Just One Night...: Fiancée For One Night / Just One Last Night / The Night That Started It All

‘Damn it, Evelyn!’ he growled, his voice a velvet glove over an iron fist that would wake up the dead, let alone Sam if he kept this up. ‘It’s eleven a.m. on a Friday. Where the hell are you?’

And she realised that praying for the machine to cut him off was going to do no good at all if he was just going to call back, angrier next time. She snatched the receiver up. ‘I didn’t realise I was required to keep office hours.’

‘Evelyn, thank God.’ He blew out, long and hard and irritated, and she could almost imagine his free hand raking through his thick wavy hair in frustration. ‘Where the hell have you been? I tried to call earlier.’

‘I know. I heard.’

‘You heard? Then why didn’t you pick up? Or at least call me back?’

‘Because I figured you were quite capable of searching the Yellow Pages yourself.’

There was a weighted pause and she heard the roar of diesel engines and hum of traffic, and she guessed he was still on the way to the hotel. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I mean, I’ll do all manner of work for you as contracted. I’ll do your correspondence and manage your diary, without issue. I’ll set up appointments, do your word processing and I’ll even flick off your latest girlfriend with some expensive but ultimately meaningless bauble, but don’t expect me to act like some kind of pimp. As far as I recall, that wasn’t one of the services I agreed to provide.’

This time the pause stretched so long she imagined the line would snap. ‘Is something wrong?’

God, everything was wrong! She had appliances to replace that would suck money out of her building fund, she had a gut that was churning so hard she couldn’t think straight, and now she was expected to find this man a sleeping partner. ‘You’re the one who left the message on my machine, remember, asking me to fix you up with a woman for the night.’

She heard a muttered curse. ‘And you think I wanted you to find me someone to go to bed with.’

‘What else was I supposed to think?’

‘You don’t think me perfectly capable of finding my own bedtime companions?’

‘I would have expected so, given…’ She dropped her forehead in one hand and bit down on her wayward tongue. Oh, God, what was she thinking, sparring with a client, especially when that client was almost single-handedly funding her life and the future she was working towards? But what else could she do? It was hard to think logically with this churning gut and this tangle of barbs biting into her.

‘Given what, exactly?’ he prompted. ‘Given the number of “expensive but ultimately meaningless baubles” I’ve had you send? Why, Evelyn, anyone would think you were jealous.’

I am not jealous, she wanted to argue. I don’t care who you sleep with. But even in her own mind the words rang hollow and she could swear that the barbed wire actually laughed as it pulled tighter and pressed its pointed spines deeper into her flesh.

So, okay, maybe she had felt just a tiny bit cheated that nothing had happened that night and she hadn’t ended up in his bed, but it was hardly wrong to wonder, surely? It was curiosity, more than anything. Naturally she’d had plenty of time since then to count herself lucky she had escaped that fate, after seeing how efficiently and ruthlessly he dispensed with his women, but it didn’t stop her wondering what it would have been like…

She took a deep, calming breath, blew it out slowly and cursed whatever masochistic tendencies had made her pick up the phone in the first place when it would have been far more productive to rescue her washing than risk losing the best client she was ever likely to have. ‘I’m sorry. Clearly I misunderstood your message. What is it that I can do for you?’

‘Simple.’ His liquid voice flowed down the line now she was so clearly back on task. ‘I just need you to find me a wife.’

‘Are you serious?’

So far this call was going nothing like he’d anticipated. It wasn’t just her jumping to the wrong kind of conclusion about his earlier call that niggled at him, or her obvious disapproval of his sleeping habits—most PAs he’d met weren’t that openly prudish; in fact, most he’d encountered had been too busy trying to get into his pants—but there was something else that didn’t sit right about his indignant PA. She didn’t sound at all like he’d expected. Admittedly he was out of practice with that demographic, but since when did middle-aged women—any woman for that matter—ask their employer if they were serious?

‘Would I be asking if I weren’t? And I need her in time for that dinner with Culshaw tonight. And she probably doesn’t have to be a pretend wife—a pretend fiancée should do nicely.’

