by Emily Bishop
“Talk to me,” I say.
He sips his double espresso. “I have a proposition. Quite literally.”
“A proposition?”
“Let me just put this straight, right? But this is confidential, between you and me. No one can know this.”
“Right.”
“Promise me you’ll keep your mouth shut,” he says.
“Yes, OK.”
“That’s not a promise.”
“I promise,” I say. “Now what is it?”
He leans in over the table. “My father has recently died.”
“Oh.” I didn’t expect that. It hits me in the chest. All of a sudden I’m thinking of my father’s own funeral, and my voice comes out soft. “I’m so sorry, Gray.”
“Yeah,” he says, dismissively. “So, his title and broke estate is mine. Along with his personal assets of about a billion pounds.”
My throat constricts. “A billion?” It comes out a croak.
His eyes light up with mischief, and that one-sided smile all the girls melted over pulls at his mouth. “Thought you’d like that. But the bastard won’t let me get the money until I bring home a respectable woman.” He says “respectable” like it’s an infectious disease. “And you’re respectable. So, all we’d have to do is pretend to be engaged for thirty days. Then you get a fat check, and you can go on your way.”
I sit back in the chair, stunned.
He takes advantage of my silence. “I’m staying at the Hilton for a week, so we can practice pretending properly. Then we’ll go to England and convince my solicitor. Then he pays out the money. Simple.”
“Simple? How is anything about this simple? For one thing, it’s like lying to your late father.”
He shrugs. “He was a dickhead in life. So, he’s a dickhead in death. What’s the problem?”
I squeak the straw in and out of my cup, agitated. “Don’t you have any morals, Grayson?”
“Are you in the deal or out of it?”
I look him up and down. That gorgeous, cold face. Those intense, forceful eyes that drill into you and get you to bend to their will. Well, I won’t bend. “Out. Thanks for the offer.” With that, I get up and stalk out without looking back. I can do this on my own. I’ll persuade the bank and revive my father’s business, and I don’t need the likes of gorgeous, immoral, arrogant Grayson Fairfax to do it.
Chapter 3
Grayson
God, who knew Isabella Price would get my cock in my hand and my imagination running wild? She’s even hotter than that picture on Facebook. She’s still a goodie-two-shoes and a bore about morals, but she’s so strong about it. I’m going to break that ice-cold veneer and get under her skin. Into her knickers. I wonder if she wears red lacy things. No. Probably plain black sensible underwear. And no one ever sees it.
Ha.
She’s probably begging for it under that smooth, well-polished surface. She must have wanted me all along. Even those days in school where she’d cut me down in front of everyone and all the girls would rush to my defense. I’d maneuver them out of the way and stare Isabella down. She’d shoot me her icy gaze back for a while, but she was always the first to break eye contact. Like she was afraid of falling under my spell.
Well, I’ll get her. I will. I’m not Grayson Fairfax of school days, even though I was the best in school. I’m better than the best now. I’m Gray Fairfax, versed in making even the coldest women beg for my dick in their wet, hot pussies. Isabella wants me, really. I can’t wait to watch her go wild, bouncing up and down on my cock.
I look in the mirror at myself as I run my hand up and down my thickness. She’s going to love it. I picture bending her over right here in the hotel bathroom. I’ll pull up her skirt and slide my cock into her hot cunt. She’ll moan out, “Gray, Gray,” then have shaking, screaming orgasms as I give her the best fuck of her life.
Yeah.
Or I could have fucked her right there in the bank. Shocked everyone by undoing my trousers there on the waiting-room chair. She’d have lifted up her skirt and straddled me. My cock pushing deep inside her, her clit rubbing up against me as she rode that dick like her life depended on it.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my visions and back to stark reality. For fuck’s sake. “Who is it?” I bark. I push my hard dick flat against my abdomen and wrap a towel around me to hide it, then stride to the door and wrench it open, pissed off.
It’s her, wearing that same skirt suit. “Hello, Gray.”
