“To make you feel more confident with the partners. Nothing major, just a little TLC to remind you how beautiful you are—inside and out.” Her friend flashed that persuasive smile and tugged on her ear. Never a good sign. “C’mon, M.A., you can trust me.”
Marianne scrunched up her face, starting to fold, half interested in creating a brand-new image, half certain this was not a good idea. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m keeping the glasses.”
“Yes.” Jane pumped her fists into the air, walked over, and pulled Marianne out of the chair. “We’re keepin’ the glasses.”
“But what about the office?” she said, glancing back at her desk, double-timing her steps to keep up as her friend strode over to the closet.
Jane tossed out another big fat grin and grabbed the dress. “Good thing I’m the boss.”
Chapter Seven
“I don’t know who invented high heels, but all women owe him a lot.”
—Marilyn Monroe
As music drifted from the speakers, Marianne stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the edge of the living room and stared at her reflection. Outside the SoHo lights twinkled, winking up at her as if in on her secret and, as she gazed up at the stars, the darkening sky at her feet, she felt transformed.
Dressed in the hot pink, strapless number from the closet, her hair a shade lighter, equal parts blond and sandy brown, she looked…well…still serious, still like herself, but different. Equal parts siren and Marianne.
Jane’s stylist had cut her shoulder-length mess into a stylish bob that seemed to flatter every curve of her face. Incredible, really, what the man had accomplished with a pair of scissors and massive quantities of tropical-smelling hair products.
Adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose, she twisted to glimpse the pièce de résistance, a pair of high-heeled, strappy gold and pink sandals that were absolutely to die for. Sure, she’d been testing out the occasional high heel in her quest to embrace her sexier side, and she’d worn the red stilettos, but these beauties were different. Delicate and sweet, but sexy, too. A perfect complement to the dress.
When she’d agreed to go tonight, she’d been terrified, completely certain she’d fail to impress. But Jane had said trust me, and her friend had come through in spades. Marianne looked sexier than she’d ever looked. More importantly, she felt sexier. Vivacious and free, even a little bit beautiful.
Turning from the window, she walked to the armchair and picked up the new cardigan she’d purchased at Saks. Soft ivory silk, with gold sequined paillettes, the sweater made every other sweater she owned envious. Not wanting to cave completely to the idea that a woman needed to be packaged or made over to be desirable, Marianne had insisted on the sweater, the way she’d insisted on the glasses.
But she had slipped into LensCrafters and upgraded her tortoiseshells to a sultry pair of golden cat-eyed frames adorned with a smattering of crystals at the temple, the perfect amount of bling. Never a believer in fairy tales, Marianne felt like some kind of modern day Cinderella.
No statistics. All magic.
Her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and picked up. “Jane?”
“Are you wearing the dress?”
Marianne smiled at her friend’s less-than-traditional greeting. “Yes, and it’s beautiful. But are you sure?” She bit down hard on her lower lip and glanced down at the dress. “Maybe it’s too sexy for a work function.”
“Trust me on this one.” The smile in her voice came straight through the phone. “Just stick to the plan and you’ll be the hottest fiancée in the place.”
“Right.” Stick to the plan.
Be sociable. Be sweet. Be charming.
Be careful.
Marianne wrapped her arms around her torso to control the shivers of excitement and anxiety coursing through her body at the thought of a real date with Nick. Jane had been right, a little TLC, and already she felt more confident. The hottest fiancée in the place. “Wish me luck.”
“Are you wearing the strappy gold sandals?”
She glanced down at the sexy little numbers. “Yes.”
“Then Marianne?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t need luck.”
…
The sapphire ring burned a hole in his pocket.
Nick was about to give a ring to his fake fiancée. His mother’s ring, the one he kept in his office safe because he didn’t have the balls to pawn it when she’d asked him to. Not like his mom would ever know. Marianne would wear it for a few weeks and then—boom—right to the pawnshop. No more sentimental bullshit.
