by Eve Black
Because, he’s an ungrateful douche who let some bimbo tear up money, then grinned about it like it was hilarious. Because the first thing he’d done upon realizing it was her he had contracted to marry, her slapped her with the allowance of $500 a week. It wasn’t the amount of the allowance that stung, it was the fact that he thought so little of her—at first sight—that he didn’t trust her. That bothered the hell out of her. She wasn’t just some nothing-nobody from the projects, she was someone who had been vetted and screened and poked and prodded by doctors looking for infirmities, STDs—why that mattered with a no-sex clause, she still didn’t understand—and proof of her virginity. Another strange absolute must on the list of absolute musts.
To even get a call back from the Diamond Bridal Agency, Helene had to meet certain basic criteria:
She had to be from wealth, providing bank statements to prove she wasn’t a grasping nobody looking for a sugar daddy.
She had to be a virgin, which was easy enough to prove when Dr. Short Fingers performed his exam.
She had to know the ins and outs of elite society, which is where her being Babette LaRoque’s daughter came in handy.
She had to be willing to adhere to whatever her prospective husband set forth in their agreement. And she had been. Until she met the man she was supposed to marry and realized that taking her vows tomorrow just might be like signing her life over to misery.
Helene looked from the man, to his living room, and back to him. It was obvious he had money—loads of it—and he had sex appeal—too goddamn much of it—so why did he need to hire a bridal agency to find a wife? Couldn’t he just snap his fingers and beautiful women lined up around the block?
“Why do you want a wife?” she found herself asking aloud, her voice swallowed up by the height of the ceiling and the rugs under her bare feet.
He didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge that she had spoken, so, she stood up and asked again.
“Why do you want a wife?”
This time, he tensed, his broad shoulders straightening, then he turned around, pinning her with those devastatingly blue eyes of his.
“Michael,” he said, confusing her with one word. “My name is Michael.”
She tipped her head in greeting, as if meeting him for the first time. “Michael, why did you need to use a bridal agency to find a wife? It’s clear you have most of what any woman would want.” By most, she meant he lacked any kind of winning personality. He was all looks and money. And that was it.
Come on, you’re being unfair. You haven’t given him a chance. No, she hadn’t, but, if he would give her one, then, she’d return the favor.
“Why do you want a husband?” he asked, his blue gaze dipping to her body, which she held stiffly. Was he judging her, even now?
Breathe…you took the risk, now let it play out.
"I was tired of being overlooked because I am not beautiful or skinny or dress in fancy clothes or slather on makeup or spread my legs for whatever pity lay I could get." She hadn't meant to confess all that, but something in his stance told her that he wasn't in the mood for back and forth.
“And so you signed a contract to marry a complete stranger, hoping that, what? He’d fall in love with you, flaws and all?”
She recoiled as if he’d slapped her. Flaws? So, he had been silently judging her, taking notes on every roll, every thick inch, and the plain blah of her face.
Heat rose into her cheeks only to be doused by the chill of disappointment. She’d made a mistake, thinking that a man who signed on the dotted line would be forced to accept her for her, and not her mother’s daughter. And Michael didn’t even know who her mother was.
It was hopeless.
“You know what…” she said, her voice flat. “This was a mistake.” She walked toward the end of the couch, headed for the guest bedroom, where she’d repack her meager belongings and call a taxi. “I’ll call Mrs. Creed in the morning. Don’t worry, you won’t have to pay me anything for breaking the contract. I opted out of that, anyway,” she finished, leaving the living room with as much swagger as she could pour into her ample hips.
She didn't make it halfway down the hallway before a strong, long-fingered hand gripped her elbow and spun her around.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled, and she snapped.
“Leave me the hell alone! First, you think I’m some gold digging tramp, here to milk your last dime, then you point out my flaws, like I didn’t already know what I look like—how people see me. I don’t need your pity, I don’t need your money.” She choked, trying to speak around the stone of anger and frustration in her throat. “I just wanted the chance, even the slimmest chance, of someone finding worth in me. Not my waist-size, not my looks—or lack thereof—me, who I am, what I love to do, the music I like to listen to, the shows I like to watch, my hobbies, my charities—something other than what he can see with his eyes. God!” She threw her hands into the air, dislodging his grip from her arm. “Just forget it. I can find my own way out.” She began walking again, not caring if he followed or fled. She only knew that she’d made a fool of herself in front of him. No matter what, her time as Michael’s prospective bride was over.
She reached her room without incident and closed the door behind her. No, she wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t going to cry—dammit! A tear slid down her cheek and she closed her eyes.
The knock on the door startled her, and she choked on a sob, forcing it back down into the depths of her chest.
“Helene,” Michael’s deep, muffled voice called from the other side of the door. “Come to dinner with me.”
She gasped; that was not was she was expecting. He wanted to go to dinner with her? She hated the wariness that filled her.
“Why?” she called through the closed door.
“Because,” his deep voice carried through the door and into her chest, “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I think dinner would be a good chance to get to know one another better…figure out if we should just call it all off.”
She couldn’t fault his practicality…and she wouldn’t mind a meal at whatever 5-star restaurant he chose.