There was silence on the end of the line as the car climbed the sweeping approach to the Western Gate Bridge and for a moment he was almost distracted by the view of the buildings of Melbourne’s sprawling CBD to his left, the port of Melbourne on his right. Until he realised they’d be at his hotel in Southbank in a matter of minutes and he needed to get things moving. He had to have tonight’s arrangements squared away before he got tied up with his lunchtime meeting with the government regulators due to sign off on the transfer of ownership when it went ahead. He’d dealt with those guys before and knew it was likely to be a long lunch. ‘Evelyn?’

‘I’m here. Although I’m still not quite sure I understand.’

He sighed. What was so hard to understand? ‘Culshaw’s feeling insecure about the deal. Wants to be sure he’s dealing with solid family people and, given the circumstances, maybe I don’t blame him. Culshaw and Alvarez are both bringing their wives to dinner tonight, and I don’t want to do anything to make Culshaw more nervous by having me turn up alone, not when we’re so close to closing the deal. So I want you to increase the number at dinner to six and find me someone who can play my fiancée for a night.’

‘I can certainly let the hotel know to cater for six,’ she said, sounding like she meant to go on before there the line went quiet again and he sensed a ‘but’ coming.

‘Well?’ he prompted, running out of time and patience.

‘I can see what you’re trying to do.’ Her words spilled out in a rush. ‘But is taking along a pretend fiancée really wise? I mean, what if Culshaw finds out? How will that look?’

Her words grated on both his senses and his gut. Of course it was a risk, but right now, with Culshaw feeling so vulnerable, so too was turning up alone. ‘Choose the right woman,’ he said, ‘and that won’t be an issue. It’s only for a night after all. Are you anywhere near your email? I sent you an idea of what I’m looking for.’

‘Look, Mr Zamos—’

‘Leo.’

‘Okay, so, Leo, I appreciate that I got the wrong end of the stick before, but finding you someone to play fiancée, that’s not exactly part of the service I offer.’

‘No? Then let’s make it part of them.’

‘It’s not actually that simple.’

‘Sure it is. Find an acting school or something. Tell whoever you find that I’m willing to pay over the odds. Have you got that email yet?’

‘I’m opening it now,’ she said with an air of resignation, her Australian accent softened with a hint of husky sweetness. He decided he liked it. Idly he wondered what kind of mouth it was attached to. ‘Charming,’ she read from the list of characteristics he’d provided, and he wondered. Surprisingly argumentative would be a better way to describe his virtual PA right now.

‘Intelligent. Classy.’ Again he mused. She was definitely intelligent, given the calibre of work she did for him. Classy? Maybe so if she’d worked as a corporate PA for several years. It wasn’t a profession where you could get away with anything less than being impeccably groomed.

‘And I’ve thought of something else.’

‘Oh, goodie.’

Okay, so maybe charm wasn’t her strong point, but so long as she got him the perfect pretend fiancée, he would overlook it for now. ‘You might want to brief her on both Culshaw and Alvarez. Only the broad-brush stuff, no details. But it would be good if she wasn’t completely ignorant of the players involved and what they do and can at least hold a conversation. And, of course, she’ll need to know something about me as well. You know the kind of stuff…’

And then it suddenly occurred to him what had been bothering him. She said stuff like ‘Are you serious?’ and ‘goodie’ in a voice threaded with honey, and that put her age years younger than he’d expected. A glimmer of inspiration told him that if she was, maybe his search for the perfect pretend fiancée was already over…

‘How old are you, Evelyn?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I had you pegged for middle-aged, but you don’t sound it. In fact, you sound much younger. So how old are you?’

‘Is that entirely relevant right now?’

‘It could be.’ Though by the way she was hedging, he was pretty certain his question was unnecessary. At a guess he’d say she wasn’t a day over thirty-five. It was perfect really. So perfect he was convinced it might have occurred to him earlier if he hadn’t assumed his virtual PA was a good ten years older.

‘And dare I ask…?’ Her voice was barely a whispered breath he had to search for over the sounds of the city traffic. ‘Why would that be?’

And he smiled. ‘Because it would be weird if my fiancée looked old enough to be my mother.’

