by Anna Durand
I drew back, most likely slack-jawed, as my arms tumbled off the table onto my lap. "You're paying me half a million bucks to be your wife for a year."
"Precisely. I have more conditions, however." He reached for his papers but changed his mind and took up his pen, twirling it like a gunfighter. "You will live with me, and we will have sexual relations on a regular basis."
My mouth definitely dropped open then.
He raised a placating hand. "Of course, you're free to say no if I want sex and you don't. But I will require it at least twice a week."
Sex. Twice a week. With him. As much as the idea appealed to me, the rest of his cockamamie offer rang alarm bells in my head. The loud, grating kind.
Before I could muster the brainpower to voice my concerns, he went on. "Sex with strangers has been less than fulfilling, and even the risks involved couldn't provide enough stimulation for me. A monogamous arrangement seems the most prudent alternative."
I gripped my chair's arms. "We were strangers the other night, which means you're saying sex with me was less than fulfilling."
"That's not—I meant the others, not you."
"Mm-hm." I glanced at the windows and then at him, confounded and intrigued at the same time. "This is sounding an awful lot like I'll be your live-in prostitute."
"Donnae be ridiculous." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "You will be my wife, with all the benefits of such a relationship."
"Like what?"
"Free access to my financial accounts and the freedom to do whatever you wish." He stood, gathered up his papers, and stalked down the table's length to where I slumped in my chair. Poised on the table's corner, one leg bent, he held the papers facedown on his thigh. In a voice far too enticing for my sanity, he said, "You told me you've spent years working hard to pay off your student loans, and that you had little opportunity for the fun you value so highly. It sounds to me as if you've been stifled by responsibility. For a woman like you, that must've been torture."
Damn, he was good. He'd listened to everything I blabbed to him, but more than that, he'd figured out what it all meant.
"Not torture," I said. "I got sick and tired of working forty hours a week—often fifty, sixty, or more—to make my employer rich while I lived in a teeny apartment and never took a single vacation day."
He nodded in understanding, his entrancing eyes fixated on me.
Maybe he did understand me. Rory MacTaggart had to be the most stifled person I'd ever met, but he seemed to have done it to himself. Could that be the real reason he wanted to marry me? Did he hope I'd encourage him to break out of his iron shell?
"What I offer," he said, slanting his body down toward me, "is liberation from those responsibilities. With my wealth, you can do anything you want. Consider it an extended holiday or start your own programming firm, if that's what you like."
"Oh no, I've had it with that stuff."
"Discover what you do want. Even after we separate, you'll have a significant amount of money and no need to rush to find employment." He settled a hand on the back of my chair, his face inches above mine, the scent of his spicy aftershave enveloping me. "I'm offering to fund your search, so you can take all the time you need to find your passion."
Gazing up into his eyes, feeling the heat of him so close, I couldn't stop my body from responding. Heat suffused me, from my skin down to the depths of my sex, where he'd claimed me two nights ago and shown me passion and pleasure like none I'd ever known. I had trouble catching my breath, and my body hummed with awareness of him.
Rory dragged a fingertip down my jaw to the corner of my mouth. "Who else can offer you this sort of freedom?"
Ohhh, he was beyond good at this. He was like the devil seducing me into selling him my soul.
"How do I know you'll stick to the bargain?" I asked. "What's to stop you from using me and throwing me away when you get tired of my silliness?"
"This." He proffered his papers to me. "A contract."
"A—huh?" I blinked rapidly, my gaze flitting from the papers to his face several times before I managed to freeze my attention on him. "I don't understand."
"These papers include two documents, a prenuptial agreement and a marriage contract. Combined, they detail our arrangement." He set the papers on my lap. "Read them. Carefully."
"Should I have a lawyer look at this?" Not that I could afford one.
"For the prenuptial agreement, yes. As for the marriage contract, a lawyer would tell you it's unlikely to be enforceable."
"How is the contract different from the prenup?"
"You'll see when you read it."
