Falling For Her Fake Fiancé (The Beaumont Heirs 5)

by Sarah M. Anderson

  What else was she getting out of their deal?

  Why had she shown up with donuts last week?

  The answer was right in front of him, a manila folder in an envelope.

  Revenge.

  Hadn’t she told him that she’d lost part of herself when the family lost the Brewery? And hadn’t she said she should hate him for his part in that loss?

  What had seemed like a distant coincidence—Frances disrupting his personal life at nearly the exact same time some random investor was trying to disrupt his business—now seemed less like a coincidence and more like directly correlated events.

  What if she not only knew Zeb Richards was her half brother—what if she was helping him? Getting insider information? Not from Ethan, necessarily—but from all the people here who loved and trusted her because she was their Frannie?

  Did Chadwick know? Or did he suspect? Was that why he’d sent the file?

  Ethan had assumed it’d been the encounter with Phillip Beaumont that had prompted Chadwick’s appearance at the Brewery the other day. But what if there’d been something else? What if one of Chadwick’s loyal employees had tipped him off that Frances was asking around, digging up dirt?

  And if that was possible, who’s side was Chadwick on? Ethan’s? Frances’s? Zeb Richards’s?

  Ethan’s head began to ache. This, he realized with a half laugh, was what he was trying to marry into—a family so sprawling, so screwed up that they didn’t even have a solid head count on all their relatives.

  “She’s here,” Delores’s voice interrupted his train of thought.

  Ethan stood and straightened his tie. He didn’t know why. He pushed the thought of bastards with an ax to grind out of his head. He had to focus on what was important here—Frances. The woman he’d taken to his bed last night and then promptly chased right out of it, all because he was stupid enough to develop feelings for her.

  The woman who might be setting him up to fail because it was a game. Nothing but a game.

  He had no idea which version of Frances Beaumont was on the other side of that door.

  He wanted to be wrong. He wanted it to be one giant coincidence. He did not want to know that he’d misjudged her so badly, that he’d been played for such a fool.

  Because if he had, he didn’t know where he would go from here. He was still the CEO of this company. He still had a deal to marry her and invest in her gallery. He had his own company to protect. As soon as the Brewery was successfully restructured, he’d pull up stakes and move on to the next business that needed to be run with an iron fist and an eye to the bottom line. They’d divorce casually and go on with their lives.

  And once he was gone, he’d never have to think about anything Beaumont ever again.

  He opened his door. Frances was standing there in jeans and boots. She wore a thick, fuzzy cable-knit sweater, and her hair was pulled back into a modest bun. Not a sky-high heel or low-cut silk blouse in sight. She looked...plain, almost, which was something because if there was one thing Frances Beaumont wasn’t, it was plain.

  And despite the fact that his head felt as if an anvil had just been dropped on it, despite the fact that he was in over his head—despite the fact that, no, he was most likely not as good at the game as he’d thought he was and, no, she did not like him—he was glad to see her. He absolutely shouldn’t be, but he was.

  It only got worse when she lifted her head. There was no crowd today, no group of eager employees around to stroke her ego or destroy his. Just her and Delores and a box.

  “Frances.”

  “Chocolate éclair?” she asked simply.

  Even her makeup was simple today. She looked almost innocent, as if she was still trying to understand what had happened between them last night, just like he was.

  But was that the truth of the matter? Or was this part of the game?

  “I saved you two,” she told him, holding the box out.

  “Come in,” he said, holding his door open for her. “Delores, hold my calls.”

  “Even—” she started to say.

  “I’ll call him back.” Yes, he needed to talk to Chadwick, but he needed to talk to Frances more. He wasn’t sleeping with Chadwick. Frances came first.

  Frances paused, a look on her face that yesterday Ethan would have assumed to be confusion. Today? He couldn’t be sure.

  She walked past him, her head held high and her bearing regal. Ethan wanted to smile at her. Evening gowns or blue jeans, she could pull off imperial like nobody’s business.

  But he didn’t smile. She did not like him. And liking her? Wanting to take care of her, to spend time with her? That had been a massive error on his part.

  So the moment the door shut, he resolved that he would not care about her. He would not pull her into his arms and hold her tight and try to find the right sweet nothings to whisper in her ear to wipe that shell-shocked look off her face.

  He would not comfort her. He couldn’t afford to.

  She carried the donut box over to the wagon-wheel coffee table and set it down. Then she sat on the love seat, tucking her feet up under her legs. “Hi,” she said in what seemed like a small voice.

  He didn’t like it, that small voice, because it pulled at him, and he couldn’t afford to let her play his emotions like that. “How are you today?” he asked politely. He went back to his desk and sat. It seemed like the safest place to be, with a good fifteen feet and a bunch of historic furniture between them.

  She watched him with those big eyes of hers. “I brought you donuts,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He realized his fingers were tapping on the envelope Chadwick had sent. He made them be still.

  She said, “Oh. Okay,” in such a disappointed voice that it almost broke him because he didn’t want to disappoint her, damn it, and he was anyway.

