Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 269(@200wpm)___ 215(@250wpm)___ 179(@300wpm)
“Okay. Well, I don’t want her to get hurt and I’m no fan of your father’s. What do you need me to do?”
“Mary runs her company based on family values. She wants to do business with someone who shares her point-of-view, and I need to convince her that’s where I’m headed.”
“I don’t know how you do that, Damion.”
“I need you to pretend to be my fiancée, Alana.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Damion
Her pink painted lips part and Alana just stares at me with the hard click of long seconds filling the air between us but nothing else.
No anger.
No shock.
No tears.
Of course, this is Alana, and I know her well enough to know rejection is coming my way and it won’t be gentle, not that I’m a man who favors a delicate touch.
Sure enough, she breaks the silence long enough to say, “I’m leaving,” and turns and walks to the door.
This time, I don’t call her name, I don’t stop her. I need her to decide to do this on her own. I need real commitment.
She makes it to the door, hand on the knob, but I’m still gambling on knowing her. The Alana I know will not turn away from me and her debt, in this case, a personal favor owed. She rotates suddenly and leans on the door. “You’re an asshole.”
Just as expected.
Not gentle.
I step in front of her and decide denial is futile. I am an asshole. There is no other path forward. “A fair assessment,” I concede.
“What is this, Damion?”
I close the small space between us, daring to reach up and brush a long strand of blonde hair from her face, careful not to actually touch her. She doesn’t jerk away, and I contribute that to a comfort level developed over the years we grew up together. We’ve been intimate for longer than most married couples I know, even if it was innocent kid’s stuff. That and the fact that when Alana is focused, she’s one hundred percent focused on her goal, and her goal right now is to figure out my agenda.
She fails, but I respect the hell out of her for trying.
As to what this is, I keep it straight and to the point. “A favor, Alana,” I say, letting my hand fall away from her hair. “I need this merger to happen.”
“A favor,” she repeats flatly, before adding, “Ten years later?”
“Do favors have a time limit?” I challenge.
“What does me being your fiancée do to help you close the deal?”
“The board feels like me in a committed relationship is a better look than me as a bachelor. They want me married off before I take the seat.”
“Married? Oh, no,” she says, holding up a hand stop sign fashion. “That’s not happening.”
“I don’t have to marry you, Alana. I just need them all to believe I will. The two of us together will get plenty of the right press. And we’ll be convincing in a way I wouldn’t be with anyone else. We have a history. There is no one in this world who knows me like you do.”
“I knew you ten years ago.”
“You know me better than anyone,” I repeat.
“I’m not sure what that says about you,” she contemplates.
“I’m sure you’ll analyze me and figure it out.” My lips curve. “You were always analyzing me.”
She doesn’t laugh or smile. “What do you want from me, Damion?”
“I told you—”
“Specifically.” She enunciates with a tart tone.
“You can begin by going to dinner with me,” I say. “We’ll start the buzz and talk this out.”
“I don’t want to go to dinner with you.”
“Pretend you do.”
“How do you know I don’t have a man in my life who will be bothered by this?” she counters.
If she did, I would have already gotten rid of him, I think but what I say is, “I have ways of finding out things. You know that.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Dinner, Alana,” I repeat. “Now. Tonight.”
“How long do I have to play this little game?” she asks.
“If we get her to sign the deal quickly, there will still be a due diligence period when it could all fall apart. As long as that takes.”
“No,” she says. “That’s too open ended. You have a month. That’s all.”
“Three,” I counter.
“Two,” she says.
“Two and half,” I argue.
“Two,” she replies firmly. “And only if the terms are acceptable.”
“Then we’ll talk over dinner.” I offer her my hand to help her out the door.
She just stares at me with those pretty green eyes of hers.
“You know you’re going to have to touch me to make this seem real,” I say. “You might even have to enjoy it.”
“I might have to seem like I enjoy it,” she bounces back.
I could tell her she’s never been a good actress and that’s why people love her on TV. She’s genuine about everything. But considering I’m asking her to play a trick on the world with me, that doesn’t seem a well-timed comment. “All the more reason to take my hand,” I say, extending it again. “You need to practice pretending you actually like it when I touch you.”