His Thirty-Day Fiancée
Catherine Mann
He'd caught her red-handedand Duarte Medina would use this to his advantage. No reporter infiltrated the royal family, especially not by entering his bedroom window. If Kate Harper wanted her story, she'd have to agree to his terms - to become his fiancee.It would be a temporary arrangement to appease his father. There was no way this royal Medina bachelor would surrender his single status. Kate would be his for the next thirty days. And if Duarte had his waythirty nights, as well.
“I Want You To Wear My Engagement Ring.”
Shock unfurled in Kate’s toes. She didn’t know what Duarte was up to. Right now he held all the cards.
“Seems to me like you have a fine sense of humor to suggest something as ridiculous as this. What do you really hope to accomplish?”
“If my father thinks I’m already locked into a relationship—” he skimmed his knuckles up her arm “—he will quit pressing me to marry one of his friends’ daughters.”
“Why choose me? Surely there must be plenty of women who would be quite happy to pretend to be your fiancée?”
“There are women who want to be my fiancée, but not pretend.”
“What a shame you’re suffering from such ego problems.”
“I fully realize my bank balance offers a hefty enticer. With you, however, we both know where we stand.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to book 2 in my Rich, Rugged & Royal series about the mysterious Medina family!
What would you do if you crossed paths with a man who just happened to be a prince from a deposed royal family? And what if a photograph of that immensely hunky guy could be worth millions? How far would you go to snag that picture?
Photojournalist Kate Harper faces just that dilemma when she discovers the true identity of resort mogul Duarte Medina.
Duarte Medina is a man who will do anything to protect his family’s privacy, and Kate Harper will stop at nothing to find out everything she can about the elusive Medina heir. In fact, the life of someone very dear to her depends on Kate’s success in exposing the Medina secrets. All too soon, she finds herself unable to stop exposing her own heart to the dark and brooding royal!
Thank you for picking up Duarte and Kate’s story. And don’t miss the final installment of Rich, Rugged & Royal, His Heir, Her Honor, with Dr. Carlos Medina, in March.
Cheers!
Catherine Mann
www.catherinemann.com
His Thirty-Day Fiancé
Catherine Mann
CATHERINE MANN
USA TODAY bestselling author Catherine Mann is living out her own fairy-tale ending on a sunny Florida beach with her Prince Charming husband and their four children. With more than thirty-five books in print in more than twenty countries, she has also celebrated wins for both a RITA
Award and a Booksellers’ Best Award. Catherine enjoys chatting with readers online—thanks to the wonders of the wireless internet that allows her to network with her laptop by the water! To learn more about her work, visit her website, www.catherinemann.com, or reach her by snail mail at P.O. Box 6065, Navarre, FL 32566.
To Mollie Saunders,
a real-life princess and a magical storyteller!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
One
Catching a royal was tough. But catching an elusive Medina was damn near impossible.
Teeth chattering, photojournalist Kate Harper inched along the third-story ledge leading to Prince Duarte Medina’s living quarters. The planked exterior of his Martha’s Vineyard resort offered precious little to grab hold of as she felt her way across in the dark, but she’d never been one to admit defeat.
Come hell or high water, she would snag her top-dollar picture. Her sister’s future teetered even more precariously than Kate’s balance on the twelve-inch beam.
Wind whipped in off the harbor, slapping her mossy green Dolce & Gabbana knockoff around her legs. Her cold toes curled along the wooden ridge since she’d ditched her heels on the balcony next door before climbing out. Thank God it wasn’t snowing tonight.
Wrangling her way into an event at the posh Medina resort hadn’t been easy. But she’d nabbed a ticket to a Fortune 500 mogul’s rehearsal dinner for his son by promising a dimwit dilettante to run a tabloid piece on her ex in exchange for the woman’s invitation. Once in, however, Kate was on her own to dodge security, locate Prince Duarte and snap the shot. As best she could tell, this was her only hope to enter his suite. Too bad her coat and gloves had been checked at the door.
The minicameras embedded in her earrings were about to tear her darn earlobes in half. She’d transformed a couple old button cameras into what looked like gold- and-emerald jewelry.
The lighthouse swooped a dim beam through the cottony-thick fog, Klaxon wailing every twenty seconds and temporarily drowning out the sound of wedding-party guests mingling on the first floor. She scooched closer to the prince’s balcony.
Kate stretched her leg farther, farther still until… Pay dirt. Her pounding heart threatened to pop a seam on her thrift-shop satin gown. She grabbed the railing fast and swung her leg over.
A hand clamped around her wrist. A strong hand. A masculine hand.
She yelped as another hand grabbed her ankle and hauled, grip strong on her arm and calf. His fingers seared her freezing skin just over her anklet made by her sister. A good-luck charm to match the earrings. She sure hoped it helped.
