He’d promised not to touch her …

David was rooted to the spot.

Naked and golden in the bath was the most glorious woman he’d ever seen. Candlelight licked lovingly at her wet skin, making him want to follow suit. Her breasts seemed to float, begging him to put his mouth on them.

Their gazes caught and held. Chelsea was so beautiful, her eyes dark and huge. “Sorry,” he said, shielding his eyes from paradise. “I should have knocked.”

He caught her movement as she dragged her knees up and covered her luscious breasts. “I thought you were in a meeting.” Water sloshed and candles flickered.

“I was supposed to be.” He hesitated. “Look, I’ll go get a drink or something. I’ll come back later.”

“No.” He heard an edge of decisiveness in her voice. “It’s okay.” Then she smiled in invitation and his body throbbed. “Care to join me…?”

About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author NANCY WARREN lives in the Pacific Northwest where her hobbies include walking her border collie in the rain and watching romantic comedies. She’s the author of more than thirty novels and novellas and has won numerous awards. Visit her at www.nancywarren.net.

Dear Reader,

The idea for My Fake Fiancée was inspired by an actual company where a friend of mine worked. It was a private business that had a policy of only appointing married executives to certain positions that involved a lot of entertaining. My friend at the time was single, and I thought, wouldn’t it be fun if a guy wanted to get one of these positions so badly that he was willing to have a woman pose as his fiancée?

Forced proximity is one of my favorite romantic comedy situations, and I added some spice by making the woman in question an old family friend who’d had a huge crush on the guy in school. I drew heavily on the themes of one of the all time great old movies, Sabrina, with Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart, only I took Humphrey out of the equation and imagined the William Holden character—the gorgeous bad boy who needs to grow up—as the hero.

Happy reading!

Nancy Warren

MY FAKE FIANCÉE

NANCY WARREN

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my Mom,

the best amateur caterer I know,

who taught me how to cook.

Thanks, Mom!

1

THE ELEVATOR DOORS opened like welcoming arms as David Wolfe crossed the marble floor of the office building in downtown Philadelphia. Not having to wait for an elevator during the Monday morning rush was always a good sign. It was going to be one of those great days when everything went his way.

When the doors opened again to deposit him on the twenty-first floor and the offices of Keppler, Van Horne Insurance Co., he was already moving.

Life had never been better. After six years of hard work in the prestigious family-owned-and-run firm, he’d had a few subtle hints dropped his way about a vice presidency coming vacant when Damien Macabee retired. David was so ready to be the youngest VP in the company’s history.

As he strode to his office, he greeted his assistant, “Morning, Jane.”

“Morning, David.” Jane was a middle-aged career secretary and probably the closest to a stroke of sheer luck he’d ever had in his career. They respected each other’s work ethics, operated as an efficient team and he knew that one day when he was president of Keppler, Van Horne she’d still be his right hand. A partnership like that didn’t come along very often.

“I made a couple of changes to your schedule today. The Belvedere group asked if you can make it at four instead of three, so I shuffled some things around.”

“Great, thanks.”

He scratched his nose. It was itchy with sunburn after a weekend sailing where he’d played doctor with a nurse from Boston who’d kept him too busy to think about sunscreen.

“Oh, and you had three calls from some woman named Gretchen.”

“Gretchen leave a last name?”

She smiled thinly. “I don’t think she’s interested in an insurance policy.”

“Oh, that Gretchen.” She was a flight attendant he’d had some fun with, but who clearly wanted more from the relationship than he was willing to give. “I told her not to call me at the office.” He never gave out his office number to women he hooked up with, but it wasn’t hard to track him down. A simple Google search did the trick. “If she calls again, tell her—”

“If she calls again I’ll put her through. Maybe you should tell her yourself.”

“Right. You’re right.”

“I take it you didn’t get sunburned with Gretchen.”

“No. I sailed with a woman named Claire.” He chuckled in memory. “She’s a lot of fun, in fact—”

Jane was looking over his shoulder, and suddenly interrupted, saying, “No wonder you’re going to marry her. You two are perfect for each other.”

If Jane was talking about his fiancée, it could only mean one thing, which was confirmed when an older man’s voice hailed him. “Ah, David. Do you have a minute?”

He turned to greet the president and CEO of the company, Piers Van Horne. “Sure, Piers. Come on in.”

“You’re sunburned,” the older man remarked. “Where were you and your fiancée off to this weekend?”

David felt Jane’s eyes burning into his back like twin laser beams of disapproval. Sure, it wasn’t a good idea to tell lies—even little white ones—to the boss, but David was confident his reasoning was sound.

“A little sailing off Cape Cod. The weather was gorgeous.”

He led his boss and the CEO of the company into his office, where they settled around the small conference table. David kept his space uncluttered. The only personal touches were his framed MBA degree, his current insurance industry designations and on his desk a photo of him hugging a dark-haired woman. You could only see the back of her head, but David was laughing into the camera and they were clearly having a good time.

Piers gestured to the photograph. “How’s that lovely girl of yours?”

David had been talking about his fiancée for months, ever since he’d heard rumors of Macabee’s imminent retirement. He knew that Keppler, Van Horne had an unwritten rule. No one got promoted to VP who wasn’t married. The VPs were expected to entertain clients both at home and abroad, and for that reason, Piers and his brother who ran the company preferred that the VPs, both male and female, be part of a couple. David figured he’d fudged the lines on a few rule books and he was determined to do the same with this. So, he’d started talking about his fiancée. Casually. He’d come to work on a Monday and talk about the weekend he and his fiancée had spent in New York. Or the quick trip they’d taken to the Caribbean.

“She’s wonderful,” he answered. “Gives my life meaning. And Helen and the kids?”

They chatted about college decisions and braces and then Piers said, “We’d like to celebrate your engagement. We’re a family business and, let’s face it, we’re all involved in each other’s lives, especially at the executive level. We’ve got a board dinner coming up. I want you to come along and bring your fiancée with you.”

For him to be invited to a dinner with the members of the board was a huge honor. It meant he was being looked over by the board members before he was offered the VP spot.

Yes! It was really happening. He was going to be the youngest VP in Keppler, Van Horne’s history.

And that’s when David got it.

It wouldn’t be him under scrutiny. Piers and the board wanted to make sure he was marrying the right kind of woman to be a Keppler, Van Horne VP’s spouse.

David considered himself a glass-half-full kind of guy, but right now he felt like that glass had fallen off the table and smashed to pieces on the floor, spilling all his hard work and dreams of promotion with it.

“An engagement dinner?” His voice sounded a little higher-pitched than usual as he frantically tried to think of a way out. “I’m not sure, she’s got a pretty hectic schedule, I’ll—”

Piers rose and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Since you two are the guests of honor, we’ll work around your schedule. We’ve got plans for you, son. Big plans.”

“Thank you, Piers.”

After his boss left, he should have plunged into the day’s work. Instead, he tried not to panic and started to think.

He was staring out his office window, watching the pedestrians scurrying like so many ants way down on Arch Street. The hub of the city center was as busy as always as workers scuttled along hot sidewalks before diving into air-conditioned high rises.

Jane entered. “Here are the—” She stopped when she noticed he had his forehead pressed against his office window. It was possible he may have groaned. “What’s the matter with you?”

He turned. “Piers and the board want to have an engagement dinner for my fiancée and I. We get to set the date so I can’t pretend she’s not available.”

Jane dropped a stack of papers on his desk with a thump. “If you’re looking for sympathy, you came to the wrong person. Didn’t I warn you?” She shook her head. “What are you going to do? Break up with the love of your life before the dinner?”

