Under His Touch

“People…well, people have needs,” she whispers.

I lower my voice to match hers. “True, and I’m not ruling sex out, but right now I have other concerns.”

“Such as?”

“I’m used to living alone. I need a woman who won’t be underfoot in my home. She must be intelligent, likable and a good conversationalist since she’ll be attending dinners with board members.” She stares at me for a moment, disbelief and a measure of repulsion evident in her big doe eyes. Good, that’s the only way I can have her look at me, otherwise… “Perhaps you should be writing this down.”

“Oh, right.” Her pen flies over the blank pages as she fills it with my criteria. She taps the tip on her chin when done, and stares at her notepad. “Do you care if she works?”

“I’d like for her to have her own life. She won’t need to work, but if she chooses to stay home, I’d like to see her involve herself in charitable work.” Her eyes lift. “It will look better to the board,” I say. Yeah, I get it. I’m coming off like a grade A prick, but that’s what I want. That’s what I need. If this woman gives me so much as a seed of encouragement, a hint that she might still want me, I could very well lose my shit. I can’t—won’t—let that happen. She deserves better than that. She deserves better than me.

Last week, when Granddad took me to his study and plied me with brandy, I knew he was up to something. I agreed to his terms, saw the truth in his words. Sure, I come from wealth, but I want to make my own mark in the financial world, want to become Blackstone’s youngest CFO. A wife will help with that and help with my reputation, which will hopefully get the damn paparazzi off my back—Christ knows they destroyed my brother, Will, who is fulfilling the Carson prophecy. But until I walked into this café, I had no idea I’d be facing Megan Williams. The old man never prepared me for her, and I can’t help but think he left the event planner’s name out on purpose. Smart man, because had I known I’d be coming face-to-face with the sweet girl I screwed over in high school, I never would have agreed to any of this.

I’ll never forget the day I met her. It was the summer before our senior year. I was friends with her cousin Sara Duncan, and after Megan’s parents died in a car accident, she moved from Philadelphia to Manhattan to live with her aunt and uncle, who are friends of Granddad’s. Sara introduced us, and just like that I was lost in her and trying hard to keep it platonic. We were pretty inseparable for the rest of the year, then prom night. Jesus, prom night in St. Moritz. She knocked on my door, and when I opened it…

“Alec?”

Shit.

“Sorry, what?”

“If I’m going to fill out your online profile, I have to know what kind of woman you’re attracted to.”

Ah. I need to be careful here. My gaze rakes over Megan, and the frizzy state of her auburn hair, my absolute favorite color. It brings a smile to my face. She always hated it when it rained, but I think her wild locks are adorable. With light brown eyes—the color of a root beer Popsicle—fair skin clear of makeup, save for her pink lipstick, she still has that same girl-next-door look going on.

And that, my friends.

Right there.

Is the kind of woman I’m attracted to.

“I prefer blonde,” I say, and as she nods her head, her drying auburn locks bouncing, she jots it down.

She plants her elbow on the table and rests her chin in her palm. She goes thoughtful for a long time, then blinks her eyes back into focus. “Can I ask something?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to answer,” I say, wanting to be as honest with her as possible, but there are some things I just can’t divulge.

“You date all the time. Thanks to the tabloids, I see the gorgeous women on your arm. Why not one of them? If it’s to be a loveless marriage, and you think women want you for power and money, and they’re probably on your arm because of that, why not just ask one of them to marry you?”

It’s a legit question that deserves an honest answer. I might be a tough negotiator, but deep down I do have morals and I respect integrity as much as the next guy. With Megan, though, I have to be less than forthright with this answer, for her own good.

“The women from my circle aren’t suitable for what I need.”

“How so?”

“They’re glamorous, over-the-top, high maintenance.”

“So, you’re looking for a sweet girl next door?”

“Yeah.”

“The kind of girl you’re not really attracted to,” she says, her voice so low I have to strain to hear it. But before I can answer—and I have no idea how to respond—she blinks up at me. “Does eye color matter?”

I finish my coffee and check the time. If I’m going to have a nice girl in my home, her appearance at least must be the antithesis of Megan’s. Otherwise the daily reminder of what I want and can never have would drive me over the edge. “No, but I do prefer blue.”

I watch her throat work as she swallows, and my insides twist. Jesus, that sad look she’s trying to hide is ripping me wide-open. Hurting her is the last thing I want to do. But it’s also killing me that she looks at me with distaste. Maybe I should put a stop to this. End it now before we go any further.

“Megan,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Look at me,” I command in a soft whisper. Her eyes slowly lift, lock on mine, and as she stares, a bolt of need grips my chest. I fight it down and ask, “Do you really want to do this? We have a history.”

She takes one deep breath, lets it out slowly and lowers her pen. “And that’s exactly what it is, a history.” The chirpiness is her voice contrasts the visible pain in her eyes. “It’s all in the past, where it needs to stay. We’re both adults and both professionals and it comes down to this—you’re not the only one getting something out of this. You see, Alec, once I find you a wife and throw you the best damn wedding Manhattan has ever seen, I’ll be the talk of the town. It will get my business off the ground in a crowded market and skyrocket me into prominence.”