I’ve shocked myself. Eddie bangs on about the Law of Attraction sometimes, the idea you can pull things toward you by thinking of them, and I think it’s all bullshit. But I half-wonder if I’ve tapped into some universal sexual power. When I masturbate about hot chicks, they appear at my door now? Will she step inside and beg me to give her the fuck of her life?
She looks me up and down. Her eyes track over my undeniably broad, strong chest. She looks impressed. Of course she does. She even looks a little lower, to where my towel is bunched up over my hard cock, and her eyes linger for a split second. I glance down quickly to check that my hardness really is concealed. It is. Then I look up and smile, nonchalant.
“So, may I come in?” she says, irritation rising in her voice.
I go over to the fridge. “Want champagne?” That’s my only invitation.
She walks over to the window and admires the view. “I thought you were broke. Everyone knows mini-fridge alcohol is extortionately overpriced. Maybe if you managed your money better, you wouldn’t be screaming at bank tellers and making a spectacle of yourself.”
“Have you forgotten about the billion already?” I pop the cork and it flies directly at the mirror. Crack. The mirror splits at the corner.
She turns, her gaze panicked. “What the…” Then she sees the mirror and sighs. “They’ll be way overcharging you for that as well.”
I shrug as I turn over the champagne flutes on the top of the fridge. “It won’t make even the tiniest dent in my bank balance, once this all works out.” I pour one glass each and hand her hers.
She pauses, hesitant to take it, but eventually she does. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I can’t help loving that American accent. That must be part of what has me hard for her.
She sits on one of the armchairs by the window and looks down in her lap. “I’ve been thinking about this, Gray.”
Go on, walk right into my trap.
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch her, like I have no idea what she’s going to say. “Hmm?”
When she looks back up, there’s fire in her eyes, but it’s not directed at me. “I went back to the bank, and they declined me again. And… well, I wasn’t going to come here, but I have to save my father’s business. He sacrificed so much for me, and…” Her voice cracks a bit, like she’s about to start crying. Please, god, spare me.
I clap my hands. “Great, so it’s settled. You’re my fiancée now.”
She rocks back on the chair and looks at me. “No. I’m your fake fiancée for thirty days only. And we need to discuss the terms of this contract. No sex, for one thing.”
“All right.” We’ll see.
“Secondly, I want in writing exactly how much I’m getting, and for us both to sign it. What is your first offer?”
I lean back against the headboard and watch her. She’s so serious. When does she ever relax and just go with the flow? “How much do you want?”
Her gaze flickers down for a moment, then up again. “Eleven million dollars.” She looks right at me. “That will be enough of a cash injection to get the businesses back on track. It won’t cover all the debt, but it will put us on the pathway to paying it all off within a couple years.”
“How much is the debt?”
She watches me warily. “Around thirty-five million dollars.”
“I could give you fifty mil,” I say. That would be less than five percent of what I stand to inherit. No big deal. It still leaves plenty for yachts an
d jets and Gucci suits and cruises up the River Nile. “Would that put you in a good position?”
Her whole body seems to light up. It shines in her eyes, and she gets up. “Are you serious, Gray? It’s so much money. Are you sure?”
I shrug. “Why not?”
She frowns. “Are you kidding? Is this all just a big joke you can run back and tell your high-school buddies about?”
“No.” I grin. “Watch this.”
My iPhone’s on the bedside table. A quick mental calculation tells me it’s ten o’ clock in the evening in England. A little bit late for the old Fink, but it’ll have to do. I can’t lose Isabella’s cooperation now. I video call.
“For god’s sake, Grayson. It’s the middle of the night.” Yet he’s still at his desk behind a mountain of papers. “Have you no breeding?”
“I know, I know, but I wanted you to meet someone, Finky.” I get up and go over to Isabella. “One sec.” I pull the other chair next to hers and get both our faces in the phone’s frame. “Look! This is my fiancée, Isabella. Isabella, this is my father’s solicitor, Mr. Fink.”