He ignored the sarcasm and shook his head.

She crossed her arms and drilled him with her pissed-off gaze. “How long have you got?”

“Couple of weeks, tops.”

“No problem. I’m sure you can find some nice, respectable woman to agree to marry you in a couple of weeks. Should be easy as pie. There’s Gretchen, for instance, or … what was her name? Claire?”

“Look, the women I choose to spend time with are not the kind of women Piers and the board would approve of. We both know that.” He picked the first file off the desk, then put it back down. “I’m not the marrying kind.”

She snorted, but she didn’t know his past and he had no intention of sharing the most humiliating interlude in his life. If she wanted to peg him as a player who was having too much fun to get serious, which was essentially true anyway, then that was fine with him.

He made the decision then and there. “You’re half-right. I’m going to find a woman to pose as my fiancée for a couple of months. All I need is a nice, decent woman. She’ll meet the board and then after I get the promotion, we’ll break up, faster than you can say irreconcilable differences. If I’m up-front about it, nobody will get hurt. How difficult can it be?”

“Let me count the ways. David, this is a terrible idea.”

“It’s only for a couple of months. All I have to do is find a nice woman.”

“Do you know any nice women?”

He scratched his itchy nose again. “Yes. Lots. But none are corporate-spouse material.” He glanced at the woman who had almost as much riding on his promotion as he did. “I don’t suppose you know anyone?”

“All the women I know are too mature for you. And that includes my twenty-year-old nieces.”

He’d been charming women for more years than he could count. He hiked a hip onto his desk, certain he could pull this off. “Care to make a small wager on my chances?”

“What is a guy like you, who loves risk so much, doing working in insurance?”

“Insurance is all about odds, Jane, you know that. The client pays a small premium in case catastrophe hits, the insurance company essentially bets that it won’t and keeps the money. Risk, safety, reward—it’s all tied up. And this risk? I think I can safely take.”

Jane opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “You are so going to hell.”

CHELSEA HAMMOND WAS in the mother of bad moods when she met her friend Sarah Wolfe for a drink after work at a trendy restaurant in Old City. Usually, she loved being here near the river and in the center of the city’s history, but not today. It was all just too cute and seemed full of annoying people. Summertime tourists, mostly, she suspected, here to see the Liberty Bell and eat cheesesteak.

William Penn himself seemed to disapprove of her bringing her bad mood into his space. He hulked over her and his great statued hand seemed to be wagging reprovingly down at her.

She should have canceled her drink with Sarah and gone home to sulk. But Sarah was her oldest friend. They’d grown up in houses that faced each other and were the same age. Amazingly, in spite of the fact that their mothers practically shoved them at each other, they’d ended up friends.

As she approached the restaurant she saw that Sarah was already there. Her old friend was wearing one of her tough female lawyer power suits, holding a briefcase in one hand and yelling at someone on a cell phone she held in her other hand. Chelsea sincerely pitied whoever was on the other end of that call.

Their different personalities were represented by their respective clothing choices. Chelsea was snugged into well-worn jeans she’d bought in Paris and her blue-and- green top was an impulse purchase from a weekend trip to fashion-forward Barcelona, as were the leather boots on her feet. Her silver jewelry was all flea-market finds. If her passion was cooking, fashion was a rival love.

As she approached, Sarah caught sight of her and her stern expression vanished in an impish grin. “Okay, yeah. We don’t want to go back to court, either. Uh-huh. Good. Talk to him and get back to me.” Then she sighed. “Yes, we’re still on for dinner.”

And she flipped her phone shut without so much as a goodbye. “Cretin,” she said, then dropped the phone in her bag and leaned over, opening her arms for a hug. “How you doing?”

“Cretin is the word of the day,” Chelsea affirmed, hugging her old friend.

They walked into the bar section and settled at a table. Sarah ordered a martini and Chelsea asked for a Pernod.

“You are so French now, it’s weird,” Sarah said when the drinks arrived and Chelsea poured a little water into the Pernod, clouding it.

“I guess you’re right. I got used to Pernod when I was living in Paris. Now I’m hooked.”

She pointed at her friend’s glass, olives fat and smug in the bottom. “And I know that your poor date tonight won’t get far.”

“How?”

“You never drink before you have sex with a guy the first time. It was always your rule and I’m betting you haven’t changed.”

Sarah’s teeth flashed in the grin that Chelsea privately thought she should show more often. It revealed her soft, fun-loving side. “We know each other way too well. I missed you. I’m so glad you’re back.” They toasted each other.

“I missed you.”

“So, who’s the cretin in your life?”

“My boss. Fabulous at yelling and insulting staff. Which you might forgive him for if he was a genius restaurateur, but he treats food as badly as he treats his employees.” She wasn’t sure which aspect of her boss’s behavior irked her more. “He acts all Gordon Ramsay but he cooks like a caveman who just discovered fire.”

“Not a cretin. A troglodyte.”

“Exactly. I hate my job. I hate my boss.” She dropped her head in her hand and sighed. “Working as a sous chef in a restaurant was the only job I could find when I came home. It’s been three weeks of hell.”

“Want to sue your boss for harassment?”

She snorted. “No. It’s not only me he harasses, it’s everyone. I don’t even want the job. I want to start my own catering company, but with no capital and no kitchen it’s hopeless.” And with her debts from training in Paris, as well as the lowly sum she was now earning, it was going to be quite some time before she could open her own shop.

“Don’t say that. Of course it’s not hopeless.”

Chelsea was in no mood for a pep talk. “Shut up. I don’t want a rah-rah speech. I want to whine. So, to recap, my job’s crap, my boss is crap and oh, yeah, my sublet is about to expire. I’m twenty-eight and all I have is a talent I can’t afford to use, cooking equipment I have no kitchen for and a Paris wardrobe. I am such a loser.”

“You are not. Look at you. You’re gorgeous. I’d kill for your body, men fall all over themselves for you.” She squinted at Chelsea’s chest. “You were such a late bloomer. It’s like you got to college and suddenly sprouted boobs.”

“And hips.”

“So, work sucks. You’ve only been home a few weeks. Give yourself a break.”

“I guess.” She sipped the licorice-flavored liqueur reflectively. She’d had such great plans to open her own catering firm. She knew she had the drive, the talent and the recipes. What she didn’t have was capital. Damn, reality sucked.

“I don’t even need much money. A decent kitchen would do me to start. I’d complain about the hot plate and bar fridge in my sublet, except that soon I’ll be homeless.”

“But you went to Paris! To Le Cordon Bleu. It’s the dream of a lifetime.”

Her forehead creased. “Do you think I might have watched Sabrina too many times?” She’d introduced Sarah to the classic movie where Audrey Hepburn, the prettiest chauffeur’s daughter ever, fell hopelessly in love with her father’s employer’s handsome son, William Holden, who barely noticed her. Her father shipped her off to cooking school in Paris to get her over her hopeless crush. Naturally, in the movie, Audrey ended up with the smarter, richer, older brother, Humphrey Bogart, and lived happily ever after.

Sarah laughed. “We loved that movie, didn’t we?” She tilted her head and studied Chelsea. “You are a dead ringer for Audrey Hepburn, but you’re no chauffeur’s daughter.”

“I’m the next best thing. I was only living in that neighborhood because my aunt and uncle took Mom and me in after the divorce.” She made a wry face. “And I did have a big crush on a guy named David, your brother, who didn’t know I existed.”

“Hah! You did. You were so shy around him. You’d only ever open your mouth to ask him about homework. He thought you were a total brain. Never knew you had a personality. Or a pretty face under all that long hair you hid behind.”

