second the word conjured images in Lizzie’s mind she had no business thinking of. Wife. Entwined fingers, tangled limbs. Marriage, love. Sex.
She blinked. ‘Your wife?’ she repeated. ‘But…how?’ She shook her head. ‘You mean, pretend?’
His mouth curved into a smile she didn’t like and his eyes remained cold. ‘Did you think I was asking you for real?’
‘You mean, lie?’ Lizzie clarified. The realisation of what he was asking her to do rolled through her in sickening waves. ‘Deceive the people you want to work for so you can get your blasted commission?’
Cormac looked unruffled. ‘I suppose that’s not putting too fine a point on it,’ he agreed with deceptive mildness.
It was all making sense now—the reason he’d asked her to accompany him so suddenly, the importance of looking the part with cases of designer clothes. Even his request to call him by his first name. All part of a deception. A lie.
Lizzie looked away, closed her eyes.
It was impossible. It was wrong. She couldn’t pretend to be Cormac’s wife—she didn’t like him, didn’t even know him. Pulling off such a charade would be ludicrous; she wouldn’t be able to keep it up for a minute, even if she wanted to…
For a moment Lizzie pictured what such an act would require. Shared looks, jokes, bodies, beds.
A thrill darted through her, tempting, treacherous. She couldn’t…wouldn’t…want to…
She glanced back at him, saw him lounging comfortably in his seat, an expression of arrogant amusement in his eyes as if he’d witnessed her entire thought process.
Perhaps he had.
She licked her lips. ‘Even if I agreed—which I’m not—how would it actually work? You’re famous, Cormac.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Notorious. If Jan Hassell is interested in hiring you, he will have researched your background. All it would take is one search on the Internet to come up with a dozen stories that refute these so-called family values of yours.’The photos in the tabloids waltzed before her eyes—Cormac with his arm around his latest glamorous conquest, usually replaced within twenty-four hours.
Cormac smiled. ‘I’m a reformed man.’
She laughed shortly. ‘You’d have to be a pretty good actor to pull that off.’
He leaned forward, eyes glittering, his voice a whisper, a promise. ‘I am.’
Lizzie leaned back into her seat. He was too close, too dangerous, too much. In that moment, she had no doubt Cormac could pull such a feat off—and she couldn’t.
Couldn’t risk it.
Could she?
‘I can’t.’ She spoke sharply, too sharply, and saw Cormac smile. He knew too much, saw too much. She shook her head. ‘It’s wrong. It’s immoral.’
‘You think so?’ He stretched his legs out, took a sip of orange juice. ‘Actually, you’ll find that what the Hassells are doing is wrong. If not immoral, then at least some shade of illegal.’
‘What do you mean?’
He raised one eyebrow. ‘Discrimination, Chandler. What if I were gay? Or a widower? They’d be discriminating against me by insisting I be married.’
‘But you’re not gay,’ she snapped, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement.
‘Of course not, but the principle remains the same, don’t you think?’
She shook her head in mute, instinctive denial. She didn’t want things twisted. She didn’t want to think. ‘It’s still a deception.’
‘Yes. But for a good reason.’
‘It doesn’t matter—’
‘You’re right.’ Cormac cut her off smoothly. He was still relaxed, smiling even, while she was clutching her chair as if it would keep her grounded. Safe.
Which it wouldn’t. The whole world was spinning, reeling.
‘What matters,’ he continued, ‘is the resort. The design. And I’ll build a spectacular resort—you know that.’ It wasn’t a question, and Lizzie didn’t bother answering it.
Yes. She knew. Once upon a time, she’d had artistic ambitions of her own. She’d seen Cormac’s designs and, while she was no architect, she recognised good work. Brilliant work. ‘The Hassells must have some reason for wanting a married architect,’ Lizzie insisted. She heard the weakness, the doubt in her own voice. So did Cormac.
‘Probably,’ he agreed. ‘I just don’t care what it is.’
‘How would you expect to pull it off? You don’t even know me…’
‘I know enough.’
‘Do you even know my first name?’ Lizzie asked, cutting him off. A bubble of laughter verging on hysteria rose in her throat; she swallowed it down. ‘How on earth do you see yourself acting as my reformed, loving husband when you don’t even know my name?’ She shook her head, still too stunned to be scared. ‘The whole idea is ludicrous!’
Cormac cocked his head, gazed at her for a moment with hard, thoughtful eyes. Then he smiled.
Normally when Cormac smiled, it was a cold, sardonic curving of his mobile mouth.
Now it was something tender, promising, sensual. His eyes flicked over her slim form with heavy-lidded intent, his mouth curved—curved knowingly, lovingly—and something unfurled in Lizzie’s middle and spiralled upwards, taking over her heart, her mind.
Her will.
‘No…’ she whispered, and she didn’t even know what she was protesting against except that look and what it meant. What it promised.
And she didn’t even understand what that was.
Cormac leaned forward, brushed his knuckles across her cheek. The simple touch sent that spiralling emotion hurtling through her body—every limb, every bone and muscle—until she sagged against her seat.
‘Yes,’ he murmured languorously.
Lizzie shook herself, watched as he moved closer, his lips hovering inches from hers. His lashes swept downward, hiding those cruel eyes, and his lips brushed her ear. ‘Yes,’ he whispered again, and she shivered. Shuddered.
She felt him shift back, realised she’d closed her eyes, let her head fall back.
She was so pathetic. And he knew.
‘I think,’ he said in a voice laced with cool amusement, ‘you’ll find I’m a good enough actor. We’ll pull it off.’
‘You might be good enough,’ Lizzie choked, ‘but I’m not.’
Cormac paused. Smiled. ‘Perhaps,’ he said softly, ‘you don’t