“Hello, Isabella,” Mr. Fink says.
To Isabella’s credit, after a quick flicker of shock, her face is composed. “Hi there, Mr. Fink,” she says cheerily. “So glad to see you at last. Gray’s spoken a lot about you.”
“And yet this is the first I’ve heard of you,” Mr. Fink says. “Isabella, if you’ll forgive me for my forthrightness, I have to stress to Grayson that the engagement must be genuine. I would have thought it more suitable for Grayson to find an eligible woman from among the aristocracy in Britain, with whom he is already well-acquainted. A stranger from America seems a rather odd choice, no matter how lovely the stranger might be.”
“Oh, but we’re not strangers,” Isabella says, with a lovely smile. “We were at boarding school together.”
“So, we’ve known each other…” I do a quick calculation in my head. We’re both twenty-eight now, and we met in our first year at thirteen. “Fifteen years.”
“Well, I do apologize for my assumption,” Mr. Fink says. “That puts my mind rather more at ease. I hope you can forgive me, Isabella.”
“Of course,” she says, with generosity.
“I shall be getting back to my paperwork. Do enjoy your evening. Grayson, refrain from calling me at such hours again. And perhaps you could deign to put a shirt—and pants—on before you call me next time.” He says all this without even cracking a smile. “Goodnight.”
He hangs up, and I grin at Isabella. “You were convincing.”
“Don’t you remember I aced drama in school?” She gives a haughty smile then sips from her champagne flute. “This might actually be fun.”
“Yeah. The devastatingly sexy bad-boy aristocrat making Miss Straight Laced Boring Life unclench.”
“Ugh. I take back my last comment.”
I get up and saunter over to the wardrobe, thinking about what to wear for the evening. I might get dinner downstairs. Or out in the city. I can’t stand being cooped up in my room doing nothing. Room service is so overrated. I turn and smirk at her. “Want to come for dinner, fiancée?”
“No, thank you,” she says tightly. “I have to go check on one of my dad’s stores. We have late-night stocking tonight. I need to make sure the stock checking process is working properly. We’ve had some issues with it.”
“Someone stealing tinned tomato cans?” I mock.
“Considering it’s a department store selling designer clothing, makeup, furniture, and there’s not a canned tomato in sight, that would be quite a feat.”
“Designer clothing, hm?” Maybe I could stock up on some new suits. I’ve been clubbing in Seattle for a couple weeks now. I don’t want people to see me in the same clothes too many times.
She snorts. “You have less than nothing in your bank account.”
“I have over a billion—”
“Pounds coming into my bank account,” she says, in a cut-glass upper class English accent. “I know, daaahling.” She sips from her flute, her little finger sticking out.
“Mock all you want.” I select a dark gray suit. An unusual thought flashes through my mind then—will Isabella like it? “But it’s true. And the only way you can save your business is by being grateful and going along with it.”
She laughs, tipping her head back. “Being grateful? You need me as much as I need you.”
I open my mouth to tell her about the long line of girls standing behind her should she turn down the deal. But I know none of them will convince Mr. Fink. I could have chosen one of the aristocrat girls, like Mr. Fink—and probably everyone else—would have expected. But since that monstrosity of a person Lillia Smythe-Darcy weaseled her way into my life, I wouldn’t trust any of them as far as I could throw them. Isabella’s far too principled to have fun with, so she’d be no good as a real partner. If I ever wanted one, which I don’t. But she’s the perfect person to make a deal with. She’d never go back on her word or try to blackmail me for more money. She’s as dependable as the sun rising every morning. I can read her like a book.
“Good thing you’re not coming to dinner,” I say, “dressed like that.”
“Thank you for your unsolicited opinion, Grayson,” she says tersely, then drains her champagne flute. “On that note, I’ll leave you to it. Book the flights. Do whatever you have to. But keep one thing in mind: I don’t want to spend a moment longer with you than I have to.”
“Scared of falling for me?”