“Don’t remind me. He always helped me, though.” Her fond memories of the godlike creature darkened suddenly. “Then one of his fluffies would drop by and he’d forget all about me, calculus, everything.”

“He still dates fluffies, if you can believe it. The guy never grew up.”

It had been more than ten years since she’d seen her teen crush. “Please tell me he’s bald now. And a beer belly wouldn’t hurt a bit.”

“I’d love to, believe me. But the guy’s still a major hottie. Of course, inside, he’s the same shallow teenage frat boy. Tragic, really.”

“Mmm. He never married?”

Sarah chewed an olive off her pick before saying, “You have to double-pinky swear not to tell anyone I told you, but he was engaged once.”

“Really? What happened?”

“I’m not completely sure. But she was smart, pretty, athletic, nauseatingly perfect, really, and then suddenly she decided to go back to her old boyfriend. David acted like it was no biggie, but he was devastated.”

Her eyes were round with amazement. Imagine, having a guy like David and letting him go. “He must have been so hurt.”

“Yeah. Now he’s back to his little fluffies. He’s only interested in women who share his comfortable worldview that he’s the center of the universe. Who don’t challenge him. He puts all his real focus into his career. Thinks he’s going to be running his company by the time he’s forty. Cretin.”

“I see you two still have that love/hate thing going for you.”

“I do love him. You know I do. But I’m pissed over the little prank he pulled on me at Christmas.”

“You still play tricks on each other?” It sounded to her like neither of them had grown up yet.

“He started it,” Sarah exclaimed, pretty much confirming her opinion. “He signed me up for one of those online dating sites. With the stupidest profile you could imagine. Made me sound like a fifties virgin looking for Mr. Right. Took me days to figure out why I was getting personal e-mails from all these conservative stiffs.”

She had to force herself not to laugh. Those two had been punking each other for years. “And what did you do to retaliate?”

“I haven’t found anything rotten enough.” She smiled a cunning smile and stabbed the last olive in her glass. “Yet.”

“Who’s your hot date with tonight? Another divorce lawyer?”

“You really do know me too well.” She shrugged. “I can’t help it. A good argument gets me all riled up. Trouble is, usually when we’re not fighting the chemistry fizzles. You know?”

“Oh, I know all about fizzling chemistry. In two languages.”

Sarah chuckled. “Look, why don’t I blow off this guy and we can hang out?”

She shook her head. “Can’t. I have to look for a place. Or a homeless shelter.”

“You’re welcome to stay with me for as long as you like.”

“And I would, if I wasn’t allergic to your cat, but thanks.”

Sometimes she wondered why she’d even come back to Philly. Her mom had remarried and moved to Florida, her aunt and uncle had retired to Palm Springs. Yet, somehow this was home. Her friends and all of her memories were here. As much as she’d loved Paris, she’d always known she’d come back.

Philippe had begged her to stay, convincing her that they could open the best restaurant in Paris together and if the authorities gave her any trouble with visas, then he would marry her.

But home had called to her, and now here she was, back home, ironically, without a home.

2

DAVID WAS PRETTY GOOD about staying cool under pressure. In his experience, things usually worked out fine. Maybe he needed to work a little longer, push a bit harder, find a way around a blocked path. But he worked a problem until he found a solution.

This was different. He’d stretched out the date of the engagement dinner as far as he could, but it was fast approaching. Having to produce a suitable fiancée in a few days? How was he supposed to do that without stumbling across a magic lantern or selling his soul to the devil?

And not just any girl would do. This one would be under scrutiny from the top brass, the board and their spouses. He’d mentally reviewed every woman he could think of, scoured Facebook, his personal contact lists, but none of the women he knew were the kind of women Piers and his brother would consider corporate-wife material.

Mainly because he was attracted to certain assets in a woman that had nothing to do with long-term plans.

He should have been spending this whole weekend tracking down high-end matchmakers who might know a suitable woman who wanted to be his fake fiancée for a few months. Somebody serious, maybe a little dowdy, who could hold her own in a conversation. Also, she’d have to be discreet. Then, once the VP job was in the bag, he and his wife-to-be would discover she didn’t want to marry him after all. He’d get all the sympathy of a jilted man and the job would be his.

However, instead of interviewing suitable candidates, he was heading home for brunch at his parents’ place before they headed off on summer vacation for a few weeks.

He pulled in to the driveway of his parents’ Cape Cod, noting that his sister’s car was already there. Suck-up.

He got out of his vehicle, leaned in for the huge bouquet, part send-off and part guilt gift since he hadn’t seen his folks in weeks.

As he walked by his sister’s car he saw that she was still in it, arguing on her cell phone as usual. He sent her a cheery wave and walked on, only to halt and head back a slow step or two until he was level with the driver’s door. He knew it was desperation driving him now, but Sarah was a lawyer with a ton of women friends, many of whom went to Vassar. One of them might impress Van Horne. Sarah was four years younger than he, so most of her friends were in the right age range. Of course, Sarah’s friends tended to be way too serious and definitely too feminist, considering a man’s balls not as one of his chief erogenous zones, but as the handiest place to kick him. Hard.

However, he was desperate.

She clicked off the phone, then gave a purr of satisfaction. His sister rarely lost an argument. Or backed down. As he knew from painful experience. She was the perfect divorce lawyer. “What poor schmuck are you screwing over this time?”

“You want to talk about screwing over? The guy hid millions of dollars overseas and now he’s suing the wife, a high school teacher, for alimony.” She tapped her phone against her chin, “We’ll get him.”

“Do you ever represent men?”

She gave him a scornful glance. “As if.”

Then her gaze sharpened on him. “Well, aren’t you the dutiful son?” she crooned, getting an eyeful of the blooms. Then she stepped out of the car and gave him a one-armed hug. “How’s my big bro?”

Winning an argument always made her mellow, so he decided to ask for her help, assuming he wouldn’t be any further behind if she laughed in his face, which she’d probably do. But maybe, just maybe, she had the perfect woman for him.

“In a jam, as it happens. I need your help.”

Her glance softened and a look of concern crossed her face. “Oh, honey, what is it? Not trouble with the law?”

“No. Nothing like that. Woman trouble.”

Her crack of laughter nearly wilted the roses in his bouquet. “Here’s your problem, lover boy. Those aren’t women you insist on going out with. They are emotionally stunted fashion dolls.”

“Exactly.” He grinned at her shocked expression. “I need to meet a real woman. Someone like you. Who obviously isn’t a blood relative.” He considered her. “Or a man hater.”

“I don’t hate men.”

“Okay.” He wouldn’t get anywhere by insulting her, he reminded himself. “Honestly, Sar, I really need your help.”

“Tell your counselor everything.”

So he did. And watched her eyes grow rounder as the story progressed.

“You lied about having a fiancée for career advancement?”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

She shook her head at him. “What were you thinking?”

“Obviously, I wasn’t. Wasn’t thinking they’d want to meet this woman, anyway.”

She slammed her car door shut with her hip. “I cannot believe any firm in this millennium thinks it’s okay to withhold promotions based on a person’s marital status.” She shook her head. “It’s antiquated and wrong.”

She was clearly thinking deep legal thoughts. “The whole thing’s all but illegal. Want to sue them?” She looked so hopeful he almost laughed.

“No. I don’t want to sue my employer. I want the VP job.”

“Why did you say you wanted my help?”

“I was hoping you might know a nice, unattached woman, somebody smart and classy who would be good wife-of-the-VP material. Who might enjoy coming out to a few business occasions and posing as my fiancée. Then, after I get the VP job, we’d quietly split.”

