The Boss's Fake Fiancee (13 page)

Melissa jumped up to snatch the offending garment from him. “I packed in a hurry,” she said, pink flowering on her high cheekbones.

“You tried on three bras and five dresses. That’s a hurry?”

“You have no idea what a difference the right undergarment makes,” she shot back, the corner of her mouth curling with the barest trace of amusement.

“I hope I never have to,” Garth replied, a flood of relief choking him at the sight of that tiny, half-smile.

“So you’ve checked the apartment,” Melissa said, “and completed your protective male duty. Any chance you’ll leave me alone now?”

He shook his head. She finally seemed to be relaxing, but he wasn’t leaving. Not yet. “There are reporters camped out on your doorstep. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Do they have some kind of class in bossiness?” Melissa grumbled. She heaved herself off the sofa and tugged open the door of the refrigerator. “Because you’d definitely get an A.”

“Why did you have a black negligee on the bed?” Garth asked, ignoring the insult as he followed her into the kitchen.

“What are you talking about?” Melissa had buried her face in the fridge.

“The little lace number on top of the bras. Were you considering bringing that to Seesaw?”

She moved around a bottle in the door of the fridge. “Maybe.”

He took hold of her shoulder and turned her toward him, shutting the door of the tiny freezer behind her. “Melissa Bencher, were you planning to seduce me?”

She swallowed. Her eyes flicked from his lips to his face. “Of course not,” she replied.

“That’s a lie.” He couldn’t help it. He had to touch her. His hands danced up and down her spine, settling on the hem of her shirt and then pulling it up and over her head in one fluid motion. He stared at her pale flesh hungrily. This need he felt was dangerous. He knew that. But he could no more deny it than he could have stopped the waves on the beach. It rolled in him, as relentless and consuming as the tide.

“What would you have said if I had?” Melissa asked.

He motioned toward her bedroom. “Why don’t you take a chance and find out?”

She paused, body still, expression suddenly serious. “I should warn you, I’m not feeling particularly fun and flirty right now.”

He studied her for a long moment, and her nipples hardened under his gaze. He took one finger and traced the edge of her bra, following the scalloped edge down to the center of her chest and back up the other side. She closed her eyes, and he felt her quiver under his hand. His thumbs slid over the center of her breast.

“I have found,” he said softly, “that it is important, when faced with ignorant, asshole reporters, to find some way of distracting one’s self.”

With a quick motion, he released the back clasp and slid the bra off her shoulders.

She drew in a breath. “Oh really? What sort of distraction would you recommend?”

He tugged on the top of her pants. “Something physical. Preferably something pleasurable.”

…

Tingles zipped through Melissa at the warmth of his hands on her stomach. In a few quick, easy motions, Garth had released the top button of her pants, and slid his hands down her hips to the edge of her panties. The nervous tension and sick feeling in the pit of her stomach finally started to ease. Though she had not questioned him when he said there could be nothing more between them than sex, right now the warmth of his attention was like a balm to her soul. She didn’t know how, but he seemed to understand exactly what she needed. Pushing him away never even crossed her mind.

“Could you be more specific?” she said, the moment almost too perfect, the pleasure too intense and sudden.

“Put it on for me,” he said, as he dipped his mouth to her neck. He trailed a line of kisses from the hollow of her neck to behind her ear. Her nipples formed hard peaks against his chest, and she had to fight to catch her breath. “I want to see your skin under that lace.”

Melissa swayed at the rush of desire. She opened her eyes and tried to focus on his face. His dark eyes felt like they could consume her whole. “But…”

He cupped her breast in one hand, dropping his mouth to suck on the firm, pebbled flesh. She gasped. Liquid heat flowed through her body.

“Put it on,” he repeated, his voice part whisper, part command.

Wordless, she nodded, and headed for the bedroom. The black negligee lay on the bed, just where she had left it when she was packing. She’d struggled with whether to bring it, knowing it was probably silly to think she’d use it, but hoping that she might just the same.

Now, her head spinning, she pushed aside thoughts of the reporters, “America’s Sweetheart,” and the awful comments that were certain to follow, and stood at the edge of her bed. Resolutely, she stripped off the rest of her clothes and put on the soft lace garment. She was about to turn around to go back into the living room when she felt a pair of arms close around her from behind.