A swift yank sent her tumbling over onto the balcony. Her dress twisted around her thighs and hopefully not higher. She scrambled for firm footing, her arms flailing as her gown slid back into place. She landed hard against a wall.
No, wait. Walls didn’t have crisp chest hair and defined muscles, and smell of musky perspiration. Under normal circumstances, she’d have been more than a little turned on. If she wasn’t so focused on her sister’s future and her lips weren’t turning blue from the cold.
Kate peeked…and found a broad male torso an inch from her nose. A black shirt or robe hung open, exposing darkly tanned skin and brown hair. Her fingers clenched in the silky fabric. Some kind of karate workout clothes?
Good God, did Medina actually hire ninjas for protection like monarchs in movies?
Kate looked up the strong column of the ninja’s neck, the tensed line of his square jaw in need of a shave. Then, holy crap, she met the same coal-black eyes she’d been planning to photograph.
“You’re not a ninja,” she blurted.
“And you are not much of an acrobat.” Prince Duarte Medina didn’t smile, much less say cheese.
“Not since I flunked out of kinder-gym.” This was the strangest conversation ever, but at least he hadn’t pitched her over the railing. Yet.
He also didn’t let go of her arms. The restrained strength of his calloused fingers sparked an unwelcomed shiver of awareness along her chilled skin.
Duarte glanced down at her bare feet. “Were you booted for a balance beam infraction?”
“Actually, I broke another kid’s nose.” She’d tripped the nasty little boy after he’d called her sister a moron.
Kate fingered her earring. She had to snap her pictures and punch out. This was an opportunity rarer than a red diamond.
The Medina monarchy had pretty much fallen off the map twenty-seven years ago after King Enrique Medina was deposed in a coup that left his wife dead. For decades rumors swirled that the old widower had walled up with his three sons in an Argentinean fortress. After a while, people stopped wondering about the Medinas at all. Until she’d felt the journalistic twitch to research an individual in the background of a photo she’d taken. That twitch had led to her news story which popped the top off a genie bottle. She’d exposed the secret lives of three now-grown princes who were hiding in plain sight in the United States.
But that hadn’t been enough. The paycheck on that story hadn’t come close to hauling her out of the financial difficulties life had thrust upon her.
Her window of opportunity to grab an up-close picture was shrinking. Already paparazzi from every corner of the globe were scrambling for a photo op now that news of her initial find leaked like water through a crumbling sandcastle.
Yet somehow, she’d beaten them all because Duarte Medina was really here. In the flesh. In front of her. And so much hotter in person. She swayed and couldn’t even blame it on vertigo.
He scooped her into his arms, apparently sporting real strength to go with those ninja workout clothes.
“You are turning to a block of ice.” His voice rumbled with the barest hint of an exotic accent, the bedroom sort of inflection perfect for voice-overs in commercials that would convince a woman to buy anything if he came with it. “You need to come in from the cold before you pass out.”
So he could call security to lock her up? Her angle with the earring cameras wasn’t great, but she hoped she’d snagged some workable shots while she jostled around in his arms.
“Uh, thanks for the save.” Should she call him Prince Duarte or Your Majesty?
Coming into this, she’d envisioned getting her photos on the sly and hadn’t thought to brush up on protocol when confronted with a prince in karate pajamas. A very hot, swarthy prince carrying her inside to his suite.
Now that she studied his face inches from hers, his ancestry was unmistakable. The Medina monarchy had originated on the small island of San Rinaldo off the coast of Spain. And in the charged moment she could see his bold Mediterranean heritage as clearly as his arrogance. With fog rolling along the rocky shore at his back through the open balcony doors, she could envision him reigning over his native land. In fact it was difficult to remember at all that he’d lived for so many years in the United States.
He set her on her feet again, her toes sinking for miles into the plush rug. The whole room spoke of understated wealth and power from the pristine white sofas, to the mahogany antique armoire, to a mammoth four-poster bed with posts as thick as tree trunks.
A bed? She tried to swallow. Her throat went dry.
Duarte smiled tightly, heavy lidded eyes assessing. “Ramon has really outdone himself this time.”
“Ramon?” Her editor’s name was Harold. “I’m not sure what you mean.” But she would play along if it meant staying put a few minutes more. To get her pictures, of course.
“The father of the groom has a reputation for supplying the best, uh—” his pulse beat slowly along his bronzed neck “—companionship to woo his business associates, but you surpass them all in originality.”
“Companionship?” Shock stunned her silent. He couldn’t be implying what she thought.
“I assume he paid you well, given the whole elaborate entrance.” His upper lip curled with a hint of disdain.
Paid companionship. Ah, hell. He thought she was a high-priced call girl. Or at least she hoped he thought high-priced. Well, she wasn’t going that far for her sister, but maybe she could scavenge another angle for the story by sticking around just a question or two longer.