“I guess we’re both doing this to get ahead, then?” I say.

Her brows knit together. “When you put it that way.” She casts her eyes downward for a second. “Looks like we’re not so different after all. I’m scratching your back and you’re scratching mine, so to speak.”

“Tit for tat.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, my gaze once again goes down to take in the curve of her breasts. I catch a hint of white lace, and my dick thickens. I want her. I’ve always wanted her. But am I going to do anything about it? No fucking way. Being around her might just kill me, and I’m going to need a drink, or an entire bottle, by the time we’re done here. Because now that I know what’s in it for her, I can’t walk away and find another event planner. I clear my throat. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

She instantly switches back into professional mode and pulls a laptop from her bag. She sets it between us and boots it up. “Are there any particular dating sites you prefer?”

“Never been on one.”

She clicks a few buttons. “I’ve not had much luck myself—”

“You use dating sites?” Why the hell would a woman like Megan need to use a dating site? She must have men falling at her feet.

“I have in the past,” she admits.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, and glance at the barista, anything to keep my mind off Megan in bed with another man. I have no hold on her. She can date any guy she likes, but goddammit, the thought of any man’s hands but mine on her still bothers me. Eight years later.

“I see the ads for that Match Made in Heaven site all the time,” I say. “Should we try that?”

“It’s a good jumping-off point. If we don’t get any matches, we can set you up elsewhere. Although I’m sure you’ll have a million matches in the first hour.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Look at you,” she blurts out. Her gaze moves from my chest to my face. “Ah, I mean, you’re not bad to look at, and you’re successful. All we need is a catchy bio. Let’s have a look at it, see what other criteria I might need before I set you up.” She points to the seat beside her. “Why don’t you sit here, so we can look at the screen together.”

“Coffee first. We might be here for a while. Do you want something?”

Her gaze slides to her empty cup. “I guess I’ll have another mocha latte.”

She reaches for her purse, but I hold my hand up to stop her. “I got it,” I say and walk away, needing a moment to pull myself together before I sit close to her.

I order our drinks, and as the barista makes them, I grab a lemon-filled doughnut and a piece of cheesecake. I press my Apple Watch to the payment terminal and hold until it vibrates. After the charge goes through, I carry the sweets to our table.

She shakes her head. “I didn’t want—”

“They’re for me. I came here straight from the gym and I’m starving. The barista will bring our coffee over.”

I lower myself into the seat next to her, and her sweet scent reaches my nose. I devour her with my eyes and throw up a silent prayer. Sweet mother of God, give me strength. Her gaze goes from the pastries, to my fork. Her eyes narrow in on the silverware, and her fingers curls into fists.

“You got something against my fork?” I ask.

“No.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “I was just remembering my mom’s Philly cheesecake,” she adds, and I get the sense she’s redirecting the conversation. “Best in the world, and that’s not a very healthy choice for after the gym,” she says.

I grin at her. “Yeah, I know, Mom.”

“Not funny,” she says, and crinkles her nose, those cute freckles bunching together.

“I know but remember when we used to go to my place after school and raid the fridge before dinner. Mom used to—”

“Chase us into your bedroom with her broom, warning we were going to ruin our appetites,” she pipes in, finishing my sentence, much like we used to do years ago. “But we were always hungry back then.”

We both laugh, but it sizzles out fast, the space between us going perfectly quiet.

“Yeah,” I say after a moment, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” she repeats, and then angles her head to glance at my clothes as the barista delivers the coffee. “You put a suit on after the gym?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I pick up the doughnut and take a big bite. “Damn, that’s good.”

“Do you always wear a suit? Everywhere?”

“Yes, always. Except in the gym, the shower or in bed.” I wink at her. “I like casual sex, and wearing a suit to bed just makes it formal,” I say and wonder what the fuck I’m doing. I shouldn’t be teasing her, flirting with her.

Her cheeks darken. “Well, some dates will be more casual than others. What if you go skydiving, or to the movies, or even a romantic hansom cab ride around Central Park?”

“When was the last time you took a horse ride around Central Park?” I ask.

“Ah, well. Never. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but I’m not dating right now, and we’re talking about you, not me.”

A thrill I don’t want to feel races through me. “Are you trying to say you want to dress me, Megan?”

“If that’s what it takes to find you a wife, then yes. I want complete control.”

Megan in bed, completely in control. Yeah, that visual is helping my cock. I take another bite of the doughnut and moan as I hold it out to her. “Try it.”

She stares at it for a moment, and her mouth goes slack. “It does look good.”

“It is good.”

I hold it closer and she bites into it. Her lids close and lemon oozes from the doughnut as powdered sugar gets all over her face and nose.

I chuckle. “You always were a messy eater.” I reach out, brush my thumb over her cheek.

She draws in a fast breath, and my hand freezes. Jesus, how can I do this? How can I spend the next month, possibly the next two, with this woman, without giving in to the things I feel?

I’ll be fucked if I know, but somehow I have to find a way.

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