The Perfect Illusion(8)

She breathes me in, her stare unblinking. My left hand circles her waist, feeling it cave with my touch.

“I’ve never told you this before … but the day I met you, I knew there was something special about you. And something tells me you’re about to become the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say, my words slow and gentle as our eyes lock. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, until we’re old and gray. We might drive each other crazy, our path may be a bit bumpy at times, but we’re going to love every minute of it. Marry me, Maribel Collins. Be my wife. I don’t want anyone but you.”

Stillness lingers between us, and then she releases a shuddering breath before blinking. Peeling herself from me, she tucks her thick blonde hair behind her ears before resting her hands on her hips.

“That was …” Mari leaves her thought unfinished as she moves a few paces back. “That was … cheesy. But passable.” Her lips pull into an bitten grin as she recovers her composure. “You’re good at that.” Glancing up at me, her expression dissolves. “Not that I’m surprised. You’re a professional manipulator.”

Rolling my eyes, I exhale. “Do you want the money or not?”

Her hand rests on her stomach briefly, and then she continues pacing. She’s going to wear a beaten path into the wood floor by the time she’s finished.

“Five million dollars.” I fold my arms. “Final offer.”

Mari stops in her tracks, her gaze flicking to mine. “I don’t want to do this. I think it’s a bad idea. But you’re making it impossible for me to say no.”

My mouth curls at the sides.

“I knew you’d see it my way.” Moving to the door, I begin to show myself out, stopping to turn to her before I go. “My attorney will email you the pre-nuptial agreement. Please sign and return it by tomorrow, though if you’d like your attorney to go over it, I can give you an extra couple of days. Also, I’ll clear my schedule Monday so I can take you shopping.”

“Shopping?” Her head tilts.

“You’ll need an engagement ring.” I pull the door wide and step into the hall. “My driver will pick you up at nine Monday morning.”

“O-okay.” She blinks, eyes wide like she can’t believe this is happening.

But I can.

I always get what I want.

But to be fair, my reward is more than worth her while. I may be a self-serving bastard, but I’m a generous self-serving bastard.

As long as she does whatever I say, whenever I say … this little arrangement of ours will be a walk in the park.





Chapter 3





Mari



“I’m not going to call you ‘sir’ anymore.” I climb into the backseat of his freshly waxed limousine Monday morning as it gently idles outside my apartment. The scent of supple leather and Hudson’s Creed cologne fills my lungs with dizzying deliciousness the second I inhale. “I’ve been thinking about this all weekend.” Obsessing, really. “I made of list of things I wanted to discuss with you before we dive into all of this. I have expectations too, you know. And I think it’s really important that we—”

“Hot tea?” Hudson wears a warm smile as he hands me a paper cup with little tufts of steam rising from the lid. “You take yours with a splash of milk and one sugar. Or so I was told.”

“Oh. Um. Thank you.” I reach for the cup, my fingers brushing his. All things considered, this might be the kindest gesture this man’s made toward me since I’ve known him.

I settle into my seat, my shoulders relaxing slightly. He’s making an effort. This is good. This is a step in the right direction. This gives me hope that this thing might actually work out.

“Let me make one thing clear,” I continue, blowing through the lid of my cup, eyes darting to him. “I’m in this for the money and only for the money. And I don’t work for you. I’ll be working with you. Side by side. Like a team. So don’t treat me like your assistant anymore. Don’t ask me to fetch you coffee or your dry cleaning. Even if I were your girlfriend or whatever, I wouldn’t be running your errands. That’s not my style.”

His full lips arch into a coy smirk, but I have his attention. He’s listening.

“In order for this to look authentic, it has to feel authentic,” I say, placing my tea aside. “If it’s me you want, it’s me you’re going to get—not some sugar substitute version.”

The car stops outside a corner building, and an array of trademark red awning-covered windows catch my eye and silence my commentary.