Warm breath tickled her neck. He must have shed his clothes somewhere between the living room and bedroom, because his erection bumped against her back. Melissa caught her breath as his hands cupped her breasts and then slid down her sides to her hips. He pulled her against him.

“You have no idea how perfect you are,” he whispered. “How beautiful.”

She arched her back, letting him ride against the cleft of her bottom. He slid his hand down the front of her body, nibbling on her neck as he did. More kisses followed, along the tender flesh behind her ear, on end of each collarbone, at the base of her spine. He thrust his hips lightly against her as he weighed her breasts in his hands. When she moaned, he pushed up the hem of the skirt of the negligee so he could run his hands over her bare flesh.

Gently but firmly, he pressed against her shoulder, and Melissa bent forward, resting on her elbows. Adrenaline and desire raced through her in equal measure. She’d never experimented with positions before, and the unfamiliar pressure of his body against her backside was both thrilling and a little frightening. Mark had preferred sex to be fast and simple—missionary style with a minimum of foreplay. Clearly, Garth was in a different class of lover.

He stroked her with just the tips of his fingers, awakening her skin from calf to thigh, spending extra time at the sensitive spot on the back of her knee. His mouth followed, teasing her from inner thigh to the small of her back. When she tried to turn around he stopped her, pushing lightly on her shoulder to keep her in place. With his other hand, he pulled her hips higher, deeper into his own. Her back arched instinctively and she widened her stance. He leaned forward to cup her breasts, and his erection slid between her thighs.

Jesus. Melissa almost swooned at the feeling, the sensitive flesh between her legs throbbing, even though he hadn’t yet touched her directly. She experimented, arching more, sending her breasts deeper into his hands and her bottom harder into his groin. This time he was the one to groan.

He leaned over her, covering her with his body and sliding one hand down, to touch the pulsing center of her pleasure. She jerked at the contact, the pleasure so intense she sucked in a rough breath.

“How is that?” he asked.

She couldn’t speak.

“’Lis,” he warned, speaking into her ear. “I want an answer. I want you to tell me how you feel.”

“Ohhh,” she moaned. “Good…great…I don’t know. Just don’t stop!”

He stroked her again, and she couldn’t be shy or insecure—not with her body reacting to him this way, and the answering feeling of his hardness pressed against her. Then he slid his hands up along her hips to cup her breasts, and butted against her backside.

“How about that?”

“Do that again,” she forced herself to say. “Harder.”

Everywhere he touched her, heat rushed and pooled on her skin, in her stomach, and between her legs. He forced her to connect to her own experience and to make him a part of it as well. At that moment, she felt more deeply connected to him than she ever had to a man.

Mark hadn’t really cared what happened to her. Sometimes he’d spent a few extra minutes on her breasts, or place a few kisses in sensitive spots, but never like this, and it had never occurred to her to ask for more.

Or if it had, she would never have felt comfortable enough to ask.

Garth refused to take silence for an answer.

He moved again, shifting his position so the head of his cock slipped between her legs. She moved, arched, and then reached back to guide him lower, to find the warmth and wet that called to be filled.

“Now you’re getting greedy,” he reproved, and he pulled back, punishing her with a light slap to the bottom. He stepped away, and she nearly sobbed aloud at the loss. Then she heard him rip open the package of a condom. She moaned with relief when his heat returned, and he finally guided himself into her core. She found herself pushing back, adjusting her position naturally until they were fully and completely joined.

He groaned and moved an inch or two, his hands teasing her sensitive flesh. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Tell me.”

She moved her hips, working to find the right angle to allow him to enter her even more deeply than before. When he seemed to reach her very core she stopped. “Yes,” she whispered. “I want you there. Right there.”

Garth needed no further instruction. He began to thrust, holding tightly to her hips, keeping them locked tightly together. She wondered how she had gone all her life without ever feeling this full, this alive and needy. She felt him come first, and the sensation of his body exploding and pulsing took her over the edge, until she collapsed into the bed in boneless, shuddering pleasure.

…

Melissa awoke to the smell of coffee. She blinked and rolled over. A mug sat by the side of the bed, steaming.

“Didn’t want to make that mistake again,” a deep, masculine voice said. “I may be stupid, but I can be taught.”

