Faking It / Forbidden Sins
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I want to stay in this bubble forever—me and her. That kiss. The feel of her subtle curves against me. “We take the show back to the apartment.”
“What?” she squeaks, stepping back suddenly. No longer covered in the shadows of the tree, the moonlight bounces off her face—off her wide eyes and lush mouth. I bet the tips of her ears are bright red.
“We’re newlyweds who’ve gotten distracted by a kiss and now we’re heading back home to finish what we started.” I grin and step forward, causing her to back up. “Do you have a problem with that, darling wife?”
She rolls her eyes and turns, heading back across the garden. In a few strides, I catch up to her and sling an arm around her shoulders. I’m surprised to find a smirk on her lips. “I think if anyone thoroughly enjoyed that kiss, it was you, by the way,” she says.
Our footsteps fall in time. “What powers of deduction did you use to figure that out?”
“You’re going to make me say it?” She shakes her head. There’s more light overhead now as we approach the barbeque area and her ears are definitely pink. “It was pretty bloody obvious.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but we’re interrupted by a group spilling out of the building and into the shared barbeque area. There are three men dressed in casual attire, laughing and carrying food. Two of the men look to be brothers and all appear to be in their early thirties.
“You’re new.” One of the brothers points a pair of tongs in our direction. The others wave and set themselves up around the barbeque. “Level six, right?”
“Word travels fast.” I stick my hand out. “Owen. This is my wife, Hannah.”
The W-word rolls off my tongue far too easily and it stirs something uncomfortable in my gut.
“Dom.” The guy is built like a bear and has a grip to match. “That’s my brother, Rowan, and our mate Matt.”
“We moved in today,” Hannah says, her smile a little too wide. I reach for her hand and squeeze—hoping it looks more loving and less like the warning it is. Rule number one of being undercover, never offer more information than you need to. “This morning, actually. We’ve been unpacking all day.”
She’s nervous. Hannah is like a fountain when she’s nervous, which normally I am all about. But now is not the time for verbal diarrhea. I squeeze her hand again.
“It’s a great building.” Dom nods. “Ro and I moved in about two years ago.”
If it’s true, it doesn’t really seem to fit the timeline, since the activity only started up within the last six months…but that’s a big if. Could be part of their cover story. I’ll get my hands on the building management documents and corroborate that information.
My eyes drift to the two men firing up the barbeque. They’re laughing and joking. Matt is dressed in all black and he could very well have been the shadowy figure who interrupted us in the garden.
“How did you all meet?” I ask.
“Matt went to high school with us. He’s a chef.”
Rowan looks up from the barbeque and grins. He has a cavalier air about him, like he’s a bit of a joker. “You wouldn’t know it with the way he butchered this meat. Looks like it was done with a hacksaw.”
“I can’t work magic with shitty tools,” Matt grumbles. Unlike Rowan and Dom, he’s fair-haired and has sharp grey eyes.
“What do you do?” Hannah asks, looking up at Dom.
“Ro and I run the family business, an art gallery.”
I have to actively conceal my surprise. Dom looks more like a bricklayer than the owner of a gallery—though admittedly, I know as much about art as I do about bricklaying. Zip.
“I run all the events,” Rowan says, wandering over and handing his brother a beer. “Deal with the temperamental artists and mingle with the buyers.”
In other words, he’s a professional party boy. Could be a good cover, getting to mix and mingle with all the big players in Melbourne and making connections. Maybe he scopes out the targets.
“And I make sure my brother doesn’t blow all our profit on champagne and canapés.” Dom grins. “You should come and visit us sometime. I’m sure we have something perfect for your new apartment.”
“That would be lovely.” Hannah brings her hand to her chest, so the stones on her engagement ring wink in the light. The gesture is subtle—authentic—which is why it’s perfect. I watch Rowan and Dom carefully, noting the way their eyes drift down to Hannah’s hand. “We were saying today that we’d like something special for the bedroom. Our old pieces don’t feel quite right anymore.”
That’s my girl. She’s finding her feet in the role now, which I know to be far from her real “true blue Aussie” life. I’ve met her family—her dad was a sergeant before he retired. Nice bloke. For some reason, watching Hannah in action brings back the surge of attraction I’ve been trying so hard to keep under wraps. What can I say? Capability gets me hot.
