by Naima Simone
It was…gorgeous. Stunning.
And had tears prickling her eyes.
There was nothing sterile or cold about this ring. It spoke of passion, and heat, and life. And unlike the other solitaires that could double as the Hope Diamond, this touched her. Clutched her throat and filled it with emotion that seemed disproportionate to a simple ring.
She lifted her head, met his silver gaze. It cut through her, penetrated her walls of sarcasm and I Don’t Give a Fuck that she’d erected. She tried to look away, but that stare wouldn’t allow it. Not even when he slipped the jewelry on her left ring finger
“That is the most romantic thing ever,” the brunette breathed behind Morgan.
Tearing her gaze away from his, she stared at how the beautiful gems gleamed against her skin. Bring me in from the cold, and tell me you’ll be my wife. The words echoed in her head, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, her fingers curling to trap the slightly loose band.
Bring me in from the cold.
For a crazy moment, she wanted to truly be the one who could do that for him. With his cool demeanor and locked-up-tight reserve, he looked like he’d been out there a long time.
Exhaling, she lifted her head, curving her lips in a smile that trembled on her mouth. A charade. This is all about the charade. She couldn’t afford to forget that. Not even for a second.
“Didn’t I tell you he was sweet?” She glanced over shoulder at the brunette. “How could I resist a proposal like that?”
Scooting forward, she prepared to jump down off the glass top, but strong hands grasped her waist once more and lowered her to the floor. Clearing her throat, she sidled out from between his big body and the case.
“You know while we’re here, pumpkin, we should choose our wedding bands. No time like the present, right?”
She didn’t wait for his reply but sailed off in search of a ring for her fiancé.
And in search of the space needed to remind herself why they’d agreed to this farce.
Control of Bishop Enterprises.
Phoenix House.
Freedom.
Not love.
Never love.
Chapter Seven
“So how did it go?” Morgan asked, closing Alex’s office door behind them.
He rounded his desk, flipping through the messages his former secretary as of ten minutes ago had handed him when he returned to the office from a meeting with the officers of the company.
Setting the notes on the desktop, he turned his attention to his fiancée.
No. Didn’t matter how many times he said it aloud or in his head, it didn’t feel any less weird.
He dropped his gaze to her left hand and the pink diamond that glittered there. Unbidden, his thoughts traveled back to yesterday afternoon when he’d slipped the jewelry on her finger. The spontaneously spun story about his “proposal,” touching Morgan, her surprise at his choice of ring.
God, her astonishment at the ring…
Until that moment when her eyes had glistened with tears, he’d been calling himself all kinds of fools for his choice. The large diamond solitaires Hammond had pre-selected had been perfectly suitable; he didn’t fault Hammond for his selections. But none of them had seemed…right. The rose-colored tear-drop diamond had been gorgeous, but different. Eye-catching. The whimsy of the jewelry reminded him of the impish, if not sometimes frenetic, light that glowed like a beacon inside Morgan. A light that simultaneously unsettled him even as it beckoned him closer like moths to one of those electrical lanterns. Certain pain and doom awaited him, but there were times he wondered if the sizzle wouldn’t be worth it.
But then she usually opened her mouth, uttered something that had him grinding his molars to dust, and the moment would pass.
Although… Since her impromptu visit and offer at his home Saturday night, he’d come to suspect that sardonic, often outlandish wit was more a defense than a character trait. He’d caught glimpses of the other, vulnerable woman in between her verbal haymakers that seemed orchestrated to put people off or keep them at a safe distance.
Like in the jewelry store.
Anger stirred in his chest as he lowered to his chair behind the desk. Because, in spite of Morgan’s cavalier attitude toward her broken engagement, he sensed she hurt. And no matter her denial, he knew Troy and her stepsister were behind the wounded shadows in Morgan’s eyes when he’d picked her up the day before.
Maybe she still loved the bastard.