Her face creased as though she’d tasted something bad. “If I knew any women like that I’d—”

He put up his free hand to stop her. “Never mind. It was a long shot. I really don’t need a lecture, either. Let’s forget we had this conversation and enjoy a nice family brunch.”

He turned to head inside when her hand shot out and grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

He turned back.

“Believe it or not, I do know someone who might just be desperate enough to do this, if you help her in return.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “You know her, too. Or you used to.”

“Who is she?” If he knew this woman, he’d have thought of her by now since he’d gone through every contact he’d ever made searching for a suitable candidate.

“Chelsea Hammond.”

“Chelsea Hammond?” The name rang a vague bell, but he couldn’t picture her.

She glared at him. “Chelsea? My best friend? Who lived right there in the Dennises’ home while she attended high school?” She pointed to a white two-story that shared a back fence with his folks’ place. “She was always over here. She used to bake the most amazing cookies and cakes and stuff.”

His confusion cleared. “Oh, you mean Hermione?”

“Nobody called her that but you,” Sarah reminded him.

He remembered her well. She was so serious. Always had her nose stuck in a book, often a cookbook, masses of long dark hair and eyes that were too big for her face. The minute he’d read the first Harry Potter book he’d thought of Sarah’s serious friend and from that moment on had called her Hermione, after Harry’s best friend, the superbrainy Hermione Granger.

Before he could ask more, the front door opened. “I thought I heard you two outside,” their dad said, beaming at them. He raised his voice and bellowed, “Meg, the kids are here,” and his mother came out from the kitchen with her arms spread wide.

Meg and Lawrence Wolfe were like the poster couple in the early retirement ads. They were exactly what they looked like. Successful, healthy and still—as far as he could judge—happily married. They traveled, got away in the winter to somewhere warm, golfed, gave dinner parties and attended church regularly. His mom volunteered at a soup kitchen and his dad had recently, to his and Sarah’s eternal embarrassment, involved himself in amateur theater.

Their only disappointment, as far as he could tell, was that neither of their children was married.

The minute they’d said their hellos and got the initial chitchat out of the way, Sarah went to the shelf of photo albums in the walnut bookcase beside the gas fireplace, chose an album and flipped through. She brought the album over to him.

“Here’s a picture of the three of us. Chelsea, you and me.”

He squinted at the album his sister shoved under his nose. The event was Sarah’s birthday and the three teenagers stood together. He had his arm around both girls. The cake read Happy 15th Birthday, Sarah, and they’d posed beside it. He’d have been nineteen, he supposed, and he towered over the two girls. A slight, thin girl, Hermione had shiny dark hair, he remembered, that was like a curtain, hiding her face. She used to blush when he was around, which made him suspect she had a bit of a schoolgirl crush on him. She’d been a nice kid, though. He was pretty sure he’d helped her with her homework a few times.

“What’s she doing now?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“She studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. She only got home a few weeks ago and is looking for a kitchen. She plans to start her own catering company.”

His mother came and looked over his shoulder. “She was such a nice girl. I’m glad she’s back. We’ll have to have her over when we get back from vacation.” Then she asked his next question for him. “Is she still single?”

“Yep.”

Meg sighed. “I don’t know what it is with you young people. Doesn’t anybody get married anymore?”

“Sure we do, Mom. David and I are selective, that’s all.”

David was still staring at the photograph, trying to imagine Hermione all grown up. He studied her at fifteen. Nice hair, big eyes, clear skin. He could imagine her older. He pictured a librarian type with her hair in a bun. Maybe glasses from all that reading. He really liked the image. He had one fear that Sarah’s update had raised. “Catering, huh. Has she gained a lot of weight?”

Both women sent him identical withering looks.

“What? I’m just asking.”

“I had drinks with her on Thursday. She’s not as skinny as she was at fifteen. She’s filled out a little. She looks the same only twelve years older. If anything, she’s prettier than she used to be. Otherwise, she’s exactly the same,” she assured him. “You’d know her anywhere.”

David felt like his world had suddenly transformed from a bleak black-and-white European film into a bright, happy Technicolor blockbuster. Chelsea Hammond was bright, studious, a little shy, which was fine. She’d been to Paris, which suggested a level of sophistication. And if she could cook? The old boys were going to wet themselves.

Chelsea Hammond didn’t know it yet, but she’d just become his perfect fake fiancée.

3

“SO? AM I A GENIUS OR WHAT?” Sarah exclaimed, sounding ridiculously pleased with herself.

Another long second of silence passed. The coffee shop was busy with midmorning traffic, moms with kids in strollers, older folks with crossword puzzles, a large noisy table that seemed to be some kind of walking club. The babble of voices was punctuated by the steaming hiss of the espresso machine.

“Are you kidding me?” Chelsea finally managed to respond.

She’d spent the morning looking at two hopeless places to rent in the South Street area, one where a cat came to greet her at the door and her eyes started watering before she could even cross the threshold, and the other with a supposed nonsmoking roommate who seemed to think marijuana didn’t count. They’d met at a coffee shop in the area, Sarah pleased with her purchase of an old book of art deco photographs from an antiquarian bookseller. She’d bought Chelsea an old Pennsylvania Dutch cookbook, with recipes for things like schnitz pie and young duck with sauerkraut. So she hadn’t fully paid attention when Sarah promised she had the answer to Chelsea’s prayers.

When she glanced up, Sarah’s eyes were alight with mischievous laughter. She shook her head. “On the level. Dead serious. My brother wants you to pretend to be his fiancée.”

“I don’t believe it.” She’d had a hopeless crush on David Wolfe since the first moment she saw him, out in the back of his house shooting baskets. Her attention was caught by his long, athletic teenage build, his fierce focus and that face. She’d never forget that moment as long as she lived. She and her mom had just moved in with her aunt and uncle, since her parents, not content with messing up her young life with their divorce, couldn’t even work out an agreement that let her stay in her home, near her school and friends. She remembered feeling lost and lonely and hopeless. Then she’d looked out her window, seen that boy leap into the air, sun gilding his hair, and fallen hopelessly, madly in love.

She’d been fourteen years old and to this day no man could match the impact on her of first seeing David Wolfe.

Of course, as in all cases of unrequited teenage love, he’d barely noticed her existence. Now the grown-up David wanted her to playact the part of his lover?

“You haven’t heard the best part.”

“There’s a best part?”

“Because I am your lawyer—”

“No, you’re not.”

“I would be if you needed a lawyer. Quit interrupting. I negotiated terms.”

“Terms? I’m about to be homeless, I’m in no mood for your tricks. Play them on your brother.”

Sarah shook her head so violently her hair flew all over the place. “I’m not messing with you. I told him that if you were going to do him a huge favor and save his ass, then he had to do you a favor.”

“Which is?”

Sarah favored her with a huge smile. “You’re not homeless anymore.”

“What?” As the possible implication of what her best friend was saying sank in, her eyes opened wide.

“I told David you had to give up your sublet. I suggested that if you’re going to do him this huge favor, then he has to do you one and let you live in his guest room.”

Shoofly pie and the best way to cook a young pig were both forgotten. “You’re suggesting I move in with your brother?”

“Sure, his place is fantastic and there’s lots of room. The guest room’s professionally decorated, has its own TV, you’ll love it. But wait,” she said, sounding like a late-night TV commercial, “there’s more.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“He’s got this amazing kitchen. Designer everything, top-of-the-line appliances. All he ever uses is the microwave and the ice dispenser. I told him you’ll be running your catering business out of his kitchen until you can afford your own place.”