  But then, what was he supposed to do? He’d given her everything he had last night, and look how that had turned out. She’d cut him to shreds. She’d been disappointed that he’d liked her.

  So she wasn’t allowed to be disappointed that he was keeping his distance right now. End of discussion.

  He stared at the envelope again. He had to know—how deep was she in this? “So,” he said. “How are the plans for the art gallery going?”

  “Fine. Are we...”

  “Yes?”

  She cleared her throat and stuck out her chin, as if she was trying to look tough and failing, miserably. “Are we still on? The deal, that is.”

  “Of course. Why would you think it’s off?”

  She took a deep breath. “I—well, I said some not-nice things last night. You’ve been nothing but wonderful and I... I was not gracious about it. About you.”

  Was she apologizing? For hurting his feelings? Not that he’d admit to having his feelings hurt.

  Was it possible that, somewhere under the artifice, she actually cared for him, too?

  No, probably not. This was just another test, another move. Ethan made a big show of shrugging. “At no point did I assume that this relationship—or whatever you want to call it—is based on ‘niceness.’” She visibly winced. “You were right. Affection is irrelevant.” This time, he did not offer to let her out of the deal or postpone the farce that would be their wedding. “And a deal’s a deal, after all.”

  A shadow crossed her face, but only briefly. “Of course,” she agreed. She wrapped her arms around her waist. She looked as though she was trying to hold herself together. “So we’ll need to get engaged soon?”

  “Tonight, if that’s all right with you. I’ve made reservations for us as we continue our tour of the finer restaurants in Denver.” He let his gaze flick over her outfit in what he hoped was judgment.

  “Sounds good.” That’s what she said. But the way she said it? Anything but go
od.

  “I did have a question,” he said. “You asked me last night why I’d agreed to get married to you. To a stranger.”

  “Because it seems normal enough,” she replied. He refused to be even the slightest bit pleased that she recalled their conversation about his parents. “And the workers love me.”

  He tilted his head in appreciation. “But when we were naked and sharing, I failed to ask what you were getting out of this deal. Why you would agree to marry a total stranger.”

  She paled, which made her red hair stand out that much more. “The gallery,” she said in a shaky voice. “It’s going to be my job, my space. Art is what I’m good at. I need the gallery.”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure,” he agreed, swiveling his chair so he was facing her fully. His hand was tapping the envelope again. Damn that envelope. Damn Zebadiah Richards. Hell, while he was at it, damn Chadwick Beaumont, too. “But that’s not all, is it?”

  Slowly, her head moved from side to side, a no that she was apparently unaware she was saying. “Of course that’s all. A simple deal.”

  “With the man who represented the loss of your family business and your family identity.”

  “Well, yes. That’s why I need the gallery. I need a fresh start.”

  He leveled his stoniest glare at her, the one that produced results in business negotiations. The very look that usually had employees falling all over themselves to do what he wanted, the way he wanted it.

  To her credit, she did not buckle. He would have been disappointed if she had, frankly. He watched her armor snap into place. But it didn’t stop the rest of the color from draining out of her face.

  He had her, and they both knew it.

  “You wanted revenge.”

  The statement hung in the air. Frances’s gaze darted from side to side as if she was looking for an escape route. When she didn’t find what she wanted, she sat up straighter.

  Good, Ethan thought. She was going to brazen this out. For some reason, he wanted it that way, wanted her to go down fighting. He didn’t want her meek and apologetic and fragile, damn it. He wanted her biting and cutting, a warrior princess with words as weapons.

  He wanted her messy and complicated, and, damn it all, he was going to get her that way. Even if it killed him.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” As she said it, she uncurled on the couch. Her legs swung down and stretched out before her, long and lean, the very legs that had been wrapped around him. At the same time, she stretched up, thrusting out her breasts.

  This time, he did smile. She was going to give him hell. This was the woman who’d walked into his office a week ago, using her body as a weapon of mass distraction.

  This was the woman he could love.

  He pushed that thought aside.

  “How did you plan to do it?” he asked. “Did you plan on pumping me for information, or just gather some from the staff while you plied them with donuts?”

  One eyebrow arched up. “Plied? Really, Ethan.” She shifted forward, which would have worked much better to distract him if she’d been in a low-cut top instead of a sweater. “You make it sound like I was spiking the pastries with truth-telling serum.”

  He caught the glint of a necklace—his necklace, the one he’d given her last night. She was wearing it. For some reason, that distracted him far more than the seductive pose did.

  “What I want to know,” he said in a calm voice, “is if Richards contacted you first, or if you contacted him.”

  Her mouth had already opened to reply, but the mention of Richards’s name pulled her up short. She blinked at him, her confusion obvious. Too obvious. “Who?”

  “Don’t play cute with me, Frances. You said so yourself, didn’t you? This is all part of the game. I just didn’t realize how far it went until this morning.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “I don’t—who is Richards?”

  “This innocent thing isn’t working,” he snapped.