I looked down at the papers on my lap. "If the contract's not enforceable, what's the point?"
"The contract is a promise between us." Rory ratcheted his spine straight, still perched on the table's edge. "Essentially, these documents obligate you to remain my wife for one year and to perform your marital duties at least twice each week. You will have access to my financial accounts, as I've said, but you are free to open your own accounts should you wish to do so. You further agree to attend social functions and to maintain the pretense we are in love."
A frantic laugh spurted out of me, accompanied by a light spray of spittle that missed Rory by a hair. "Are you serious? I have to pretend we're madly in love. You better hire an actress, because I don't think I can be that convincing."
"I believe you can."
He inclined his body to hover low over me, cupping my cheek with one hand. The other palmed my breast through my clothing.
My mouth opened on a silent "oh." I pushed up on the chair's arms, lifting my butt off the seat a fraction.
His lips curled up into a hint of a smug smile. "You won't have to fake your reactions to me."
"That's lust, not love."
"No one will notice the difference." He flicked his thumb over my stiffening nipple, shooting a jolt of pleasure straight down to my core. "If you need a bit of encouragement to fulfill your social duties, I can provide it."
Oh great. I'd walk into every family gathering and holiday party so turned on I'd be on the verge of orgasm. But hey, at least his family would buy our story about instant true love.
"I'm still not sure," I said. Waving a finger in a circle in front of his face, I added, "As far as I can tell you've got at least three people living inside that pretty little head of yours. Not sure I can handle psychological bigamy."
"There's no one else in my head. Only me."
"I don't mean actual split personalities. You have these distinct facets to your personality, and they come and go like flipping a switch."
He frowned. "If you think I'm insane—"
"No, that's not what I mean either." I searched his simmering eyes for the answer but failed to find it. "You're very complicated, Rory."
"I've been told as much before. By my family."
A realization iced through me at the mention of loved ones. "What about my family? What am I supposed to tell them?"
"The same thing we tell mine."
"A lie, you mean." I squirmed, uncomfortable with deception but also enduring a sudden, wet ache between my thighs, instigated by his enticing voice and his palm on my breast. "Would you please remove your hand?"
He complied, resting one hand on his thigh and the other on the table.
Sure, my family knew I was unhappy with my life. If I announced I was marrying a man I'd met Friday night, they'd probably jump on the next plane to America and kidnap me, spiriting me away to the nearest mental hospital.
I didn't have to lie. Part of the truth might satisfy them.
Oh shit. I was seriously contemplating his offer.
My mouth went dry. I clenched the marriage contract in my hand. "I need to think about this."
"Take all the time you need." He rose to tower over me. "I can wait in the other room."
"No." I shoved my chair backward and sprang to my feet. "I need to think while I'm away from you, away from your crazy-hot sexiness and charming little idiosyncras
ies. I'll change my airline ticket and fly home as soon as I can today."
His head drooped, shoulders caved in.
"I promise I will think about your proposal." Since he blocked my path to the door, I laid a hand on his chest and pushed. "Please move. You're in my way."
Rory enclosed my hand in his much bigger one. The feel of his sinewy fingers around mine stimulated me in the most distracting way. My Scot was the antidote to rational thought.
Not mine. But he could be. All I had to do was say yes.
He kept my hand caged in his as he backed me up to the table, forcing me to brace my behind against the edge. His knee eased between mine to part my thighs. I gripped the wood in one hand, but nothing could ground me when he was this close.
He pressed my other hand to his chest. "What can I do to convince you?"
"I-I don't know. You're suggesting I marry you for sex and money." I pitched backward but couldn't move far with his hand around mine and the table behind me. "The money I get. But the sex…We only did it the one time. Maybe it'll stink from now on."
His chuckle rumbled in his chest, soft and erotic, vibrating against my palm. "It won't. And for the record, we fucked more than once."
"Twice in a single night. I'm counting that as one time."
"You came three times."