“Isn’t that right, Owen?” She looks up at me with those luminous brown eyes and I wonder how in the fuck I am going to get to sleep tonight.
“Yes, dear.” I say it with just enough of a patronising tone that I get a chuckle from Rowan. It makes me feel like a class-A dick, but it’s part of the act. Still, I can practically hear my grandmother scolding me. “Whatever you’d like.”
“We’ve got an opening for a new artist later this week. Why don’t you join us?” Rowan looks back to where Matt is throwing the steaks onto the grill. The sound of searing meat hisses into the night air. “I’ll put an invite into your mailbox.”
“We’re number six-oh-one,” Hannah clarifies, looping her arm through mine. “It’s nice to meet you. Enjoy your barbeque.”
The men turn their attention to their dinner and Hannah leads me inside the building.
“What do you think?” she asks as we’re in the elevator.
“Not much to go on, but the gallery thing is unexpected. They don’t seem the type.”
“Agreed.” She bobs her head. “And I know what I’m doing, okay? You don’t have to freak out every time I open my mouth.”
“You seemed a little nervous.”
“I wasn’t.”
I would call bullshit, but I cut her some slack. Hannah’s nerves only ever come from wanting to do a good job. This position means everything to her. She told me week one of our academy training that she was going to make detective by thirty-five and she’s a couple years ahead of schedule.
It’s a tough job and competitive to even get the opportunity. She’s probably thinking about all the things that could go wrong.
“If I seemed nervous it was more likely revulsion,” she adds. But her clipped tone is all bark and no bite. “From kissing you, I mean.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Anderson,” I reply. “So long as you look the part when we have an audience, that’s all that matters.”
The way she kissed me is playing on my mind, however. It wasn’t the kind of kiss I expected, and she could easily have kept it low-key. Faked it.
But that wasn’t faking it, for either one of us.
I’ll have to do my best to ignore the burning chemistry and hope she’ll do the same. Because I have a feeling if Hannah asked me to fuck her senseless tonight, I’d have a really hard time remembering why it’s a bad idea.
CHAPTER SIX
Hannah
DAY TWO OF my fake marriage and I’m already questioning why I didn’t put up more of a fight when Max suggested bringing Owen back for this operation. I should have nipped it in the bud. But oh no, I had to go and think the golden boy’s shine might have worn off with absence. Mistake number one.
Mistake number two was not pushing the brother-and-sister undercover plan harder. But like any good public servant, I fell into line.
Mistake number three was kissing him. Well, kissing is kind of a soft description. I basically dry humped him against the fence.
Cringing, I shake my head. Last night I acted out of line—unprofessional. Owen made it clear years ago that he wasn’t interested and yet I threw myself at him the first chance I got. Pathetic. He’s probably having a good laugh about it.
But what about the fact that he was hard enough to drill holes?
Natural physical response. Endorphins. Adrenaline. Pick a reason.
It’s like the universe has designed the perfect situation to test me. This morning I burned my toast while getting lost in my imagination. Getting lost in a fantasy starring him. How am I supposed to do my job when I can’t even make a bloody piece of toast without screwing it up?
Ugh, don’t think about screwing. Don’t think about screwing. Don’t think about screwing…
“Whatcha thinking about?” Owen walks into the kitchen, a pair of tracksuit pants riding low on his hips and a white T-shirt clinging to every muscle in his chest. His blond hair is damp, which makes his blue eyes even brighter.
It’s borderline disgusting how attractive he is.
“I’m thinking about the case.” I busy myself by putting the dishes away from our dinner last night. “Obviously.”
“Obviously.” Amusement dances in his voice. “By the way, this arrived. I noticed it when I came back from my run this morning.”
He’s holding a crisp white envelope in the kind of paper that usually signifies something fancy—weddings, galas, charity balls.
He grabs a knife and slips it under the seal at the back, slicing the envelope open. Inside is a single piece of paper. It’s grey and industrial-looking, with rough edges and an asymmetrical shape but the fancy gold-and-white font screams money.