There was silence on the end of the line, a silence so fat with suspicion that it almost oozed out of the handset. Then that husky, hesitant Aussie drawl. ‘I don’t follow you.’

‘It’s quite simple,’ he said, his blood once again fizzing with the heady buzz of a plan coming together beautifully. ‘Are you doing anything for dinner tonight?’

‘No. Leo—Mr Zamos. No!’ This could not be happening. There was no way she was going to dinner with Leo Zamos and pretending to be his fiancée. No way!

‘Excellent,’ she heard him say through the mists of her panic. ‘I’ll have my driver pick you up at seven.’

‘No! I meant yes, I’m busy. I meant no, I can’t come.’

‘Why? Is there a Mr Carmichael I need to smooth things over with? ‘

‘No, but—’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

She squeezed her eyes shut. Tried to find the words with which to give her denial, words he might understand, before realising she didn’t have to justify her position, didn’t have to explain she had an infant to consider or that she didn’t want to see him or that the idea simply sat uncomfortably with her. She simply had to say no. ‘I don’t have to do this. And neither do you, for that matter. Mr Culshaw knows you’ve only just flown in from overseas. Will he really be expecting you to brandish a fiancée at a business dinner?’

‘But this is why it’s so perfect, Evelyn. My fiancée happens to be Australian and she’s already here. What could be better?’

She shook her head. For her own benefit maybe, but it made her feel better. ‘It won’t work. It can’t. This is artifice and it will come unstuck and in grand style.’

‘Evelyn,’ he said measuredly, ‘it can work and it will. If you let it.’

‘Mr Zamos—’

‘One evening, Evelyn. Just one dinner.’

‘But it’s not honest. We’d both be lying.’

‘I prefer to think of it as offering reassurance where reassurance is needed. And if Culshaw needs reassurance before finalising this deal, who am I to deny him that?’

But making out we’re engaged? ‘I don’t know.’

‘Look, I haven’t got time for this now. Let’s cut to the chase. I said I was willing to pay someone above the odds and that goes for you too. This dinner is important to me, Evelyn, I don’t have to tell you how much. What do you think it’s worth for a few hours’ work?’

‘It’s not about the money!’

‘In my experience, it’s always about the money. Shall we say ten thousand of your Australian dollars?’

Eve gasped, thinking of new clothesdryers and new hot water services and the cost of plumbers and the possibility of not dipping into her savings and still having change left over. And last but by no means least, whether Mrs Willis next door might be able to babysit tonight…

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Let’s make it twenty. Would that be enough?’

Eve’s stomach roiled, even as she felt her eyes widening in response to the temptation. ‘Twenty thousand dollars,’ she repeated mechanically, ‘For one evening.’

‘I told you it was important to me. Is it enough, do you think, to entice you to have dinner with me?’

Twenty thousand dollars enough? It didn’t matter that his tone told her he was laughing at her. But for someone who had been willing to spend the night with him for nothing, the concept that he would pay so much blew her away. Did tonight really mean so much to him? Was there really that much at stake?

Really, the idea was so bizarre and ridiculous and impossible that it just might work. And, honestly, what were the chances he would recognise her? It had been almost three years ago and in a different city, and beyond heated looks they’d barely communicated that day and she doubted he even remembered her name, let alone what she looked like. And since then he’d met a thousand women in a thousand different cities, all of them beautiful, plenty of whom he’d no doubt slept with.

And since then she’d let her coloured hair settle back closer to its natural mousy colour and her body had changed with her pregnancy. Now she had curves that hadn’t been there before and maybe wouldn’t be there if she’d returned to work in that highly groomed, highly competitive office environment. One of the perils of working from home, she mused, was not having to keep up appearances.

Which also meant she had one hell of an afternoon in front of her if she was to be ready before seven. A glance at the wall clock told her she had less than eight hours to find a salon to squeeze into on the busiest day of the week, and find an outfit somewhere. Still assuming her neighbour could babysit tonight.

A thud came from the nursery, followed by a squeal and gurgles of pleasure, and she swung her head around. Sam was awake and busy liberating his soft toys from the confines of the cot. That meant she had about thirty seconds before he was the last man left standing and demanding to be released from jail the way he knew best. The loud way.