She squinted at Garth’s lean form as he entered the room from the doorway. Somehow, he had managed to procure a clean set of clothes and had showered and shaved. All before...she looked at the clock...seven a.m.? “You’re insane,” she said. “And where’s my breakfast?”

He rolled his eyes. “Give a woman an inch...” He leaned over her and she expected a kiss but instead got a light slap on the bottom. “You have half an hour to get ready.”

“What for?”

“It’s Monday morning.” He gave an evil grin. “And I’m still the boss. It’s time for work, America’s sweetheart.”

Chapter Fifteen

The week passed in a sensual haze of long, slow nights in Melissa’s apartment, and heated, needy encounters everywhere else. Each time a new article was published, Melissa would demand that Garth distract her from it, and distract he did, with delicious frequency and growing intensity. A delighted media produced pictures of them eating together at New York’s finest, most discreet restaurants, holding hands as they entered and exited, even stealing a kiss once on the way out of Garth’s town car. Everyone seemed to love the idea that a mousy, chess-playing girl could have stolen the heart of the “human computer,” and even Melissa’s mother and brothers backed off their constant complaints and worries.

Any discussion of the future, of course, was off limits. Natalie Orelian had requested more documents and information about ThinkSpeak, including a term sheet for the investment opportunity, which had Garth in a positively ebullient mood—though his version of ebullience tended toward secret, unexpected kisses and an occasional half-grin.

Melissa surrendered to the charade with her mind firmly closed to what the future held. Garth might be touching the essence of her body, but she was keeping her heart firmly in control. They were playing a part that had only one possible ending, and Melissa knew what the outcome would be. In a week, Nan would have her checkup, Orelian would agree to invest in ThinkSpeak, and Garth would be free to move on with his life.

And so would she.

…

The morning of October 28, Garth woke up with a headache and an intense desire to crawl under Melissa’s bed. He pretended to be asleep when she rolled over, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and then got out of bed. He kept his eyes closed until he heard the shower turn on, and then opened them and stared at the ceiling in mute horror.

Brunch. Today. He could no longer pretend it wasn’t really happening.

He’d been ignoring the impending event, blocking out the thought of meeting Melissa’s parents and brothers. But the days had passed in a whirlwind of heady, irresponsible desire. He’d been acting like a fool, and he knew it was all about to catch up with him.

Melissa’s parents, Phoebe and John, met them at the door of their SoHo apartment. Phoebe had long, silvery gray hair that she wore in a braid over one shoulder, and her heart-shaped face and piquant features were reminiscent of her daughter. John was a tall, distinguished man with a dark tan and bright blue eyes. He wore loose black pants with a drawstring waist and a long-sleeved white shirt, looking more like an artist than a retired businessman.

“Come in, come in,” Phoebe called, singsong, as she opened the door to the sunny apartment. She moved in a cloud of swirling chiffon skirts and flowery perfume, batting with her foot at a longhaired white cat that was eyeing the hallway with avid interest. “Quick, before Anastasia tries to escape.”

Melissa tugged on Garth’s hand and he followed her inside. He could feel his blood pressure rising as her parents stood side by side, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Mrs. Bencher, Mr. Bencher, thank you so much for having us.” He handed Phoebe the basket Jess had packed for him. It held a bag of freshly ground fair trade coffee, a crystal bowl filled with the most perfect collection of strawberries Garth had ever seen, and a bottle of expensive champagne.

“Oh, please, call me Phoebe.” She ignored his offering and swooped toward him with arms extended. Before he could stop her, she had closed her arms around him in a hug.

Garth winced. He hated hugs.

This, he knew, was not a widely shared feeling. From the right person—Melissa, for example—and under the right circumstances—if they were both naked—a good hug could go a long way. But hugs were rarely delivered under such exemplary situations. Instead, the hugs Garth received were generally delivered by the wrong people and at the wrong time. Those hugs were overly emotional, inappropriately familiar, or exaggerated.

Phoebe’s hug was no exception. She clung to him for several long heartbeats while he contemplated appropriate responses, and then stepped back, alternatively looking between him and her husband.

John cleared his throat as he, thank goodness, extended his hand for Garth to shake. “And call me John.”

