Читать книгу My Fake Fiancée - Nancy Warren - Страница 11

HE SHOULD BOOK AN appointment with a psychiatrist right now, David thought as he headed out for possibly the most important evening of his entire life, where his escort was not only a woman masquerading as his fiancée, but to add a little extra spice to the evening, was also essentially a blind date.

As he exited his Rittenhouse Square town house, which he’d had his cleaning service freshly clean today, including making up the guest room for a woman he barely knew, he contemplated just how much could go wrong tonight. He passed a street vendor selling soft pretzels and the scent reminded him that he’d eaten nothing for lunch but Tums. Not for the first time, he wondered what he could have been thinking. How arrogant to suppose he could pull off a scam like this. Why hadn’t he listened to Jane? She was right, she was always right. This deception had been a bad idea from the beginning.

Kids played in the wide green spaces of the park, horsed around the lion and goat statues. He wished he could go join them, anything but show up at this dinner.

If the big brass found out, he probably wouldn’t lose his job, but he would lose all possibility of promotion. Never mind the respect of people who had come to matter to him.

He walked by a few couples, normal-looking twosomes who obviously belonged together, and his collar grew even tighter. Long before he was ready, he found himself in front of a big hotel where he’d arranged to meet Chelsea. He was a couple of minutes early so he prepared to wait for his date.

He sauntered over to stand beside the entrance to the hotel, and as he did so noticed a stunning brunette looking like she was waiting for the World’s Luckiest Man. Every cell in his body zinged to attention. The woman was hot, hot, hot. On a scale of one to ten she was a fifty. Her hair was a sleek bob, dark and shiny, and her huge brown eyes looked out on the world with what he could only think of as a sophisticated innocence. Glorious mouth. Painted in rich, I-could-talk-dirty-all-night red. Red to match the body-hugging dress that outlined her centerfold curves. She took a step toward him on do-me-baby stilettos, and the sway of her hips almost did him in. He took one step forward himself, closing the gap between him and paradise, when he suddenly remembered why he was there.

“Sorry,” he said, with true regret. “I’m meeting someone.”

That killer mouth curved into a smile. “I think you’re meeting me.” Even the sound of her voice was a turn-on. Rich, slightly exotic, somehow.

Ooh, great line. He really wished he’d met her some other time. He laughed. “I wish.” Then took a quick look up and down the street, hoping Hermione would get there soon.

The smile disappeared and a puzzled frown took its place. “David! It’s me. Chelsea.”

“Chelsea?” He gaped at the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. He felt like a man having a sex dream that insanely turns into some horrible nightmare. This amazingly desirable woman? Hottie on heels was supposed to be his fiancée? What happened to drab, shy, smart girl Chelsea? Introducing this woman to the executives and board of directors of his firm would be like introducing nitroglycerin to gas.

Boom.

And he’d be the one exploding up in the air.

He could hear the echo of his sister’s words now. “She’s the same, David. She’s gained enough weight to fill out a little, but she’s exactly the same.”

And that’s the moment that he realized he’d been conned. He never should have signed Sarah up for that online dating site. In retaliation, she’d ruined his career.

“You’re Chelsea?” He looked her up and down, unable to believe the gawky teenager was now a goddess.

A delighted smile lit her eyes. “You didn’t recognize me.”

“I, uh, no. Honestly, I didn’t.” He felt aggrieved. “What happened to Hermione?”

“She grew up,” the woman said softly.

And wasn’t that the understatement of the year. If only it was winter, he could huddle her in her coat—hell, he’d buy her one. A nice wool trench coat that would cover her from neck to ankles. But it was July, hot, sultry July, and there was no way to cover her up.

She picked up on his doubt. “Am I dressed okay? Sarah said to put on the sexiest outfit I own.”

“Of course she did.”

Rapidly, he reviewed his options. Five minutes until they were supposed to meet for dinner.

He could either tell her to go home and make up some tale about his fiancée being sick, or he could go through with this charade. Maybe he could break up with her much sooner than planned, since the fiancée he’d imagined would help forward his career seemed in imminent danger of destroying it.

He forced a smile. He didn’t have any options. “You look fine.” He stepped forward, leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for helping me out.”

“I could say the same. I guess we’re helping each other out.”

He almost groaned. He’d forgotten his sister’s conditions. Not only was she single-handedly destroying his career, but she’d also finagled him into allowing this woman to stay in his house for three months.

No doubt there were morality tales about the consequences of telling lies, tales that would terrify children into behaving perfectly. He felt like he was living a morality tale right now. The Liar is Punished.

