Unexpectedly His Page 3

  His gaze moved over her, taking in the daisy-covered halter and coordinated Spandex pants, practically burning a heated trail through the polyester-polyurethane copolymer. He was definitely flirting, and the look in his eye made her wish she was wearing her oversized college sweatshirt. Or a suit of armor. She wrapped her arms around her torso to hide the spandex and glanced down at her faux-camo sneakers.

  “What do you say, Marianne?” he asked, in a playful tone that sounded as if he’d been calling her that forever. “Will a six-week engagement work for you?”

  Her eyes snapped to meet his. “An engagement?”

  In her limited experience, men like Nick Wright rarely skulked around Zumba studios, flirting with women whose names they could scarcely remember, so the words “six-week engagement” left her a little confused.

  From the look of him, Nick felt the same way. “Jane didn’t tell you?”

  Marianne blinked over at him from behind the glasses. “Tell me what?”

  Nick ran a hand across his clean-shaven jaw as if he were about to broach a tricky subject. “No calls or messages, maybe a text?”

  A text?

  Her pathetic heart slammed into her chest so hard she could scarcely breathe. Had Jane told him about her dad’s party? Was he supposed to be her date? A hot blush stained her cheeks. “A text? Um, no…well…yes.”

  Nick lowered his chin in a slow nod and waited intently for an answer. When none came, his dark brows rose as he asked, “Which is it? Yes or no?”

  She blinked again. “To the engagement issue or the text question?”

  Nick glanced around the stone plaza as if searching for an escape route. Not that she blamed him. She must look like a lunatic in her rec specs and Zumba gear.

  “Is there some place we could go to get a cup of coffee?” he asked.

  Definitely an alternative universe. Nick Wright asking her out for coffee. The idea that he might know about the cake resurfaced, but she shoved it aside. “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “You don’t drink coffee?” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Okay. Good to know. How about tea? Do you drink tea?”

  “I drink green tea—and fruit smoothies.”

  “Green tea.” He nodded. “Excellent. Can I buy you a cup of green tea or a smoothie?”

  Marianne nodded, unable to stop the smile from spreading across her face at the thought of a mini date with Nick. “There’s a juice bar inside. Will that work?”

  “Let’s hope so,” he said, before throwing out that full-wattage smile, the same one he’d given her the first time she’d seen him, the one that had left her literally speechless.

  …

  The juice bar bustled with its usual crowd, young mothers whose kids were spending time in the gym’s childcare facility while mom worked out, a few professionals logging workout time during their lunch hours, and a plethora of Manhattan cougars, all of whom had their not-so-discreet eyes aimed at Nick. His pinstriped suit stood out in the sea of bright, floral spandex, but that wasn’t why they were looking. Nick stood out everywhere.

  Marianne sipped her tall blueberry acai and tried to ignore the way their eyes locked onto Nick’s spectacular backside as he walked toward the corner table where she sat quietly waiting. She tried not to worry about the disbelieving looks thrown in her direction, looks that said a woman like her failed to rate a man so flat-out delicious. Not that it mattered. Despite Friday night’s birthday kiss, he didn’t belong to her. The cougars were right. She didn’t rate.

  An especially pretty one gave him a come-hither smile and tossed Marianne a dismissive once-over that stung like a slap across the cheek. Nick turned away and settled his gaze on Marianne, giving her a lingering look that sent Come-Hither Smile slinking back to her coffee. Arrogant, yes. Presumptuous, absolutely. But he’d defended her, a fact that sent a thrill racing up her spine. He winked and folded his long body into the plastic chair across from her. Eat your heart out, cougar. Maybe she didn’t rate, but right now, he was with her. Potentially hers for the next six weeks.

  Marianne cleared her throat. “So, you need a fiancée?”

  He flashed another of his charming, arrogant smiles and she practically melted into her smoothie. “And you need a date.”