  Abruptly, she stood. “I don’t know who Richards is. I didn’t ply anyone with donuts to tell me anything they weren’t willing to tell me anyway—which, for the most part, was how you were a jerk who didn’t know the first thing about running the Brewery. So you can accuse me of plotting some unspecified revenge with some unspecified man named Richards, if that makes you feel better about not being able to do your own job without me smiling like an idiot by your side. But in the meantime, go to hell.” She swept out of the room with all the cold grace he could have expected. She didn’t even slam the door on the way out, probably because that would have been beneath her.

  “Dinner tonight,” he called after her, just so he could get in the last word.

  “Ha!” he heard her say as she walked away from him.

  Damn, that last bit had been more than loud enough that Delores would have heard. And Ethan knew that whatever Delores heard, the rest of the company heard.

  The thing was, he was still no closer to an answer about Frances’s level of involvement with ZOLA and Zeb Richards than he’d been before she’d shown up. He’d thought he’d learned how to read her, but last night, she’d made him question his emotional investment in her.

  He had no idea how to trust anything she said or how to decide if she was telling the truth.

  A phone rang. It sounded as if it came from a long way away. Delores stuck her head through the door. “I know you said to hold your calls,” she said in a cautious voice, “but Chadwick’s on the phone.”

  “I’ll take it,” he said because to pretend he was otherwise involved would look ridiculous.

  He was going to get engaged tonight. Frances was supposed to start sleeping over. He was going to get married to her next weekend so he could maintain control over his company.

  Because that was the deal.

  He picked up his phone. “Who the hell is Zeb Richards?”

  Fifteen

  Frances found herself at the gallery—actually, at what would become the gallery. It wasn’t a gallery yet. It was just an empty industrial space.

  Becky was there with some contractors, discussing lighting options. “Oh, Frances—there you are,” she said in a happy voice. But then she paused. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Frances assured her. “Why would anything be wrong? Excuse me.” She dodged contractors and headed back to the office. This room, at least, was suitable to hide in. It had walls, a door—and a lock.

  Why would anything be wrong? She’d only screwed up. That wasn’t unusual. That was practically par for the course. Ethan had been—well, he’d been wonderful. She’d spent a week with him. She’d let her guard down around him. She’d even slept with him—and he was amazing.

  So of course she’d gone and opened her big mouth and insulted him, and now he was colder than a three-day-old fish.

  She sat down at what would be her desk when she got moved in and stared at the bare wooden top. He’d said he liked her messy and complicated. And for a moment, she’d almost believed him.

  But he hadn’t meant it. Oh, he thought he had, of that she had no doubt. He’d thought he liked her all not simple. He’d no doubt imagined he’d mastered the complexities of her extended family, besting her brothers in a show of sheer skill and Logan-based manliness.

  The fool, she thought sadly. He’d gone and convinced himself that he could handle her. And he couldn’t. Maybe no one could.

  Then there’d been the conversation today. What the ever-loving hell had that been about? Revenge? Well, yeah—revenge had been part of it. She hadn’t lied, had she? She’d told him that she’d lost part of herself when the Brewery had been sold. She just hadn’t expected him to throw that back in her face.

  And who the hell was this Richards she was supposed to be conspiring with?

  Still, a deal was a deal. And as E
than had made it quite clear that morning, it was nothing but a deal. She supposed she’d earned that.

  It was better this way, she decided. She couldn’t handle Ethan when he was being tender and sweet and saying absolutely ridiculous things like how he’d happily put the wedding off because she was worth the wait.

  The sooner he figured out she wasn’t worth nearly that much, the better.

  The doorknob turned, but the lock held. This was followed by a soft knock. “Frances?” Becky said. “Can I come in?”

  Against her better judgment, Frances got up and unlocked the door for her friend. A deal was a deal, after all—especially since Frances wasn’t the only one who needed this gallery. Becky was depending on it just as much as Frances was. “Yes?”

  Becky pushed her way into the office and shut the door behind her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Frances lied. Too late, she remembered she should try to look as if that statement were accurate. She attempted a lighthearted smile.

  Becky’s eyes widened in horror at this expression. “Ohmygosh—what happened?”

  Maybe she wouldn’t try to smile right now. It felt wrong, anyway. “Just a...disagreement. This doesn’t change the deal. It’s fine,” Frances said with more force. “I just thought—well, I thought he was different. And I think he’s really much the same.”

  That was the problem, wasn’t it? For a short while, she’d believed Ethan might actually be interested in her, not her famous name or famous family.

  Why hadn’t she just taken him at his word? Why had she pushed and pushed and pushed, for God’s sake, until whatever honest fondness he felt for her had been pushed aside under the glaring imperfection that was Frances Beaumont? Why couldn’t she have just let good enough alone and accepted his flowers and his diamonds and his offers of affection and companionship?

  Why did she have to ruin everything?

  She’d warned him. She’d told him not to like her. She just hadn’t realized that she’d do everything in her power to make sure he didn’t.

  She’d screwed up so much. She’d lost a fortune three separate times. Every endeavor she’d ever attempted outside of stringing a man along had failed miserably. She’d never had a relationship that could come close to breaking her heart because there was nothing to break.