Icy Pretty Love (2 page)

Judging by recent encounters, apparently everyone in Paris is an asshole, even if Cohen Ashworth is as American-born as I am. Did he forget why I’m here?      

“I mean, I’ve come here to
be
Georgette Montgomery,” I say meaningfully. I’d hate to give the game away in front of Baldy the Fancypants Doorman. “For you.”

He looks dead at me. I avert my eyes and bat my lashes. To maintain the appearance of a lady, yes, that’s it. Not at all because his gaze sears me.

“Renard, this woman is insane. Have her escorted off the premises,” he says.

What the hell?

Baldy makes a swipe for me. I dodge him and grab Cohen’s arm. Screw daintiness. Screw secrecy, because this is ridiculous.

“I mean I’m Rae Grove, the girl you hired to come here and pretend to be your fiancé for a month. For a hundred thousand dollars. Ringing a bell yet?”

“That’s the craziest lie I’ve ever heard,” he scoffs.

He can’t be serious. Right?

I present him with the only proof I have—the crumpled email printout from Ashworth Sr. He scans it quickly, and as storm clouds gather on that perfect brow, as his mouth drops open slightly and his knuckles whiten on the paper, I realize one thing.

I’ve left my home, my country, and flown halfway across the world with nothing but a suitcase and an alias to pretend to be the fiancé of a man who had no idea I was coming.

~2~

I’ve never been anywhere so luxurious, so clearly meant for perfect tidiness, that had so much clutter scattered everywhere there could conceivably be clutter.

It’s mostly in paper form. Papers stacked high on the creamy Italian furniture, papers scattered on the dark wood floors, underneath the hand-carved table, even in the old, haunted-looking fireplace. Papers shuffled in a stone bowl clearly meant for fruit, all over the rich ochre carpet, jammed underneath the door to the bedroom. Normally I’d be twitching to clean it all up. But I’m too busy being intimidated by this…presence in the center of the room.

It doesn’t seem quite correct to call him human.

“You sit there,” he snaps, pointing at the one chair that isn’t coated in a not-so-fine layer of paperwork. “Don’t touch anything.”

I sit. My heart’s pounding. If only I’d been able to find out something about him before I came here. Anything. When your livelihood centers around spending nights with strange men, you learn that the best way to protect yourself is to get inside their heads. Figure out what they want from you and give it to them before they get frustrated enough to take it.

But this is different.

He didn’t hire me. His father must have orchestrated this whole thing without breathing a word to Cohen. I can’t give him what he wants, because he doesn’t want anything from me.

I should leave. Walk out the door. But…

A hundred thousand dollars.

My only way out of this life.

Not to mention that if I leave now, I have nowhere to go and not enough money for a plane ticket home.

Cohen paces. His eyes are cold fury, his face murder carved in marble. He’d be devastatingly attractive if he didn’t look so dangerous.

“Hey…” I start, unsure if I should keep the timid Georgette voice or revert to the tougher Rae. Cohen looks like he could eat Georgette alive.

“Don’t talk. I can’t think if you talk.”

Great. He’s nuts. I draw my knees up on the chair, calculating.

There’s two ways that men can hit you. One is meant to humiliate, to punish, but not fatally. I can handle that. I
have
handled that, and for a lot less than a hundred thousand.

The other kind is rage in the form of a fist. It’s everything that’s ever gone wrong in his life, and in that moment, he directs it at you. If you let him do it more than once, he’ll kill you. The trick is to learn the difference.

If he hits me, I’ll endure it.

If he hits me hard, I’ll bolt for the stairs. Run to the lobby and hope that Baldy has a heart underneath all that deference.

Some people help you. Most look the other way.

And then what? I’ll be homeless on the streets of a country where I can’t understand a single word.

Good job, Rae. This is the single biggest fucking mess you’ve ever gotten yourself into. You should have known that a hundred thousand for a month’s work was too good to be true. You’re still that stupid fifth grade girl after all, believing that the world would come through for you.

Finally, Cohen seems to come to a decision—though judging by his expression, it’s one that pains him. Without looking at me, he switches on a huge flat-screen plasma TV mounted on the wall. Then he does something on his sleek black smartphone.

