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My brain short-circuits as the insult clashes with my common sense. In reality, no, I wouldn’t make a good wife to Graeme Bellamy—very few women would. Without winding up in prison by the second day, at least. Though, at the moment, that fact seems to be beside the point. “And why is that?” My voice sounds too soft—my equivalent of his growl.
He raises a dark eyebrow. The expression, paired with a dazzling grin, makes my heart flutter. At least until he murmurs, “You can’t handle me without the excuse of a paycheck. You can barely stand to be seen in public with me, and you know that I need you more than you need me.”
Wait… What? My brain short-circuits, and the bastard takes advantage of my bafflement to step in. Warm, his breath hits me full in the face as he adds, “Just admit that you don’t have what it takes to be the wife of a man like me, even for a month.”
Technically the bastard is right—though, if we substituted “what it takes” for “the lack of brains.” Apart from the convoluted logistics of his proposal, the man is flat-out selfish, egotistical, rude, and arrogant. Not to mention irrational. And… Thoughtful enough to notice my favorite color without me consciously ever saying so. Selfless enough to take a bullet for me. So damn infuriating that he makes me want to strangle him one minute and kiss him the next…
My head is swimming with all those conflicting sentiments, and in the end, I just blurt out, “You’re too arrogant to ever share the spotlight with anyone, let alone a wife.”
“Well, you’re a woman who can’t even admit to herself that she more than willinglyfuckedthis arrogant—”
“The answer is no. We barely know each other, and we hardly get along.” I should mark this moment by turning on my heel and marching dramatically for the door. Slapping him.Anything.
I just stand there. He just stares, and neither of us can seem to walk away—which sums up the cause of our recent… problems.
“Just… listen to me… please,” he grits out, and my heart damn near stops. I can’t tell if it’s a dangerous please or a genuine one—which seems even more alarming than the former. His gaze is intense, boring into my own. I can’t even begin to describe the hue of blue his eyes touch on—something light and dark at the same time that makes me cross my arms over my chest and back away until the edge of what seems to be a framed photo bites into my shoulder.
“Ok,” I croak. “I am.”
He inhales sharply and exhales the breath all at once. “This arrangement will keep you… safe.”
We both frown at that notion.
“Me safe or just your business?” I can’t help how defensive I sound. Just a week ago, this man seemed unable to tell me apart from the background scenery in his office, and now…
He’s demanding I marry him on a whim.
As if sensing my train of thought, he frowns. “Does that matter?”
I choose to avoid the question. “And what would I have to do?” I counter instead. “Just… marry you in name only? Flash a ring for Adrian Riley’s benefit?”
He rubs his chin, his gaze thoughtful. “Not nearly quite that simple,” he says. “Riley may toe his own boundaries, but it would require some effort on your part to make it believable. You would be expected to play the role.”
“Of your wife?” That word sounds so very dangerous, coming out of my mouth. It contains too many variables to consider all at once—the public persona alone of being Graeme Bellamy’s wife.
It’s unnerving how easily he can write off what, for most people, is a life-altering experience. Something they dream about their entire lives. I had never been that girl to make-believe a grand wedding with her Barbie dolls, but whenever Ididpicture the prospect of settling down, it definitely wasn’t with a man like him.
“Is this just your way of trying to score more sex out of me?” I do my best to seem indifferent, but my throat is dry, my heart racing. I can’t quite get my tone just right. I sound more breathless than anything. “I mean, it was good, Mr. Bellamy, but notthatgood—”
“And you are a damn liar,” he interjects with a harsh laugh. “Seriously—” his voice dips an octave, his eyes abnormally stern. “What do you require to make you say yes?”
I run my tongue over my lips, overwhelmed by the ask. He’s serious—I can tell. Does he want me merely to orchestrate a checkmate against Adrian Riley or…
For himself.
“Make it real,” I blurt out, leveling the challenge, though even I’m not exactly sure what it entails. “You want the world to believe it? So makemebelieve it. I could certainly use the entertainment. You can start by proposing to me properly. No games. No lies. No bribery. I want an honest explanation as to why you think this would even work between us.”
He blinks, taking on the cool, calculating persona of a businessman. “I would rather get your agreement in writing before I do a damn thing—”
“Then my answer is no,” I declare, conveniently holding back the part where my answer would be no anyway. “You want my signature? Then propose to me. For real. Make me believe it, Mr. Bellamy. Or…”
“Or what?” The growl reverberates across the space between us, but to my credit, I don’t flinch.
“Or are you simply not man enough?”
That resonates with him. He draws his shoulders up, rising to his full height, and meets my gaze directly. In two steps, he’s standing before me, merely a toe outside of entering my personal space. I brace one hand against the wall as I crane my neck back to look at him.
“Ms. King…” He trails his thumb along my cheek, and it takes everything I have in me not to bite the offending finger.