Kate placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. No way was she touching his bared chest. “How many times has he so generously gifted you?”
His smoky dark eyes streamed over the tops of her breasts darn near spilling out of the wretched thrift-store dress. “I have never availed myself of—how shall we say? Paid services.”
A good journalist would ask. “Not even once?” Maybe she could inch just her pinky past his open neckline.
“Never.” His hard tone left no room for doubt.
She held back her sigh of relief and let herself savor the heat of his skin under her touch.
Her fingers curled. “Oh, uh…just oh.”
“I am a gentleman, after all. And as such, I can’t simply send you back onto the balcony. Stay while I make arrangements to slip you out.” His palm lay low on her waist. “Would you like a drink?”
Her stomach squeezed into an even tighter ball of anticipation. Why was she this hyped-up over an assignment? This was her job, one she was well-trained to do. Thoughts of her days as a photojournalist for news magazines bombarded her. Days when her assignments ranged from a Jerusalem pilgrimage to the aftermath of an earthquake in Indonesia.
Now, she worked for GlobalIntruder.com.
She stifled a hysterical laugh. God, what had she sunk to? And what choice did she have with a shrinking newspaper industry?
Sure, she was nervous, damn it. This photo was about more than staying in the media game. It was about finding enough cash fast to make sure her special-needs sister wasn’t booted out of her assisted-living facility next month. Jennifer had a grown-up’s body with a child’s mind. She needed protection and Kate was all she had left keeping her from becoming an adult ward of the state.
Too bad Kate was only a couple of rent payments away from bankruptcy court.
The prince’s hand slid up her spine, clasping the back of her neck. Her traitorous body tingled.
She needed a moment to regroup—away from this guy’s surprising allure—if she hoped to get the information she needed. “Is there a powder room nearby where I can freshen up while you pour the drinks? When I leave your suite, I shouldn’t look like I climbed around outside the balcony.”
“I’ll show you the way.”
Not what she had in mind. But she’d kept her cool during a mortar attack before. She could handle this. “Just point, please. I’ve got good internal navigational skills.”
“I imagine you’re good at a great many things.” His breath heated over her neck as he dipped his head closer to speak. “I may have never had use for offers such as yours before, but I have to confess, there is something captivating about you.”
Oh, boy.
His warm breath grazed her exposed shoulder, his lips so close to touching her skin without closing that final whisper for connection. Her breasts beaded against the already snug bodice of her gown. She pushed her heels deeper into the carpet to keep her balance. Her anklet rubbed against her other leg. Her good-luck charm from Jennifer. Remember her sister.
“About that bathroom?” Frantically, she looked around the bedroom suite with too many tall, paneled doors, all closed.
“Right over here.” His words heated over her neck, raising goose bumps along her arms.
“Uh, but…” Was that breathy gasp hers? “I prefer to go solo.”
“We wouldn’t want you to get lost on your way.” He stopped just at her earlobe as if to share a secret.
Had he touched her? His breath against her skin left her light-headed. He cupped the other side of her head. Hunger gnawed deep within her as she ached to lean into his cradling touch.
Then he backed away, his hand teasing a tempting trail and his black workout clothes rustling a lethal whisper. “Just through that door, Ms. Kate Harper.”
Duarte gestured right, both of her earrings dangling from between his fingers.
Duarte had been waiting for this moment since the second he’d learned which tabloid scumbag had blown apart his family’s carefully crafted privacy. He held Kate Harper’s earrings in his hands along with her hopes of a new scoop. He’d been alerted she might be on the premises and determined her hidden cameras’ locations before they’d left the balcony.
He’d spent his whole life dodging the press. He knew their tricks. His father had drummed into his sons at a young age how their safety depended on anonymity. They’d been protected, educated and, above all, trained. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades from his work out—a regimen that had been interrupted by security concerns.
One look at the intruder on the screen and he’d decided to see how far she would go.
In that form-fitting dress, she personified seduction. Like a pinup girl from days past, she had a timeless air and feminine allure that called to the primal male inside him. Good Lord, what a striking picture she would make draped on the white sofa just behind her. Or better yet, in his bed.
But he was an expert at self-control. And just calling to mind her two-bit profession made it easier to rein in his more instinctive thoughts.
Kate Harper perched a hand on her hip. “I can’t believe you knew who I really was the whole time.”
“From the second you left the party.” He’d been sent pictures of her when he’d investigated the photojournalist who cracked a cover story that had survived intense scrutiny for decades.
Background photos of her portrayed something very different: an earthy woman in khaki pants and generic white T-shirts, no makeup, her sleek brown hair in an unpretentious ponytail as opposed to the windswept twist she wore now. A hint of cinnamon apple fragrance drifted his way.