‘There’s a couple of things I have to square away,’ she said, anxious to get off the phone before Sam decided to howl the place down. ‘Can I call you back in a few minutes to confirm?’

‘Of course,’ he said, in that velvet-rich voice that felt like it was stroking her. ‘Call me. So long as it’s a yes.’

Leo slipped his phone into his pocket as the car came to a smooth halt outside his hotel. A doorman touched his gloved fingers to his hat as he pulled open the door, bowing his welcome. ‘We’ve been expecting you, Mr Zamos.’ He handed him a slim pink envelope that bore his name and a room number on the front. ‘Your suite is ready if you’d like to go straight up.’

‘Excellent,’ he said, nodding his thanks as he strode into the hotel entry and headed for the lifts, feeling more and more confident by the minute. He’d known Evelyn would soon have that little problem sorted, although maybe he hadn’t exactly anticipated her sorting it so quickly and efficiently.

What was she like? he wondered as the lift whisked him soundlessly skywards. Was he wrong not to insist on a photo of her to be safe? Originally he’d had looks on his list of requirements, on the basis that if he had to act as someone’s fiancé, he’d expected it would be one hell of a lot easier to be act the part if he didn’t have to force himself to smile whenever he looked at her or slipped his arm around her shoulders. But maybe someone more ordinary would be more convincing. Culshaw didn’t strike him as the sort of man who went for looks over substance and, given his circumstances, he’d be looking for a love match in the people he did business with. In which case, some nice plain girl might just fit the bill.

It was only for one night, after all.

The lift doors whooshed open on the twenty-fourth floor onto a window with a view over the outer city that stretched to the sea and air faintly scented with ginger flower.

Other than to get his bearings, he paid scant attention to the view. It was success Leo Zamos could smell first and foremost, success that set his blood to fizzing as he headed for his suite.

God, but he loved it when a plan came together!

CHAPTER THREE

EVE had some idea of how Cinderella must have felt on her way to the ball. Half an hour ago she’d left her old world behind, all tumbling-down house and broken-down appliances and baby rusks, and was now being whisked off in a silken gown to a world she had only ever dreamt of.

Had Cinderella been similarly terrified on her way to the ball? Had she felt this tangle of nerves writhing in her stomach as she’d neared the palace on that fairytale night? Had she felt this cold, hard fear that things would come terribly, terribly unstuck before the night was over? If so, she could well empathise.

Not that her story was any kind of fairy-tale. There’d been no fairy godmother who could transform her into some kind of princess in an instant with a touch of her magic wand for a start. Instead, Eve had spent the afternoon in a blur of preparations, almost spinning from salon to boutiques to appliance stores, in between packing up tiny pots of yoghurt and Sam’s favourite pasta so Mrs Willis wouldn’t have to worry about finding him something to eat. There had been no time for reflection, no time to sit down and really think about what she was doing or why she was even doing it.

But here, sitting alone against the buttery-soft upholstery of an entire limousine, she had no distractions, no escape from asking herself the questions that demanded to be answered. Why was she doing this? Why had she agreed to be Leo’s pretend fiancée, when all her instincts told her it was wrong? Why hadn’t she insisted on saying no?

Sure, there was the money. She wouldn’t call herself mercenary exactly, but she was motivated at the thought of getting enough money together to handle both her renovations and taking care of Sam. And how else would she so quickly gather the funds to replace a hot water service that had inconsiderately died twelve months too early and buy a new clothesdryer so she could keep up with Sam’s washing in the face of Melbourne’s fickle weather?

What other reason could there be?

Because you’re curious.

Ridiculous. She thrust the suggestion aside, determined to focus on the view. She loved Melbourne. After so many years in Sydney, it was good to be home, not that she got into the city too often these days.

But the annoying, niggling voice in her head refused to be captivated or silenced by the view.

You want to see if he has the same impact on you that he had three years ago.

You want to know if it’s not just his voice that makes your stomach curl.

You want to know if he’ll once again look at you with eyes filled with dark desire and simmering need.

No, no and no! She shuffled restlessly against the leather, adjusting her seat belt so it wasn’t so tight across her chest and she could breathe easier.