“Can you walk in those heels? The restaurant is a couple of blocks that way.”

“I think I can manage.”

They headed off to the restaurant. He had five minutes to prime her, when he’d planned to spend hours telling her everything he figured a fiancée would need to know. But she’d so addled his brain he couldn’t think of any of the things he’d imagined would be so important.

What did it matter, anyway?

He was doomed.

Chelsea didn’t seem to appreciate she was his doom. As she walked beside him, her body seemed to dance to the tap of her shoes on the pavement. “Who are these people I’ll be meeting tonight?”

“Right.” Luckily she was smart, and obviously not as thrown off stride by seeing him again as he was by seeing her. He gave her a quick rundown of all the players and she listened intently, with a tiny line between her eyes, reminding him for the first time of the girl he’d known.

“Is there anything in particular I should say or not say?” she asked, as though she were cramming for an exam. But he’d pretty much already accepted the failing grade.

“Just be yourself,” he said, “and if you’re unsure of anything, defer to me.”

“What have you told them about me?” Her hair swung against her jaw, sleek and sophisticated, and he noticed how long and elegant her neck was.

“Nothing. They didn’t even know your name until a couple of days ago. Oh, we went to the Caribbean in March. You got sunburned.”

“Foolish of me.”

“I might have told them you love skiing.”

“Foolish of you.”

“Yeah. I think we went to Vail in February.”

She turned to stare at him. “From Paris?”

“I didn’t know you were in Paris when we got engaged.” He threw his hands up in the air. “You know what I mean. We’ll wing it.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said.

Even with her in those ridiculous heels they made good time and before he was remotely prepared, they were standing outside the restaurant. He drew in a quick breath. “Ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Okay.” He reached for her hand. “Hope you don’t mind. We should act like, you know …”

“Lovers,” she replied, wrapping her fingers around his. The clasp was perfect. Her hand felt surprisingly reassuring in his. Even if the word lovers, and the way she’d said it, had him conjuring up a vision of the two of them in bed, hot and sweaty and orgasmic. Which was not what he wanted to be thinking about when he saw his bosses.

They walked into the restaurant, an upscale French place, and were directed to the upper floor, where a private space had been reserved.

There weren’t many people there yet. Only the key ones. Piers and his wife, Helen. Piers’s brother, Lars, and his wife, Amelia, and several board members and their wives. Damien Macabee nodded to him affably, and David was already so rattled he barely thought about any awkwardness that might be attached to him coming to dinner with the man he planned to replace. Macabee’s wife also nodded and under her scrutiny he felt even more uncomfortable. But then, the woman was a judge, and he was always convinced she could see right through him.

Not only were he and Chelsea the youngest by a few decades, but bringing Chelsea into this room was like bringing a gorgeous parrot into a flock of drab pigeons.

For a second total silence fell over the assembled company. Piers recovered first. He walked forward with a welcoming smile on his face. “Well, David, good to see you. And please introduce me to your lovely lady.”

“Glad to, Piers. Piers Van Horne, this is my fiancée, Chelsea Hammond.” His tie was choking him again. He’d been engaged once and never, ever planned to put himself in the same position again, where a woman had the power to gut him. Not that this one did—obviously, he didn’t love her. Barely knew her, but still, introducing her as his fiancée left him feeling like he needed to down a bottle of Maalox.

She held out her hand and shook her host’s. “Thank you for inviting me,” she said.

“We’re so glad to finally meet you. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“David’s told me a little about you, too.” But not nearly damned enough to prevent disaster, he was certain.

“Come and meet some of the other people we work with.”

He ushered her forward. “My wife, Helen. Helen, this is Chelsea.”

Helen was not what you’d call well-preserved. She’d let her hair go gray long before it was fashionable to do so, and always wore the same hairstyle, a simple bun at the back of her head. She was on the heavy side and wore clothes and shoes that were comfortable rather than stylish.

Helen and Chelsea shook hands and he couldn’t imagine two women in the world who could have less in common.

“Let’s get the women drinks, shall we?” Piers said. He hated to leave them, but what choice did he have. “Sure. Honey? What do you want to drink?”

“I’ll have my usual Pernod, if they have it,” she said. “White wine, if they don’t.”

Pernod. Why the hell couldn’t she drink something normal. Scotch or a martini or something.

“Pernod,” he heard Helen say and inwardly cringed. “I remember my brother used to drink that. He picked up the habit when he was living in France.”

“That’s how I started, too. I was living in Paris until recently.”