Her bright red lips pursed tight with irritation. “Then why pretend I’m a call girl?”
“That’s too high-class for the garbage you peddle.” He pocketed her earrings, blocking thoughts of her pretty pout.
His family’s life had been torn apart just when his father needed peace more than ever. Too much stress could kill Enrique Medina faster than any extremist assassin from San Rinaldo.
“So the gloves are off.” She folded her arms over her chest, rubbing her hands along her skin. From fear or the cold ocean wind blasting through the open French doors? “What do you intend to do? Call your security or the police?”
“I have to admit, I wouldn’t mind seeing more than gloves come off your deceitful body.” Duarte closed the balcony doors with a click and a snick of a lock.
“Uh, listen, Prince Duarte, or Your Majesty, or whatever I’m supposed to call you.” Her words tumbled faster and faster. “Let’s both calm down.”
He glanced over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow.
“Okay, I will be calm. You be whatever you want.” She swiped back a straggling hair with a shaky hand. “My point is I’m here. You don’t want invasive media coverage. So why not pose for just one picture? It can be staged any way you choose. You can be in total control.”
“Control? Is this some kind of game to you, like a child’s video system where we pass the controller back and forth?” He stalked closer, his feet as bare as hers on the carpet. “Because for me, this isn’t anywhere near a game. This is about my family’s privacy, our safety.”
Royals—even ones without a country—were never safe from threats. His mother had been killed in the rebellion overthrowing San Rinaldo, his older brother severely injured trying to save her. As a result, his father—King Enrique Medina—became obsessed with security. He’d constructed an impenetrable fortress on an island off the coast of St. Augustine, Florida, where he’d brought up his three young sons. Only when they’d become adults had Duarte and his brothers been able to break free. By scattering to the far corners of the U.S., they’d kept low profiles and were able to lead normal adult lives—with him on Martha’s Vineyard, Antonio in Galveston Bay and Carlos in Tacoma.
Kate touched his wrist lightly. “I’m sorry about what has happened to your family, how you lost your mother.”
Her touch seared at a raw spot hidden deep inside, prompting him to lash out in defense. Duarte sketched his knuckles over her bare ears. “How sorry are you?”
He had to give her credit. She didn’t back down. She met his gaze dead-on with eyes bluer than the San Rinaldo waters he just barely remembered.
Kate pulled her hand away. “What about a picture of you in your ninja clothes lounging against the balcony railing?”
“How about a photo of you naked in my arms?”
She gasped. “Of all the arrogant, self-aggrandizing, pompous—”
“I’m a prince.” He held up a finger. “But of course every one knows that now, thanks to your top-notch journalistic instincts.”
“You’re angry. I get that.” She inched behind the sofa as if putting a barrier between them, yet her spine stayed rigid, her eyes sparking icicles. “But just because you’re royalty doesn’t give you a free pass along with all these plush trappings.”
He’d left his father’s Florida fortress with nothing more than a suitcase full of clothes. Not that he intended to dole out that nugget for her next exposé. “Can’t blame a prince for trying.”
She didn’t laugh. “Why did you let me in here? Am I simply around for your amusement so you can watch me flinch when you flush my camera?”
Kate Harper was a woman who regained her balance fast. He admired that. “You really want this picture.”
Her fingers sunk so deep in the sofa that her short red nails disappeared. “More than you can possibly know.”
How far would she go to get it?
For an immoral moment he considered testing those boundaries. His identity had been exposed already anyway, a reality that drained his father’s waning strength. Anger singed the edges of his control, fueling memories of how soft Kate’s skin had felt under his touch when he’d pulled her onto the balcony, how perfectly her curves had shaped themselves to his chest.
Turning away, he forced his more civilized nature to quench the heat. “You should leave now. Use the door directly behind you. The guard in the corridor will escort you out.”
“You’re not going to give me my camera back, are you?”
He pivoted toward her again. “No.” He slid his hand in his pocket and toyed with her earrings. “Although, you’re more than welcome to try to retrieve your jewelry.”
“I prefer battles I have a chance of winning.” Her lips tipped in a half smile. “Can I at least have a cigar to hock on eBay?”
Again she’d surprised him. He wasn’t often entertained anymore. “You’re funny. I like that.”
“Give me my camera and I’ll become a stand-up comedian—” she snapped her fingers “—that fast.”
Who was this woman in an ill-fitting gown with an anklet made of silver yarn and white plastic beads? Most would have been nervous as hell or sucking up. Although, perhaps she was smarter than the rest, in spite of her dubious profession.
This woman had cost him more than could be regained. He would forge ahead, but already his father feared for his sons’ safety, a concern the ailing old man didn’t need. An alarming possibility snaked through his mind, one he should have considered before. Damn the way she took the oxygen and reason from a room. What if her minicamera sent the photos instantly by remote to a portal? Photos already on their way to flood the media?
