Bachelor's Bought Bride / CEO's Expectant Secretary: Bachelor's Bought Bride / CEO's Expectant Secretary. Jennifer Lewis
incentives. One million of them, in fact.
Their eyes met again and a needle of guilt pricked his heart.
Could he really marry a woman for money?
He’d busted his ass for ten long years trying to build a reputation as a top-flight account executive. Since his first day on the job he knew he wanted to open his own agency. Bring together top creative talent, innovative thinking and creative media buying that would take the advertising world by storm.
If you’d told him ten years ago that he’d still be working for someone else at age thirty, he’d have laughed in your face.
But life had done a little laughing of its own.
His dad’s pension plan had gone bust and he’d bailed his parents out of a mortgage mess. In truth, though, he was glad he could help them. The biggest mistake of his life was being dumb enough to trust a renowned “investment advisor” with a large chunk of his precious nest egg—only to learn in the papers it had been squandered on racehorses and vintage violins.
Gavin tugged Bree closer, enjoying the soft swell of her chest against his. Her long eyelashes lifted to reveal shining eyes.
He liked those eyes and it wasn’t hard work to imagine looking at them for the rest of his life. He had a good feeling in his gut about Bree Kincannon, and his gut rarely steered him wrong.
Finding a wife, or even a girlfriend, had never been a priority for him. Married to his job, that’s what his friends joked. True, though. He really loved his work and was more than satisfied with the occasional fling. At least then, no one was disappointed.
If he went through with this crazy plan, he’d work hard not to disappoint Bree. He’d be a good husband to her.
He dipped her slightly, and she yielded to the motion, letting herself fall backward into his hand. Trusting. She had absolutely no idea what was going through his mind. If she knew, she’d be appalled beyond belief.
But she wouldn’t know. Ever.
She giggled as he pulled her back up. A rare flash of excitement flared in his chest. She was enjoying this and dammit, so was he. He twirled her around, holding her close, hand pressed to the inviting curve of her hip.
He had a good feeling about this whole thing.
Bree stood in front of the mirror in the powder room on the pretext of rearranging her hair. Really she just wanted to see what exactly Gavin Spencer was looking at with that gleam of interest in his eyes.
People always told her she had pretty eyes. Rather an odd observation, since she wore glasses. She lowered the frames—the nice, low-profile ones she saved for special occasions—and peered into her own eyes. They didn’t look all that special to her. Maybe that’s what people said when they couldn’t think of something else to compliment. She pushed the frames back up her nose where they settled comfortably into place. People said she should wear contacts but they were far too much hassle for her taste.
Her hair was a disaster, as usual. Unmanageable, frizzy and fighting her every step of the way. She never should have taken out the hairsticks she’d managed to jam in earlier. With a struggle, she poked them back in and secured a messy bun.
There wasn’t a lick of makeup on her face, but then she never wore it. She wasn’t skilled at applying lipstick, blush and eyeliner, so on the rare occasions she’d attempted to use them, she ended up looking like a clown.
And the dress was awful. Her Aunt Freda had assured her it “hid her figure flaws.” It could also hide an international terrorist organization and several cases of contraband whiskey in its crispy folds. The boat neck turned her somewhat decent cleavage into an intimidating mountain range.
She didn’t look any better than usual. If anything, she looked worse.
So why did Gavin seem so … entranced by her? Like he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He’d guided her around the room since the moment they were introduced. She kept expecting him to spot someone else and bid her adieu, but he didn’t.
In fact, she half suspected he was standing right outside the ladies room waiting for her.
She blew out hard. Bright patches of color illuminated her cheeks in a way that wasn’t entirely charming. Her eyes were certainly shining, though.
As well they might be. She’d never danced like that. Even in her imagination! How could she not feel like Cinderella at the ball?
Which was funny, really, considering she was one of the richest women in San Francisco. Of course she’d come by that money the old fashioned way—by inheriting it—so she wasn’t proud of her wealth. Quite the opposite, in fact. She often imagined people clucking and muttering, “All that money, and look how little she’s accomplished.”
Her father certainly felt that way. Even said it once or twice.
She sucked in a long, deep breath and tucked a stray lock of wild hair behind her ear.
Bree Kincannon, you are a desirable and enticing woman.
Nope. Not convincing.
Bree Kincannon, you are a damned good photographer and a fantastic cat mom.
Better.
She half-smiled at her reflection, then wiped her smile away when she realized the sylph-like blonde beside her was staring. She quickly patted her hair and turned to the exit.
Outside there was no sign of Gavin. The little shock of disappointment surprised her. Then she chastised herself. Did she really expect a man like that to wait around for her like a faithful dog?
He was probably already dancing with someone else.
Surreptitiously she scanned the dance floor. Past midnight, so the crowd was thinning. All the men were dressed alike in black tie, but she knew she’d spot Gavin immediately. He had that kind of presence.
A tiny shimmer of relief trickled through her when she didn’t see him.
But did that mean he’d left without saying goodbye? She’d probably never see him again. Why would he call her, of all people?
She lifted her chin and started to weave through the tables to where she’d sat with some of her father’s duller business associates, which wasn’t a very charitable way to think of them since they’d all been nice enough to pony up a thousand dollars per seat. She was relieved to see that they’d all left, and she lifted her beaded bag off the back of her chair and slung it over her taffeta-clad shoulder.
Another quick glance revealed no sign of Gavin. Cold settled in her stomach. So that was it. A lovely evening. A fantastic time.
Possibly the best night of her life.
She swallowed. No doubt everyone who’d stared at her on Gavin’s arm was looking at her now, the same way they always did. Poor old Bree. Perennial wallflower.
She shuffled toward the exit. She usually got a cab home from these things as her father often stayed late to schmooze into the wee hours. Of course it was kind of pathetic that she still lived in the family mansion. But she loved Russian Hill, and the big attic studio she’d turned into her private apartment was filled with special memories of the happy years before her mom died. She used to paint there every afternoon, while Bree played on the floor near her easel.
Bree bit her lip. She was happy with her life. Really! She didn’t need some tall, dark, handsome charmer to waltz in and stir up trouble.
She retrieved her coat from the cloakroom and slid it over her shoulders. She was just about to walk across the marble foyer toward the exit when her heart slammed to a halt.
Gavin. Tall and proud as a ship’s mast, an earnest look on his chiseled features.
And he was talking to her father.
Bree frowned. How did they know each other so well? Her father usually bothered only with mega-wealthy entrepreneurs