Maybe her offer to “marry” Alex had as much to do with distracting herself from the pain as it did with saving her Phoenix House.
The thought of being a “distraction” scraped at his skin like a bad case of road rash.
“It went fine. As expected,” he said, answering her question.
“Oh, before I forget, there’s a message in there from your father’s secretary. A reminder about dinner at his house this weekend. So will I be meeting my future father-in-law Saturday night?” She pointed to the small stack as she lowered into the chair in front of his desk.
“I haven’t decided yet. I still have to let him know I’ve become engaged.” He picked up the stack of memos again and separated them into levels of importance.
“Well, he should be happy, right? You’re doing what he wanted,” she said.
Alex grunted a reply. His father might be satisfied he’d achieved his goal of forcing Alex to find a fiancée. Or he might be the exact opposite, suspicious and annoyed. Their relationship was…complicated.
“I’ll take that manly grunt as confirmation,” she drawled. “Well, being your intended means I’m unemployed since I can’t mix business with pleasure, thanks to Lier’s no-fraternization rule, and work for my soon-to-be-hubby. So you achieved what you wanted anyway. Not just getting a fiancée, but me fired.” She grinned. “When does my replacement arrive?”
“Tomorrow. I’ve already spoken with Human Resources. But I would appreciate you staying a couple of days and training her on her responsibilities.” He paused. “And I’m sorry to let you go. You helped make the transition here very smooth.”
“Wait.” She shot to her feet and strode to his office window. He swiveled around in his chair in time to see her craning her neck first to the left then the right as she peered out the glass. “Huh. No flying pigs or Jesus floating down on a cloud. Still, I’m pretty sure I just heard you compliment me.”
“Morgan,” he growled.
“Yes?” she purred, turning around and, crossing her arms, leaned a shoulder against the window.
He frowned, briefly shifting his gaze to the view behind her before meeting her eyes again. “Thank you,” he murmured.
Surprise flashed over her face, and he caught the low intake of breath. Slowly, she straightened, a wariness chasing the astonishment. She cleared her throat and glanced away. Jesus. Was she…blushing? On anyone else, he would’ve said yes. But this was Morgan. She probably hadn’t blushed since birth.
“You’re welcome,” she said softly. “And no problem, by the way. I’ll train the new person.” Her smile, slightly devilish, returned. “Though they could never be me.”
“What are your plans now that you’re unemployed?” He could’ve ended their conversation there. Told her he had some work to finish up and that he would see her tomorrow. It was true; the company was hardly out of the financial woods yet, but he possessed no doubt he would have it profitable soon. But that meant hours of work ahead of him. Still, he wasn’t ready to send Morgan away. Not yet. For some reason he couldn’t explain, and didn’t delve too deep to analyze, the thought of being alone right now had a small, empty hole in his gut.
“I don’t know,” she said, but an odd note in her voice had his focus sharpening on her face.
“You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?” he pressed, leaning back in his chair.
She studied him, her eyes shuttered. But he caught the telltale clenching of her fingers at her sides.
“How crazy is it
that I trust you with this more than anyone else?” She tipped her head back and loosed a sharp crack of laughter. “Before Gerald died, the director of Phoenix House asked me to become her assistant director. With the full-time job the will mandated I have, I couldn’t accept because I could only work at the center several hours a week. But now…”
“Now you have the time to devote your full attention to it. So, what’s behind your hesitation?”
She fell silent, her gaze shifting over his shoulder. When she returned her gaze to him several moments later, the shadows had darkened.
“You asked me before if my broken engagement was the reason why I didn’t work at my stepfather’s company. I told you the truth when I said no. Cynthia and Troy’s betrayal wasn’t the reason. I found out about them a month ago. The truth is my stepfather didn’t ask me to come work with him, most likely never even considered it, in spite of the fact that I had a bachelor’s and master’s in business administration and finance. He’d been the reason I pursued those degrees, you know. I wanted to make Carr Inc. a true family business. But Gerald never considered me family.” Her matter-of-fact tone didn’t change, but the twisting of her fingers increased.
