Читать книгу From Enemies To Expecting - Kat Cantrell - Страница 9

Three

Trinity sat on Logan’s text message for two days. Mostly because she had no idea what to do with a fake boyfriend. Boyfriends of any sort vexed her on the whole, but one she wasn’t sleeping with broke all kinds of new ground.

What did you do with a man outside of bed?

Should she hit a club with him? Stand at the red rope and hope someone took pictures? That seemed too chancy, and frankly, the idea of Logan McLaughlin at a techno bar with lots of smoke and pulsing lights made her laugh. And he’d probably laugh at her if she suggested it.

While it might lead to an argument that would be delicious on camera, they’d have to actually be in public for that to generate maximum publicity. She couldn’t think of anything that would work, though. Her lack of creativity lately was bleeding into the social arena as well, and it was bothersome. Almost as bothersome as the fact that she had a marketing presentation to give to her friends and business partners on Monday and it still didn’t exist.

Formula-47 used nanotechnology to heal scars and reduce wrinkles. There were thousands of ways to market such a brilliant product. She should have two presentations by now.

That’s what she had to focus on, not the two-word text message from Logan McLaughlin.

I’m in. Nothing else. No let’s meet for coffee and hash this out. No here are my conditions and expectations. What? Was she supposed to do all the dirty work and organize everything? He had a stake in this, too.

By Thursday, she was ready to bite off the head of the next person who poked their toe into her office. When her phone beeped, she nearly shut it off. But then she saw Logan’s name blinking at her. Eyes narrowed, she thumbed up the text message.

Charity gala tomorrow night. Guaranteed to have lots of cameras and press. Formal dress. Pick you up at 8.

Men. Logan had his share of nerve, assuming she could pull a formal ensemble together in less than thirty-six hours, not to mention she’d have to beg Franco for a last-minute appointment to get her hair done. Her regular nail girl was out of town, too. Trinity groaned and pushed back from her desk to go spend the rest of the afternoon shopping for the perfect dress to drive a man wild.

Logan McLaughlin totally deserved to spend the entire evening in the most painful state possible for springing this on her at the last minute. And if she secretly wanted to kiss him for getting her out from behind her desk and away from the reminders that her career might be circling the drain—she’d keep that to herself.

Miraculously, Franco had a cancellation, he personally found a replacement nail technician for her, and the most amazing dress fell into her lap. Logan might get a pass after all, but strictly because he’d stepped up when it counted.

When Logan knocked on the door of Trinity’s penthouse loft in the Arts District, she was dressed and ready to go. Except for her lipstick. She swiped on a layer of Bohemian Rhapsody with a lip brush and dropped both into her clutch.

It was a ritual she’d always performed back when she’d dated more. Wait until he knocked and then apply lipstick, which left the guy on her doorstep for precisely the right amount of time. Enough that he’d start to wonder if maybe she wasn’t dressed yet and was even at this moment throwing on clothes. Never hurt to dangle a visual in front of a man.

And then she would open the door to give him the real visual—her, dressed to the hilt in this smashing and sexy dress with cutout sides that displayed all her best features.

Except when she opened the door to Logan...in a tux...her tongue went numb and she dropped her clutch. Which he picked up for her.

Good God, did that man clean up well. The suit from the other day? Merely an appetizer to the main course of this gorgeous hunk of masculinity in a tuxedo that had clearly been custom-made for him.

Thank all that was holy that he didn’t dress like that on a daily basis. The luxurious dark fabric spread across his shoulders, emphasizing the broad, dense build she shouldn’t like as much as she did. Logan was too big. Too solid. Too...squeaky clean.

But the pièce de résistance was the single long-stemmed pink rose that he held out to her.

“Pink?” She took it and held it to her nose, trying not to be pleased but failing. A whole bouquet would have been overkill and completely unnecessary given that they weren’t really dating.

One rose was classy. And well played.

“You wore a pink suit on the show,” he said gruffly with a shrug and ran his now vacant fingers through his hair, sweeping it away from his face. “The association with that color and you is pretty much stuck in my head.”

Her insides melted. She didn’t know what to do with that or the best behavior vibe wafting from him. It was almost as if he’d lectured himself on the way over to remember he had a reputation for being a nice guy and maybe he should act like one.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

“Are you ready to go?”