Photos of the two of them?
Duarte sifted the earrings between his fingers. A plan formed in his mind to safeguard against all possibilities, a way to satisfy his urges on every level—lust and revenge without any annoying loose ends. Some might think over such a large decision, but his father had taught him to trust his instincts.
“Ms. Harper,” he said, closing in on her, following her behind the sofa. “I have another proposition instead.”
“Uh, a proposition?” She stepped backed, bumping an end table, rattling the glass lamp filled with coins. “I thought we already cleared the air on that subject. Even I have limits.”
“Too bad for both of us. That could have been…” He stopped mid-sentence and steadied the lamp—a gift from his brother Antonio—filled with Spanish doubloons from a shipwreck off San Rinaldo. No need to torment her for the hell of it, not when he had a more complex plan in mind. “It’s not that kind of proposition. Believe me, I don’t have to trade money—or media exclusives—for sex.”
She eyed him warily, surreptitiously hitching up the sinking neckline of her gown. “Then what kind of trade are we talking about here?”
He watched her every move. The way she picked at her painted thumbnail with her forefinger. How she rubbed her heel over the silly little anklet she wore. He savored up every bit of reeling her in, the plan growing more fulfilling by the second.
This was the best way. The only way. “I have a bit of a, uh, shall we say ‘family situation.’ My father is in ill health—as the world now knows thanks to your invasive investigative skills.”
She winced visibly for the first time. “I’m very sorry about that. Truly.” Then her nervousness fell away and her azure-blues gleamed with intelligence. “About the trade?”
“My father wants to see me settled down, married and ready to produce the next Medina heir. He even has a woman chosen—”
Her eyes went wide. “You have a fiancée?”
“My, how you reporters gobble up tidbits like fish snapping at crumbs on the water. But no. I do not have a fiancée.” Irritation nipped, annoying him all the more since it signaled a bit of control sliding to her side. “If you want another bread crumb, don’t anger me.”
“My apologies again.” She fingered her empty ear-lobe. “What about our trade?”
Back to the intriguing problem in front of him.
He would indulge those impulses with her later. When she was ready. And gauging by her air of desperation, it wouldn’t take much persuasion. Just a little time he could buy while settling a score and easing his father’s concerns about future heirs.
“As I said, my father is quite ill.” Near death from the damage caused by hepatitis contracted during his days on the run. The doctors feared liver failure at any time. He shut off distracting images of his pale father. “Obviously I don’t want to upset him while his health is so delicate.”
“Of course not. Family is important.” Her eyes filled with sympathy.
Ah. He’d found her weakness. The rest would be easy.
“Exactly. So, I have something you want, and you can give me something in return.” He lifted her chilly hand and kissed her short red nails. Judging by the way her pupils dilated, this revenge would be a pleasure for them both. “You cost our family much with your photos, destroying our carefully crafted anonymity. Now, let’s discuss how you’re going to repay that debt.”
Two
“Repay the debt,” Kate repeated, certain he couldn’t be implying what she’d thought. And she would look like a fool if she let him know what she’d assumed. She inched her chilly hand from his encompassing grip. “I’m going to work for you?”
“Nice try.” He stepped closer, his ninja workout pants whispering a dark, sexy hello.
Holding her silence, she crossed her arms to hide her shivery response and keep him from moving closer. This man’s magnetism was mighty inconvenient. Her toes curled into the Aubusson rug.
He tipped his head regally, drawing her attention to the strong column of his neck, his pulse steady and strong. “I want you to be my fiancée.”
Shock unfurled her toes. “Are you smoking crack?”
“Never have. Never intend to.” He clasped her wrists and unfolded her arms slowly, deliberately until they stood closer still. His eyes bored into hers. “I’m stone-cold sober and completely serious. In case you haven’t noticed, I do not joke.”
Her breasts strained against the bodice of her dress with each breath growing deeper, more erratic. She didn’t know what he was up to. Right now, he held all the cards, including all her photos.
Any hope of salvaging an article from this required playing with fire. “Seems to me like you have a fine sense of humor to suggest something as ridiculous as this. What do you really hope to accomplish?”
“If my father thinks I’m already locked into a relationship—” he skimmed his knuckles up her arm “—with you, he will quit pressing me to hook up with one of the daughters of his old pals from San Rinaldo.”
“Why choose me?” She plucked his hand away with a nonchalance she certainly didn’t feel inside. “Surely there must be plenty of women who would be quite happy to pretend to be your fiancée.”
He leaned on the back of the sofa, muscular legs mouth-wateringly showcased in his ninja pants. “There are women who want to be my fiancée, but not pretend.”
