Falling For Her Fake Fiancé. Sarah M. Anderson
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 you think I would cancel?”
“I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d tried to string me along a little bit. Just to watch me twist.” He said it in a jovial way but she didn’t miss the edge to his voice.
So he wasn’t totally befuddled. And he was more than sharp enough to know they were here for something much more than dinner.
That didn’t mean she had to own up to it. “Whatever do you mean?”
His smile sharpened. The silence carried, and she was in serious danger of fidgeting nervously under his direct gaze.
She was saved by the sommelier, who arrived with the wine. Frances desperately wanted to take a long drink, but she could not let Ethan know he was unsettling her. So she slowly twirled the stem of her wineglass until he said, “I propose a toast.”
“Do you now?”
“To a long and productive partnership.” She did not drink. Instead, she leveled a cool gaze at him over the rim of her glass and waited for him to notice. Which, admittedly, did not take long. “Yes?”
“I’m not taking that job, you know. I have ‘considered’ it, and I can’t imagine a more boring job in the history of employment,” she told him.
She would not let the world know she was so desperate as to take a job in management at a company that used to belong to her family. She might be down on her luck, but she wasn’t going to give up.
Then, and only then, did she allow herself to sip her wine. She had to be careful. She needed to keep her wits about her and not let the wine—and all those muscles—go to her head.
“I figured as much,” he said with a low chuckle that Frances felt right in her chest. What was it with this man’s voice?
“Then why would you toast to such a thing?” Maybe now was the time to take the jacket off? He seemed entirely too self-aware. She did not have the advantage here, not like she’d had in the office.
Oh, she did not like that smile on him. Well, she did—she might actually like it a great deal, if she wasn’t the one in the crosshairs.
He leaned forward, his gaze so intense that she considered removing her jacket just to cool down. “I’m sure you know why I want you,” he all but growled.
It was getting hotter in here. She tried to look innocent. It was the only look she could pull off with the level of blush she’d probably achieved by now. “My sparkling wit?”
There was a brief crack in his serious facade, as if her sparkling wit was the correct answer. “I consider that a fringe benefit,” he admitted with a tilt of his head. “But let’s not play dumb, you and I. It’s far too beneath a woman with your considerable talents. And your talents...” She straightened her back and thrust her chest out in a desperate attempt to throw him off balance. It didn’t work. His gaze never left her face. “Your talents are considerable. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a woman like you before.”
“Are you hitting on me?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up, making him look like a predator. She might have to revise her earlier opinion of him. He was not a dogfish. More like...a tiger shark, sleek and fast. Able to take her down before she even realized she was in danger.
“Of course not.”
“Then why do you want me?” Because honestly—for the first time in her adult life—she wasn’t sure what the answer would be.
Men wanted her. They always had. The moment her boobs had put in an appearance, she’d learned about base male lust—how to provoke it, how to manage it, how to use it for her own ends. Men wanted her for a simple, carnal reason. And after watching stepmother after stepmother come and go out of her father’s life, she had resolved never to be used. Not like that.
The upside was that she’d never had her heart broken. But the downside?
She’d never been in love. Self-preservation, however vital to survival, was a lonely way to live.
“It’s simple, really.” He leaned back, his posture at complete ease. “Obviously, everyone at the Brewery hates me. I can’t blame them—no one likes change, especially when they have to change against their will.” He grinned at her, a sly thing. “I should probably be surprised that Delores hasn’t spiked my coffee with arsenic by now.”
“Probably,” she agreed. Where was he going with this?
“But you?” He reached over and picked up her hand, rubbing his thumb along the edges of her fingertips. Against her will, she shivered—and he felt it. That smile deepened—his voice deepened. Everything deepened. Oh, hell.
“I saw how the workers—especially the lifers—responded to you and your donut stunt,” he went on, still stroking her hand. “There’s nothing they wouldn’t do for you, and probably wouldn’t do for any Beaumont.”
“If you think this is going to convince me to take that job, you’re sorely mistaken,” she replied. She wanted to jerk her hand out of his—she needed to break that skin-to-skin contact—but she didn’t. If this was how the game was going to go, then she needed to be all in.
So instead she curled her fingers around his and made small circles on the base of his palm with her thumb. She was justly rewarded with a little shiver from him. Okay, good. Great. She wasn’t entirely at his mercy here. She could still have an impact even without the element of surprise. “Especially if you’re going to call them ‘lifers.’ That’s insulting. You make them sound like prisoners.”
He notched an eyebrow at her. “What would you call them?”
“Family.” The simple reply—which was also the truth—was out before she could stop it.
She didn’t know what she expected him to do with that announcement, but lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss against her skin wasn’t it. “And that,” he whispered against her skin, “is exactly why I need you.”
This time, she did pull her hand away. She dropped it into her lap and fixed him with her best polite glare, the one that could send valets and servers scurrying for cover. Just then, the waiter appeared with their food—and did, in fact, pause when Frances turned that glare in his direction. He set their plates down with a minimum of fanfare and all but sprinted away.
She didn’t touch her food. “I’m hearing an awful lot about how much you need me. So let us, as you said, dispense with the games. I do not now, nor have I ever, formally worked for the Beaumont Brewery. I do not now, nor have I ever, had sex with a man who thought he was entitled to a piece of the Beaumont Brewery and, by extension, a piece of me. I will not take a desk job to help you win the approval of people you clearly dislike.”
“They disliked me first,” he put in as he cut his steak.
What she really wanted to do was throw her wine in his face. It’d feel so good to let loose and let him have it. Despite his claims that he recognized her intelligence, she had the distinct feeling that he was playing her, and she did not like it. “Regardless. What do you want, Mr. Logan? Because I’m reasonably certain that it’s no longer just the dismantling and sale of my family’s history.”
He