have. Never intend to.” He clasped her wrists and unfolded her arms slowly, deliberately until they stood closer still. His eyes bored into hers. “I’m stone-cold sober and completely serious. In case you haven’t noticed, I do not joke.”
Her breasts strained against the bodice of her dress with each breath growing deeper, more erratic. She didn’t know what he was up to. Right now, he held all the cards, including all her photos.
Any hope of salvaging an article from this required playing with fire. “Seems to me like you have a fine sense of humor to suggest something as ridiculous as this. What do you really hope to accomplish?”
“If my father thinks I’m already locked into a relationship—” he skimmed his knuckles up her arm “—with you, he will quit pressing me to hook up with one of the daughters of his old pals from San Rinaldo.”
“Why choose me?” She plucked his hand away with a nonchalance she certainly didn’t feel inside. “Surely there must be plenty of women who would be quite happy to pretend to be your fiancée.”
He leaned on the back of the sofa, muscular legs mouth-wateringly showcased in his ninja pants. “There are women who want to be my fiancée, but not pretend.”
“What a shame you’re suffering from such ego problems.” She playfully kicked his bare foot with hers.
Oops. Wrong move. Her skin flamed from the simple touch. An answering heat sparked in his eyes.
It was just their feet, for pity’s sake. Still, she’d never felt such an intense and instantaneous draw to a man in her life, and she resented her body’s betrayal.
Heels staying on the ground, Duarte toed her anklet, flicking at the beads. “I fully realize my bank balance offers a hefty enticer. With you, however, we both know where we stand.”
Her yarn and plastic contrasted sharply with his suite sporting exclusive artwork. The seascape paintings weren’t from some roadside stand bought simply to accent a Martha’s Vineyard decor. She recognized the distinctive brushstrokes of Spanish master painter Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida from her college art classes.
She forced herself not to twitch away from Duarte’s power play, not too tough actually since the simple strokes felt so good against her adrenaline-pumped nerves. “Won’t your father wonder why he’s never heard you mention me before now?”
“We’re not a Sunday-dinners sort of family. You can use that as a quote for articles if you wish, once we’re finished.”
Articles. Plural. But would they be timely enough to generate the money to settle her sister’s bill for next month? “How long from now until that finish date?”
“My father has asked for thirty days of my time to handle estate business around the country while he’s ill. You can accompany and compile notes for your exclusive. I’ll be hitting a number of hot spots around the U.S., including a stop in Washington, D.C., for a black-tie dinner with some politicians who could put your name on the map. And of course you’ll get to meet my family along the way. I ask only that I get to approve any material you plan to submit.”
Thirty days?
She did a quick mental calculation of her finances and Jennifer’s bills. With some pinching she could squeak through until then. Except what kind of scoop would she have when every news industry out there could have jumped in ahead of her? “The story could be cold by then. I need some assurance of a payoff—at work—that will help advance my career.”
Bleck, but that made her sound money-grubbing. How come men struck hard bargains and they were corporate wizards, but the same standards didn’t apply to women? She had a career to look after and responsibilities to her sister.
Duarte’s eyes brimmed with cynicism. “So we’re going to barter here? Quite bold on your part.”
“Arrest me, then. I’ll text a story from my jail cell. I’ll describe the inside of your personal suite along with details about your aftershave and that birthmark right above your belly button. People can draw their own conclusions and believe me, the click-throughs will be plentiful.”
“You’re willing to insinuate we had an affair? You’re prepared to compromise your journalistic integrity?”
For her sister? She didn’t have any choice. “I work for the Global Intruder. Obviously journalistic integrity isn’t a high priority.”
A glint of respect flecked his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain. Good for you.” He straightened, topping her by at least half a foot. “Let’s get down to business, then. There’s going to be a family wedding at the end of the month at my father’s estate. If you hold up your end of the bargain for the next thirty days, you get exclusive photos of the private ceremony. The payoff from those photos should be more than adequate to meet your needs.”
A Medina wedding? Wow. Just. Wow.
Before she could push a resounding yes past her lips, he continued, “And in a show of good faith, you can submit a short personal interview about our engagement.”
“All I have to do is pretend to be your fiancée?” It sounded too good to be true. Could this Hail Mary pass for Jennifer work out just right?
“Of course it’s pretend. I most certainly do not want you to be my real fiancée.”
“You’re serious here. You’re actually going to take me with you to your father’s estate?” And give her photos of a family wedding.
“Ah, I can see the dollar signs in your lovely eyes.”
“Sure I want a story and I have bills to pay like anybody else—well, anybody other than Medinas—but I work for that payday.” Hey wait, he thought her eyes were lovely? “What reporter in their right mind would say no to this? But what’s the catch? Because I can’t imagine anyone would willingly invite a reporter into the intimate circle of their lives. Especially someone with as many secrets as you.”
“Let’s call it a preemptive strike. Better to know the snake’s identity rather than wonder. And I also gain four weeks of your charming presence.”
Suddenly an ugly suspicion bloomed in her mind. “I’m not going to sleep with you to land this exclusive.”
Her eyes darted back to the bed, an image blossoming in her brain of the two of them tangled together in the sheets, their discarded clothes mating on the floor in a silky blend of green and black.
A humorless chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You really are obsessed with having sex with me. First, you believe I’ve mistaken you for a prostitute. Then, you think I want to trade my story for time in your bed. Truly, I’m not that hard up.”
She blinked away the dizzying fantasy he’d painted of the two of them together. “This just seems so… bizarre.”
“My life is far from normal.” The luxury that wrapped so effortlessly around him confirmed that.
“I should simply accept what you’re offering at face value?”
“It’s a month of your life to make appearances with a prince while I settle Dad’s estate. Our family is rather well connected. You’ll have some very influential new contacts for future stories.”