Jesus, he was going to give a woman a ring. He shook his head. If there was ever a time to book an appointment with a psychiatrist, it was now. Trying to pass off a blind date as the love of his life was crazy, more like a roll of the dice than a calculated risk. He kneaded the muscles at the back of his neck. Maybe he was more like his father than he wanted to admit.
But unlike his old man, Nick refused to run. If tonight ended in a flameout, he’d survive. The end of his partnership bid. Hell, the end of his career. Whatever came next, he’d face it, straight on. He’d survived worse. A quick swipe of his electronic key activated the lock, and he stepped inside the condo. But the place felt different.
The door shut behind him with a click. Music floated down the hall, and not just any music, sexy blues music.
He took a few steps toward the living room. An inviting, citrusy scent mixed with the burn of the vanilla candles Jane had given him last year. He liked it. Funny, he was so used to walking into a dark, empty apartment that he never gave much thought to what a less-empty one might feel like.
Marianne had brought warmth along with her overloaded Kindle and cool, starched skirts, and surprisingly, Nick was pleased with the change. Not that he was going to be changing his rules anytime soon. Relationships weren’t for him.
He enjoyed his routine—long hours at work, dates that ended in great sex, an occasional beer at Temptation, dinner with Jane. He liked his habits, everything was easy and fun, and yes, he confessed, maybe a little shallow. He’d never allowed himself to consider it until now, but his patterns felt a bit hollow. His dating rules purposefully left little room for a woman in his life, but he had to admit that it was nice to come back to a place that felt like a home. Nick hadn’t felt at home in a long, long time.
He stopped at the end of the hall, rested his shoulder against the wall—and whoa—he didn’t need to be concerned about her starched cardigan exposing his engagement scam. He needed to worry about one of the partners suffering heart failure. Holy hell, when he called to tell her about tonight, she promised to be ready, but he’d been expecting a knee-length skirt, maybe an upgraded cardigan. Marianne had been talking about a whole different ballpark. Holy shit. Simply watching her from across the room made his mouth go dry.
Lost in the sultry rock song playing, her hips moved in a slow deliberate semicircle as if dancing a sensual rumba. Released from her usual pulled-back style, her golden brown hair swung in a soft sheet past her chin, and he felt a sudden urge to sift its weight through his fingers as if it were pure silk.
Nick hadn’t even started on the dress. Man, that was one helluva dress. Enough to bring a room full of investment attorneys to the closing table. Not at all what he’d been expecting. The prim skirt and sweater combo had been replaced by a cocktail dress that was spectacular, but not nearly as spectacular as the curves swaying to the music, filling out the lines of the dress, coasting past full hips to a pair of strappy sandals. Nick bit back a groan. Those killer legs let loose in a pair of high heels practically knocked the wind out of him.
“Holy hell,” he said, standing at the edge of the room.
Startled, she turned to look. Right. At. Him.
Damn.
Nick scrubbed his face with his hands. If the back of the dress was spectacular, then the front was…holy shit.
She took a step toward him, stumbling a bit in those smokin’ hot stilettos
. “Hi, I hope you don’t mind…”
Her words drifted past him, but none of them mattered. He was struck by the voice, all sweet and sultry. The voice…the curves…the stumble. How could he not have seen it before?
He felt the air rush from his lungs and the kick in his stomach. Only one other time in his life had he felt this hammer-to-the-gut type feeling. At his party, the moment the cake girl wished him happy birthday in that hushed, knock-me-out whisper. He stood there, leaning against the wall, his hands buried in his pockets.
Surprise, surprise.
Little Miss Cardigan was his cake girl. Un-fucking-believable. All this time, she’d been right under his nose, stammering and blushing, hiding beneath her buttoned-up sweaters and horn-rims. She was like a naughty librarian fantasy transported into his living room, all glasses and pencil skirts. A crystal-clear image skyjacked his brain—his hands tracing the curves of those hips she concealed with wool skirts, skimming down her toned, upper thighs, caressing those killer legs. A crazy-wide grin broke across his face. “Hey.”
“Hi,” she said, tucking a strand of blond-streaked hair behind her ear in a gesture that was equal parts cute and seductive.
Same girl, all right. Same addictive, vulnerable-sexy way.
