Faking It (7 page)

“Divorce before the marriage. That has to be a record.”

“I’ve always liked to be efficient.”

He waited her out. She’d been so adamant about not needing him, she must have waited to call until she had absolutely no choice. It had been three days—and it had been irritating as hell when he’d realized he’d been counting. He’d missed her. Missed laughing with her. It made a difference, and left an emptiness behind when she wasn’t there.

He couldn’t let her be this important to him, this quickly.

Finally she said, “Are you busy right now?”

“Only if torturing Aaron is a full-time job.”

“…an unlisted number is calling me. He’s the only unlisted number that
ever
calls me. What did you do?”

He grimaced. “I didn’t have to do anything. He knows everything.”

She groaned. “I might have to start taking him seriously about that surveillance crap. I’m not answering it. He can stew. Or eavesdrop, since he’s so nosy.” She paused. He heard the sound of a copier with its repetitive
click-shush
. “Don’t you answer, either. Let him suffer.”

“Deal.”

“So…” Her breath was loud through the speaker. “Are you doing anything tonight?”

He took his time answering. “I have a date.”

“…oh.” She sounded so crestfallen he almost wished he hadn’t said it. “You met someone that fast?”

“It’s a long-term thing, really. Her name is Sofia. Have you ever seen
Modern Family
?”

Dead silence—and then she spluttered. “You are
such
a dick! Why couldn’t you just say you’re going to sit on your ass and watch TV?”

“This way was more amusing.”

“You—I—never mind. I don’t want to see you. Forget I called.”

“
Bella
…” He laughed. “I’m teasing. You like me when I tease, yes?”

“…maybe not so much when you tease me,” she grumbled.

“But you wanted to see me.”

She let out a huffy sound. “God. You are just so—hmph. Whatever. Meet me at my place at five. I’m getting out of here soon.”

“Was that an order, or a reasonable request?”

He could practically feel her glare through the phone. “I’m hanging up on you now. My place. Five. Bring a bathing suit.”

“Wait.” He sat up straighter. “Bathing suit? You didn’t say anything about swimming.”

“Problem?”

“I don’t have a suit with me.”

“You’re rich. This is Miami. If you wanted to you could buy every bathing suit in the city. Or blow your entire fortune on a pair of couture Versace trunks.”

He covered his face with his palm. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m
hanging up
.”

The phone went dead—and immediately lit up again with a call from
Unknown Number
. He sent it to voicemail, dropped the phone on the patio table, and stared at it.

This woman was going to drive him out of his mind.

He pondered calling the concierge, but he hated using his position to be pretentious to the point of helplessness. He could navigate the gift shop without a butler shepherding him nonstop.

One pair of black trunks, sandals, and a souvenir T-shirt later, and he almost didn’t recognize himself. The man in the mirror looked like a tanned surfer, hair disheveled into loose spikes, and the weathered lines around his eyes could almost be mistaken for laugh lines. His reflection seemed to mock him with who he could have been.

He might not have been as rich, but he thought he just might have been happy.

He arrived at Stephanie’s place ten minutes early. She answered right when he knocked, but threw the door open without even looking back. “I just need to change. Then you can help me—oh. ”

She’d glanced at him—then stopped, turned back, and just stared, color creeping up her cheeks. He cleared his throat.

“I can’t look that ridiculous.”

“No. No, you…” She looked away and retreated into the apartment. “You should dress down more often.”

“Doubtful.”

“Not from where I’m standing.” She shook her head. “Come on in. Let me dig out my two-piece and I’ll be ready to go.”

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His gaze roved over her little tank top and barely-there shorts, nearly a bikini in their own right. “Was that what you needed help with?”

“Don’t be crass.” She grinned over her shoulder. “I only need a man to help me get
out
of my clothing.”

Before he could retort, she was gone—slamming her bedroom door, followed by the distinct click of the lock. That little damned tease. No, worse than a tease—she was a minx, plain and simple.

But when she stepped out of her room, everything about her screamed
vixen
. Her saucy red two-piece slid over her curves and pale skin until she was as sweetly delicious as a candy-cane. He lingered on the supple flow of her legs.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Don’t you want to cover up a little more first?”