  She did. She needed a date for the Martha-Stewart-on-steroids blowout her mom was planning to celebrate her father’s freedom. Having supported her dad through the whole insider trading mess, her ex was sure to be there. If she intended to prove to his miserable cheating backside that she’d moved on, she needed a date. Preferably a hot date. Maybe a gorgeous Brooklyn date who smelled like freshly laundered Merino wool and Irish Spring, a combination that was knocking her hot pink Zumbas off. “I do. For a family event,” she said, taking another sip of her drink in an effort to hide her nerves, “in the Hamptons.”

  The word “family” seemed to turn him green, but she crossed her fingers and ignored his typical male reaction. He cocked an eyebrow. “What kind of event?”

  So he was an eyebrow cocker. She could handle it. “A private one.”

  Nick nodded, opened two creamers, and emptied them into his coffee. His whole demeanor was casual, but Marianne wasn’t fooled. She suspected this was how he bested his opponents in negotiations. All casual and cool before he ripped them to shreds. “And how is it that a girl like you can’t find a date to a party in the Hamptons?”

  A girl like her. Casual Nick played hardball. Well, two could play that game.

  A blush bloomed on her cheeks as she swirled the straw inside her cup in her own indifferent way. “How is it a man like you can’t find a woman willing to marry him?”

  He gave her a short nod at the evasion. Maybe she unraveled when it came to men, but she hadn’t negotiated Wall Street deals for nothing. They both knew why Nick was more interested in a business arrangement than a real engagement. His reputation preceded him.

  Nick sipped his coffee. “Some unexpected trouble at work…”

  Her brows rose above the glasses. “Woman trouble?”

  “Not of my own making,” he said without missing a beat. “But, yes, woman trouble. Now if I want to win a partnership with the firm, a partnership I’ve earned, by the way, I need to come up with a fiancée. Preferably, a short-term fiancée.”

  Her lips rounded into a small circle. Typical. “This is all about a job?”

  “Not a job, a partnership with the most influential firm in the city,” he said, his still sexy tone decked out in irony. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be so judgmental. An engagement seems like an extreme way to solve a party date issue.” She wrinkled her nose. The man did have a point.

  “What are the terms?” she asked, spitting out the words before she changed her mind. “Of our potential six week engagement.”

  Nick leaned back in the plastic chair, his hands tented in front of him. “Ideally, you’d move into the condo this afternoon…”

  Her eyes widened behind the glasses. Honestly, jumping out of his birthday cake was one thing, even pretending to be his fiancée. But living with the man? The thought of such close daily proximity to Nick Wright sent her senses reeling into next week. “Move in?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from rocketing through the skylights. “With you?”

  An uncertain expression carved into his handsome features, but almost immediately transformed into his usual easy smile. “My boss thinks I’ve fallen head over heels. A man that desperate in love would want his woman near him 24/7.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to keep the conversation between them. “And if we’re going to convince your family and my colleagues that we’re in love, we need time to get to know each other’s details and quirks.”

  “Details and quirks?”

  He smiled and nodded at the coffee. “Like the fact that you don’t drink coffee.”

  “Oh, right.” She chewed on the end of her straw. Moving in with Nick would give her the opportunity to finish the renovations she’d started last year after purchasing her nineteenth c
entury Gramercy Park home for her and her miserable ex. Might be good to get out of the place, renovate, start over. “What about…dating?”

  “Dating?”

  “Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but if I’m going to be living with you as your fiancée,” she paused and glanced around the room, “I don’t think we should see other people.”

  “Fair enough.” He drew a sleek pen from the inside pocket of his suit coat, pulled a napkin from the dispenser, and scribbled out the terms. “Six weeks. Live together. No dating.” He set the pen next to the napkin. “What else?” He took another sip of his coffee.

  Marianne drew in a steadying breath, lowered her voice and asked what seemed like the obvious question, “Well…if you expect us to live together…um…what about sex?”

  “Sex?” he choked out.

  She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the shock stamped across his face. Three nights ago she’d popped out of a cake wearing silver spangles and this morning she was talking sex inside a Jamba Juice. What was happening to her?

  “Yes, sex,” she whispered.

  And now she’d gone and said it again. Whispered, but still.