Kim had been the only woman he’d ever offered comfort to—after one of their own father’s snubs—but he found himself needing to add Morgan to that very abbreviated list. He clenched his own fingers around the arms of his chair to prevent himself from leaning forward and covering her hands with his.
“My sister Merri and I were his wife’s daughters,” she continued. “He already had a daughter, and had no more room in his heart for another. Cynthia owned all of his affection, his love. And with her by his side at the family company, he didn’t need me. An outsider. A pretty, shiny, useless social butterfly who he decided had a head for the latest fashion shows in New York or Paris, but not for business.”
A heavy quiet pervaded the room. And even though she’d stated that she could trust him with the confession, he couldn’t help but notice the tightness of her shoulders as if she braced herself for…what? Rejection? Ridicule? Anger flared inside him as he scanned her carefully, wondering what kind of blind or heartless—or both—asshole would dismiss not just her intelligence, but her.
“Your stepfather was an idiot,” he rumbled.
She shook her head. “Don’t get me wrong. Gerald wasn’t mean. He never mistreated me. He was…indifferent. Which, sometimes, can hurt just as bad as a ‘bitch’ or a slap to the face.”
Or worse.
The words reverberated against his skull.
He knew about being ignored. About not being a priority and a casualty of hit ‘n’ miss parenting.
Memories he’d buried in a dark, mental vault crept through a rusty, cracked door.
Sitting on the top step of a staircase as his mother raged about “not being able to take it anymore.” Her slamming out the front door. Never returning.
Standing, silent, as his father waved a careless good-bye while escorting his newest woman out for a special date. Forgetting his son’s birthday.
Walking across a stage in a cap and gown to accept his high-school diploma. No family in the audience screaming his name.
It would no doubt shock Morgan to know that they shared something in common. But where she’d longed for a father’s affirmation and affection, he’d learned early that wanting something so desperately only set a person up for disappointment. So, he’d stopped wanting.
Then again…maybe Morgan had stopped, too…
“You’re afraid to accept the position,” he murmured.
“Yes,” she replied frankly, simply. Then softer, “Yes. What if…what if Gerald was right?”
A swift denial rose to his tongue. Alex had known Morgan for a little over two weeks, but in that time, her intelligence and skill had become evident. Hell, the week before, he’d thought more than once that her talent was wasted as his assistant. That she could easily replace one of the department heads he’d had to fire, and run the area with no problems at all. No, she might doubt her ability to help direct Phoenix House, but he didn’t. Not with her passion for the nonprofit organization leading the way. He leaned forward, prepared to tell her just that when her expression shifted, and her usual sardonic smile slid back into place, accompanied by a slightly mocking tilt of her eyebrow.
“Anyway, back to the meeting. Details. They didn’t give you the you’re-an-old-lecherous-coot-for-poking-your-secretary look at the announcement of our engagement?” she pressed, rounding his desk in her sensual, long-legged stride. Did she do that on purpose? Sway her hips in a walk meant to seduce? The effect should’ve been wasted on him. But it wasn’t.
Far fucking from it.
Clenching his jaw until a dull ache twinged in protest, he dragged his scrutiny up from her slender hips and endless legs showed to perfection in a red pencil skirt. Her lips wore the same color lipstick, bringing to mind the fresh strawberries one of his father’s ex-mistresses used to religiously keep in their refrigerator. The reason for the fruit, he chose not to dwell on. But her mouth—ripe, lush, red—tempted as the strawberries had. Made him as hungry.
“No,” he said, his voice roughened by the unwelcome lust crawling around in his veins. Shit. She should be outlawed from wearing crimson lipstick. “They didn’t comment at all except to say congratulations. And I’ve never ‘poked’ a day in my life,” he added, snorting at the ridiculous phrase for sex.