“A personal invitation from Galleria D’Arte to join Dominic and Rowan Lively in presentation of artist Celina Yang.” Owen looks up. “It’s a cocktail party tomorrow night.”
A cocktail party. Great. Unfortunately, the work budget doesn’t extend to fancy wardrobe purchases, and I’m pretty sure Owen doesn’t own a tux. Or is a tux more black tie than cocktail? I have no earthly idea.
“What should I wear?” I bring my thumb up to my lips, ready to bite down until I remember that I need to look the part. No more biting my nails.
“Cocktail dress?” Owen supplies less-than-helpfully.
“I don’t own any.” I have one dress that might pass at a nice restaurant since it’s black and simple. The last time I wore it was to a funeral. And if it passed muster at a funeral, does that mean it’s no good for a cocktail party?
Damn it. When it comes to outrunning the bad guys and clipping on handcuffs or diffusing a tense situation, I’m at the top of my game. But I don’t do parties and dresses and high heels. How am I going to convince anyone that I’m a trophy wife?
“You go. I’ll pretend to be sick,” I mutter.
“Do we need to go shopping?” Owen places the invitation on the kitchen counter and leans his forearms against the sleek marble. “We can get you something to wear.”
“That’s not an appropriate use of the budget and you know it.” Maybe I can slap on some fake leaves and pretend to be a potted plant, Scooby-Doo style.
“Don’t worry about the budget.”
I sigh. “Of course I worry about the budget. There are more important things to spend that money on and I can’t be seen taking advantage of the situation to fill out my wardrobe.”
“I’ll cover you.” When I raise a brow, Owen shrugs in that careless way of his. “I’m a consultant and I have expenses. No big deal.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I say. The thought of him footing the bill for a dress feels totally and utterly wrong, but if I’m being honest my five-year-old Target dress isn’t going to cut it for an upper-crust gallery event.
“Stop worrying about the money.” He turns and heads toward the spare room, which he’s graciously taken so I can have the master suite with the more private bathroom. “Go grab your things.”
We catch the tram to Collins Street, where the designer shops sit like glittering beacons of unattainable style. The only time I come to the “Paris End”—aka the section with all the fancy stores—is to have the odd drink with friends. But Owen whisks me into the Gucci store like he’s done it a thousand times before.
We bypass the shoes and bags and head into the quieter part with the clothing. “This is excessive,” I say under my breath. “Can’t we go to Myer?”
Department stores are a little more my speed. And I’m already wondering what kind of payment plan I’ll need to buy a dress here. I love my job, but it isn’t for the thickly padded pay cheque.
“You need to grab everybody’s attention. We’re drawing them to us, remember?”
We walk into a room with huge screens playing footage from a runway show. The models are wearing strange, avant-garde creations and they all look terribly unhappy. Biting down on my lip, I glance around the store.
I walk over to a simple dress in emerald green with a ruffle draping from one shoulder all the way to the hem. It’s not my style, but it looks like something my undercover alter ego might wear. But when I glance at the price tag, I almost faint.
“We need to leave,” I say under my breath as a well-heeled sales assistant approaches us. “Please.”
“Hannah, it’s fine.” Owen touches my arm like we really are a married couple and that only makes my stomach swish harder. I’m going to send myself into life-long debt for a cocktail dress.
“Can I help you?” The woman has a cool confidence that I immediately envy. But maybe I could learn a few things from her to help bolster my persona.
“My wife is looking for a cocktail dress,” Owen says when I remain stubbornly quiet. “We’ve got an important event to attend.”
The woman’s gaze sweeps over me, assessing my size and shape. Her fingers drift over a rack of clothing, and she pushes the hangers to one side to reveal a hot pink monstrosity that looks like some cruel fashion joke. When she notes my expression, she immediately moves to another rack.
“What kind of an event?”
“A gallery exhibition.” I can barely find my voice. I hate feeling so out of my depth, and over such a stupid thing, too. I’ve had a gun pointed directly at my face and yet I’m scared of a few metres of silk?
“Ah, so you might want something artistic.” She taps a well-manicured finger to her chin. “How daring are you?”
Not very. Not even a little bit. “Uh, I’m probably more classic than daring.”
