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"Try me." He reaches over, picks up the pencil I was using earlier, then twirls it between his fingers.
I try to focus on the action, but the scene in front of my eyes blurs. I blink away the hot tears that have accumulated in my eyes, and set my jaw. "You’re blackmailing me."
He raises his gaze skyward. "Finally, she gets it."
"So, if I don’t marry you, you’ll destroy my career and my reputation."
He lowers the pencil to the table. "You’ll pose as my wife. Put up a united front with me to my family. Convince them and my friends how much you love me. Also, you need to produce an heir—"
What the—?I shake my head. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on. Back up. What do you mean, 'an heir’?" I make air quotes with my fingers.
"I need to be married and have a child before I can get ownership of my business."
"You talk like this is a stipulation of some kind..."
He shuffles his feet. For the first time since he prowled into my room, he seems less than confident. In fact, he looks downright pissed. "My father’s will says, unless I marry and produce an heir by the time I’m forty, I won't inherit my company or get access to my trust-fund."
"I see." I lean back in my seat. "So, this is why you proposed to Priya and hustled her into marrying you."
"If by that you mean I courted her—"
"You used your charisma to unduly influence her."
"—I wooed her, took her on dates, to dinners, even the blasted opera, then bought her the biggest engagement ring I could lay my hands on."
"You mean that tasteless hunk of stone on her finger?" I cover my mouth and cough. "No wonder it was so easy to convince her to walk away from you."
His jaw tics. A nerve pops at his temple. He looks about ready to burst out of his uber-fitted suit. Oh, goodie. At least I got a rise out of him. That has to count for something, eh?
"That tasteless hunk of stone cost close to a million dollars," he says through gritted teeth.
"Money isn’t everything," I announce in a prim voice.
"You certainly weren’t complaining when you chose the most expensive venue possible for the wedding."
I straighten my spine. "If you mean the All Villa in Bali, that was Priya’s choice. She wanted to get married in Bali, you know."
"And, no doubt, you jumped at the idea, considering you get a fifteen percent commission on the entire cost of the wedding."
"Hey, you get what you pay for. I’ve been busting my ass for the past few months to get this event organized. Do you even know what an impossible task I’ve pulled off? I’ve managed to get all of the preparations completed in eight weeks. Eight bloody weeks. That’s just forty-two days. It normally takes close to a year to organize a ceremony of this scale. And I pulled it off in less than one-fourth that time."
"Good, so it won’t be a problem to flip things around to accommodate yourself as the bride, too."
"I never said I was going to marry you."
"Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?" His features grow even harder. Grays and greens shoot through the blue of his eyes, until the color resembles that of a gathering storm. "If it’s custody of the child you’re worried about, once you deliver the child, we will separate. There’ll be a prenup, of course, but I’ll make sure you’re reimbursed for your time." He says all of this in a voice so casual, he might as well be asking about the weather. No, strike that. I’ve heard people speak with more emotion about the weather changes in London than he has about his entire crazy-ass idea.
I curl my fingers into fists and resist the urge to leap up screaming.Won’t do to lose it. Need to keep my cool. Need to make him see just how crazy this entire conversation is."Have you even heard yourself? We barely know each other, and now you’re saying you want me to marry you—instead of the woman the world thinks you’re going to marrying. Not only that, you want me to produce a child, and then you’ll divorce me?"
"We’ll co-parent and have equal rights to the child." He raises his arms in a conciliatory gesture. "I’m not the kind who’ll keep a mother away from her child."
"Of course not," I scoff. "But you’re the kind who’d force a woman to marry him."
"Fake marry."
"Doesn’t seem fake when we’re supposed to produce an heir," I protest.
"There are ways of doing it without my having to touch you. Unless" —he looks me up and down and a calculating look comes into his eyes— "unless you prefer it to be done the old-fashioned way. In which case, I might oblige you. If you ask me nicely, that is."