Dark desire and simmering need were the last things she needed these days. She had responsibilities now. A child to provide for. Which was exactly what she was doing by coming tonight, she acknowledged, latching onto the concept with zeal. She was providing for her child. After all, if she didn’t, who would? Not his father, that was for sure.

She bit down on her lip, remembering only then that she was wearing lipstick for a change and that she shouldn’t do that. It had been harder than she’d imagined, leaving Sam for an evening—the first time she’d ever left him at night—and it had been such a wrench she’d been almost tempted to call Leo and tell him she’d changed her mind.

But she hadn’t. And Sam had splashed happily in an early bath and enjoyed dinner. She’d read him a story and he’d already been nodding off when she’d left him with Mrs Willis, his little fist clenched, his thumb firmly wedged between cupid bow lips. But what if he woke up and she wasn’t there? What if he wouldn’t settle back down for Mrs Willis?

God, what the hell had she been thinking, agreeing to this?

Outside the limousine windows the city of Melbourne was lighting up. It wasn’t long after seven, the sky caught in that time between day and night, washed with soft shadows that told of the coming darkness, and buildings were preparing, showing their colours, strutting their stuff.

Just like she was, she thought. She wore a gown of aqua silk, which had cost her the equivalent of a month’s salary in her old office job, but she figured the evening called for something more grand than her usual chain-store purchases. Leo would no doubt expect it, she figured. And she’d loved the dress as she’d slipped it over her head and zipped it up, loved the look of it over her post-baby curves and the feel of it against her skin, and loved what it did to accentuate the colour of her eyes, but the clincher had been when her eighteen-month-old son had looked up at her from his pram, broken into an enormous grin and clapped his pudgy hands together.

And she must look all right in her new dress and newly highlighted hair because her neighbour had gasped when she’d come to the door to deliver Sam and insisted she cover herself with an apron in case she inadvertently spilled anything on it before she left.

Dear Mrs Willis, who was the closest to a grandparent that Sam would ever know, and who had been delighted to babysit and have Eve go out for a night for a change, no doubt in the hope that Eve would find a nice man to settle down with and provide a father to Sam. And even though Eve had explained it was a work function and she’d no doubt be home early, her neighbour had simply smiled and taken no notice as she’d practically pushed her out the door to the waiting car. ‘Have a lovely evening and don’t rush. If it’s after ten when you get home, I’ll no doubt be asleep, so you can come and pick Sam up in the morning.’

And then they were there. The driver pulled into a turnaround and eased the car to a stop. He passed her a keycard as a doorman stepped forward to open her door. ‘Mr Zamos says to let you know he’s running late and to let yourself in.’ She smiled her thanks as he recited a room number, praying she’d manage to remember it as the doorman welcomed her to the hotel.

Deep breath.

Warily she stepped out of the car, cautious on heels that seemed perilously high, where once upon a time she would have thought nothing of sprinting to catch a bus in even higher. Strange, what skills you forgot, she thought, when you don’t use them. And then she sincerely hoped she hadn’t forgotten the art of making conversation with adults because a few rounds of ‘Open, shut them, open, shut them,’ was going to get tired pretty quickly.

And then she stepped through the sliding doors into the hotel and almost turned around and walked straight back out again. It was little more than the entrance, a bank of grand elevators in front of her and a lift lobby to the left, but it was beautiful. A massive arrangement of flowers sat between the escalators, lilies bright and beautiful, palm leaves vivid green and all so artfully arranged that it looked too good to be real.

Just like her, she thought. Because she did so not belong here in this amazing place. She was a fake, pretending to be something she was not, and everyone would see through her in an instant.

She must have hesitated too long or maybe they recognised her as a fraud because someone emerged from behind the concierge desk and asked if she needed assistance. ‘I’m to meet Mr Zamos in his suite,’ she said, her voice sounding other-worldy in the moneyed air of one of Melbourne’s most prestigious hotels, but instead of calling for Security, like she half expected, he simply led her to the lift lobby and saw her safely inside a lift, even smiling as he pressed Leo’s level on the floor selection so she could make no mistake.