“What a lovely basket,” Phoebe cooed, finally taking the wicker gift that dangled from Garth’s fingers. Holding it in front of her, she laced her arm through Melissa’s. “Now, we want to hear all about what you lovebirds have been up to for the past two weeks. You must be absolutely frantic. Melissa keeps telling me she’s too busy to talk!”

The apartment had a large, open great room filled with pieces of art and furniture that looked like they’d been collected from extensive overseas travels. Wooden end tables carved in the shapes of a giraffe and elephant flanked a dark red brocade couch, which was covered with a brightly colored, loosely woven blanket. A long scroll decorated with Chinese calligraphy and delicate watercolors decorated the wall above the sofa. A collection of three intricately painted pottery bowls sat in a row on the coffee table, each filled with handmade cloth dolls.

He might have appreciated the display, which was made with a great deal of artistry, if he wasn’t completely focused on the horror of the moment. Three hours, possibly more, of socializing. With people he didn’t know. Worse, with people he was supposed to entertain. People who were supposed to find him likable and emotionally capable.

Melissa sighed and gestured toward the dolls. “Mom, you know Delia’s going to destroy your little display, right?”

“Joe can watch her.” Phoebe sniffed. “She will never learn any manners if we always have to put away everything when she visits.”

“My mother insists on tempting the children with beautiful things, and then getting annoyed when they throw them all over her house,” Melissa said to Garth. She sank down into the sofa and patted the seat beside her. He followed. “When are Ross and Joe getting here, anyway?”

“They said they’d be here any minute,” John replied. “They’re probably running late.”

Garth’s blood pressure rose a few points higher when Phoebe positioned herself in a leather chair a few feet away. She pinned him with a steady gaze. Her light-hearted exterior fell away in a flash.

“So, Garth.” She paused, obviously waiting for him to respond. “Tell us.”

Without conscious thought, his face slipped into its usual protective mask. He leaned forward politely. “I’m sorry, tell you what?”

Phoebe frowned. “About your plans. What you’ve been doing since you made your announcement. Everything!”

He gritted his teeth.

Be pleasant! Be charming!

But what to say?

Probably not, “This is all a fraud—I’m screwing your daughter and I have absolutely no plans whatsoever to marry her.”

“Let’s see. You know my grandmother wanted me to take Melissa to our family home in Essex,” he said hastily. “So we spent last weekend there. It was very nice.” Was there more he could add? If so, he couldn’t imagine what. He forced what he thought was a smile. From the look on Melissa’s face, he was fairly certain he hadn’t succeeded.

Phoebe leaned forward, obviously waiting for him to continue. When he remained silent, she arched an eyebrow at Melissa. His fiancée squeezed his knee for a moment before filling in the silence.

“I can’t tell you how lovely the place is, Mom.” She rambled on for a few minutes about Essex and Seesaw. Meanwhile, Phoebe and John continued to stare at Garth. Garth stared back, ticking through his mind all of the places he’d rather be.

On the Titanic, while it was sinking.

In a medieval torture chamber.

Hell.

When Melissa paused between stories, John jumped in, directing his words at Garth. “I suppose I wouldn’t be a very good father if I didn’t say we were a little concerned about how fast things are going. You’ve only known each other a few months. Are you sure you’re ready for a wedding?”

Melissa drew in a breath. Garth began to sweat. What was he supposed to say to that? How could he possibly convince two obviously suspicious people that this marriage was legitimate—when it so clearly wasn’t? This had all been so easy with Nan. After all, she had already been convinced. Playing out the charade with Melissa’s parents was a completely different matter.

He shrugged and forced out some words. “Ready as we’ll ever be, I suppose.”

Melissa blanched. She laughed nervously. “Talk about the king of understatement.”

With an amused lilt to her voice, she told them how they’d fallen head over heels in love in a few short weeks, and how both of them knew exactly what they wanted from a relationship. Then she blushed and said something about his kiss and how she knew from the very first time their lips touched that he was The One.

The sound of her voice, so soft and dreamy, sent a shudder through him. He would
swear
she was telling the truth. Except he knew she wasn’t. Because she was furious. She had to be. He was ruining everything.

Why do you care? You’re just sleeping together. She agreed to the deal. No attachments, no relationship. In a few days, you both walk away and no one gets hurt.