“Fine.”
She could hear his heavy sigh—was that relief or anxiety?—and then he said, “Good. Be ready by eight. I’ll have the car pick you up downstairs. I have some business to attend to before we go.”
He left, his footfalls down the hallway matched the beating of her heart. She sucked in a breath and wiped the tears from her cheeks. This was something—a chance at making a go of things. Perhaps he wasn’t the asshole she thought he was.
“Dinner with a rich, sexy man? What could go wrong?”
6
When the sleek, black car pulled up to the 777 Tower, Helene didn’t know what to think. The driver had picked her up from the penthouse, telling her that they would stop for Michael, and then head to the restaurant. She didn’t really know what she expected—maybe he was getting a tan or a mani/pedi—but picking him up from the financial district threw her for a loop. What did Michael do, anyway? Sure, he was rich, but where did his money come from? Was he a child of money like she was, or had he invested in stocks, or had he won the lottery? For the first time in her life, she hated how reclusive she’d been. Maybe if she paid more attention to the scandal sheets and entertainment news, she’d know more about the man with the magic smile and marble ass.
She wanted to think that the source of his wealth didn’t matter, but that would be a lie. If a man worked hard for what he made, he could be counted on to have more character than a man who spent his daddy’s money on bimbos and espresso—her mind flashed to Michael and the blonde who sneered at her like a cat in heat.
Stop thinking about that. It’s the past. You need to think about building a future with him, now.
The door opened and Michael, still dressed in his t-shirt and jeans, slid onto the seat next to her.
Suddenly, she felt overdressed in her emerald green maxi-dress w
ith silver heels and matching clutch. Were they going to stop somewhere for him to change?
Michael turned to her, and when he saw her, the grin on his face slipped.
“You’re wearing a dress,” he remarked, and she bit back the urge to roll her eyes.
“Of course. You asked me to dinner. I assumed my jeans and sweater weren’t appropriate dinner wear.”
He arched an inky eyebrow and his lips twitched. “Honestly, I don’t care what you wear, as long as you’re comfortable.”
Again, the man said the unexpected. She shrugged; if he didn't care about wearing jeans to a fancy restaurant, she wouldn't either. Besides, she appreciated a man who could wear jeans like they were handcrafted just for his ass.
As the car pulled away from the curb and into Thursday night traffic, silence filled the car. She kept her gaze on the buildings flashing by outside the window, but she could feel him next to her. His masculinity was a living thing, reaching out, stroking her, making her want to turn and admire him like the god he was. But, she felt like the square peg in a box of round pegs, sitting there, in that fancy car, wearing her fanciest dress.
Stop thinking like that. You look amazing. Strut your stuff like you know what the hell you’re doing!
“So, Helene,” Michael broke the silence, and she turned to meet his gaze.
Big mistake. In the confines of the car, he was closer, sexier, his presence enveloping her every sense.
“Michael,” she forced out, trying not to squeak.
“Do you like Italian?” His voice was as smooth and decadent as the most delicious cannoli she’d ever tasted.
She nodded, her cheeks warming beneath his gaze. “Of course. It’s one of my favorites.”
He smiled, one side of his mouth curling upward, his blue eyes burning in to her, lighting her up on the inside.
“Mine, too,” he drawled, before turning away to stare out the window.
Helene tried not to feel dismissed, but it was difficult when he didn’t try to make conversation again. When the car pulled up to a small Italian deli on the outskirts of University Park, Helene got her sixth shock of the day. Again, Michael had done the unexpected.
Sliding from the car, Michael reached in to help Helene out, and when her hand touched his, a spark of lightning and fire danced up her arm and into her core. Her eyes wide, she looked up into Michael’s face…his blue eyes had darkened, and something deep and dangerous swirled within them.
She swallowed, dropping her hand from his. He didn’t try to take her hand again as they walked into the building, and she told herself she didn’t care. After all, they weren’t married yet, and besides that, his non-consummation clause read like a rule book for no PDA. Ever. So, he wouldn’t show her physical affection, and she wouldn’t expect it.
So…why did the thought of never being touched by him seem like hell?
Michael greeted Rafael with a hearty hug and a slap on the back. He’d met the man in college, when they were both still trying to figure out what the hell they wanted from life. Eventually, Rafael realized he wanted to make delicious food, and Michael realized he liked eating Rafael’s delicious food. He’d been coming to Rafe’s ever since.
“Welcome, Michael, your usual?” Rafael asked, pointing toward a booth in the corner that was set away from the rest of the room. It was dim, lit only with a single overhead lamp, which meant that whoever sat there could count on not being seen. When he’d first started sitting there, it was because he didn’t want people to stare—he wasn’t the usual kind of Rafe’s clientele. But now, he’d use the privacy for a whole different reason.
As Helene slid into one side of the booth, Michael couldn’t stop himself from watching the hem of her dress as it caught on her knees and then climbed up her creamy thighs. God, her legs were long and curvy, which meant they would wrap around his waist easily.
His cock, which had been at half-mast since leaving Helene in the penthouse, now rose to its full height and thickness. Shit. He took his own seat quickly.