In spite of every rational brain cell—of which she used to have a lot more—she was starting to get excited. “And he said yes?”

“He said, ‘Thank you, Sarah. You are a goddess among women and I am privileged to be related to you.’”

“In other words, you told him he has to put up with me in his house or the deal’s off.”

“Pretty much.”

She sat back in her chair and sipped her latte as visions of stainless-steel appliances and a bedroom to call her own faded. “I don’t think so.”

“Are you crazy? This is everything you want. On a silver platter. I admit, having to pretend to be in love with David is going to be hard, and if I had to live with him again I’d kill myself, but you’re much nicer than I am.”

“It’s not that. I would be an unwanted guest in his house. It would be weird.”

“Believe me, that man is so desperate I could tell him he has to move out while you live there and he’d start packing.”

She chuckled. “How is it possible that an attractive man in his thirties doesn’t know any nice women?”

“He knows lots of nice women. They’re fluffies. Honestly, I don’t know where he finds these women. It’s like he orders them online. Point is, they aren’t the type of women you parade in front of your boss as corporate-wife material.”

“And you think I am?”

She made a scornful, half-laughing sound. “Hell, yeah. You’re nice to everyone, have good table manners, keep up with current events and you love to cook. Also, you’re hot, which is definitely a plus.” She stole the uneaten croissant off Chelsea’s plate and took a bite. “I’m half in love with you myself.”

“It would be nice to have a real kitchen again,” she said.

“Atta girl.” And before Chelsea could say another word, Sarah had whipped out her cell phone and hit speed dial. “Hey, bro. It’s the world’s greatest sister.”

Chelsea couldn’t believe it. Her friend was confirming the deal and she hadn’t even said yes.

“I talked to Chels and she says she’ll do it. She’ll need a three-month commitment, of course, since she needs that kitchen, so even if you get offered the VP job in a week, she still has a place to stay and a kitchen.”

Chelsea was shaking her head and her hands, she couldn’t believe Sarah was making her sound so self-serving.

Her friend ignored her. She was in total business mode now. “Deal? Excellent.” She laughed again. “Of course there will be a contract. I’ll get it drawn up before the big date on Friday. Where should she meet you?”

Chelsea opened her eyes wide. They were meeting for this date?

He obviously had some objections, too, because she heard Sarah say, “No. You can’t get together with her ahead of time. Because she’s not here.” Her friend winked at her. “She’s on location catering. She’ll be back Friday. Don’t worry. I guarantee she’ll be there. You remember Hermione—she was always completely reliable. Now, tell me where and when.”

Chelsea wondered what on earth she was letting herself in for. And what sort of game was Sarah playing? She’d almost forgotten the Hermione nickname. She’d pretended to hate it, of course, but secretly she’d been thrilled that David had noticed her enough to give her a pet name. Even if it was because she reminded him of a too-smart, socially inept nerd girl.

“No. You can’t call her. Remember, she’s working on location, I told you. Her cell phone is still on some European plan. Way too expensive. No. I’m not giving you the number. You’ll have to trust me.”

Her tone changed. “Hey, I wouldn’t let you down, not about something important.” It seemed like David had a lot more to say, and Sarah did little talking for a minute or two, merely saying things like “yes” and “of course” and finally, “Look, if you want me to tell Chelsea to forget it, I will. We only want to help you out.” Her friend continued, “Okay. She’ll see you Friday at ten minutes before seven.” He said something else and Sarah rolled her eyes. “Don’t you remember her at all? Chelsea is the most punctual person you’ll ever meet.

“Call me Saturday and tell me how it all goes. Good luck, future veep.” And she hung up.

Her brother obviously had some misgivings and Chelsea realized she had a few of her own. Also a heavy dose of suspicion. “Why aren’t you letting him see me or even talk to me before Friday?”

“Little grasshopper, you must learn to be wise. Would you rather this little high school crush you haven’t seen in forever sees you at work up to your armpits in flour and food gunk in your hairnet or wearing one of those gorgeous Parisian dresses you bought home with you, hair all done, makeup perfect?”

She had to admit the woman had a point. If she had to see the teen god of her youth again, she wanted to look her best. “And the reason you won’t even let him talk to me on the phone?”

“'Kay, that was for me. On behalf of all women, he deserves to be a little bit nervous, don’t you think?”

Chelsea took the remaining half of her croissant back again. “Frankly, right now, I don’t know what I think.”

“This is going to be fantastic. Oh, one thing, David asked that you wear something sexy.” She shook her head. “You know what men are, they love to show off a gorgeous woman. Like it gives them extra points in the boy game or something.”

“Sexy, huh?” In a deep part of herself, she had to admit the idea of having David actually look at her as a desirable woman instead of a shy teen was appealing. She reviewed her options. “I’ve got just the thing. It’s red, pretty tight-fitting and kind of low-cut. You don’t think that’s too sexy for a corporate do?”

Sarah looked delighted. “That will be perfect.”

4

HE SHOULD BOOK AN appointment with a psychiatrist right now, David thought as he headed out for possibly the most important evening of his entire life, where his escort was not only a woman masquerading as his fiancée, but to add a little extra spice to the evening, was also essentially a blind date.

As he exited his Rittenhouse Square town house, which he’d had his cleaning service freshly clean today, including making up the guest room for a woman he barely knew, he contemplated just how much could go wrong tonight. He passed a street vendor selling soft pretzels and the scent reminded him that he’d eaten nothing for lunch but Tums. Not for the first time, he wondered what he could have been thinking. How arrogant to suppose he could pull off a scam like this. Why hadn’t he listened to Jane? She was right, she was always right. This deception had been a bad idea from the beginning.

Kids played in the wide green spaces of the park, horsed around the lion and goat statues. He wished he could go join them, anything but show up at this dinner.

If the big brass found out, he probably wouldn’t lose his job, but he would lose all possibility of promotion. Never mind the respect of people who had come to matter to him.

He walked by a few couples, normal-looking twosomes who obviously belonged together, and his collar grew even tighter. Long before he was ready, he found himself in front of a big hotel where he’d arranged to meet Chelsea. He was a couple of minutes early so he prepared to wait for his date.

He sauntered over to stand beside the entrance to the hotel, and as he did so noticed a stunning brunette looking like she was waiting for the World’s Luckiest Man. Every cell in his body zinged to attention. The woman was hot, hot, hot. On a scale of one to ten she was a fifty. Her hair was a sleek bob, dark and shiny, and her huge brown eyes looked out on the world with what he could only think of as a sophisticated innocence. Glorious mouth. Painted in rich, I-could-talk-dirty-all-night red. Red to match the body-hugging dress that outlined her centerfold curves. She took a step toward him on do-me-baby stilettos, and the sway of her hips almost did him in. He took one step forward himself, closing the gap between him and paradise, when he suddenly remembered why he was there.

“Sorry,” he said, with true regret. “I’m meeting someone.”

That killer mouth curved into a smile. “I think you’re meeting me.” Even the sound of her voice was a turn-on. Rich, slightly exotic, somehow.

Ooh, great line. He really wished he’d met her some other time. He laughed. “I wish.” Then took a quick look up and down the street, hoping Hermione would get there soon.

The smile disappeared and a puzzled frown took its place. “David! It’s me. Chelsea.”

“Chelsea?” He gaped at the sexiest woman he’d ever seen. He felt like a man having a sex dream that insanely turns into some horrible nightmare. This amazingly desirable woman? Hottie on heels was supposed to be his fiancée? What happened to drab, shy, smart girl Chelsea? Introducing this woman to the executives and board of directors of his firm would be like introducing nitroglycerin to gas.