Words flash to life on the TV.
Video call outgoing…

And as I sit frozen, the call goes through—to Ashworth Sr., the man who showed up at my usual bar that night with a smile and a proposition. The man who plunged me headfirst into this vat of shit.

The video quality is crisp and clean, nowhere near the grainy Skype calls I had a couple times with my high school pals before they moved on to brighter futures and brighter people. I can count every wrinkle on the old man’s face, note the absence of creases in his silk tie, admire the quality of his toupee.

“Cohen,” he says smoothly. I remember that voice well, saying
Excuse me. Ms. Grove, isn’t it? May I have a word?
“What an unexpected pleasure it is to hear from you.”

“It’s entirely expected and you know it.” Cohen stands ramrod-straight. His back is to me, but tension is written in every muscle. His voice is contained rage. Silver mercury. “You can’t believe that I wouldn’t immediately notice your stench all over this idiotic plan.”

“I’m guessing you’ve met Ms. Grove. Or Ms. Montgomery, as she may have introduced herself.” Ashworth Sr. peers past Cohen, his turtle eyes landing on me. “Ah. Good to see you haven’t thrown her out on her backside just yet.”

“I have neither the time nor patience for your games.” Cohen’s hand flexes. “Explain yourself. Now.”

“Ms. Grove is here, as I’m sure she’s explained by now, to act as your fiancé for the next month.” Ashworth Sr. smooths his tie as if he’s explaining nothing more complicated than how to prepare instant coffee. Not that he’s ever drunk that in his life.

I can’t understand how he’s so calm in the face of Cohen’s anger. Then, of course,

I do understand. He’s thousands of miles away from it.

I, however, am not.

“And why do I need a fiancé for a month?” Cohen asks tightly.

Ashworth Sr. continues. “For the same reason you’re in Paris. Don’t pretend to be stupid. I know you’re not. With your reputation as a drug-addled misanthrope, Mr. LeCrue is as likely to sell his company to you as he is to sell it to some cretin on the streets.”

“If I’m engaged, you think that will change his mind.” Cohen spits derision.

“LeCrue is a family man with family values. If he sees you with a lady on your arm, as evidence that you’ve turned your life around, that you’re settling down…it will be enough for him. I guarantee it. He wants evidence that your hands are steady now.”

I have no idea what they’re talking about. I disobey my strict order to remain in the chair and meander over to the high glass windows, pressing my hand against the cold glass. This has to be the best view in Paris. The city is spread out, buildings outlined in the day’s dying light. There, in the distance, the Eiffel Tower reaches upwards toward the gauzy half-moon.

“And she’s under contract,” Ashworth Sr. adds. “I’m paying her one hundred thousand dollars for this. If it works, it’ll be well worth the investment.”

“I won’t do it. This is idiotic.”

I peek over my shoulder. Cohen is rigid.

“You’ll do it, and you won’t argue.” Ashworth Sr.’s voice is suddenly steel-hard. At least some of Cohen’s intensity is genetic, it seems. “I could have had you put in a recovery facility. I still could. Instead I sent you to Paris and gave you this chance, this one chance, to redeem yourself. If you fail, you’ll only prove to me that you’re not as stable as you claim. And I will have to take the necessary, if drastic, steps.”

Cohen has the silence of the sky before a lightning storm. I can only hope he won’t take this anger out on me when the call ends.

“She will live with you in your apartment,” Ashworth Sr. continues. “The place is more than big enough for the two of you. The ruse must look convincing. You will be seen with her in public. You will take her out to dinner with Mr. LeCrue and his wife. You will cite her as inspiration for your new lease on life. You will say you are planning a family. In short, you will do everything, and anything, you need to.”

Endless silence. Ashworth Sr. turns to me. “I hope you had an enjoyable flight.”

No wonder Cohen’s giving off the general aura of an Arctic wolf. This man tricked me into flying across the world for someone who hadn’t agreed to it, and now he’s expecting me to exchange pleasantries.

“You should have told him I was coming,” I say.

For the first time since we got to the apartment, Cohen looks at me.

Ashworth Sr.’s smile hardens. I was supposed to be on his side. “Ms. Grove, you’ve been in my son’s presence for more than half a second now. Do you really think he would have agreed to this in advance?”