He kept smiling as a half dozen puzzle pieces clicked into place. His instantaneous reaction to her and the way she climbed into his thoughts. Jane’s willingness to set him up with a fiancée. Charlie’s inexplicable inability to find her. But most especially, his protective feeling, his whole wrap-cake-girl-in-a-protective-jacket-and-take-her-home-with-me response suddenly made sense. On some level, he must have recognized her, known it was the New Girl, or rather, Marianne.
Nick couldn’t believe his luck. The situation was perfect.
He had an ideal temporary fiancée, a partnership waiting to be confirmed, the chance to get cake girl out of his system. Ever since that night, he’d wondered why one innocent kiss had left him with a short-term obsession, but clearly, his fascination was about the mystery, not the actual woman. Now that the puzzle was solved, now that he knew who she was, well, odds were good he’d be back to living by his dating rules in under six weeks.
“Nick, are you okay? You look a little strange.”
“I’m fine…” he said with a reassuring smile. “You look amazing.”
In fact, she looked…perfect.
“Really?” She chewed on her bottom lip, one of the crazy-sweet, seductive gestures that made him want to kiss her until she was breathless. “Are you sure it isn’t too sexy?”
He walked over to where she stood by the window. “Sexy enough to send one or two of the older partners into cardiac distress.”
Her brows rose above the glittery new glasses. “Is that too sexy?”
Nick chuckled and took her hands in his. His fiancée was his cake girl, and while the New Girl had been off-limits, the woman standing in front of him was a different deal. He made a low sound of appreciation in the back of his throat. “Not in my book. You look absolutely perfect.”
A small giggle of pleasure bubbled up from her throat. “Well, then, we better go before I lose my nerve.” She turned away, but he pulled her back, tugging her against his chest. She blushed and smiled at him. Nick felt a strange light-headed rush. Damn, he did not want to go to casino night with the partnership. He wanted to play his own games right here at home.
In bed with his sexy new discovery.
And he wanted answers. He wanted to know how she’d ended up in his cake, why she’d kissed him and run, and if she’d be willing to break the no-sex rule for the remainder of their agreement. Because he sure as hell was willing.
But nothing else had changed—not for him. This was still a short-term arrangement. A business arrangement. He wanted to add a little extra spice to an already sweet deal. Nothing wrong with that. Yes, he was proposing, but to satisfy his colleagues, and with a temporary ring—a prop, really—more like a loaner ring than an engagement ring.
Still, there was no doubt that he wanted her like crazy, and if all his feelings fell into the temporary category, why were his hands sweating? Don’t even think about it. He shoved aside the niggling doubt, reached into his pocket, and pulled out the battered leather box. Her eyes widened and stared at the small square between the two of them. Nick wasn’t sure who was more shocked.
“Is that what I think it is?” Her quiet words tumbled out as his own raced ahead of his brain.
“It’s a loaner,” he said.
It’s. A. Loaner.
If there was even a single molecule of romance in the moment, his words sucked them out of the room as if they were a fleet of those extra-powerful Dysons. His fingers closed around the square box in a vise grip. God, did he have to sound like such an asshole? Not that their engagement was romantic. This was a business deal with an agreed upon expiration date. But still, it’s a loaner? Shit. He’d meant to reassure her. Or himself. Or…hell, he didn’t know. He was holding a box with a ring in it, for Christ’s sake. But he hadn’t meant it to sound so calculated and defensive. So temporary.
“A loaner.” She adjusted her pretty, new glasses in that nervous way of hers, her eyes locked on the small box extending into the space between them.
Nick cleared his throat. He needed to backtrack. “You don’t have to wear it. I just thought if we’re trying to convince everyone we’re getting married,” he said, choking on the last word, “an engagement ring might close the deal.”
Marianne blinked over at him as if she could see straight through him. Like she saw all the reasons he kept strict dating rules, all his fears, and all the reasons he’d always be single. She saw him. The real him. And Nick wasn’t sure he liked the view from her eyes.
“A deal is a deal.” Her soft-spoken words felt like a punch to the stomach. This would never be a real relationship. He knew that. He was fine with it. But her detachment still stung.
