Bedroom Eyes

“No, Mother,” she said more patiently than he would have. “You do not need to come to the wedding and straighten out anything. I’ll handle it. You’re already on your way? Mother? Mother!”

Anne let out a sigh. “Damn. She hung up on me.”

Mitchell surprised himself and grinned.

3

ANNE PUNCHED IN a number on her cell phone and listened, then shook her head. “We might as well leave. Mother knows it’s me and she’s not going to answer,” Anne explained. “Sorry, Mitchell, unless I can head her off, she’ll be at the wedding, invited or not. You’ll find out soon enough that she’s a bit…undisciplined. She does her own thing.”

Undisciplined? Mitchell assumed that the mother was meddlesome, but undisciplined was kinder. He swallowed a smile. Bettina called him undisciplined—often. Not in relation to his work. It was his private life that was totally unstructured—by design. His father had married a woman who demanded more than he could provide. It wasn’t her fault. She’d simply wanted her children to have better lives. But Mitchell had watched his father give up his dream of seeing the world and mire himself in a dull little accounting job until the weight of his responsibilities made a bad heart give up.

And suddenly, Mitchell found himself the man of the house who inherited the responsibility of a mother who expected to be cared for and a family almost as old as he was. He accepted the obligation but promised himself that someday he’d be free, never again to be tied down to anything that remotely sounded like nine-to-five. He hadn’t counted on Melia. Everything had changed when he met her and then she was gone and he’d begun to wander.

Does her own thing. “Your mother sounds like my kind of woman,” he finally said, their gazes locking.

“Oh, yes, Mother would say you’re perfect.”

“What do you say?”

Her lips parted slightly as her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. The ever-present tension hung between them, hot and heavy. He wondered if she felt it, then watched her push that strand of hair behind her ear once more and decided she did as she let out a breathless sigh. “I want you to know that I would never deliberately deceive anyone. I know what can happen. But this time I have no choice.”

“Because of your mother? Why?”

Anne grimaced. “If this is going to work, I guess I’d better tell you. My mother—her name is Faylene—had two husbands. My father was her second. The first one was less than successful. My father…well, she thought my father hung the moon. So did I.”

“And he didn’t?” Mitchell asked.

“Let’s say he tried too hard. He was a college professor who opened a bookstore. It was doing very well, so he bought another. They were wonderful stores, with wonderful books that not everyone loved as much as he. Then a superstore opened between the two stores and the rest is history. Most of my mother’s inheritance went to pay off the debts.”

“I take it Faylene doesn’t know.”

“She knew about the debts, just not the extent.”

“Maybe Faylene knows more than you think. Maybe she’s looking for another husband,” he said.

“I hope she finds one. She likes being married. I’m just worried that she might have her eye on Mr. Jacobs. Now I have to worry about you and her this weekend. It could be a disaster. Pulling this engagement off is not going to be easy. Alvin Jacobs may look like a harmless old grandfather, but he’s a smart man. I just can’t figure out how all this happened.”

“So you don’t think this was Bettina’s idea?” he asked casually.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Bettina’s idea? I don’t know how it could be. She doesn’t even know. I wouldn’t have said anything except I want to make sure you’re taking this seriously.”

Obviously Anne was a private person, willing to expose her past to a stranger—not for herself but for her mother. Her father’s action sent her in one direction; his father’s sent him in another. “I assure you, I’m taking this very seriously,” he said.

She didn’t seem convinced. “I’ve gathered the information you’ll need and put it together in the form of a job description. We’ll have this afternoon to go over it. You can flip through it as we drive, if you like.” She held out a thin leather portfolio.

“Never did like research,” he said. “I’d rather you tell me.”

She nodded. “All right. The carport is under the house. We have to get to it from the outside.” She stuck the folder under her arm, grabbed her purse, reached for her keys and sunglasses, then dropped them and the cell phone inside and swung the bag over her shoulder. “Let’s get going.”

Mitchell followed her, locked the front door behind them and backed out into the sweltering heat. Anne wasn’t wearing a hat or a scarf. Mitchell guessed that she drove the kind of car where the windows stayed up and the air-conditioning went on. Probably a smart move. Air-conditioning seemed like a good idea right now.

He was wrong. Her automobile was a white Chrysler convertible. The top was down.

Mitch pitched his duffel bag into the back seat. Anne Harris was an enigma. If she was to be believed, she was an ambitious businesswoman intent enough on her objective to provide a written job description. She claimed she was uncomfortable with the deception, but she would produce a fiancé to protect someone she cared about. And she wasn’t all business; she drove a convertible.

“Is there something wrong, Mitchell?” In the small shaded carport, the essence of her sensuality came at him in waves.