Boom.

And he’d be the one exploding up in the air.

He could hear the echo of his sister’s words now. “She’s the same, David. She’s gained enough weight to fill out a little, but she’s exactly the same.”

And that’s the moment that he realized he’d been conned. He never should have signed Sarah up for that online dating site. In retaliation, she’d ruined his career.

“You’re Chelsea?” He looked her up and down, unable to believe the gawky teenager was now a goddess.

A delighted smile lit her eyes. “You didn’t recognize me.”

“I, uh, no. Honestly, I didn’t.” He felt aggrieved. “What happened to Hermione?”

“She grew up,” the woman said softly.

And wasn’t that the understatement of the year. If only it was winter, he could huddle her in her coat—hell, he’d buy her one. A nice wool trench coat that would cover her from neck to ankles. But it was July, hot, sultry July, and there was no way to cover her up.

She picked up on his doubt. “Am I dressed okay? Sarah said to put on the sexiest outfit I own.”

“Of course she did.”

Rapidly, he reviewed his options. Five minutes until they were supposed to meet for dinner.

He could either tell her to go home and make up some tale about his fiancée being sick, or he could go through with this charade. Maybe he could break up with her much sooner than planned, since the fiancée he’d imagined would help forward his career seemed in imminent danger of destroying it.

He forced a smile. He didn’t have any options. “You look fine.” He stepped forward, leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for helping me out.”

“I could say the same. I guess we’re helping each other out.”

He almost groaned. He’d forgotten his sister’s conditions. Not only was she single-handedly destroying his career, but she’d also finagled him into allowing this woman to stay in his house for three months.

No doubt there were morality tales about the consequences of telling lies, tales that would terrify children into behaving perfectly. He felt like he was living a morality tale right now. The Liar is Punished.

“Can you walk in those heels? The restaurant is a couple of blocks that way.”

“I think I can manage.”

They headed off to the restaurant. He had five minutes to prime her, when he’d planned to spend hours telling her everything he figured a fiancée would need to know. But she’d so addled his brain he couldn’t think of any of the things he’d imagined would be so important.

What did it matter, anyway?

He was doomed.

Chelsea didn’t seem to appreciate she was his doom. As she walked beside him, her body seemed to dance to the tap of her shoes on the pavement. “Who are these people I’ll be meeting tonight?”

“Right.” Luckily she was smart, and obviously not as thrown off stride by seeing him again as he was by seeing her. He gave her a quick rundown of all the players and she listened intently, with a tiny line between her eyes, reminding him for the first time of the girl he’d known.

“Is there anything in particular I should say or not say?” she asked, as though she were cramming for an exam. But he’d pretty much already accepted the failing grade.

“Just be yourself,” he said, “and if you’re unsure of anything, defer to me.”

“What have you told them about me?” Her hair swung against her jaw, sleek and sophisticated, and he noticed how long and elegant her neck was.

“Nothing. They didn’t even know your name until a couple of days ago. Oh, we went to the Caribbean in March. You got sunburned.”

“Foolish of me.”

“I might have told them you love skiing.”

“Foolish of you.”

“Yeah. I think we went to Vail in February.”

She turned to stare at him. “From Paris?”

“I didn’t know you were in Paris when we got engaged.” He threw his hands up in the air. “You know what I mean. We’ll wing it.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said.

Even with her in those ridiculous heels they made good time and before he was remotely prepared, they were standing outside the restaurant. He drew in a quick breath. “Ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Okay.” He reached for her hand. “Hope you don’t mind. We should act like, you know …”

“Lovers,” she replied, wrapping her fingers around his. The clasp was perfect. Her hand felt surprisingly reassuring in his. Even if the word lovers, and the way she’d said it, had him conjuring up a vision of the two of them in bed, hot and sweaty and orgasmic. Which was not what he wanted to be thinking about when he saw his bosses.

They walked into the restaurant, an upscale French place, and were directed to the upper floor, where a private space had been reserved.

There weren’t many people there yet. Only the key ones. Piers and his wife, Helen. Piers’s brother, Lars, and his wife, Amelia, and several board members and their wives. Damien Macabee nodded to him affably, and David was already so rattled he barely thought about any awkwardness that might be attached to him coming to dinner with the man he planned to replace. Macabee’s wife also nodded and under her scrutiny he felt even more uncomfortable. But then, the woman was a judge, and he was always convinced she could see right through him.

Not only were he and Chelsea the youngest by a few decades, but bringing Chelsea into this room was like bringing a gorgeous parrot into a flock of drab pigeons.

For a second total silence fell over the assembled company. Piers recovered first. He walked forward with a welcoming smile on his face. “Well, David, good to see you. And please introduce me to your lovely lady.”

“Glad to, Piers. Piers Van Horne, this is my fiancée, Chelsea Hammond.” His tie was choking him again. He’d been engaged once and never, ever planned to put himself in the same position again, where a woman had the power to gut him. Not that this one did—obviously, he didn’t love her. Barely knew her, but still, introducing her as his fiancée left him feeling like he needed to down a bottle of Maalox.

She held out her hand and shook her host’s. “Thank you for inviting me,” she said.

“We’re so glad to finally meet you. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“David’s told me a little about you, too.” But not nearly damned enough to prevent disaster, he was certain.

“Come and meet some of the other people we work with.”

He ushered her forward. “My wife, Helen. Helen, this is Chelsea.”

Helen was not what you’d call well-preserved. She’d let her hair go gray long before it was fashionable to do so, and always wore the same hairstyle, a simple bun at the back of her head. She was on the heavy side and wore clothes and shoes that were comfortable rather than stylish.

Helen and Chelsea shook hands and he couldn’t imagine two women in the world who could have less in common.

“Let’s get the women drinks, shall we?” Piers said. He hated to leave them, but what choice did he have. “Sure. Honey? What do you want to drink?”

“I’ll have my usual Pernod, if they have it,” she said. “White wine, if they don’t.”

Pernod. Why the hell couldn’t she drink something normal. Scotch or a martini or something.

“Pernod,” he heard Helen say and inwardly cringed. “I remember my brother used to drink that. He picked up the habit when he was living in France.”

“That’s how I started, too. I was living in Paris until recently.”

“Really? We took the children to visit Bob one Christmas. He was with IBM and it was a great treat for us all to go over there. Were you on holiday?”

“No. I studied at Le Cordon Bleu. I’m a chef.”

“Really? How interesting. Oh, how I envy you. I married so young I never …” And then they were out of earshot and he didn’t know what Helen had never done. At least the first five minutes of his ordeal were going better than he’d hoped.

He and Piers picked up the drinks and returned to the ladies, by which time the women were talking about pastry. Pastry!

David downed his scotch-and-soda. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he definitely felt the need for some false courage if he was going to get through this night.

More board members began to arrive and if Chelsea still stuck out as the most glamorous and sexy woman at the party, he began to realize that she wasn’t the embarrassment he’d feared. She was still the same intelligent, well-read, curious person she’d always been. She also seemed to have grown out of her shyness.

By the time dinner was served, she’d charmed most of the board members and their spouses. She had the rare ability to converse on a wide range of subjects and seem as interested in talking about cooking and fashion as about politics and current events. The only time she seemed lost was when talk turned to sports.

He was beginning to think that maybe this night wasn’t going to be the disaster he’d imagined when they sat down to dinner. Given the number of people, they were arranged at a long table. He and Chelsea were seated side by side, and Piers and a couple of the senior board members were closest to them.