The leather box seemed to float in the air between them. He stared at it. She stared at it. Like it was some kind of time bomb.
Finally, she took the box from his hand, opened it, and placed the ring on her finger. The damn thing fit perfectly. As if it were made for her. The light from the overhead fixture caught the stone, and she stared at the vintage-looking sapphire, studded with small diamonds all wrapped up in a platinum circle. Quite a score for his father—sentimental, too. No wonder his mom had wanted him to pawn it. Nick still remembered the day she’d given it to him to sell. He’d been fourteen. They’d needed the money, and he’d gone to sell it, but when he was standing there at the counter in the shop, he’d made the owner a deal instead. He swept that guy’s floor for an entire year, but he’d let Nick keep the damn ring.
His gaze took in the sapphire sparkling on his fiancée’s finger. He cleared his throat and tugged hard on his shirt collar. “The ring belonged to my mother.”
Marianne looked up at him, her blue eyes a shade cooler, twisting the ring on her finger as if the decision to wear it was painful. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to return it in six weeks.”
Chapter Eight
“Be a man of your word.”
—mantelligence.com
Two hours into the event, it was clear Nick hated casino night. The spinning roulette wheel, the shuffling cards, the chiming slots—all of it. Especially Let It Ride poker; the game got under his skin like no other. Not surprising, given his father’s choice to let it ride had cost Nick his childhood.
And tonight was worse than usual. He felt like a con man, a punk from the Heights all dressed up in a pricey suit, accessorized with a counterfeit fiancée to impress the high rollers. He took a pull from his beer. At least the money flying out of everyone’s pockets would finance the dream of more than one kid from Brooklyn, a charitable cause he wholeheartedly supported.
If his partnership bid wasn’t on the line, he’d clock in an hour’s worth of requisite schmooze and get the hell out before the pulse of the makeshift casino grew unbearable. Alrea
dy on edge, he wanted to take his fiancée home and put together a few more pieces of the puzzle, maybe play a game of Truth or Dare, use the mask he’d saved from Friday night to take her on a blind tour of her body. Oh yeah, Nick had definite plans. He took a short pull of his Heineken to cool down and scanned the room for Marianne, finding her sitting next to his boss happily schooling him in the art of blackjack.
Nick never bet—ever. He’d occasionally double down on darts with Charlie over a beer or two. But otherwise, he steered clear. The lure of the games was lost on him.
His fiancée, however, was on a roll.
He took a second pull of his beer and watched her at the table, expertly managing his boss with her reserved charm and apparent card-playing skills. In terms of saving his ass—so far, so good. He had to give it up to his sister, she’d found him the perfect temporary girl.
Emphasis on temporary. She might be his fantasy cake girl, even be wearing his sapphire ring, but that didn’t change his DNA. Love wasn’t his game. If he were smart, he’d remember that fact.
As if aware of his internal debate, Marianne turned and smiled reassuringly in his direction, all prim and sweet, a decided contrast to the dazzling sweater and the pink satin dress that hugged her hourglass figure. No doubt about it, Marianne was playing the role of fiancée to perfection, attentive to his boss, doe-eyed when she looked at him.
Completely believable.
Exactly what he needed her to be. So why the hell did Nick feel so unsettled?
“Enjoying the view there, bro?” Drew Evans asked, arriving at the exact wrong moment, drinking his usual Scotch, making his usual trouble. “She’s pretty hot. Need another drink?”
“No.” And keep your eyes to yourself, you son of a bitch. He raised his beer, which was full save a couple of sips. “I’m good.”
“Not as good as your fiancée.” Nick shot him a glare that told him to shut the hell up, and Evans took a half step back. “Take it easy. I’m not moving in on your action, although props to you for finding a woman like her on such short notice.” Nick’s hands balled into fists at his sides to keep from going all Brooklyn on Evan’s ass. His temper had its limits, a fact Evans ignored. “You scored, Nick,” he continued, waving his drink at the card table, “looks like your fiancée is quite the advantage player. Makes you wonder.”
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