She laughs as she walks toward the door, but it’s forced. I open it for her, and she looks me in the eye with that all-familiar glare. “Scared of knifing you.”
“Isabella Price losing her cool? It’s never been heard of. Do I have that much power over you?”
She marches down the hotel corridor and gives a dismissive wave. “In your dreams, Fairfax.”
Chapter 4
Isabella
DAY 3
I wake up with the weirdest feeling.
“I’m Grayson Fairfax II’s fake fiancée.” I say it out loud.
Well, there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say.
I get up and dress for work like I’m in a parallel universe. One where Grayson Fairfax isn’t one of the most objectionable, irresponsible human beings on the planet who should be avoided at all costs.
Thankfully, I have a meeting with Natalie Gonzales, our regional manager, which should help me take my mind off this. She’s a close friend, too, so I’ll be relaxed around her. It’s hard to find women as ambitious and straightforward as me, women who feel comfortable with a go-getter mentality.
She’s a lifesaver, to be honest. I was feeling a bit lost in a sea of women who wanted to talk about marrying rich dudes, or what their rich husbands were getting them from Tiffany’s for their birthday. I was a fish out of water for the thousandth time in my life.
But Natalie gets me. Sure, she encourages me to loosen up and have fun sometimes, which can get a bit annoying. But she accepts me for who I am. That’s rare to find.
When I get to the office, she’s already there, watching one of the inspirational videos she likes. She has her eyes closed, her dark ponytail of thick waves swishing down her back as she moves her head from side to side, enraptured by whatever her YouTube guru is telling her.
“Morning,” I say.
“Hey!” She jumps. “You just dragged me back from the cosmos.”
“Welcome back,” I say with a grin and take my seat at my desk. “I like you here on Earth.”
“Trust me on this.” She closes down the video. “If I don’t escape into the stars from time to time, I turn into a bitch. You have to let me get my stellar fix.”
“Go right ahead, space woman.” I get my papers out of my briefcase. “But can you wait until business is concluded?”
She gives me a wink. “If you insist.”
All through the meeting, I’m desperate to tell her it’s going to be OK—we’re going to get a
massive cash injection, very soon. But I can’t. It’ll open a whole can of worms.
I eventually say, “I think we’re going to get a new line of credit.” That’s not a lie. Not really.
“Ooh,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “The bank finally listened?”
I smile cryptically. “Something like that.”
She presses, but I keep it mystical. I have to. But it’s frustrating. Grayson Fairfax, dictating my actions. Visions of his ripped, muscular chest swim around in my mind, making me feel like maybe he’s not such a waste of space after all. He’s quite funny. Certainly interesting. He’s gained more depth since school.
“Isabella? What do you think?” Natalie’s big doe eyes blink up at me.
“Oh, sorry. Come again?”
Natalie stares, incredulous. “Isabella Price zoning out in a meeting? Impossible.” Then she leans back, and a wicked grin spreads over her face. “Aha! It’s a guy, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I look down and shuffle the paperwork unnecessarily.
“It is, it is!”
Oh, shit. It’s already showing. Do I have that much power over you? I remember him saying it, clear as day, his eyes dancing with the fun of it. Like it’s all a big game to him.
“Bullshit,” I tell Natalie. I can’t let him have any kind of power over me. I’m a strong, capable businesswoman, not a schoolgirl with a crush, doodling “Isabella Fairfax” all over my yellow legal pad. “Now, the figures for quarter three are—”
Natalie crosses her arms across her chest, her eyebrows raised. She smirks. “You can’t fool me, Iz.”
“—looking optimistic with this new line of credit,” I press on.
“I’m not going to let this go. I want to hear every single juicy detail.”
“There are no juicy details!” I blurt out. I sound angrier than I meant to. “And there never will be.”
She giggles. “Oh, right. Well, you seem pretty passionless about it. There’s obviously nothing there. Nothing there at all.”
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore. I push papers around, unable to focus. All the numbers swim. What the hell is happening to me?