“What a shame you’re suffering from such ego problems.” She playfully kicked his bare foot with hers.
Oops. Wrong move. Her skin flamed from the simple touch. An answering heat sparked in his eyes.
It was just their feet, for pity’s sake. Still, she’d never felt such an intense and instantaneous draw to a man in her life, and she resented her body’s betrayal.
Heels staying on the ground, Duarte toed her anklet, flicking at the beads. “I fully realize my bank balance offers a hefty enticer. With you, however, we both know where we stand.”
Her yarn and plastic contrasted sharply with his suite sporting exclusive artwork. The seascape paintings weren’t from some roadside stand bought simply to accent a Martha’s Vineyard decor. She recognized the distinctive brushstrokes of Spanish master painter Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida from her college art classes.
She forced herself not to twitch away from Duarte’s power play, not too tough actually since the simple strokes felt so good against her adrenaline-pumped nerves. “Won’t your father wonder why he’s never heard you mention me before now?”
“We’re not a Sunday-dinners sort of family. You can use that as a quote for articles if you wish, once we’re finished.”
Articles. Plural. But would they be timely enough to generate the money to settle her sister’s bill for next month? “How long from now until that finish date?”
“My father has asked for thirty days of my time to handle estate business around the country while he’s ill. You can accompany and compile notes for your exclusive. I’ll be hitting a number of hot spots around the U.S., including a stop in Washington, D.C., for a black-tie dinner with some politicians who could put your name on the map. And of course you’ll get to meet my family along the way. I ask only that I get to approve any material you plan to submit.”
Thirty days?
She did a quick mental calculation of her finances and Jennifer’s bills. With some pinching she could squeak through until then. Except what kind of scoop would she have when every news industry out there could have jumped in ahead of her? “The story could be cold by then. I need some assurance of a payoff—at work—that will help advance my career.”
Bleck, but that made her sound money-grubbing. How come men struck hard bargains and they were corporate wizards, but the same standards didn’t apply to women? She had a career to look after and responsibilities to her sister.
Duarte’s eyes brimmed with cynicism. “So we’re going to barter here? Quite bold on your part.”
“Arrest me, then. I’ll text a story from my jail cell. I’ll describe the inside of your personal suite along with details about your aftershave and that birthmark right above your belly button. People can draw their own conclusions and believe me, the click-throughs will be plentiful.”
“You’re willing to insinuate we had an affair? You’re prepared to compromise your journalistic integrity?”
For her sister? She didn’t have any choice. “I work for the Global Intruder. Obviously journalistic integrity isn’t a high priority.”
A glint of respect flecked his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain. Good for you.” He straightened, topping her by at least half a foot. “Let’s get down to business, then. There’s going to be a family wedding at the end of the month at my father’s estate. If you hold up your end of the bargain for the next thirty days, you get exclusive photos of the private ceremony. The payoff from those photos should be more than adequate to meet your needs.”
A Medina wedding? Wow. Just. Wow.
Before she could push a resounding yes past her lips, he continued, “And in a show of good faith, you can submit a short personal interview about our engagement.”
“All I have to do is pretend to be your fiancée?” It sounded too good to be true. Could this Hail Mary pass for Jennifer work out just right?
“Of course it’s pretend. I most certainly do not want you to be my real fiancée.”
“You’re serious here. You’re actually going to take me with you to your father’s estate?” And give her photos of a family wedding.
“Ah, I can see the dollar signs in your lovely eyes.”
“Sure I want a story and I have bills to pay like anybody else—well, anybody other than Medinas—but I work for that payday.” Hey wait, he thought her eyes were lovely? “What reporter in their right mind would say no to this? But what’s the catch? Because I can’t imagine anyone would willingly invite a reporter into the intimate circle of their lives. Especially someone with as many secrets as you.”
“Let’s call it a preemptive strike. Better to know the snake’s identity rather than wonder. And I also gain four weeks of your charming presence.”
Suddenly an ugly suspicion bloomed in her mind. “I’m not going to sleep with you to land this exclusive.”
Her eyes darted back to the bed, an image blossoming in her brain of the two of them tangled together in the sheets, their discarded clothes mating on the floor in a silky blend of green and black.
A humorless chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You really are obsessed with having sex with me. First, you believe I’ve mistaken you for a prostitute. Then, you think I want to trade my story for time in your bed. Truly, I’m not that hard up.”
She blinked away the dizzying fantasy he’d painted of the two of them together. “This just seems so… bizarre.”
“My life is far from normal.” The luxury that wrapped so effortlessly around him confirmed that.
“I should simply accept what you’re offering at face value?”
“It’s a month of your life to make appearances with a prince while I settle Dad’s estate. Our family is rather well connected. You’ll have some very influential new contacts for future stories.”
