Falling For Her Fake Fiancé. Sarah M. Anderson
we say seven o’clock tomorrow night? In the lobby?”
“It would be an honor.”
She arched an eyebrow at him, and then, with a swirling turn, she was gone, striding into the reception area and pausing only to thank Delores again for all her help.
He had to find a way to get Frances on his side.
It had nothing to do with the way he could still feel her touch burned into his skin.
In the end, it’d come down to one of two dresses. Frances only had four left after the liquidation of her closet anyway. The green one was clearly out—it would reek of desperation to wear the same dress twice, even if Ethan’s eyes had bugged out of his head when he’d looked at her in it.
She also had her bridesmaid’s dress from her brother Phillip’s wedding, a sleek gray one with rhinestone accents. But that felt too formal for dinner, even if it did look good on her.
Which meant she had to choose between the red velvet and the little black dress for her negotiation masquerading as dinner with Ethan Logan.
The red dress would render him completely speechless; that she knew. She’d always had a fondness for it—it transformed her into a proper lady instead of what she often felt like, the black sheep of the family.
But there was nothing subtle about the red dress. And besides, if the evening went well, she might need a higher-powered dress for later.
The little black dress was really the only choice. It was a halter-top style and completely backless. The skirt twirled out, but there was no missing the cleavage. The dark color made it appear more subdued at first, which would work to her advantage. If she paired it with her cropped bolero jacket, she could project an air of seriousness, and then, when she needed to befuddle Ethan, she could slip off the jacket. Perfect.
She made it downtown almost twenty minutes late, which meant she was right on schedule. Ethan Logan could sit and cool his heels for a bit. The more she kept him off balance, the better her position would be.
Which did beg the question—what was her position? She’d only agreed to dinner because he’d said he wanted what was best for the company. And the way he’d said it...
Well, she also wanted what was best for the company. But for her, that word was a big umbrella, under which the employees were just as important as the bottom line.
And after all, if something continued to be named the Beaumont Brewery, shouldn’t it still be connected to the Beaumonts?
So dinner was strictly about those two objectives. She would see what she could get Ethan to reveal about the long-term plan for the Brewery. And if there was something in those plans that could help her get her world back in order, so much the better.
Yes, that was it. Dinner had nothing to do with how she’d felt Ethan’s chest muscles twitch under her touch, nothing to do with the simmering heat that had rolled off him. And it had even less to do with the way he’d looked down at her, like a man who’d been adrift at sea for too long and had finally spotted land.
She was Frances Beaumont. She could not be landed. For years, she’d had men look at her as if they were starving and she was a banquet. It was nothing new. Just a testament to her name and genetics. Ethan Logan would be no different. She would take what she needed from him—that feeling that she was still someone who mattered, someone who wielded power—and leave the rest.
Which did not explain why, for the first time in what felt like years, Frances had butterflies in her stomach as she strode into the lobby of the Hotel Monaco. Was she nervous? It wasn’t possible. She didn’t get nervous, especially not about something like this. She’d spent her entire life navigating the shark-infested waters of wealthy and powerful men. Ethan was just another shark. And he wasn’t even a great white. He was barely a dogfish.
“Good evening, Ms. Beaumont.”
“Harold,” she said to the doorman with a warm smile and a big tip.
“Ms. Beaumont! How wonderful to see you again!” At this rather loud pronouncement, several other guests in the immediate vicinity paused to gape at her.
Frances ignored the masses. “Thank you, Heidi,” she said to the clerk at the front desk with another warm smile. The hotel had been catering to the Beaumont family for years, and Frances liked to keep the staff on her side.
“And what can we do for you tonight?” Heidi asked.
“I’m meeting someone for dinner.” She scanned the crowd, but she didn’t see Ethan. He wouldn’t be easy to miss—a man as massively built as he was? All those muscles would stand out.
Then she saw him. And did a double take. Yes, those shoulders, that neck, were everything she remembered them being. The clothing, however? Unlike the conservative gray suit and dull tie he’d had on in the office, he was wearing a pair of artfully distressed jeans, a white button-up shirt without a tie and...a purple sports coat? A deep purple—plum, maybe. She would not have figured he was the kind of man who would stand outside a sartorial box with any great flair—or success.
When he saw her, he pushed himself off the column he was leaning against. “Frances, hello.” Which was a perfectly normal thing to say. But he said it as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes—or his luck—as she strode toward him.
He should feel lucky. “Ethan.” When he held out his hand, she took it and used it to pull herself up so she could kiss him on the cheek.
His free hand rested against her side, steadying her. “You look amazing,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear.
Warmth that bordered on heat started where his breath kissed her skin and flamed out over her body. That was what made her nervous. Not the man, not the musculature—not even his position as CEO of her family’s company.
It was the way her body reacted to him. The way a touch, a look—a whispered word—could set her fluttering.
Ridiculous. She was not flattered by his attentions. This was not a date. This was corporate espionage in a great dress. This was her using what few resources she had left at her disposal to get her life back on track. This was about her disarming Ethan Logan, not the other way around.
So she clamped down on the shiver that threatened to race across her skin as she lowered herself away from him. “That’s a great color on you. Very...” She let the word hang in the air for a beat too long. “Bold,” she finished. “Not just any man could pull off that look.”
He raised his eyebrows. She realized he was trying not to laugh at her. “Says the woman who showed up in an emerald evening gown to hand out donuts. Have no fear, I’m comfortable in my masculinity. Shall we? I made reservations at the restaurant.” He held out his arm for her.
“We shall.” She lightly placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. She didn’t need his help—she could walk in these shoes just fine—but this was part of setting him up. It had nothing to do with wanting another flash of heat from where their bodies met.
The restaurant was busy, as was to be expected on a Saturday night. When they entered, the diners paused. She and Ethan must have made quite a pair, her with her red hair and him in his purple jacket.
People were already forming opinions. That was something she could use to her advantage. She placed her free hand on top of Ethan’s arm and leaned into him. Not much, but just enough to create the impression that this was a date.
The maître d’ led them to a small table tucked in a dim corner. They ordered—she got the lobster, just to be obnoxious about it, and he got the steak, just to be predictable—and Ethan ordered a bottle of pinot grigio.
Then they were alone. “I’m glad you came out tonight.”
She demurely placed her hands in her lap. “Did