My body softened more the longer he lingered inches away from me. His knee between my thighs had my hips longing to thrust into his blossoming erection. How did he do this to me so easily? One minute he was Mr. MacTaggart, solicitor general of the world. The next he'd transformed into the scorching Scotsman who'd beguiled me into spending the night with a man whose name I hadn't even known.
I wrestled my hand free of his, despite my racing pulse and the ever-growing slickness in my sex. "What did you do, make a spreadsheet to keep track of our sexual encounters? Bet you like spreadsheets. You're so…meticulous."
His lips tightened into a naughty smirk. With his mouth a breath from mine, he murmured, "You make 'spreadsheet' sound filthy."
And just like that, a vision blasted through my mind. Me spread across a sheet with Rory on top of me. A crimson sheet. Silk. Slippery.
His lips teased mine as he spoke. "Stay until the red-eye tonight. I'll show you how meticulous I can be."
Molten heat flooded over my skin, and a mindless hunger pulsated inside me. Helpless to resist, I flung my arms around his neck and slung my legs around his hips. My heels dug into his ass. "Why wait? Show me now."
"Can't."
"Excuse me?" I pulled my head back. "Why not?"
The pained look on his face evinced a deep inner struggle. "It's daytime."
"Huh?" I pulled back a little more, narrowing my gaze on him. "Oh Rory, you have got to be joking."
"No joke." He disentangled himself from me and shuffled backward a few steps. His arms hung stiffly at his side, and his fingers twitched. "It's daytime. Sex is a nighttime activity."
"Uh-huh." I pushed away from the table. The contract he'd given me lay strewn across the floor where it must've fallen out of my hand when he backed me into the table. "Listen, I better go home right away. Your hang-ups are cute and all, but I need to seriously consider whether this is a good idea for either one of us."
I gathered up the papers in a messy bundle and hurried past him toward the doorway.
"Emery."
Something in his voice stopped me. I half-turned to glance at him.
His arms hung limp, his face had become a stony mask. "If the answer is no, tell me now and be done with it."
"I'm not saying no. I'm saying give me a little time and space." I hugged the haphazard sheaf of papers to my chest. "When do you go home?"
"Wednesday."
"You'll have my answer by then."
Preoccupied with the papers I held, he twitched fingers again. "Where do you live?"
"Oh. Sorry." A nervous laugh bubbled out of me. "Forgot to tell you, didn't I? Colorado Springs."
"I'll wait until Wednesday." His motioned toward the papers. "Those must be out of order."
"Yeah, I'll sort them out later." I tilted my head. "You really, really want to come over here and straighten these papers yourself, don't you?"
He hissed what sounded like a curse in another language. "I'm not that uptight."
"Glad to hear it." I tapped the pages against my chest. "One more question. Why me? Out of all the women in the world, why pick one who drives you crazy?"
"I loved my previous wives. You're nothing like any of them, nothing like the sort of woman I've been attracted to in the past." He shoved a hand in his pants pocket, then removed it. "There's no danger involved. I can't love you."
Rory MacTaggart was, I decided in this moment, the living embodiment of denial. His attraction to me had been proved beyond any doubt. I'd begun to wonder if he wanted me because I was different. Because I challenged him. Because he thought he could love me one day.
Dangerous thoughts, for sure.
"Better call the airline," I said, "and change my reservation. I'm leaving as soon as possible."
Though I couldn't see him as I exited the room, I sensed him watching me. The poor guy seemed oddly hell-bent on marrying me. And I, for some bizarre reason, was tempted to say yes. More than tempted. I had a burning itch deep inside compelling me to sign on for a marriage of convenience. I must think about it.
No more thinking, Emery the wild whispered in my ear. Seize the Scotsman and run with it.
I ordered my inner voice to shut the hell up.
Then I walked out the door.
Chapter Ten
Tuesday morning, I leaned against the low wall of a cubicle inside the windowless offices of Travellis Games with an envelope in my hand, tapping the envelope's corner on the cubicle. My elbows were balanced on the wall, my hands hanging off the edge, as I stared into space.