“Prude.” With a laugh, she retrieved a flimsy white sundress from the back of the couch and slid it on. The curves of her bottom peeked at him under the flirty little hem. “There. Happy?”

“Infinitely so,” he muttered.

He was in hell.

And Aaron was probably watching from somewhere overseas, pitchfork in hand.

He cleared his throat. “So is this another strategy meeting? Hardly fitting business attire.”

“No, I…” She fidgeted and suddenly found the space over his shoulder very interesting. “I felt bad. I promised to take you sightseeing and make this week fun, and instead it’s been all about me and my problems. I wanted to take you to the beach to just relax and catch the last of the sun.”

“Stephanie…” He touched her cheek, the fine skin sweet under his fingertips, and gently nudged until she finally met his eyes again. “I really don’t mind helping. You don’t need to worry.”

She made a flustered sound. She was still entirely fetching when she blushed, even if it only seemed to irritate her.

“
I
mind,” she said. “I owe you big time, so you are going to have
fun
, damn it.”

His grin crept up on him before he could stop it. “Yes, ma’am.”

She muttered peevishly, pulled away from him, and scooped up a tote with two towels—but he took it from her, slung it over his shoulder, and followed her from the apartment.

She shot him a look and slid on a pair of shades. “I could carry that.”

“It’s a bag. It’s not a charity handout. Learn to accept that much, at least.”

She put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “Are you really going to turn this into a lecture?”

He eyed her. “Are you really going to refuse to let me carry a bag for you?”

“Point. But you haven’t won yet.” She laughed. “If you think I’ll trust you with my life’s work, you have another thing coming. I don’t want to owe you
another
favor.”

Her work was the last thing on his mind right now. But he bit his tongue, slid his sunglasses on, and followed her from the elevator, down the sidewalk, to the beach. Even past his tinted lenses, the sun reflected off the sand brightly enough to sear afterimages into his retinas—but it wasn’t enough to blind him to the appreciative glances several men threw her way. He gritted his teeth and held his silence. He was only pretending to be her fiancé. He had no claim on her.

She found them a spot in the sand, and he helped her spread out their towels. She wriggled out of her sundress and left it in a puddle on the sand. He closed his eyes and looked away.

Aaron’s sister. Guantanamo Bay. A team of government assassins breaking into his D.C. condominium and garroting him in his kitchen. He wasn’t wholly sure he was exaggerating.

“Come
on
.” She wrapped both her little hands around his wrist and tugged. “You don’t go to the beach just to stand around.”

“I thought that was the purpose of tanning.”

“You sit for that. I don’t want to sit. I want to swim, and you’re tan enough.”

“You want to burn. You’re too pale.” He snagged the bottle of sunscreen poking out of her tote’s side pocket and tossed it to her. “Lather up.”

“I already did at home. I just didn’t get my back.” She tossed the bottle back to him. It landed in both palms with a heavy
smack
.

“If you say ‘do me,’ I’m leaving.”

“Even my jokes aren’t that bad.” She turned away, glancing over her shoulder and gathering her wind-tossed hair against her neck in a soft tangle of dark curls. “But if you wouldn’t mind…”

He minded. He minded knowing he could touch her, and yet it could never be more than that. He minded that even now his father’s voice was in his head, calling her a low-class woman who was just out for his money.

She’s not like that
, he thought fiercely, then nearly smacked himself.
And now I’m arguing with the voices in my head.

“Lay down,” he said, and flipped the bottle of sunscreen open.

She stretched out on her towel, her head pillowed on her forearms. The sloping valley of her back flowed in a graceful curve like music made flesh, dipping low before rising into the soft-swelling peak of her bottom. He brushed her hair aside. When his fingers grazed the nape of her neck, she shivered, and he toyed with the knot tying the bikini in place. So easy. So tempting. He pulled his hand away and coated his fingers in sunscreen. When he rested his palms against her back, she hissed and arched.

“Cold,” she murmured.