“She’s very daring,” Owen says, his gaze scorching me from the inside out. “My wife doesn’t see it in herself, but I do. She’s got a spark like nobody else.”
Does he really see that in me? Or is it part of the doting husband act?
My head and heart have been a jumbled mess ever since Owen set foot back in Australia. I thought I’d gotten over it all—over the desperate desire and humiliation. Over the way he’d looked at me, with clear eyes while mine were glassy with champagne, as he’d told me that he wouldn’t sleep with me because he valued our friendship. The humiliation had burned me to ash, and it made his act now all the more painful to swallow.
Because despite the time that had passed, I still wanted it to be real.
The woman’s face lights up as she pulls another garment from the rack. It appears to be a blazer made of reflective black material. “Is there a pair of pants to go with that?” I ask.
She ushers me to a changing room. “It’s a dress made to look like a blazer. It’s classic and daring, to suit both what you see and what your husband sees.”
When she closes the door behind me, I stare at myself in the mirror. Even with the flattering gold tones of the change room and the specially engineered lighting, I don’t love what I see. I’d never call myself ugly, but I wouldn’t say I’m anything special to look at, either. Brown hair, brown eyes, eyebrows that could do with some TLC. I’ve always viewed my body for what it can do—for speed and strength and agility—rather than looks. And I’ve told myself over and over when relationships fizzled, that it was because men are intimidated by strong women.
But now I wonder if I’m a bit…boring. Unsophisticated.
“How’s it going in there?” Owen’s honey-smooth voice jolts me out of my negative thought spiral and I shuck my jeans.
“This is my worst nightmare,” I admit. Somehow, without having to face him, it’s a little easier to be honest. “I can’t afford anything in here and I feel like a little girl playing dress-up.”
The silence stretches on for a beat more than is comfortable.
“Firstly, the dress is my treat. And secondly…” The lock rattles lightly and I can tell he’s leaned against the door. “You need to stop being so hard on yourself.”
I raise a brow at my reflection. It’s the most un-Owen-like thing he could have said. I’m down to my bra and undies now, and pulling the blazer/dress thing off the hanger. It’s surprisingly heavy, and I notice it’s covered entirely in glimmering beads.
“You deserve to be where you are because you work harder than anyone else. Because you’re smarter than anyone else. Maybe more people should be like you, rather than you trying to be like someone else.”
The statement warms my heart, kindling an old fire. I can’t help the goofy grin that stretches my lips as I slip into the dress. The sales assistant was right—it is the perfect mix of classic and daring. The long sleeves and padded shoulders give a structured, powerful vibe and the short hemline and plunging neck are sexy as all get-out. But the fact is I am a girl playing dress-up. Because I would never wear this dress, and I would never be with a guy like Owen who flits from one thing to the next, always chasing a new whim.
I like him. I always have. But I need to remember what I told myself all those years ago—it’s a good thing he rejected me. Because a guy like him would chew me up and spit me out. I need to find a relationship where I’m an equal partner, where the other person is invested as much as I am. And unfortunately, I’m always more invested than the other person.
When I open the change room door, Owen’s eyes widen. “Wow.”
He’s looking at me like it’s the first time he’s seen me. But I don’t want to have my She’s All That moment right now. Because this transformation is a lie—like the ring on my finger and the apartment we’re sharing. I’m never going to be the “after” picture in some “ugly duckling to swan” advertisement.
I’m not sure I want to be, either.
“Thanks.” I swallow my awkwardness. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll be back in leggings tonight.”
I refuse to let his reaction affect me. If there’s any attraction here, it’s not because of who I really am. I can’t afford the delusion that there will ever be anything between us…no matter how much I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Owen
BY THE THIRD DAY of living at 21 Love Street, we’ve met a number of our neighbours in passing. Hannah ignored my suggestion to let them come to us, and I have to admit she’s playing the role of social butterfly well.