Her brows rose. After three hours at the salon today, that was his comment? This sedate, boring version of Logan needed to vacate the premises, pronto, or they’d never heat it up enough for anyone to care about taking their picture.

“Don’t I look ready to go?”

It would not kill him to compliment her dress. Her hair. Her punctuality. Something.

“You look like you should be spread across the floor of a Mexican restaurant,” he said bluntly, with a once-over that totally contradicted his words. His gaze was more I want to rip that dress off you than I want to eat tacos.

Her hackles rose as she glanced down at her mosaic tile dress that nipped in so far at the waist it was almost two pieces. The large cutouts left her waist and hips bare, which meant when they danced, his palms would be on her bare skin. Something more along the lines of thank you would be highly appropriate here.

Was his vision impaired? She looked good. It wasn’t arrogance. It was a fact, because she paid attention to details. If there was anything she knew how to market, it was herself.

“Well, don’t hold back, honey. Tell me how you really feel about a dress that took me all day to find and set me back six grand.”

“It’s a little...risqué for a charity fund-raiser, don’t you think?” His faint scowl told her he’d already decided the answer was yes.

“Considering Kendall Jenner wore the same dress with a different color scheme to the Met Gala, no,” she countered and willed her temper back, because they hadn’t even left yet. An argument now wouldn’t benefit anyone, since there were no cameras around, never mind that she’d been trying to provoke him.

“I don’t know who that is, but odds are good she’ll never be dating me. You are. Maybe you could find a wrap?”

Hands on her bare hips, she contemplated her fake boyfriend, who was about to learn exactly how little that role entitled him to. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not allowed to be myself because I’m dating the world’s biggest Goody Two-shoes?”

His scowl grew some teeth. “Clearly we need to establish some guidelines to this...relationship. Partnership. Whatever it is. Ground rules are obviously a must.”

Yeah, that was a day late and a dollar short. Honestly, she’d been a little surprised he’d agreed to this idea with no parameters.

She clapped enthusiastically. “Yay! I love rules.”

Rules were going to go over about as well as the notion of a wrap. She was not putting a single thread on top of this Versace masterpiece, and he could eat his rule book. Though she was a little curious what rules he might throw down.

So she could break them all.

“Lose the sarcasm or this is going to be a very long night.”

Her brows arched involuntarily. “That was always going to be true, and I’d rather lose the dress than the sarcasm.”

“That can be arranged.” The heat dialed up a notch as his gaze strayed to the straps around her neck that held the dress on her body.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

More’s the pity. There was no way he’d actually strip her out of this dress simply to get his way.

Was there?

“Rule number one. Never dare me, Trinity,” he said with so much wicked in his voice that she nearly pushed him on it, strictly to find out how good he was at undressing a woman in formal wear.

All at once, flashes of an ad campaign spilled into her head. A man sliding a dress off a woman and the woman stopping him before he reveals her scar. Cut to a shot of Formula-47 that would be called...

The rest blurred, sliding away before she could visualize the ending. But it was a start. And more than she’d had in a long time.

Holy hell. Where had that come from? Better yet, could she get more of it if she told Logan to get lost so she could work?

Torn, she eyed him and swore. She’d agreed to do this fake relationship deal, and as she’d been telling herself all week, he had a stake, too. They had places to go and people to let photograph them. Lots of fake kissing to engage in—which she would deny to her grave she looked forward to.

She tapped her temple. “I dare say even I can remember that rule.”

Seemed like a dare was pretty close to how she’d gotten him to kiss her the first time.

“Good. We can discuss the rest of the rules on the way. Grab your wrap so we can go.”

“Counterproposal. You remember that this is a partnership and I don’t answer to you,” she shot back. “The whole point is to get eyes on us. This dress is guaranteed to be on a hundred fashion blogs by morning, and to be honest, your love life could use spicing up.”

She’d done her homework on Logan McLaughlin, and the mice he normally dated barely registered a blip in the social media sphere. Photographs of him with a woman on his arm were rare in the first place, but the few she’d found—please. Either he liked invisible, unassuming women or his vision really was impaired.

He crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She almost grinned at his echo of her earlier comment, but only because things were starting to get interesting. Finally. “It means you’re boring, darling. One of your players is dating a supermodel who posed for Playboy, and he gets more love in the press than anyone else on your team. Take a lesson.”

“I’m aware.” Logan’s back teeth ground together. “I’ve asked him stop seeing her. It’s distasteful.”

“Oh, honey.” She shook her head. That spine needed unstarching in the worst way, and she definitely had a lot of ideas on how to accomplish that. “Thank God you’ve hooked up with me. Now you listen. We’re going to go to this charity deal, I’m not going to wear a wrap and we’re going to sizzle. That’s the only rule you need.”

* * *

Logan regretted getting a limo the moment Trinity Forrester spilled into the interior. If he’d driven his own car, he could have occupied himself with the steering wheel. The lack of a place to put his hands hadn’t been a factor on the way over. Now? There was entirely too much female skin right there within touching distance.

And God above, the will it took to stop himself from reaching out was monumental.

She smelled both divine and like the kind of sin that would put a man on his knees in a confessional before dawn. The paradox was driving him insane. And they hadn’t even pulled away from the curb yet.

A butterfly tattoo flashed at her wrist. It had been covered before, and he was not happy about how much he liked it. He watched as she arranged her long skirt to let her sexy shoes peek out. The heels, of course, resembled ice picks, and only tiny straps held them to her feet, making him wonder how they actually stayed on.

Even her toes were sexy.

“Rules,” he growled because he needed some. “Are—”

“Made to be broken?” she filled in sweetly.

The limo shuttled toward what promised to be a very long evening fraught with frustration and tension, most of it sexual, followed by a morning explaining to everyone he knew that he had not, in fact, lost his mind when he’d selected his companion for the evening.

“Rules are necessary so I—we—don’t forget what we’re doing here.” Though he suspected she wasn’t dealing with issues in that respect the same way he was. “Without rules, the world descends into chaos.”

“Maybe your world does. Mine just gets more interesting.”

“Case in point. The most important rule we need to establish is that behind closed doors, we’re not a couple. Only in public. And it’s not real.”

The cockeyed gaze she shot him was further enhanced by her swirly makeup. Less Cleopatra today and more Picasso. It was very distracting.

“I kind of thought all that was a given.”

“Well, that’s why it’s important to lay it out ahead of time. So there’s no confusion.” That way, there was no end-of-the-evening mix-up at the door where she invited him in for a drink, which was really code for sex, and he’d struggle to remember why he was supposed to say no.

Rules gave him that out.

And really, this is all fake was the only rule he needed. She apparently needed a few more, but he’d lost the battle over her outrageous dress and didn’t expect he’d win any others—not tonight, anyway. He’d be a hell of lot more specific the next time they appeared in public together.

Rule number two—dress like a woman dating a billionaire who owned a wholesome sports team.

In all actuality, he’d never imagined such a dress existed. Her whole back was bare, dipping low enough to give a guy a tempting glimpse of her rounded bottom. The front wasn’t much better, cinching in at the waist to reveal wide panels of her trim waist and abs, and rising over her breasts to cover her to her collarbone. Oddly, the lack of cleavage made his mouth water to unclasp the catch at the back of her neck and let the fabric spill to her hips to reveal the hard nipples tenting the fabric.

He could not get out of this vehicle fast enough.

The limo snaked toward the hotel where the charity ball was being held. When it was their turn to emerge, he got out first and held out a hand to her. He would not have been shocked if she’d refused, but this was it, their first appearance in public together since the kiss clip went viral, and they needed to make it work.

Her hand disappeared into his and he helped her from the limo, happy that she hadn’t chosen this moment for their first public fight. Photographers lined the ropes on both sides of the entrance. Instead of beelining for the door like he normally did whenever someone with a camera was around, he paused and slipped an arm around Trinity. His date, for better or worse.

He nearly groaned as his fingertips hit the silky expanse of skin at her hip bone. She might as well be wearing a swimsuit for all the coverage the dress provided. It would take no effort at all to slide his hand inside the fabric and keep going, because there was no way she was wearing underwear. He had the strongest urge to verify.