so relieved that he was asking her to use her skills to repay her debt. Yeah, Brooks’s time frame was totally ludicrous but, compared to some of the scenarios she’d imagined, this was child’s play. And, thank God, legal.
And best of all, Brooks was still going to pay her. Bonus.
Teresa couldn’t help wondering how Brooks had heard of The Fixer and whether asking for help on organizing his wedding was all he’d asked of the man who, it was reported, could arrange anything, anywhere. She’d heard of The Fixer through her previous boss, Mariella Santiago-Marshall, but how had Brooks connected with her sure-his-hands-are-dirty angel? It had to be word of mouth, whispered over boardroom tables or over glasses of five-hundred-dollar whiskey. But unlike hers, The Fixer’s fee to Brooks was sure to be hard cash.
Hey, she didn’t care. She was ridding herself of one debt. And she’d use the enormous fee Brooks had offered her to pay some of Josh’s debt, hoping to placate Joshua’s money lender and buy them some time.
But nobody would be getting paid if they didn’t get to work. Teresa looked at Corinne and issued the first of many instructions. “I’d like you to make up a mood board of all our most expensive weddings to show to Brooks, to get an idea of what he does and doesn’t want. Focus on the Newport Bridge wedding.”
When Corinne left the room, Teresa stood up and walked over to her window and watched the Seattle-Bremerton ferry cross Elliott Bay. She placed her hand on the window and sighed at the wet, miserable day. Normally, the weather didn’t bother her but today it just reminded her of her soggy heart, her tear-soaked soul.
She missed Liam...
Get used to it; you’re going to be missing him for a long, long time.
Never again would she feel his mouth on hers, the scratch of his two-or three-or four-day stubble on her skin. Her body wouldn’t hum in pleasure as he traced her lips with his, drawing out the anticipation of his tongue moving into her mouth to tangle with hers. She doubted that she’d ever again experience the flood of wet, warm heat between her legs as his hands tightened on her hips and he laid siege to her mouth.
Memories of how he made her feel rushed over Teresa. He’d slowly, too slowly, pull her shirt from the waistband of her trousers or skirt, his fingers drawing bright, bold patterns on her skin. Liam loved to turn her around in order to trace the bumps of her spine, his hard and rigid cock pressing into her butt. No matter how much she begged, Liam treated her like a present he wanted to take his time opening, slowly removing her clothes, one feminine piece at a time. His words burned her skin—“You’re so pretty,” “God, I want you,” “Can’t wait to watch you come”—and with a flick of his tongue across a lace-covered nipple, he’d have her hovering on the edge of an orgasm, desperate to take flight.
He’d take his time, too much time, before slipping his fingers into her panties, to find the heat between her slick folds. He always knew how to touch her, whether it was with a flick of his finger or a swipe of his tongue. He’d bring her to orgasm, sometimes once, a couple of times twice, with his fingers and his tongue, not entering her until she was limp and languid and so very, very well loved.
Then he’d push inside her, hot and long and devastatingly masculine and build her up again. And again. And yet again before allowing her to crash and burn and flame.
None of that would happen again.
The thought made her want to cry. But she didn’t because she was Teresa St. Claire, and when had tears helped with anything? No, the best she could do was to soldier on because that was what she did best.
Like brightly colored pieces of a shattered mosaic pile, Teresa always picked up all the pieces she could and rearranged them to make a new pattern or picture. But damn, it was getting harder and harder to do.
* * *
In his office at the Abbingdon private airport on the outskirts of Seattle, Brooks lifted his head to watch an ACJ—an Airbus Corporate Jet—land on the runway to the left of his office on the top floor of the office block that housed Abbingdon Airlines’ headquarters. The jet was exquisite and the touchdown perfect on the slick runway. Brooks looked at his watch and yep, the limousines were leaving their hangar to pick up the twenty guests who had flown in, as he’d heard, for Carmen, playing at the Seattle Opera House. He’d been offered tickets to attend but couldn’t remember by whom.
Brooks shrugged. It didn’t matter since he didn’t have time to waste attending the theater when he had a wife to find, a future to secure.
Pulling his eyes off the ACJ and its fluid, feminine lines, Brooks looked at his computer monitor and opened the email he’d received while he was salivating over the jet. Brooks read the two-word correspondence:
For consideration.
Knowing, without a smidgen of doubt, that the message was from The Fixer, Brooks double-clicked on the first of three files. A photograph of a raven-haired beauty popped up in front of him and Brooks lifted his eyebrows in appreciation. Beneath the photograph The Fixer had a brief paragraph detailing why she was a suitable candidate to become the first Mrs. Brooks Abbingdon. In Mari Ruiz’s case, she was a divorcée who’d been skinned by her husband, leaving her with a taste for high living but with no one to fund it. She had two degrees, was a champion ballroom dancer and spoke three languages. She was also a gourmet cook.
Mmm, interesting. Brooks opened the next file, a sultry redhead, who was a young widow looking for a dad for her three kids, all under the age of seven. Brooks dismissed her immediately; this situation was messed up already without adding kids to the chaos. Sighing, Brooks opened the third file and sucked in a surprised breath.
Well, well. Nicolette Ryan wasn’t someone he’d expected to find on his computer at nine thirty in the morning. He knew Nicolette, had been introduced to her once or twice and he’d had her microphone pointed in his face on various occasions. She was intelligent and witty and, holy hell, with her long black hair and petite frame, and those expressive, brown-black eyes, as sexy as sin. He liked her. She was the one journalist most of his friends and acquaintances found tolerable.
But why was she on his list of prospective brides? Intrigued, Brooks read The Fixer’s report. Nicolette Ryan was, per his comments, brainy and ambitious and wanted to make a break into serious reporting. Apparently, she’d been floating a documentary film to any producer who’d listen but nobody was taking her seriously. The project was important to her—personally important and related to something in her past—and The Fixer was convinced that there was little she wouldn’t do to see the project on the big screen.
Brooks scrolled down, annoyed to realize that The Fixer hadn’t explained his cryptic comment about her past. Brooks touched the reply button and banged out a quick message asking for an explanation. He was about to hit the Send button when the thought occurred that, had The Fixer wanted him to have that information, he would’ve given it. A demanding email wouldn’t change his mind.
The point was: Nicolette Ryan wanted something and if he could provide her the means to achieve that goal, she might be amenable to a temporary marriage.
Brooks flipped back to look at the picture of the sultry brunette but, compared to Nicolette, she looked over-the-top, too high-maintenance.
He’d met Nicolette; he liked her and there’d been a buzz of attraction when they spoke. It wasn’t love at first sight—who believed in that anyway?—but something definitely arced between them.
He was hopeful. After all, everyone