I hate it when crappy people make good points.

“I have a dinner with the Sinclairs in twenty minutes.” His gaze slides past me again and settles on Cohen, a sardonic smile raising the corner of his mouth. “See this as a peacemaking gift from you to me. Have some fun. I’m certainly paying her enough.”

I stare at my hands. I’ve always had small hands. A child’s hands. Whenever I feel too adult, too ancient and sick, I can look at them and feel innocent again. At least for a second.

The screen switches off, leaving smooth black. The room is humming. Cohen has an odd ability to project his displeasure, to fill the room with it like a murky soup. I want to open a window and fly away like a bird.

I look up and he’s standing with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, a terrible expression distorting his handsome features. He turns sharply toward me and I flinch. Hard.

It catches him off guard.

“Did you think I was going to hit you?” he asks with the first glint of humanity I’ve seen in him.

“No,” I say, but it’s an obvious lie.

“You’ve been hit before.”

“No,” I lie again.

Something stirs in his ice blue eyes, something worse than rage or hatred. Pity. The spoiled rich man looking down at the poor street girl. Pity makes me feel more like a shredded thing than anything else that’s been done to me.

I stand up straight. “Sympathy doesn’t suit you. Hurts your whole jerk aesthetic.”

His eyebrow twitches in what I realize, for him, is the equivalent to a mouth open wide with shock. “Why would I pity you? You’re coming out of this rich. How long did it take to get him to agree to your price?”

My fear of him rapidly darkens to dislike. “He came to me. He named the price. He showed up at the end of an honest day’s work.”

“Interesting what passes for an honest day’s work now.”

“It’s more honest than withdrawing from a bank account your daddy set up,” I flare back. Then I bite my tongue.

What are you doing, Rae? You should have trampled your temper into the dirt by now. If there’s a lesson you should have learned a thousand times over, it’s that safety is worth more than your damn pride. He’s got nearly a foot on you.

“So you’re just his pawn. Even better.” He rubs his forehead, exhaustion tinting his brow. “What was the deal? A hundred thousand to be my fiancé, a hundred thousand to spy on me?”

“I’m no spy,” I snap.

“No. Just a hooker with a fake name.”

That’s it. I don’t care if it means making a bed on the street tonight, if it means setting a match to my glowing new future, I can’t spend another second in this asshole’s presence. I turn on my heel, but then he’s leaning against the door with one hand, shutting it.

“You’ll stay in the guest bedroom. Assuming my father hasn’t already given you one, you’ll have an allowance for food and necessities. When I’m here, I expect to see you as little as possible. You’ll speak to me even less, and make appearances at events with me whenever I request it. Do you understand?”

I stare at his smooth, strong hand on the dark wood. One month. One month is all. If I don’t have to speak to him, I might just survive it.

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Yes, I understand,” he corrects. “If anyone’s going to believe I’d deign to ask you to marry me, you’ll have to work on the way you talk.”

This guy is a knife especially designed to get under my skin. “Should I call you sir too?” I ask, painting my voice with false sincerity.

“Cohen will do,” he says, missing the sarcasm by a mile.

“Okay, Cohen Will Do. I’m going to go take a bath now, if you’d be so kind to point me toward the restroom. Or, if that’s not fancy enough for you, powder room.”

“Naturally he’d find the mouthiest call girl in the country,” he mutters, mostly to himself, and points toward a door at the far end of the living room. “That will be your bedroom. Bathroom is attached. I expect you to remain silent and clean.”

He’s acting like I’m some unruly pet he’s been forced to babysit. Halfway to the door, I can’t help but stop and turn around. “You know, I realize now why he’s paying me so much. It’s the fee for your personality.”

“Then he’s gouging you,” he says, an ironic smile playing around his lips. “If that were it, you’d be a millionaire in the making.”

I’ve always liked baths.

There’s nothing like a long soak in some hot water to make you feel like a human being again. Except I haven’t had a bath in ages. The tub in my LA apartment had too many suspicious stains and too many roaches using it for a pool party for me to let my bare ass anywhere near it. But the bathtub here is like no tub I’ve ever seen. It’s the Holy Grail of tubs. The Shangri-La of personal cleanliness.