because it’s the truth.” He traced his fingertips—still gloved—down the side of her face. “This isn’t part of the game.”

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  “But every so often,” he went on, as if stunning her speechless was just par for the course, “something slips past that armor.” She was not going to lean into his touch. Any more than she already had, that was. “It’s subtle, but I can tell. You weren’t ready for your brother just then. God knows I wasn’t, either.” His lips—lips she’d kissed—quirked into a smile. “I’d have loved to see what you’d done with him if you’d been primed for the battle.”

  “It’s different when it’s family,” she managed to get out in a breathy whisper. “You have to love them even when they think you’re making a huge fool of yourself.”

  She felt his body tense against hers. “Is that what he told you?”

  “No, no—Phillip has far more tact than that,” she told him. “But I don’t think he approves.”

  The elevator slowed, and then the doors opened on Ethan’s floor. Ethan didn’t make a move to exit. “Does that bother you?”

  She sighed. “Come on.” It took more effort than she might have guessed to pull herself out of his arms, but when she held out her hand, he took it. They walked down the long hall like that, hand in hand. She waited while he got the door unlocked, and then they stepped inside.

  This time, though, she didn’t make a move for the remote. She just stood in the middle of his suite—the suite that she would be spending more and more time in. Spending the night in—until they got married. Then what? They’d have to get an apartment, wouldn’t they? She couldn’t live in a hotel suite. Not for a year. And she couldn’t see moving Ethan into the Beaumont mansion with her. Just trying to picture that made her shudder in horror.

  Good God, she was going to marry this man. In...a week and a half.

  Ethan stepped up behind her and slid his hands around her waist. He’d shucked his gloves and coat, she saw as his fingers undid the belt at her waist. Then he removed her coat for her.

  This wasn’t an act. Or was it? He could still be working an angle, one in which his interests would best be served by making her think he was really a decent man, a good human being. It was possible. He could be looking to pump more information out of her. Looking to take another big chunk of power or money away from the Beaumonts. He could be building her up to drop her like a rock and put her in her place—especially after the stunt she’d pulled with Donut Friday.

  Then his arms were around her again, pulling her back into him. “Does it bother you?” he asked again. “That they won’t approve of this. Of us.”

  “They rarely approve of anything I do—but don’t worry,” she hurried to add, trying to speak over the catch in her voice. “The feeling is often mutual. Disapproval is the glue that holds the Beaumonts together.” She tried to say it as if it were just a comical fact of nature—because it was.

  But she felt so odd, so not normal, that it didn’t come out that way.

  “Is he your favorite brother? Other than your twin, I mean.”

  “Yes. Phillip threw the best parties and snuck me beers and...we were friends, I guess. We could do anything together, and he never judged me. But he’s been sober for a while now. His wife helps.”

  “So he’s not the same brother you knew.” Ethan pulled the lily out of her hair and set it on the side table. Half of her hair fell out of the twist, and he used his fingers to unravel the rest.

  “No, I guess not. But then, nothing stays the same. The only thing that never changes is change itself, right?”

  She knew that better than anyone. Wasn’t that how she’d been raised? There were no constants, no guarantees. Only the family name would endure.

  Right up until it, too, had stopped meaning what it always had.

  Unexpectedly, Ethan pressed his lips against her neck. “Take off your shoes,” he ordered against her skin.

  She did as he said, although she didn’t know why. The old Frances wouldn’t have followed an order from an admirer.

  Maybe, an insidious little voice in the back of her head whispered, maybe you aren’t the same old Frances anymore. And this quest, or whatever she wanted to call it, to undermine Ethan and strike a blow against the new owners of her family’s brewery—all of that was to make her feel like the old Frances again. Even the art gallery was a step back to a place where she’d been more secure.

  What if she couldn’t go back there? What if she would never again be the redheaded golden girl of Denver? Of the Brewery? Of her family?

  Ethan relinquished his hold on her long enough to peel back the comforter from the bed. Then he guided her down. “Scoot,” he told her, climbing in after her.

  She would have never done so, not back when she was at the top of her form. She would have demanded high seduction or nothing at all. Champagne. Wild promises. Diamonds and gems. Not this fondness, for God’s sake.

  He pulled the covers over them and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. She curled into his side, feeling warmer and safer by the moment. For some reason, it was what she needed. To feel safe from the winds of change that had blown away her prospects and her personal fortune. In Ethan’s arms, she could almost pr
etend none of it had happened. She could almost pretend this was normal.

  “What about you?” she asked, pressing her hand against his chest.

  He covered her hand with his. Warm. Safe. “What about me?”

  “You must be used to change. A new company and a new hotel in a new city every other month?” She curled her fingers into the crisp cotton of his shirt. “I guess change doesn’t bother you at all.”

  “It doesn’t feel like that,” he said. “It’s the same thing every time, with slightly different scenery. Hotel rooms all blend together, executive offices all look the same...”

  “Even the women?”

  The pause was long. “Yes, I guess you could say that. Even the women were all very similar. Beautiful, good conversationalists, cultured.” He began to stroke her hair. “Until this time.”

  “This time?” Something sparked in her chest, something that didn’t feel cynical or calculated. She didn’t recognize what it was.

  “The hotel is basically the same. But the company? I usually spend three to six months restructuring. I’ve already been here for three months and I’ve barely made any headway. The executive office—hell, the whole Brewery—is unlike any place I’ve ever worked before. It’s not a sterile office building that’s got the same carpeting and the same crappy furniture as every other office. It’s like it’s this...thing that lives and breathes on its own. It’s not just real estate. It’s alive.”

  “It’s always been that way,” she agreed, but she wasn’t thinking about the Brewery or the antique furniture or the people who’d made it a second home to her.

  She was thinking about the man next to her, the one who’d just told her that women were as interchangeable as hotel rooms. Which was a cold, soulless thing to admit and also totally didn’t match up with the way he was holding her.