“Give it a moment.” The flex and pull of her lithe body under his fingertips was hypnotic. Slowly, he began to stroke the sunscreen into her skin, kneading her as if she were clay beneath his sculpting fingers, shaping her to his touch. She let out a sighing sound of pleasure and rolled her shoulders.

“Bonus massage,” she nearly purred. “Is it my birthday?”

He couldn’t answer. Not when he was utterly absorbed in the fascinating tracery of her spine, the way the shape of her waist drew his hands so naturally to rest on her hips, the way the sunscreen gleamed on her skin. He wanted. He
needed
. And to hell with what anyone else thought.

She twisted onto her back, looking up at him. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, but her lips were parted, her breaths shallow.

“I think I’m covered,” she said. “Your turn.”

He was barely aware of taking off his shirt. She sat up, her tongue caught between her teeth. A shudder rippled through him as her delicate fingers traced over his skin.

“Ink,” she said. “You are full of surprises, Derek.”

He almost didn’t remember what she was talking about. His tattoo, graceful letters flowing across his chest. His one act of rebellion, a teenaged attempt to get his father’s attention. It hadn’t worked. He’d kept it anyway, because it felt like the one little piece of himself that still belonged to him.

“It’s from a long time ago. A lifetime ago.”

She followed the arc of one stylized letter, the teasing touch of her nail raising goosebumps. “I don’t understand Spanish. What does it say?”

“Nothing important.”

Her lips parted further, but she let it go. She picked up the sunscreen, coated her hands, then rose up on her knees to begin smoothing it over his chest and shoulders. Her every breath, loud between them, brought the swell of her bosom close to brushing his skin. Her scent surrounded him, that soft sweetness tinted by the creamy sunscreen. His fingers dug into the sand. His gaze never left her face. She grew redder by the moment, and he burned to feel her beneath him, trapped between the hot sand and a need so intense it scorched him with its fire.

Her long, caressing strokes slid beyond his shoulders, down his back, until her arms were almost wrapped around him. Her lower lip was calling him like a beacon, a plump red fruit he needed to nibble and suck. He leaned closer. Her head tilted, her mouth so close to fitting to his.

And then she stole his sunglasses—and shoved a sunscreen-covered hand in his face, leaving a wet handprint that dripped over his eyes.

She giggled. “Race you to the water,” she yelped, then took off running at full speed.

Her laughter had him like a leash, and he grinned, swiped a gooey handful of lotion off his face, and bolted after her. She peeked back, shrieked, and nearly tripped over two sunbathers, then righted herself and bolted. Derek almost couldn’t catch up. He was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, panting as he vaulted over a child’s clumsy sandcastle and caught her at the water’s edge. He captured her waist, swinging her around and into his arms. Grinning and out of breath, she clung to his neck.

“Did you really just do the long jump over a toddler?”

“Did I? I didn’t even see him.”
I only saw you.
He scooped her up until he was carrying her, and waded into the warm, gentle waves. “You nearly stepped on someone’s head.”

“I’m a klutz. It’s fact at this point. I don’t think I can be prosecuted in a court of law.” She snickered, pushed her sunglasses up, then flicked a strand of his disarrayed hair. “You’re still dripping.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Totally yours.”

“Not only are you impossible, you’re unbelievable.” He tightened his hold on her. Her fingers twined against the back of his neck. “Close your eyes,” he whispered.

She was no longer smiling. He absorbed her like sunlight, taking in every detail of spray beading on her skin, the way her hair clung to the damp spots and painted dark lines that drew his gaze over her skin and snaked like runnels of chocolate syrup. He pulled her closer, lifting her tight against his chest, her softness filling his arms until there was only one thing he could do.

He dumped her in the water.

She came up sputtering and drenched, her hair straggling into her face. He dissolved into helpless laughter. She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You think this is funny?”

He doubled over, gasping for breath. “No, I think it’s hilarious.”

“Oh, it is
on
.”

That was his only warning before she yanked his ankles right out from under him. By the time he splashed his way to the surface and took a deep draught of air, she was swimming away from him.