Now, didn’t he know how to tempt a girl? On too many levels. “If we’re not sleeping together, what do you get out of this?”
He held up one finger, tapping it on her shoulder. “I give my father peace.” He added a second touch, thumbing her collarbone. “I retain control of my own personal life. And three—” he curled his whole hand around her in a hold that was both arousing and a little dangerous “—I manage all cameras, all the time. You don’t have access to any shots unless I okay them. The press hears nothing without my approval. And before you get too excited, when we go to my father’s, you will not know where he lives.”
She laughed in hopes of dispersing the tingles tightening her breasts. “Do you intend to put a bag over my head before you stuff me in a limo?”
“Nothing so plebian, my dear.” His thumb continued to work its magic. “Suffice it to say, you will get on an airplane and then land on a private island, somewhere warmer than here in Massachusetts. Beyond that…” He shrugged, sliding past her, a hint of cedar drifting along with him.
Pivoting, she watched him stride across the room, his steps silent, his hips trim and decidedly hot. “You’re taking me to an untraceable island so you can kill me and dump my body in the ocean for exposing your family—which, for the record, is just my job. Nothing personal.”
Shaking his head, he stopped in front of a painting of a wooden sailboat beached on its side. “Pull a bag over your head? Feed you to the sharks? You are a bloodthirsty one.” Pulling back the gold-framed artwork, he revealed a wall safe. Duarte punched in numbers and the door hissed open. “Nobody is going to kill anyone. We’re going to let the world know we’re engaged right away. Then if you disappear, all fingers will point to me.”
“If they can find you on that ‘warm island.’”
“Thanks to you, I’m sure my father’s secluded hide-away will be found sooner or later.” He pulled out one flat velvet box after another, each with an exclusive jeweler’s name imprinted on the top. “One last point. If you break any of my rules about distribution of information, I will turn over the security footage of you breaking into my estate and press charges for unlawful entry. It won’t matter that you’ve been my fiancée. The world will believe the tape was taken after our breakup and that you were a scorned woman bent on revenge.”
The unrelenting line of his back, strong column of his neck exposed by closely shorn hair spoke of cool determination. She wasn’t dealing with a rookie. “You would really send me to jail?”
“Only if you betray me. If you didn’t want to play in the big leagues, then you shouldn’t have climbed onto my balcony. You can always just walk away free and clear now.” He plucked the smallest jewelry box from the back and creaked it open to reveal an emerald-cut ruby flanked with diamond baguettes. “Negotiations are over. Take it or leave it. That’s my deal.”
She eyed the platinum-set engagement ring, jewels clearly perfect yet curiously understated. No gaudy Hollywood flash, but rather old-money class that appealed to her more than some princess-cut satellite dish in a six-pronged setting. For Jennifer’s sake, she would make this work. She had to. She would regret it for the rest of her life if she didn’t take this risk, a chance to provide for her sister forever.
Decision made, Kate extended her hand. “Why on earth would I betray you when we’ve obviously come to a mutually beneficial agreement?”
Duarte hardened his focus as he did in the workout room and plucked the ring out of the cushiony bed. Best not to think about any other kind of bed.
Cradling her left hand in his, he slid the ring in place, a ruby-and-diamond antique from the Medina family collection. He could buy her something more contemporary and ornate later, but now that he had Kate’s agreement, he wasn’t going to give her time to wriggle out. He had a month to exact revenge on her. And no, he wasn’t going to dump her in the ocean or cause her any bodily harm.
Instead, he would seduce her completely, thoroughly and satisfyingly. He wanted this woman and would have pursued her regardless of how they’d crossed paths. But they hadn’t met under normal circumstances. He couldn’t forget what she’d done to his family. The best way to discredit any future reports from her would come from casting her in the role of a bitter ex.
A month should be plenty of time to accomplish all of his goals.
Closing his hand around hers, he sealed the ring in place. “The bride and groom have left the rehearsal dinner downstairs, so we will not be stealing their spotlight by showing up together.”
“Together? Tonight?”
“Within the hour.” He thumbed the ring until the ruby centered on top of her delicate finger. “I told you I wanted to spread the word soon.”
“This is more than soon.” She rubbed her foot against the yarn anklet, betraying nerves she didn’t let show on her face.
“It’s in your best interest that we establish ourselves as a couple right away.” Just saying the word couple brought to mind images of how thoroughly he intended to couple with her. “Especially if you’re still concerned about me feeding you to the fishes.”
“Then, uh, okay. I guess there’s no time like the present.” She tugged up the bodice of her dress, drawing his eyes right back to her cleavage.
His teeth ached, he wanted her so much. He liked to think he appreciated the whole package when it came to women, mind as well as body. But good God, this woman had a chest that could send a strong man to his knees. He burned with the urge to ease down the sides of her gown and reveal each creamy swell, slowly taking his time to explore and appreciate with his hands, with his mouth.