  Nick dropped his voice, too, but the smile creasing his face was all kinds of wicked. And that voice. Even better lower. “Well, Marianne, anytime you want to add sex to our six-week agenda, let me know.”

  She swallowed hard and ignored the flutter in her stomach. “I’m fairly certain I can resist you for the six week duration of our engagement.” His smile widened as if to say, “Don’t count on it, sweetheart.” “But that is not what I meant when I said no sex. I was actually referring to the rule that during our engagement there can be no sex outside the faux relationship.”

  “No sex even outside the relationship?” His eyes widened comically. “At all?”

  Of course, she should have expected this type of reaction from a man who went through women faster than his morning breakfast cereal, but it was still frustrating. Did he really think she’d meant sex between the two of them?

  “No. Sex.” From one of the four chambers of her heart, a determined voice whispered, You can do this…stand your ground. “We’d be living together, and I’d be your fiancée, so it’s a matter of respect.” Keeping her voice quiet, she rushed ahead. “And while 84 percent of all couples engage in premarital sex, obviously there will be no sex inside this relationship.” She gave a short nod. “Six weeks, no sex.”

  “84 percent, huh?” He sipped his coffee. “I’d have guessed 95 percent,” he said, scribbling a few words on the napkin. “No sex outside—or inside—the relationship.” The way he said the words inside the relationship sent her brain into overdrive. “So—it’s a deal?” he asked, as if it was the simplest contract this side of Manhattan.

  She bit her lip, hard, not sure it was so simple. The probability of failure was high. A six-week engagement to a man who made her heart want to fly out of her chest and dive into his jacket pocket. A man who wouldn’t know commitment if commitment bit him on his backside…oh, hells bells…on his ass. His tight, firm, sexy, sexy ass.

  If she was going to commit to this plan, she needed to lock down her side of the bargain. “I’ll give you six weeks and be the perfect fiancée as far as your colleagues are concerned, as long as you give me one weekend with my family and convince them we’re madly in love.”

  “Madly in love?” Nick tapped his fingers on the table. “Only one weekend, right?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I’m in. Madly in love for the weekend.” A teasing smile formed on his face, more evidence that he was trouble. “Do we have a deal?”

  Not allowing for second thoughts, Marianne thrust out her hand, all up-front and businesslike in her Zumba gear. If he was looking for an unemotional entanglement, she’d give it to him. And she’d get the perfect date in the process. “We have a deal.”

  He reached out to envelop her hand in his warm, masculine grip, and a zing of pleasure shot through her body like a bolt of lightning streaking across a summer sky. Her hand tucked in his, Marianne wondered what she’d just agreed to with this engagement. Six weeks of heaven? Or six weeks of hell?

  Nick let go of her hand and slipped the napkin into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ll draw up something more formal back at the office.” All business as usual.

  “No need. I trust you to be a man of your word.”

  He offered a short nod. “I’ll messenger a key over to Smart Cupid, but if you want to settle in before it arrives, let the doorman know you’re my fiancée, and he’ll make sure you get into the condo safely.”

  “I’ll wait for the key.” Marianne was pretty sure if she told the doorman she was engaged to Nick Wright the poor man might have a shock-induced coronary and keel over.

  He held her gaze for a long moment, one corner of his mouth lifted with undeniable mischievous intent. Almost as if she was…what? A challenge.

  Still time to back out, a quiet, unadventurous voice whispered. Marianne took a moment to consider the well-timed warning. Men like Nick were trouble, and not just for a woman like her, for all womankind. Keeping him off the market for six weeks was like a public service, a Venus vs. Mars takedown allowing the female side a break from the risks involved in hooking up with a commitment-phobe whose skills of sexual persuasion rated high enough to fall off the charts. At least, she imagined his skills rated so high. Not that she planned to find out.

  Then again, a little fact-finding mission might be fun, her inner siren whispered. Her stomach flipped.

