for you.”
We stared at each other for a long moment; then his dimple flashed. “I warn you, when I want something, I go after it.”
I smiled. “And I warn you, I’m no pushover.” Before he tried to get more persuasive, I hopped out of bed. “Let’s go to the living room. We should discuss my bio.”
“Can do that here.” He sprawled on the bed, naked and very, very tempting.
“No, we can’t. But if you behave and learn your lessons, maybe we’ll come back.”
He groaned. “Jeez, woman, you’re hard.” With exaggerated reluctance, he climbed out of bed as I headed into the bathroom.
There, I studied my reflection, liking what I saw. Madly tousled hair and a gleam of satisfaction and deviltry in my eyes.
Sexy, but definitely not businesslike. I eased a large-tooth comb through my hair, splashed water on my face, and gently sponged my sticky crotch. The silky kimono wrap hanging on the back of the bathroom door was tempting but not a good idea. I opened the door a crack to make sure he’d left the bedroom, then dressed again in my pants and tee.
The man had proved himself in my kitchen and in my bedroom. But how would he do in my work environment? Would he take his task seriously?
In the living room, he had turned the lights off and lit a couple of jasmine-scented candles, and one of my favorite Diana Krall CDs was playing. He knew how to set a mood. One that I wished I could succumb to.
When he began to pour wine into our glasses, I said, “Just half a glass for me. I’m going to make coffee. Or would you prefer tea?”
He gave a resigned sigh. “Coffee’s good. Black.”
I flicked on the lights, blew out the candles, turned down the music, and handed him my bio and Triple-F’s last annual report. “You can start reading these.”
His groan followed me into the kitchen, where I made coffee using my personal blend: two-thirds dark Jamaican roast, one-third chocolate flavored, and a dash of cinnamon.
When I returned to the living room with coffee mugs, Quinn was sprawled on the couch, my bio in his hands. He was a very male presence in my room with its soft furniture, earth tones, and plants, yet he seemed to fit. I handed him a mug and, deciding it wasn’t wise to sit beside him, took my reading chair and picked up my wineglass.
“Thanks.” He sipped. “Nice coffee.”
“Thank you. Any questions so far?”
“Yeah. Why are you doing this? Why do you need a pretend fiancé?”
I explained about the promotion and why I wanted it so badly, and my competitor with the Hallmark family.
“You’re lying to the board to get a promotion?” He frowned.
I winced. “I know. But it’s a small lie. I really do intend to get married soon.”
“Whoa.” His eyes widened and he put the mug down. “You’re engaged for real? Look, I don’t screw around with—”
“I’m not engaged. I’m not dating. Well, I am, but only one date each, so far.”
“You’re a serial first-dater? Jade, you’ve lost me.”
“I want to get married, and soon.” I traded my unfinished wine for coffee. “So, on each first date, I evaluate the guy and assess our potential as a couple. If there’s no potential, I won’t waste time on a second date.”
“Good God.” He shook his head. “You’re one strange woman, you know that?”
“I’m one practical, organized woman. I decide on my goal, then develop a realistic plan for achieving it. Don’t you do that?”
“Nah, I’m more impulsive.”
“But, in your work? When you go out on a call, a fire or an accident, don’t you all have a goal and a plan?”
“Sort of. But if the plan doesn’t make sense…” He shrugged.
“Then what?”
“I improvise.”
“Quinn? At the Triple-F events, don’t improvise, okay?”
A teasing glint lit his dark eyes. “Might have to. What if someone asks a question we haven’t rehearsed?”
“Let me answer it,” I said sternly. If this man blew my chance at the promotion…“Damn. If only Kimberly had got me the kind of man I wanted,” I muttered to myself, but not softly enough because he overheard.
“I wasn’t your first pick?” He looked shocked and offended.
“No, but—”
“Who the hell was?”
“Well, there was the Chinese tax lawyer, a high-school teacher, and—”
“Stop.” He held up his hand, scowling. “I don’t need the list. How did you get stuck with me? Your friend screwed up?”
“My friends conspired against me when they realized I was attracted to you.”
He huffed. “You lost me again. You were attracted to me but didn’t want to win me?”
“Sorry, but I wanted a white-collar man like I normally date. Someone the board would approve of.”
“You’re too damned good for a blue-collar guy?” Now he was glaring.
“No, I’m not,” I shot back. “My father was a cop, and men don’t come any better than him. But when I’ve dated blue-collar guys, we don’t have a lot in common.”
He folded his arms across his powerful chest. “Seems we proved that one wrong.”
“I mean, outside of bed. Look, I’m not being snobby, just realistic. You’re into…What did you say at the auction? Your motorbike, sailing, carpentry, cooking.”
“Didn’t see you complain about my cooking.” Then he scraped a hand across his jaw. “Shit, what’m I doing? Doesn’t matter if we’re compatible for real. This is all about a fake relationship.” He picked up my bio. “You want me to memorize this? Fine.”
He was being businesslike, as I’d wanted, but there was a coolness in his manner that I regretted. Had I actually hurt his feelings? “Look, I’m sorry—”
He hefted the annual report. “Tell me I don’t have to learn these statistics.”
I missed his sexy teasing. But that was silly. There was one thing, and one thing only, I needed from this man. “No statistics,” I said evenly. “Just the kind of things I’d have told my fiancé about.”
He sighed. “The dates my buds got stuck with are starting to look awfully good.”
7