She ordered the day’s fresh fish and he ordered the same. It wasn’t planned, but it definitely made them look more of a couple, he decided.

When the first courses arrived, Amelia leaned forward and said, “I asked Lars where you and David met.” She shook her head. “Men are so hopeless. They work together every day, and do you know, he couldn’t tell me?”

David swallowed. He and Chelsea exchanged a glance. “You didn’t tell him anything?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’s a guy thing. You tell them, honey.”

She really had the most amazing eyes. Sparkly, brown like rich chocolate cake, and the most incredible combination of innocence and mischief. “Well, the truth is, David and I have known each other since I was fourteen.”

“Really, were you high school sweethearts?”

She laughed, easily. “No. He was several years older than I was. The brother of my best friend. He didn’t even know I existed.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “And I had a hopeless crush on him.”

Everyone laughed. She continued. “We moved away after I finished high school and I didn’t see David again for many years.”

He picked up the story. “Then we bumped into each other one day on the street, and I couldn’t believe how beautiful she was.”

Even though they were only acting a part, they’d both managed to tell the truth. He caught her quick glance and saw that she was flattered by his words.

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” Helen said. “When is the wedding?”

He and Chelsea exchanged a glance, but she didn’t speak, letting him field this one.

“We haven’t set a date,” David said quickly. Then, realizing how that sounded, he said, “Probably next spring.”

“You should get on it ASAP if you are planning a spring wedding,” Amelia warned him. “The good places all get booked. When my daughter got married, we had a full year to plan, and still, she only got her second choice of venue.”

“That’s something to think about, honey,” he said. Then he dug around desperately for a topic that would move the conversation into a new direction. But before he’d been able to think of anything, Amelia was at it again.

“I see you don’t wear a ring, dear.”

He stared at Chelsea’s left hand, with its short, buffed nails and no jewelry whatsoever. Damn it, he’d totally forgotten. Of course he should have given her a ring. A fake diamond for his fake fiancée.

He opened his mouth with no idea what he was going to say, when Chelsea put her hand over his. “He wanted to, but I work with food all day. Honestly, a ring would only get in the way. I’d be terrified I’d take it off to wash my hands and wash the ring down the drain or something. Once we’re married, I’ll wear a wedding band, though, of course.”

A few of the board members at the other end of the table got a little rowdy as the night went on. And suddenly, to his horror, he heard a spoon begin to bang against a glass.

“We want the engaged couple to kiss,” somebody shouted.

Piers started to protest, but his wife said, “Oh, don’t spoil the fun. It’s nice to see young people in love.”

By now, other spoons had joined in the din. What could he do?

He leaned forward and caught the laughter in Chelsea’s eyes as he closed his lips on hers.

For a second he forgot that he was in a corporate setting with a group of people who held his future in their hands. All he knew was that she tasted like chocolate and sex and a hint of licorice from her earlier Pernod.

He pulled away slowly, seeing the shock in her eyes. He imagined her look must have mirrored his own. Slowly, her tongue slipped out and she licked her lips as though trying to catch the elusive flavor of that kiss.

He wanted to say something that would lighten the sudden tension, but he couldn’t think. Rockets were exploding in his brain. Or maybe they were Mayday flares warning him that he was in deep, deep trouble.

5

OH, NO. THE WORDS bounced around Chelsea’s brain like a pinging dot in one of those annoying computer games. Oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!

If she’d had one rule for herself—if she’d thought any of this through enough to have created some rules for herself, which would have been a pretty damn good idea—rule number one would have been no kissing. Well, no physical contact of any kind, obviously. But it was too late for that, so maybe if she pulled herself together long enough to list a few rules for personal conduct, she had a tiny possibility of getting through this charade without making a fool of herself.

Maybe.

She got through the rest of the night somehow, but she was always conscious of David’s presence beside her, of the feel of his arm when it brushed hers. Even through the summer-weight jacket he wore she felt his body heat the same way she felt the insistent attraction that thrummed between them.

She wasn’t sure whether she was glad or sorry when they finally left. Sure, it had been stressful to play a part, but at least the mental effort had kept her from thinking about the fact that soon she’d be going to David’s home.

With David.

Alone.

“What are you thinking about?” David asked her. They were seated in a cab speeding to his place. She was sure he lived close enough to walk, but in deference to her heels, he’d insisted on a cab. And the two of them were headed for his place for all the wrong reasons.

No! She corrected herself hurriedly. For all the right reasons. Sex was a bad reason and they weren’t going to do that. Clearly no sex was the new rule number one.

Good reasons for heading to David’s place included a nice place to stay rent-free for a few months and use of a kitchen that Sarah insisted was top-of-the-line.

She had to keep reminding herself of that, especially since breaking rule number one of the former rules list, the one where no kissing held top spot. Because any fool could see that once a woman started kissing a man like David, she was never going to stop.

How many times had she dreamed about that first kiss? A thousand? A million? Ten billion? She’d been a quintessential shy-girl nerd. Not even a geek, which was starting to be cool when she hit high school. No. She didn’t mess with computers, she read classics and she cooked. She supposed, looking back, that she was trying to recreate the home she’d lost by becoming a great cook. With the three adults all working, she was usually the one to cook dinner, and she found that she loved to experiment with new recipes, to refine old family favorites.

Other kids played video games and watched Friends when they got home from school. She watched Jacques Pepin and Martha Stewart. She wore the wrong clothes. She was plain and shy and studious. And the perfect fodder for a hopeless crush on the guy most likely to do whatever the hell he pleased.

But even in the fantasy realm where David suddenly noticed her and drew her slowly to him and kissed her, she’d never imagined that it would be quite so earth-shattering—and like most shy, bookish girls, she had quite an imagination.

Who’d have believed that now, now that she was no longer that shy young closet romantic, when she had plenty of experience of life and love, a simple kiss could rock her world.

But it had.

And so she was obsessively thinking about not thinking about that kiss—and about rules.

“I’m thinking about rules,” she said at last in answer to his question.

“Rules?” In the dim light of the cab, she thought she caught the interest on his handsome face. “What kind of rules?”

He said the words in the low, sexy tone of a man who brought women home to his place more often than she cared to think about, and not so they could sleep in the guest room and cook in his kitchen. Oh, no. He thought she was about to invent some sex game with rules. Even as the thought hit her, heat flooded her body.

No. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!

“Rules of conduct,” she snapped, knowing she must sound like a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school.

“Maybe you’d better explain exactly what you mean.”

“If we’re going to be, um, sharing the same apartment, I think we need some guidelines.”

“If this is a toilet-seat-up-versus-down conversation, you can relax. There are two bathrooms. You’ll have your own.”

“I wasn’t thinking of those kinds of rules, though I suppose we’ll have to work around each other’s preferences. I was thinking more of …” She had no idea how to phrase this, and suddenly felt incredibly foolish. “Rules between you and me.”

Did he have to sit so close? There was plenty of room, but David had positioned himself so his leg was touching hers, thigh-to-thigh, and she felt the heat pulsing between them in a way that did not bode well for her peace of mind.

David, as she knew well, was a player, and she had no interest in being one of his playthings. At least, not in the sensible, self-protective part of her.

“Rules between you and me,” he echoed, sounding a little confused but also hopeful.

“Like no kissing,” she blurted.

He chuckled softly. And it was such a sexy sound she wanted to throw herself at him and break all the rules she’d thought of and a bunch she hadn’t. “Looks like we already broke the first rule.”

“I know. That’s what started me thinking. I can’t live in your house if we’re going to be, you know …”

“Kissing.”

“And so on.”