We’ve met a communications manager and her investment banker fiancé from level one. A quiet schoolteacher named Ava and her friend Emery, who live in the apartments next to Rowan and Dominic on level five. I’m thinking they could be a good source of information on the brothers’ activities. And Matt the chef lives on level three. We haven’t seen anyone on level six—I suspect the other penthouse might be owned by someone who travels a lot. There are also two young families on the first floor, and an older woman on level three who seems to keep to herself but gave a friendly wave in the mailroom as I pretended to inspect our mailbox.
Nothing suspicious yet. Based on what we have, I feel Dom, Rowan and Matt are worth looking into further. Which is why Hannah and I are waiting outside L’Arte Galleria in a line to have our tickets checked by a beefy guy in a black suit.
“This place is fancy,” Hannah whispers. She’s hanging on to my arm and has a black trench coat covering her new dress. That dress has been on my mind all day. “I bet they have Swarovski-encrusted toilets.”
I snort and make a poor attempt of covering it with a cough. We step forward in the line and she’s careful to keep her balance on a pair of pencil-thin stilettos that I bought to go with her dress. They have a mirror-like silver finish and they’re doing amazing things for her legs. Hannah had argued that they were impractical and that she wouldn’t be able to chase after anyone in them—but tonight we’re gathering information. No running required.
“Tickets?” The beefy guy has a nose that looks like it’s been on the losing side of a few fistfights and he’s built like a brick wall. Is that OTT for a gallery? I’m not sure.
Hannah hands our invite over and the beefcake scans a small barcode on the back of it. “Mr. and Mrs. Essex, welcome.”
Interesting. I don’t remember giving our surname to Dom when we spoke in front of the barbeque, but he obviously got it somehow. I press my hand to the small of Hannah’s back and we’re ushered into the cloakroom area. It’s chilly out tonight—rainy and damp in that typical Melbourne early spring way—and so we offload our outerwear. I try not to stare as Hannah shrugs out of her coat, revealing her long, lean legs and a scandalous triangle of chest. The bare skin contrasting with long sleeves looks edgy and sexy. She’s put on a little makeup and fluffed out her hair, so that it falls in shiny brown waves to her shoulders. I don’t quite understand why she made that comment about being a little girl playing dress-up yesterday, because she looks every bit the perfect Mrs. Hannah Essex to me.
“Shall we?” I hold my hand out to her, and she takes it. There’s that blush again, tinting her cheeks and neck and the tips of her ears.
“Stop looking at me like that.” The words are spoken low, for my ears only.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re a wolf who’s gone weeks without a fresh kill.” Her hand slips into mine. “And I’m a big, dumb deer who’s stumbled into your path.”
I pull her close to me as we weave through a large, modern archway which opens into the gallery’s main room. The exhibition is…not quite what I expected. Sculptures dot the room, abstract shapes that somehow manage to look erotic—like bodies entwined—without actually resembling anything at all.
The lighting is low, except for a few strategically placed red spotlights which give the room an almost club-like atmosphere. Electronic music plays over the speakers, but not so loud that it inhibits conversation. There are waiters circling the room, wearing blood-red tuxedo jackets and carrying trays of pink-tinted sparkling wine.
Hannah cocks her head. “This is different to what I thought it would be. Although, to be fair, my experience with galleries is limited to that one time I went to NGV on a high school excursion.”
“Same.”
Even living in New York hadn’t tempted me into the local pastime of spending hours staring at things my brain isn’t creative enough to process. I’m more of a hands-on guy. This is a bit…cerebral.
“They’re kind of sexy.” Hannah steps closer to the sculpture nearest us. She leans forward slightly, her eyes narrowed and a cute little wrinkle in her nose. “Is that weird?”
“It’s not weird at all.” A woman appears beside us, her dark hair shaved on one side and reaching down to her shoulders on the other. “This collection is about capturing the feeling of oneness that two people experience in love and lust.”
“This is your work?” Hannah straightens and puts on a smile.
“Yes, I’m Celina Yang.” She extends her hand and Hannah accepts it.
“Hannah Essex, nice to meet you. The pieces are very…thought-provoking.”
“Thank you.” Celina smiles. She’s a striking woman, barely more than five feet two and wearing flat shoes. She’s dressed in red to match the theme of the event—a dress that looks as avant-garde as her work. Two large diamonds glitter in her ears. “I take a lot of inspiration from my own relationships.”