but left her with zero experience in working her feminine wiles. That meant she had to offer something her future husband couldn’t refuse.
“Hold up, sweetheart.” Lucas signaled a waiter, snagged two drinks from the gilded tray and jerked his head. “You’ve got my attention. For about another minute. Let’s take this outside. I have a sudden desire for fresh air. And double-plated armor for that shotgun you just stuck between my ribs.”
Lucas could almost feel the bite of that shotgun as he turned and deftly sidestepped through the crowd.
His brother, Matthew, worked a couple of local businessmen, no doubt on the lookout for a possible new client, and glanced up as Lucas passed. The smarmy grin on Matthew’s face said volumes about Lucas’s direction and the woman with him.
Lucas grinned back. Had to keep up appearances, after all. A hard and fast quickie on the shadowed balcony did smack of his usual style, but it was the furthest thing from his mind.
The gorgeous—and nutty—crusader with the intriguing curtain of dark hair followed him to the terrace at the back of the club. By the time he’d set down the pair of drinks, she’d already sailed through the door without waiting for him to open it.
Lucas sighed and retrieved the glasses, seriously considering downing both before joining the Spanish curveball on the balcony. But his mama had raised him better than that.
“Drink?” He offered one to Cia, and surprise, surprise, she took it.
Twenty-five stories below, a siren cut through the muted sounds of downtown Dallas, and cool March air kissed the back of his hot neck. If nothing else, he’d escaped the stuffy ballroom. But he had a hunch he’d left behind the piranhas in favor of something with much sharper teeth.
“Thanks. Much better than the frilly concoction I got last round.” She sipped the bourbon and earned a couple of points with him. “So. Now that I have your attention, listen carefully. This is strictly a business deal I’m offering. We get married in name only, and in six months, you file for divorce. That’s it. Six months is plenty of time to rebuild your reputation, and I get access to my trust fund afterward.”
Reputation. If only he could laugh and say he didn’t care what other people thought of him.
But he was a Wheeler. His great-great-grandfather had founded Wheeler Family Partners over a century ago and almost single-handedly shaped the early north Texas landscape. Tradition, family and commerce were synonymous with the Wheeler name. Nothing else mattered.
“You’re joking, right?” He snorted as a bead of sweat slid between his shoulder blades. “My reputation is fine. I’m not hard up for a magic wand, thanks.”
The little bundle of contradictions in the unrevealing, yet oddly compelling, dress peered up steadily through sooty lashes. “Really, Wheeler? You’re gonna play that card? If this fake marriage is going to work, know this. I don’t kowtow to the Y chromosome. I won’t hesitate to tell you how it is or how it’s going to be. Last, and not least, I do my research. You lost the contract on the Rose building yesterday, so don’t pretend your clients aren’t quietly choosing to do business with another firm where the partners keep their pants zipped. Pick a different card.”
“I didn’t know she was married.”
Brilliant, Wheeler. Astound her with some more excuses. Better yet, tell her how great Lana had been because she only called occasionally, suggested low-key, out-of-the-way places to eat and never angled to stay overnight. In hindsight, he’d been a class A idiot to miss the signs.
“But she was. I’m offering you some breathing room. A chance to put distance and time between you and the scandal, with a nice, stable wife who will go away in six months. I insist on a prenup. I’m not asking you to sleep with me. I’m not even asking you to like me. Just sign a piece of paper and sign another one in six months.”
Breathing room. Funny. He’d never been less able to breathe than right now. His temple started throbbing to the muted beat of the music playing on the other side of the glass.
Even a fake marriage would have ripples, and no way could it be as easy as a couple of signatures. Mama would have a coronary if he so much as breathed the word divorce after giving her a daughter-in-law. She’d dang near landed in the hospital after her first daughter-in-law died, even though Amber and Matthew had barely been married a year.
A divorce would set his gray-sheep status in stone, and he’d been killing himself to reverse the effects of his monumental lapse in judgment with Lana. Why eliminate what little progress he’d achieved so far?
The other temple throbbed. “Darlin’, you’re not my type. Conquistador Barbie just doesn’t do it for me.”
The withering scowl she leveled at him almost pared back his skin. “That’s the beauty of this deal. There’s no chance of being tempted to turn this physical. No messy ties. It’s a business agreement between respected associates with a finite term. I can’t believe you’re balking at this opportunity.”
Because it was marriage. Marriage was a “someday” thing, a commitment he’d make way, way, way in the future, once he found the right woman. He’d be giving this stranger his name, sharing his daily life with her.
And of course, he’d be married, the opposite of single. “For the record, I’m wounded to learn my temptation factor is zero. It can’t be as simple as you’re making it out to be. What if someone finds out it’s not real? Will you still get the money?”
“No one will find out. I’m not going to tell anyone. You’re not going to tell anyone. We only have to fake being madly in love once or twice around other people so my grandfather buys it. Behind closed doors, we can do our own thing.”
Madly in love. Faking that would be a seriously tall order when he’d never been so much as a tiny bit in love. “Why can’t you have the money unless you get divorced? That’s the weirdest trust clause I’ve ever heard.”
“Nosy, aren’t you?”
He raised a brow. “Well, now, darlin’, you just proposed to me. I’m entitled to a few questions.”
“My grandfather is old-fashioned. When my parents died …” Her lips firmed into a flat line. “He wants me to be taken care of, and in his mind, that means a husband. I’m supposed to fall in love and get married and have babies, not get a divorce. The money is a safety net in case the husband bails, one I put considerable effort into convincing my grandfather to include.”
“Your grandfather has met you, right?” He grinned. “Five minutes into our acquaintance, and I would never make the mistake of thinking you can’t look after yourself. Why thirty-five? You don’t strike me as one to blow your trust fund on cocaine and roulette.”
“I donated all the money I inherited from my parents to the shelter where I work,” she snapped, as if daring him to say something—anything—about it. “And don’t go thinking I’m looking for handouts. My grandfather set up the trust and deposits the considerable interest directly into my bank account. I have more than enough to live on, but not enough to build a shelter. He’s hoping I’ll lose enthusiasm for battered women by thirty-five.”
“Well, that’s obviously not going to happen.”
“No. And I don’t enjoy being manipulated into marriage.” She tightened