“I’m willing to negotiate here. What if we skip the kissing and stick to ‘and so on?’”

“This isn’t a joke. I barely know you.”

“What are you talking about? We’ve known each other for years.”

She could feel her red dress riding up her thighs and she tugged it down. “You didn’t even recognize me.”

“You grew up and got all sexy on me, that’s why.” His hand came down to rest on her knee, warm and confident. “We’re going to be spending a couple of months living together. Under the same roof. Based on that kiss, I’m guessing we’ve got pretty amazing chemistry. Are you seriously going to ignore it?”

The question hung in the air far too long before she found the strength to say “Yes.”

His hand moved up and down, not exactly a caress, but the next closest thing. “I think you’re getting pretty serious about something that doesn’t have to be.”

And that, right there, was the very reason that she had to have rules, and force both of them to stick to them.

Turning her body so she was facing him, and that thigh-to-thigh contact was broken, she said, “Sex is serious to me,” knowing he had to understand her position or they’d never make this thing work.

“Why?” He seemed genuinely curious.

“Because it matters.”

“Of course it matters. Sex feels good, is fun, doesn’t hurt anybody and could definitely help reduce some of the tension you’re carrying.”

“Is that really what you think? That sex is only a recreational sport, like a game of tennis?”

“Maybe not exactly like tennis, but a game that feels good, gets your heart rate up and relieves tension. What’s wrong with that?”

“Not for me. For me sex goes together with love. I can’t give myself to someone I don’t have deep feelings for.”

There was silence for a few beats. Then he removed his hand and said, “Okay.”

That was it? Okay? She had no idea why, but she felt let down. He hadn’t tried very hard to argue her out of her position. And not that she’d have caved, but it would have felt good to know she was so desirable he’d make an issue out of wanting to sleep with her.

She supposed he’d find another willing partner to play his games easily enough that not getting into her bed wasn’t going to bother him very much.

How depressing.

She hadn’t even been entirely honest. She’d slept with men she knew she didn’t love, but she’d always felt more than mere friendship, she supposed. And more than simply lust. And she hadn’t been sharing living quarters with them at the time.

Fortunately, since she couldn’t think of anything to talk about and her companion didn’t seem interested in starting a new subject of conversation, the cab pulled up in front of a brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street. The area was one of the nicest in the city, and full of up-and-coming hotshots like David. She could walk everywhere from here, which was great, she reminded herself.

He paid off the cab and climbed out, then held out his hand to help her navigate high heels and a short skirt.

“Thanks,” she said, when she reached the pavement.

He let go of her hand and dug out his keys.

They walked up a few steps to a glossy black door with a leaded window embedded in the upper half, and when he opened the door and flipped on the lights, she followed him in and instantly fell in love.

His town house combined the best of the nineteenth century, when it had been built, with its original wainscoting and gleaming hardwood floors, fireplace and high ceilings, with completely modern furnishings, including the art and lighting.

The designer had stayed with a masculine palette, painting the rooms in burgundies, grays and some greens, but she liked it.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Thanks. The kitchen’s through here,” he said as though he’d known she’d want to see that room before anything else. He led her through the living room, pointing out a powder room on that level, and then he opened double doors and she found herself falling in love all over again.

“It’s huge,” she said, not able to come up with anything more original.

“I had the dining room taken out and one big kitchen put in. I’m not the dining-room type. I figured this was more practical. Not that I cook much.”

She walked forward and ran her fingers over dark gray granite counters the way she’d touch a lover’s face. A breakfast bar had four high-tech stools pulled up to it, but an old farmhouse table that just begged for a jug of fresh flowers to sit on it provided sit-down dining. Most of one wall was windows.

She glanced back at David. “Are you kidding me? Look at these appliances,” she crooned, running her fingers over sleek industrial stainless steel. “Gas oven, perfect. And a six-burner stove.” The fridge was double-sided and if the pull-out freezer wasn’t large, she didn’t think that would matter. She intended to buy fresh and cook fresh. David could fill his entire freezer with ice cubes for all she cared.

Clearly, Sarah hadn’t lied about David never using his own fancy kitchen. There was a sterility to the space that suggested not much cooking went on here.

She opened the oven door, picturing her trays inside. Peeking into the fridge, she found it a bachelor cliché. “There’s nothing in here but booze and a few take-out containers.”

He shrugged. “I’m not home much.” He seemed to enjoy her excitement as she dragged open every cupboard and drawer, gauging how much she’d have to buy and where she’d put her supplies. She was delighted at how relatively empty his storage spaces were and knew that wouldn’t last for long.

“This is so perfect,” she said, looking up to find him regarding her with amusement.

“You haven’t even looked at your bedroom.”

“Who needs to sleep when you have a kitchen like this? Oh, the things I’ll be able to create in this space.”

But she followed him down a short corridor and up a flight of stairs.

“My bedroom,” he said, opening the first door. Ah, she thought, here’s where he spends most of his time when he’s at home. The bed was huge, and the room, although neat, sported stuff. Including a TV he could watch from his bed.

He crossed the hall and opened the last door. “And your room.”

Like everything else in this town house but his bedroom, her room had obviously been staged by a decorator and never touched since. It was done in neutral shades, contained a queen-size bed, a dresser, mirror, some not very interesting art on the walls and its own en suite. A neat stack of moving boxes on the floor told her her stuff had arrived okay.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Remember, we’re helping each other out.”

She looked up and saw him regarding her with a mixture of longing and frustration. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “There’s one more floor where I keep a home office.”

“Okay.”

A beat of silence ticked by.

“You did good tonight. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I enjoyed myself. They seem like nice people.”

“They are.” He stood there, leaning against the doorjamb. “I wasn’t sure where you’d want your stuff, so I put the boxes in your room, but unpack however you like. My house is your house. I put the box labeled ‘bathroom’ right in your bathroom, but everything else is here.”

“Oh, right. Good.” She was so busy thinking about how good he tasted that she’d forgotten she didn’t have so much as a toothbrush with her. Sarah, who thought of everything, had told her to pack all her stuff up and have it sent over to David’s.

His gaze dipped to her mouth and she knew he was reliving their kiss just as she was. “You really serious about those rules of yours?”

Oh, it would be so easy to shake her head, let herself go. So easy.

And such a truly, monumentally terrible idea. Maybe, if she didn’t have to live here for the next couple of months, maybe she’d throw her own sense of what was right for her out the window. She’d take one step and be in his arms, then his bed.

And tomorrow? He’d have a new partner. For all she knew, he played doubles. She really didn’t think she could stay in his guest room while he carried on his carefree bachelor existence. Not once she’d been intimate with him. She wasn’t built that way.

So, with some regret, she nodded. “I’m serious.”

He shook his head. “Okay, then. Good night.”

She heaved a sigh of combined relief and frustration when he exited, leaving her alone in a tasteful, neutral guest room.

She used up some of her restless energy in unpacking her suitcases, putting her clothes away in the closet and dresser. Then she organized the bathroom and unpacked her toiletries and prepared herself for bed.

It was late, and she was tired but she wasn’t sleepy. She dug out one of her favorite cookbooks and crawled into bed with Chef Patricia Yeo. She read cookbooks the way some people read Dickens or Shakespeare. She could dip into the same books over and over again and always find something new.

At last, she flipped out the light and settled herself in the big, empty bed. It had been a lot of years since Chelsea fell asleep thinking about kissing David.

In truth, she wasn’t thinking about kissing. Her imagination had moved on. And she wasn’t anywhere near sleep.

She sighed and punched the pillow.

It was going to be a long couple of months.

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