“A virgin?” she gasped, eyes widening. “Why didn’t you say so? I promise to be extra gentle with you on our wedding night.”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“No, no. This would answer some of my questions, actually.” She tilted her head to the side. “Since you’re my betrothed, I can share my worries with you. I’m not going to pretend a humility I don’t have—I’m hot.”
“You’re right.” He paused. “You don’t possess any humility.”
She propped a hip on the edge of his desk. “The point is, men have been hitting on me since before I grew breasts. But not you. Of course, I could chalk that up to you being a little, uh…” She pursed her lips, squinting her eyes. “A little emotionally challenged.”
That wasn’t the first time he’d heard that particular accusation. When he was sixteen, one of his father’s mistresses who’d been some kind of a pet psychologist to the stars, had told him the reason behind his “emotional detachment” was directly related to his mother leaving him at seven years of age and his fear of connecting due to abandonment issues. Blah, blah, blah.
Then she’d tried to put her hand down his pants and her tongue in his mouth.
“But then it occurred to me that in addition to not liking me, you just might not be attracted to me,” she said. “From the act you did in the jewelry store, I know you can pretend affection toward me. But physical attraction is something else.”
She rose from her perch and flattened her palms on the desk top, leaning forward. Her breasts pushed against the silken material of her shirt, the tiny row of buttons earning their keep by containing the soft weight of her flesh. And he knew it was soft yet firm, because no matter how he tried to scrub the sensory memory free of his brain and body, he couldn’t forget how those breasts felt against his chest.
His body tightened, a rush of lust pouring through his veins and culminating in his cock. His erection strained behind his zipper, and he grasped hold of every scrap of control he possessed not to fist the thickening column through his pants.
He dragged his gaze up, away from the temptation of touch-more-than-a-handful mounds, to the blue eyes that seemed to dare him, challenge him. As if that stare seemed to perceive the struggle waging in his body. The struggle to remain in his seat or grab her, spread her out on his desk, and discover for himself the color of her nipples.
Fuck, this was crazy. He wasn’t even sure he liked her, and yet thoughts of shoving that tight skirt up around her hips and tasting everything the clothing hid consumed him.
And
when had he shifted from not liking her to not being sure if he did?
The woman was slowly shredding his control, and he hated it.
Feared it.
Yet, as he stared into her eyes that glittered with something reckless, a little bit wild, he felt nothing but hot, control-searing need.
“I think you should kiss me,” Morgan stated.
The matter-of-fact tone didn’t match the slightly taunting smile she wore or the hooded gaze that barely concealed a sensual gleam. For him. When had that changed? Or was that glint of arousal another one of her acts?
His mind questioned the veracity of her attraction.
His body didn’t give a good goddamn.
“What are you doing, Morgan?” He couldn’t eliminate the rasp from his voice. Not with lust roughening it like a plow churning up newly turned earth. “What game are you playing?”
“The game you’re buying me a building for. I’m trying to cover all our bases. Be the best fake fiancée possible. And as two people desperately and deeply in love, PDA will be expected. So let’s do a trial run. Kiss me. See if we need to work on it before taking this show on the road. So. Kiss. Me,” she murmured.
“No,” he ground out.
“Why not?” she countered. “Scared you won’t be able to live up”—her gaze dropped to his lap and the rigid flesh that mocked him—“to the occasion?” When she returned her attention to his face, that blue scrutiny fucking smoldered.
With a growl, he rocketed to his feet.
In three long strides, he rounded the desk and, as she turned to face him, he cupped the back of her neck. Dragged her forward until her chest and thighs pressed against his.
The heat in those eyes had accomplished what her words couldn’t.
They snapped his restraints. Sent him charging headfirst out of “I’m in control” into “I don’t give a fuck.”
He crushed his mouth to hers, answering the siren’s call that had been tempting him since they’d walked into the office. On another, deeper growl, he thrust his tongue into her mouth, parting those pretty lips.