“Really? We took the children to visit Bob one Christmas. He was with IBM and it was a great treat for us all to go over there. Were you on holiday?”

“No. I studied at Le Cordon Bleu. I’m a chef.”

“Really? How interesting. Oh, how I envy you. I married so young I never …” And then they were out of earshot and he didn’t know what Helen had never done. At least the first five minutes of his ordeal were going better than he’d hoped.

He and Piers picked up the drinks and returned to the ladies, by which time the women were talking about pastry. Pastry!

David downed his scotch-and-soda. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he definitely felt the need for some false courage if he was going to get through this night.

More board members began to arrive and if Chelsea still stuck out as the most glamorous and sexy woman at the party, he began to realize that she wasn’t the embarrassment he’d feared. She was still the same intelligent, well-read, curious person she’d always been. She also seemed to have grown out of her shyness.

By the time dinner was served, she’d charmed most of the board members and their spouses. She had the rare ability to converse on a wide range of subjects and seem as interested in talking about cooking and fashion as about politics and current events. The only time she seemed lost was when talk turned to sports.

He was beginning to think that maybe this night wasn’t going to be the disaster he’d imagined when they sat down to dinner. Given the number of people, they were arranged at a long table. He and Chelsea were seated side by side, and Piers and a couple of the senior board members were closest to them.

She ordered the day’s fresh fish and he ordered the same. It wasn’t planned, but it definitely made them look more of a couple, he decided.

When the first courses arrived, Amelia leaned forward and said, “I asked Lars where you and David met.” She shook her head. “Men are so hopeless. They work together every day, and do you know, he couldn’t tell me?”

David swallowed. He and Chelsea exchanged a glance. “You didn’t tell him anything?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’s a guy thing. You tell them, honey.”

She really had the most amazing eyes. Sparkly, brown like rich chocolate cake, and the most incredible combination of innocence and mischief. “Well, the truth is, David and I have known each other since I was fourteen.”

“Really, were you high school sweethearts?”

She laughed, easily. “No. He was several years older than I was. The brother of my best friend. He didn’t even know I existed.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “And I had a hopeless crush on him.”

Everyone laughed. She continued. “We moved away after I finished high school and I didn’t see David again for many years.”

He picked up the story. “Then we bumped into each other one day on the street, and I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was.”

Even though they were only acting a part, they’d both managed to tell the truth. He caught her quick glance and saw that she was flattered by his words.

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Helen said. “When is the wedding?”

He and Chelsea exchanged a glance, but she didn’t speak, letting him field this one.

“We haven’t set a date,” David said quickly. Then, realizing how that sounded, he said, “Probably next spring.”

“You should get on it ASAP if you are planning a spring wedding,” Amelia warned him. “The good places all get booked. When my daughter got married, we had a full year to plan, and still, she only got her second choice of venue.”

“That’s something to think about, honey,” he said. Then he dug around desperately for a topic that would move the conversation into a new direction. But before he’d been able to think of anything, Amelia was at it again.

“I see you don’t wear a ring, dear.”

He stared at Chelsea’s left hand, with its short, buffed nails and no jewelry whatsoever. Damn it, he’d totally forgotten. Of course he should have given her a ring. A fake diamond for his fake fiancée.

He opened his mouth with no idea what he was going to say, when Chelsea put her hand over his. “He wanted to, but I work with food all day. Honestly, a ring would only get in the way. I’d be terrified I’d take it off to wash my hands and wash the ring down the drain or something. Once we’re married, I’ll wear a wedding band, though, of course.”

A few of the board members at the other end of the table got a little rowdy as the night went on. And suddenly, to his horror, he heard a spoon begin to bang against a glass.

“We want the engaged couple to kiss,” somebody shouted.

Piers started to protest, but his wife said, “Oh, don’t spoil the fun. It’s nice to see young people in love.”

By now, other spoons had joined in the din. What could he do?

He leaned forward and caught the laughter in Chelsea’s eyes as he closed his lips on hers.

For a second he forgot that he was in a corporate setting with a group of people who held his future in their hands. All he knew was that she tasted like chocolate and sex and a hint of licorice from her earlier Pernod.

He pulled away slowly, seeing the shock in her eyes. He imagined her look must have mirrored his own. Slowly, her tongue slipped out and she licked her lips as though trying to catch the elusive flavor of that kiss.

He wanted to say something that would lighten the sudden tension, but he couldn’t think. Rockets were exploding in his brain. Or maybe they were Mayday flares warning him that he was in deep, deep trouble.