Nan was doing well. He’d talked to her doctor on Friday. He wanted her back into the hospital for a few tests next week, but for now, everything appeared to be on the right track. Nurse Margaret had reported Nan was sleeping better, and her cough was definitely subsiding. As soon as he got the final okay from her doctor, Garth would be able to tell Nan that the wedding had been canceled. She would be disappointed, of course, but she would get over it.

He would find Melissa a new job, and she’d move on with her life.

Everything would go back to the way it had been before. And that was exactly what he wanted.

Wasn’t it?

…

Melissa knew within five minutes of entering her parents’ home that disaster had struck. Garth had gotten progressively quieter and colder as they had driven to SoHo. By the time they arrived he was answering her questions in terse monosyllables and his face could have been carved from ice. The old Garth, the one she’d known from work as the man who didn’t smile, was back. And she didn’t have a clue what to do with him.

He’d stood like a statue when her mother hugged him, acted like Phoebe’s questions were an imposition, and then treated her father’s reasonable concern like a trivial annoyance. When her brothers arrived, two minutes later, things went from bad to worse.

Ross, the older of the two, had apparently appointed himself a stand-in for Brit. He’d crossed his considerable biceps over his even more considerable chest and given Garth the coldest stare she’d ever seen.

Garth had frozen him right back. It was like watching the battle of the ice men.

Joe, usually the peacemaker of the family, hadn’t been much better. He’d pushed aside his flop of brown hair, squinted through his glasses, and then proceeded to drill Garth about his family, his company, and his feelings for Melissa.

With every passing moment, Garth had gotten stiffer and stiffer. Melissa couldn’t even play interference because Joe’s wife Felicity had a stomach bug and could barely roll out of bed, let alone come for brunch, and Ross never really disciplined his three children anyway, so Melissa spent the morning playing surrogate parent to four kids under the age of twelve. Every time she turned around, Delia was throwing Phoebe’s handmade dolls in every direction and Matt was trying to play soccer with Anastasia the cat’s squeaky toy.

Finally, when her parents disappeared to put the finishing touches on brunch, Ross went into the office to set up a video for the kids, and Joe received a phone call from work he had to take, Melissa grabbed Garth’s arm and steered him into her parents’ bedroom.

“Is there a problem?” Garth asked, raising a dark brow as she closed the door behind them.

“Yes,” Melissa hissed, no longer able to suppress her frustration. “You are acting like a first-class jerk!”

He cocked his head, expression barely changing. “Is that right? Well, conveniently, I’m happy to leave. Just give me the signal and I’ll be on my way.”

“You can’t just leave,” she said. “They’ll never believe in this whole thing if you do that.”

“Maybe that doesn’t matter.” He shrugged. “We don’t have to pretend much longer. Perhaps it isn’t essential that they believe in our story.”

“Garth!” She wanted to shake him in her frustration. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re not being yourself. You’re acting like some pretentious stranger.”

“You see,” he said pleasantly, “that’s exactly the problem. You seem to have come under the misconception that you know me. And really, you don’t. So let’s not make this into something it isn’t. We have been engaged for precisely seventeen days. Now I’m being a jerk to your parents. A scenario not unlike what thousands of men and women experience every day, I imagine.”

She stopped. Even though his chilly stare, something about his gray eyes seemed vulnerable. “Look, I’m not asking for a lot. All you have to do is—”

“What? All I have to do is what, Melissa?”

“Be nice,” she said, fumbling for the right words. Her heart was sinking fast, and she had the same feeling she had that first morning at Seesaw, when she realized she’d made a terrible mistake.

“Smile, tell a joke, slap someone on the back,” Garth supplied. “Anything else?”

“You make it sound like I’m being unreasonable,” she said, with an increasing air of desperation. “All I’m saying is that walking around like you’re at a funeral with people you don’t know may not be the best way to ingratiate yourself.”

“And obviously, ingratiating myself should be my highest goal for the day.”

“They’re my
parents
,” Melissa said. “All I’m asking is that you make an effort to get to know them.”

“Which is entirely reasonable. Unfortunately, as you mentioned, I’m a jerk. Which makes it categorically impossible for me to comply.”

She stifled a scream of frustration. “Damn it, stop being so flippant! I know you don’t have any interest in getting to know any of them, but I’ve got to live with these people for the rest of my life. The least you can do is act like there’s some reason I might possibly be attracted to you.”