  She drew in a long breath and fought to stay calm. No need to get flustered and back out. This engagement was all business. He needed a short-term fiancée and she needed a date, preferably one that was guaranteed and as ridiculously sexy as Nick Wright. As long as she didn’t tumble head over heels for the man, which she would not, the deal was a win for both of them. Easy peasy, right?

  Nick shot her one of his killer smiles, and the butterflies in her stomach responded with a take-no-prisoners party.

  Right.

  Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

  Chapter Four

  I used to get the feeling, and sometimes I still get it, that I was fooling somebody—I don’t know who—maybe myself.

  —Marilyn Monroe

  An hour later, after attempting to soothe her frayed nerves with a class of restorative yoga, Marianne stood on the corner of 23rd and Lex, sipped her anti-anxiety tea, and gaped at the text on her phone. Am I a genius, or what?

  A genius? She stared at the words. Took a breath. And kept walking west toward her townhouse on the edge of Gramercy Park. A list of appropriate responses raced through her brain. What were you thinking mixing me up with your brother? Ambushing me outside the gym? Or the ever-pertinent, I was wearing my Zumba gear, for crying out loud.

  But instead of typing any of them, she stared at the screen. Her six week engagement was an unholy bargain. But six weeks was just one month, plus fourteen days, and what percentage of her soul could she lose in one month—and fourteen days? She scrolled to the next text. Don’t overthink his proposal, just say yes.

  Okay, fine, she’d said yes—but now she was definitely overthinking it. She quickened her pace. Had she really agreed to play house with the scorching hot financial attorney who’d been starring in her dreams for the past seven months, or was that just some crazy, Zumba-driven hallucination?

  Not that they’d ever get married. Engaged, yes. A fake engagement, she reminded herself, twisting her key into the lock of the wraparound gate. Opening the entrance to the private park, she slipped through the wrought iron and scrolled to the next text. Think of it as a six week test of your new sexy skills.

  Her new sexy skills. The words rolled around her thoughts. Sure, she’d popped out of a cake, but she’d also suffered a meltdown afterward and run off like some frazzled version of Cinderella— Did she really have any skills? Let’s face it, this engagement deal was definitely a risk. If Nick found out she’d been the
woman in the cake and felt disappointed, or worse, chuckled at New Girl trying sexy on for size, she’d never survive. Being jilted for a high-priced dominatrix was humiliating enough. Yes, that’s correct. An actual dominatrix. Honestly, it wasn’t the other woman’s profession or her penchant for whips and chains, the betrayal and heartache would’ve been there no matter who he’d left her for. It was more the realization that the bondage mistress was her polar opposite. Like her ex-fiancé had never really known her.

  Like she wasn’t enough.

  A stinging pain shot through her at the memory of how he’d declared her less-than-seductive in bed. Timid. Ice queen. Marianne had spent months wondering if he was right.

  But not anymore.

  She wanted to shed her buttoned-up image, embrace her sultry side, and experience the joys of being a woman.

  Emotionally. Spiritually. Physically.

  And Nick Wright was the perfect man to show her the ropes…not just the ropes, but maybe even one or two kinks in those ropes. So to speak.

  Maybe she wasn’t skilled in the sexual arts, but Nick was sexy personified. Even thinking about the easy, masculine way he’d cruised into Smart Cupid last week, dressed to the nines in his navy pinstripe suit, made her heart skip like a game of hopscotch. She’d been playing it safe, and cool, and by somebody else’s rules for far too long. And for no good reason. The time had come to embrace her true self.

  Her sexier self.

  And if her ex showed up at the party with the dominatrix—she’d be prepared. Hopefully. Possibly. If she could work up the courage to commit to six weeks of close proximity—no—six weeks of an engagement to Nick Wright.

  She took a long sip of her passionflower tea, needing more of nature’s answer to Xanax to deal with her swirling thoughts, not to mention the string of texts from Jane, texts she’d been ignoring in favor of her new mantra, Keep Calm and Marry On. Even if she didn’t feel calm, even if there would be no marriage. She read the rest of the messages in succession.

  So, did you say, yes?

  Or are you mad? Please don’t be mad.