Today, I'd signed the final papers to end my employment with Travellis, laid off after six years here. The envelope I held contained my severance, the equivalent of two paychecks, as well as a letter of recommendation from my former boss. I hadn't told him I was done with programming. Done with tech jobs, period. I needed a change, something drastic that might lead to a more fulfilling life. I had no clue what my passion in life might be, but I knew how to find out.
Accept Rory's offer.
Ever since I'd left him Sunday morning, I'd thought about it—thought longer and harder than I had about any decision in my life. I preferred the "jump first and get the details later" approach to life. After some serious cogitating, I'd reached a deceptively simple conclusion.
Nothing tied me to Colorado Springs. Nothing tied me to this country, even. Oh, I loved America and I'd miss it, but nothing meaningful kept me here. My sister lived in Germany, my parents in Australia. I had no other family. With my job gone, I could either stay here and search for another programming position I didn't want, or I could take a gigantic leap of faith and maybe find the excitement and adventure my life had lacked for too long.
I'd always picked the safe guys, the ones with gainful employment and steady personalities but no joie de vivre. There hadn't been anything wrong with them, really. I'd loved the man I almost married, and yet I hadn't experienced any regret about calling off the engagement two weeks after accepting his proposal. Six months had gone by since that day, and Luke and I had returned to the friendship we'd known before we tried to remake it into a romance. I realized after our split I loved him as a friend and only a friend. He seemed as unaffected by our breakup as I had been. Something had been missing in relationship. Something vital.
The zing.
Maybe it was a silly term for a lack of passion, but it embodied the missing element better than any other word. Luke and I had no zing, in bed or in any aspect of our relationship. With Rory MacTaggart, I'd found the zing.
And I'd decided to marry him.
"Em, are you sleeping standing up?"
The voice of my coworker—former coworker, that was—jerked me bac
k to the moment. Sabri Yilmaz stared at me with uplifted black brows, his dark eyes obscured by the fluorescent lights reflecting in his glasses. I hunched on the opposite side of the cubicle wall from him, where he sat upright in a half-back office chair with no armrests.
I hated those chairs.
Sabri waved a hand in my face. "Earth to Emery."
"Ha-ha. I'm awake."
"That trip to NOLA must've been wild to leave you in a trance." He folded his arms over his chest, hiding the logo of his ComicCon T-shirt. Yeah, we'd ventured to San Diego together, along with another cohort from Travellis. Sabri sighed. "Man, I can't believe we won't be working together anymore. I'll miss you, Em."
"I'll miss you too."
A head popped up from the adjacent cubicle, a head fringed with blue-streaked brown hair.
"What about me?" Pamela Figueroa asked. She feigned a pout. "Guess you've already forgotten me."
"Of course not," I said. "I'll miss you too, Pam."
"Aw, Em, it won't be the same without you." Pam glanced around the office space at all the empty cubicles. "It's like a tomb in here."
I may have been the first to go, but downsizing had claimed a lot of others after me. Sabri and Pamela were the only ones left in this office, though the company had more cubicles in another space down the hall.
More drudge workers. I wouldn't miss the long hours of a daily grind that never seemed to end.
"I may be leaving the country," I said.
"Going where?" Pam asked, hurrying out of her cubicle to stand near me.
"Scotland."
Sabri's eyes went wide. "Awesome. Will you wear a kilt?"
"Maybe."
"Awesome." He grinned. "Text me a pic. And make sure the kilt is good and short."
I stretched over the cubicle wall to tousle his hair. "Behave, kid. I'm old enough to be your…well, not your mother. Your older stepsister, maybe."
"Super-hot stepsister." He picked up a photo frame that rested on his desktop, a picture of the three of us at last year's Halloween party. Sighing wistfully, he said, "I'll really miss your costumes."
"You need a girlfriend, sweetie."
He winked. "Tried, but you turned me down."