“Good question.” He moved around the car, closing the space between them. He was probably making a mistake, but if he were going to help her accomplish her goal, he had to know. “Suppose we don’t match—as a couple. I’m pretty much an undisciplined guy and you’re more controlled. We could have a hard time if your yin is incompatible with my yang.”

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

He took a step closer. “Ms. Harris, even I know that success is based on good research, not just a game plan. And if we’re to pull this off, we need the kind of information I’ll bet you haven’t even considered.”

She took a step back. “I don’t understand.”

“You haven’t even asked if I’m married. I’m not.”

“Married? No, I haven’t. You’re just being hired for a job—like an actor. Your personal life doesn’t matter,” she insisted. But it did. The thought of her imaginary fiancé belonging to another woman was disturbing and that bothered her.

“Maybe not,” he agreed, “but we’re supposed to be engaged. Engaged people are usually in love. If we’re going to make this work, I’m going to have to kiss you, Anne. Nothing earth-shattering, just as a test. You don’t even have to participate. In fact, it will probably work better if you don’t.”

When she opened her mouth to say no—and he was certain that was the word that would have come out—he brushed her lips lightly, as if he were testing the flavor of her lipstick. Satisfied that he had her attention, he moved over her mouth more slowly.

That was his mistake. The kiss took on a life of its own and so did his arms as he folded her into them, driving her back against the car. She resisted for a moment, then he felt her tremble and melt against him. She had amazing lips, soft and full, lips that tasted of fruit, sweet but with a hint of some tart flavor he didn’t recognize. As the kiss went on, he closed out every rational thought until he realized that he’d lost control of his own body. Desperately, he tried to stop the erection that sprang to life. Too late.

Finally, he pulled back, drew a ragged breath, and looked down at her. She looked as stunned as he felt. Somewhere beneath his absurd need to shake her up and his logical reason for the kiss, he’d lied, not only to her, but to himself. The kiss was not business and it was no act; it was pure pleasure. He wanted to kiss her again. If this was a matter of compatible yin and yang, he’d better have a little talk with his yang.

She continued to look startled for a moment, then shook her head and said hoarsely, “All right. You’ve gotten that out of your system. But understand, any future contact will only take place as part of our charade—in public.”

Mitchell grinned. He couldn’t stop himself. If the weekend wasn’t already a joke, that statement was. She’d been as caught up in the moment as he. Now she was hiding it behind a reprimand. Whatever her plan was, underneath that all-business exterior was a red-hot woman waiting to be set free. She might not know it yet, but he did. If this was on the level—and he was beginning to think it was—he’d have to be careful. He might just have bitten off more than he could chew. He had two choices; get out of Dodge or enjoy the fantasy.

For now, he’d just let fate determine how things developed.

“I’m a quick learner, Anne. Once we make love a couple of times, everyone at this wedding will look at us and wish they were us. You want a fantasy weekend, I’m going to earn my fee.”

“We are not going to make love, Mitchell Dane. This is not real.”

He grinned. “Not yet, but we’ll work on it. In the meantime, as we drive you can tell me how we fell in love.”

STILL REELING from Mitchell’s kiss, Anne donned her sunglasses and started the car’s engine. She pulled a baseball cap from beneath the seat and pulled it on, pushing her hair through the hole in the back. Then she pulled out of the driveway and headed north. She badly needed the open spaces to clear her head and regain control.

Threading her way through the traffic, she reached I-85 North and gave the car its head. There was no music, no conversation for a very long time. She didn’t look at her imaginary fiancé. She didn’t have to. Just having him sitting beside her was unsettling enough. Whatever his reasons for helping her, Mitchell Dane was every woman’s fantasy. But fantasies were unsettling. And she’d spent the past five years of her life learning to face reality.

She didn’t understand his attitude. In the beginning, he seemed to think this was some kind of joke. Now he seemed to be a man with a plan. She just wasn’t certain that it was her plan he was following. Still, he seemed determined to fulfill her requirements—maybe a little too determined. He would be easier to deal with if he weren’t so…so male, and if she hadn’t dreamed about him for weeks. Everything about him spelled danger. The way he moved—casually, yet totally in control. The way he tilted his head slightly, waiting for her reaction. What kind of man hired himself out as one of Bettina’s bachelors?

The kiss had been unexpected, though if he was truly going to take his role seriously, it made sense. Mr. Jacobs was smart. If they weren’t convincing, her employer would see right through her charade, and he wouldn’t appreciate what she’d done. She didn’t even like what she’d done. But it had been necessary.

She should explain to Mitchell that she’d actually planned for physical contact by making up a chart that called for a scheduled number of touchy-feely moves and pretend affection. If he understood that, he’d cooperate. The good news was, if they were convincing, she’d get her promotion. The bad news was, if they were convincing, she’d be a basket case. Controlling him was the key—as long as she could control herself.