The Scandal and Carter O'Neill

He blinked, and after a long moment, he nodded. “I love my job. I have…work I want to do for this city.”

Ah, man, why couldn’t he go on being a jerk? Now she was totally sunk—she couldn’t be responsible for him losing his job.

“So we date?” she asked, still dubious.

He nodded. “We’ll tell people I met you at one of the community center informational meetings. That I fell for your—”

Beauty? Charm? Too-big heart?

“Quirkiness. Your…ah…offbeat sense of humor. We’ll tell them that stunt on the chair was your idea of a joke. Not a good one, but a joke. For a few months, we go on some very public dates. We get our photos taken and then you dump me.”

Dumping him, she liked the sound of that. “What if I was married? Or in a relationship—like you said—”

“I knew you weren’t married,” he said. “But if you were involved in some other more informal relationship, our research might not have—”

“Research?” she interrupted, a cold chill spreading down her arms and across her chest. She stood, a toe shoe falling out of her hands, and she reeled it back in by the ribbon, reluctant to lose any of her armor. “You researched me?”

“Of course.” He sounded as if he researched all of his dates. As if it made perfect sense.

“What exactly do you know?” she asked. “About me.”

“You’re thirty-seven, single.” He arched one of those imperial blond eyebrows. “You were raised by Penny Madison, a single mother who works for the post office. You are—I guess were—a dancer. You recently moved back to Baton Rouge from Houston.” She held her breath, a cold sweat blooming across her back. Was this happening? Did he know? Was her secret in a file somewhere, discussed at a meeting as though it was nothing? A bubble of nausea burned up her throat.

“You teach dance classes to kids and grandparents,” he said, leaving Houston and her secret behind. “And obviously…you’re…ah…pregnant,” he said, gesturing, embarrassed, at her belly, as if she were carrying a Shih Tzu in a dress instead of a baby.

“That’s all?” she asked.

“Is there something more I need to know?” His blue eyes narrowed, sharp as knives.

“No.” She edged around the blue couch to get as far away from him as possible. Unbelievably, she still felt the warmth from his body, like a distant sun. “That’s my life,” she muttered, wondering how something so full could be reduced to a few lines.

It occurred to her she didn’t know anything about him. Not his age, not where he grew up. The lack of knowledge felt lopsided, but it’s not as if it would ever occur to her to have him researched. Vetted.

She didn’t work that way.

She looked at him, the compelling stillness of him, the cool of his eyes and the fine bones of his face. He was like nobility or something, a man removed from the messy realities of the kind of life she lived. Who looked, honestly, pained to be here with her. As if he were barely holding back all the disdain he felt for her.

This wasn’t going to work. There was simply no way anyone would believe they liked each other, desired each other, respected each other—not for a minute.

“I know I made a mistake,” she said. “I’m—” she swallowed and shook her head “—prone to that kind of thing, but look at you. You can barely stand to be here and, frankly, I don’t like you being here. No one is going to believe that we’re in a relationship.”

Carter wiped his face and sat down on the edge of her coffee table. His knees a few inches from her legs, the edge of her silk robe trembled as if trying to get closer. “Look, we go out on a few dates. Get our picture taken. We make it…convincing.”

“Convincing?” she squealed, wondering if that was code for sex. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

He rolled his eyes. “We go to dinner, smile at each other. We hold hands.”

“Hold hands?” She laughed. “Like we’re teenagers? That’s not going to convince anyone.”

His hand, big and warm, stroked the kung fu grip she had on her tutu. His thumb surfed the bumps of her knuckles and his fingers found her pulse, which jackhammered against her skin.

Touch. Warmth. He had calluses on the tips of his fingers, and the abrasion sent little shock waves through her body, waking up the parts of her that were hibernating during her long cold winter. Oh, lord, it had been so long.

Her blood slowed, turned to honey, as desire warmed in her belly.

The mug fell from her hand, thumping onto the carpet.

“I think we can make it work,” he said, pulling his hand away and standing up, crossing to the far side of the room.

Golden sunlight burned through the windows, setting him aglitter. He was truly the most handsome man she’d ever seen, and that was saying something. It wasn’t as though the Houston Ballet Company was filled with trolls.

Awareness and embarrassment buzzed through her, and she bent to pick up Sir Piggy as if the dollar store mug were her most prized possession.

The silence between them hummed, loud and awkward. He watched her, quiet. Waiting. But not smug—if he’d been smug, she would have chucked Sir Piggy right at his head.

But still, this reaction of hers, it wouldn’t do. Not while he stood there, calm and collected, as unmoved by her as he’d been when he’d walked in the door.

“Okay,” she said brightly, as if she weren’t shaken down to her feet. “Public hand-holding it is. When do we start?”

“Tonight,” he said, and her stomach plummeted. She’d been hoping for a few days, some time to get her head around this. To warn her mom and Phillip.

“What do I tell my friends?” she asked. “My mom.”

“Nothing would be best.”

“That’s…that’s not possible. They’ll know this baby isn’t yours. That we’re not…together.”

“That reporter—Jim Blackwell—he’ll be all over your life, and that includes your family and friends. The less they know, the easier it will be on them.”

Well, she thought, what was one more secret between her and her mother?

“All right. So where are we going tonight?”

“Bola,” he said, naming the fancy steak house that had opened downtown a few months ago.

Nope. Uh-uh. Not going to happen. She would fakedate him anywhere but there. “I’ve heard it’s awful,” she lied.

He shook his head. “From who? The food there is amazing.”

“Well, if it’s amazing food you want, I know of a great soul food place down on River—”

“The point is to be seen by people,” he said slowly, as if she were stupid. “Get our photo taken.”

“But Bola has cockroaches,” she whispered, as if Zagat were in the room with them. “In the kitchen.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” he asked. “Because I really do not get your sense of humor. We’re going to Bola.”

Of course, she thought, resignation like a brick settling in her stomach. Maybe, if she was lucky, Phillip wouldn’t be working.