An Improper Deal(27)

Sighing, she melts. “Oh my god, that’s so romantic!”

I make agreement-type noises until she frowns. “You don’t sound that excited.”

“No, I am. It’s just, you know, I’m just thinking about how we’re going to pull it off, that’s all.”

Nonny grins. “You’ll find a way. True love always does! Can I come too?”

“Don’t know yet. It’s a school day,” I say.

“Are you guys going to have a real ceremony later?”

“Maybe,” I lie. I can’t help myself, not when she’s looking at me like I’m a fairy princess.

But I know better. I’m entering into a bargain with a devil who seduces me even in my sleep.





Chapter Thirteen



Annabelle

Over the weekend, I take my time making a list of things I need from him in order for me to want to do this whole marriage-for-sex thing. Nonny can sigh all she wants, but business is business.

Come Monday, I don’t turn in my notice. Elliot might think it’s a done deal, but nothing’s happening until we agree to everything. Contrary to what he apparently believes, I’m not averse to honest work, even if it’s scrubbing toilets.

I tuck the list into my purse and drive to the law firm he selected—Richmond, Worthington and Chen. It sounds important and diverse. I’m sure it has the appropriate male to female ratio to meet whatever the legal requirement is in California. According to my Google search, the law firm is one of the best in the state, handling matters for all types of celebrities and wealthy individuals. The lawyer Elliot and I have an appointment with is one of the partners, Craig Richmond.

I manage to arrive a few minutes before the appointed time and go to the lobby to sign in. The place is all chrome and marble and glass. But the display of influence and power doesn’t look flashy, thanks to the cool modern feel of the design. Not so much gaudy as…haughty. Yeah, that’s the word.

Elliot is sitting in one of the plush mini-sofas, casually thumbing his phone. A blue T-shirt with the red Superman logo clings to his lean, muscled chest and tight abs. If I were the shirt, I’d be clinging too. My fingers itch to run over his body. I curl them, but it only seems to intensify the tingling sensation. Faded jeans fit him perfectly, the hem frayed without looking old and tired. I can see the outline of strong thighs and those calves underneath the soft denim. He rests an ankle on the opposite knee and stretches his left arm along the back of the couch, one leather-clad foot bobbing to some beat only he can hear. The pose emphasizes the smooth, hard lines of his biceps and forearms. He looks utterly at home, like an athlete who owns the building.

Meanwhile I don’t look like I belong here. I’m in my best dress—a green silk number that brings out my eyes and cinches my waist. But it’s old, the cut outdated. My black shoes are just as old and have a few small scuff marks, although they aren’t that obvious.

A trio of fashionably dressed young women check him out as they walk past, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s immersed in whatever’s on the screen.

Suddenly, he looks up, and I feel the force of his scrutiny. It’s like a cyclone that sucks me in, leaving me shaken to the core, and I can’t look away.

He stands up with a small frown. “I should’ve sent… Never mind.” He takes my elbow, the contact searing me like a brand. “Ready?”

I nod.

The security guy recognizes him on sight; Elliot scrawls his name in the visitor’s log. I write mine neatly, then get taken to a bank of elevators.

As we wait for our car, he dips his head and whispers, “I should’ve stipulated that I don’t want you to wear anything except skirts and dresses.”

“Why?”

“Easy access. Plus, you have great legs.”

Heat floods my face, neck and chest, and it’s not embarrassment. “Stop saying stuff like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to focus.”

Thankfully the elevator opens, and I step inside. He follows me in, and the door closes, trapping us inside. Together. Alone.

“It’ll all be standard stuff,” he says. He stands like a perfect gentleman without crowding me, but I feel like I’m surrounded. I can’t even draw in air without smelling his heady scent.

“To you maybe. I’ve never done this kind of thing before.”

“Me either. You’re going to be my first wife.”

“Hopefully you won’t repeat this with your second,” I say, even as a hot ugly feeling roils through me.

I don’t know why the idea of him marrying again bothers me. He made it clear I was going to be his wife for exactly one year. There is no way he’s going to stay single forever afterward. He’s too great a catch, and he’ll want to have a family at some point.