“Here are the menus, though I doubt you need them,” Rafael said, winking. He was gone before Michael could level him with a glare.
“So,” Helene began, her eyes pinned to the menu on the table before her, “what looks good?”
You, on the table, naked, my face buried in your hot pussy…
Sucking in a breath to stop the groan from escaping, Michael reached for the glass of water in the middle of the table. He took a gulp, swallowed, then answered, “The fettuccini and hot sausage is really good. Creamy. Just the right amount of garlic. And the Caesar salad. And the garlic knots.”
She nodded, not looking up at him. “Okay. I’ll have that,” she said, her voice strangely tight.
Suddenly, he wondered if she was nervous. Sure, she looked heart-stoppingly gorgeous in her dress, and she carried herself like a woman born in heels, but…there was a vulnerability in her gaze, in the widening of her eyes, that made him think she wasn’t as unaffected by him as she let on.
And, when their hands touched outside by the car, he knew she felt that same spark he did. It was a spark that told him there was something between them, something he had to uncover. Explore. Damn that non-consummation clause.
When Rafael returned for the order, Michael let Helene order first, then, he handed Rafael his menu. As soon as Rafael walked away, Helene finally looked up at him, her cheeks that lovely pink that made him wonder if the rest of her was the same color right then.
“Are you not going to order?” she asked, and he grinned.
“This place is family style, which means we share.” Her eyebrows curved upward, just as the side of her mouth did in a semi-smile.
“Oh, okay.”
He leaned forward, snagging a whiff of her scent—oranges and vanilla. “You don’t mind sharing with me, do you?” he drawled, suddenly curious if she’d share more than just her meal with him.
He watched her swallow, her cheeks growing ever pinker. He fought the urge to chuckle—Lord, but he loved making her blush.
“No, I don’t mind. We’re going to get married, aren’t we?” she replied, her shoulders rising in a poor attempt at a nonchalant shrug.
“That’s what I agree to when I signed the contract, and I think we would suit well enough…”
Michael slid from his seat, turned, then slid into the booth next to Helene. He heard her breath catch, and he did smile then.
“What-what are you doing?” she asked, a hitch in her voice.
He turned to her, a full grin on his face.
“Sharing,” he drawled. “Family style means one big platter. I figured it’d be easier to share with you, if we weren’t so far apart.”
Her expression fell, just a bit, at his answer, and he barely kept himself from blurting out his real reason for moving. He wanted to be near her, to feel her next to him, to know that his presence did things to her, just as hers did things to him. Hard, thick, aching things.
“Now, tell me about you, Helene. I want to hear all about the woman who will be Mrs. Michael Donovan.”
7
Helene couldn’t believe what a great time she had. Once Michael had asked her about herself, and her nervousness finally disappeared as they began to eat that delicious food, the night only got better. She told Michael about going to school to be a social worker, then she explained about working with the women’s shelter, and how great it felt to be a part of something so important. Then, she talked about her first pet, Rocco, the pug, and how he would snore and it would sound like a leaf blower right in the room with her.
Michael laughed, the corner of his gorgeous eyes and mouth crinkling, and her belly would flip over. Then, she’d ramble on about something else, because she was nervous again. Surprisingly, Michael had been the perfect gentleman throughout the meal, asking her thoughtful questions, smiling, asking her if she’d had enough to eat…not once did she feel like a square peg. Without even trying, Michael had made her…happy.
And now, s
he was standing next to him in the elevator as it rose to the penthouse.
He was leaning back against the wall, his hands in his pockets, and she was clutching her clutch in front of her as a flimsy shield against Michael’s magnetism. It wasn’t working. She was more aware than ever of his ability to pull her, drawing her in, without even saying a word—though, when he spoke, his sinfully deep, smooth voice, made him all the more attractive.
God, why did he had to be like every romance hero ever? Sex appeal, wealth, and charm, her prospective husband had it all, which made his decision to marry a stranger all the…stranger.
As the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, Helene’s heart jumped into her throat. Sure, the night had gone amazingly, but now, she and Michael would be alone…in his penthouse apartment…
Remember the non-consummation clause, one side of her brain screamed, and the other side yelled, you aren’t married yet! Which meant she could beg him to drape her over the kitchen island and make her scream in pleasure—as she’d fantasized about, just that afternoon. She’d been making eggs, he’d been brooding, and she’d been admiring the taut lines of his beautifully angular face—when he wasn’t looking at her. Which was an awful lot for a man who seemed to prefer blondes to gingers, and fake tits and noses, to imperfect everything.
Maybe he was sizing you up, wondering if you’d suit, if you’d be good enough to show off at elite elegant dinners. Like the kinds of dinners her mother used to drag her along to…and she'd get side-eye from people who didn't believe they were blood-related.
Annoyed and flustered, Helene hurried off the elevator as Michael held the door for her, as a gentleman would.
God! Why does he have to keep being so damn wonderful? Where did the asshole from the coffee shop go? Helene couldn’t fault the man’s change in attitude, but she had to wonder at it.
Helene walked into the main living room and tossed her clutch on the couch and, if she were at home, she would have tossed herself on the couch, too, but she wasn’t at home. She was in his home. At least until they got married.