Patience. “There’s a large party downstairs with plenty of movers and shakers from social and political scenes. You’ll get to share details with your boss. My word. Fifteen minutes downstairs and then I’ll have the reassurance that you’re committed. You’ll have the reassurance that I can’t kill you without pinging police radar.”
“Okay, okay, I see your point.” Her laughter tickled his ears. “It’s just all moving so fast I want to make sure I think of everything. I need to make one call before we go public.”
“To your editor? I think not.” He tugged her closer, the soft curves of her breasts grazing his chest. He could almost taste the milky softness of her skin. “I need your commitment to this plan first. Can’t have you going rogue on me out there.”
The fight crept back into her eyes, chasing away the nervousness he’d seen earlier. Her grit fired his insides every bit as much as her pinup-girl curves.
She locked his hand in a firm hold, her eyes meeting his dead-on. “I need to call my sister. We can put her on speakerphone if you don’t trust me about what’s being said, but I have to speak to her first. It’s nonnegotiable. If the answer’s no, then I’ll accept your offer to walk away and settle for an exposé on your birthmark.”
With the top of her head at nose level, he could smell the apple-fresh scent of her shampoo, see the rapid pulse in her neck bared by her upswept do. A simple slide of his hands around her back and he would be able to cup her bottom and cradle her between his legs before he kissed her. He couldn’t remember when he’d wanted a woman this much. And although he tried to tell himself it had something to do with a stretch of abstinence since the Medina story broke, he knew full well he would have ached to have her anytime. Anywhere.
Why hadn’t photos of her in the private investigator’s report captured his attention the way she did now? He’d registered she was an attractive woman, but hadn’t felt this gut-leveling kick. She chewed her bottom lip, and he realized he was staring.
His fingers tightened around her hand wearing his ring. “What about speaking to the rest of your family?”
“Just my sister,” she said softly. Her eyes were wary but she didn’t pull away. “What about your family?”
And would he tell his brothers the truth? He would have to decide on the best strategy for approaching them later. “They’ll get the memo. You could call your sister immediately after we make our announcement downstairs.”
She shook her head quickly, a light brown lock sliding loose to caress her cheek the way he longed to. “I don’t want to risk any chance of her hearing it from someone else first.” Kate tipped her chin defiantly, as if prepping for battle. “My sister is a special-needs adult. Okay? She will be confused if this leaks before I can speak to her. It’s not like I would lie about something you can easily verify.”
Every word she shared was so obviously against her will that his conscience engaged for the first time. But that couldn’t change his course. Kate had set this in motion when she’d climbed onto the ledge, in fact back when she’d identified his face in a picture that launched an exposé on his family. Still, his inconvenient kick of conscience could be silenced by acquiescing to her request for a call.
“Fine, then.” He unclipped his cell from his waistband and passed it to her. “Feel free to phone your sister before she finds out on Facebook. But I would hurry if I were you. We all know how quickly internet news can spread.”
She scrunched her nose. “You cut me to the quick with your not-so-subtle reference to my news story of the century.”
God, she was hot. And he wanted her.
While he would have to wait to have her, before the night was over, he would claim a seal-the-deal kiss from his new fiancée.
Meanwhile, it wouldn’t hurt to keep her on her toes. “Make your call quickly. You have until I’ve changed for our appearance downstairs.”
With slow and unmistakably sexual deliberation, he untied the belt on his workout clothes.
Kate damn near swallowed her tongue. “Uh, do you want me to step into the hall?”
“You promised to use speakerphone, remember?” Duarte turned his back to her but he didn’t leave. He simply strode toward the mahogany armoire.
The jacket slid from his shoulders.
Holy hell.
He draped the black silk over one of the open cabinet doors, muscles shifting along his back. She saw sparks like a camera flash snapping behind her retinas.
Oh. Right. She needed to breathe.
God, this man was ripped with long, lean—lethal—definition. She’d felt those muscles up close when she’d fallen against him on the balcony.
How much further would he carry this little display? Her fingers had been wowed, for sure, but her photographer eyes picked up everything she’d missed in that frantic moment earlier.
She was female. With a heartbeat. And swaying on her feet. The cell phone bit into her tight grip, reminding her of the reason she’d come here in the first place. Keeping Jennifer happy and secure was top priority.
Thumbing in her sister’s number, she considered blowing off the whole speakerphone issue. But she’d probably pushed her luck far enough tonight. There was no reason not to let him hear and he would have Jennifer’s number anyway now that it was stored in his cell history…. And hey, might Jennifer have his as well after this call? Interesting. She would have to check once she could steal a moment away from him. She activated the speaker phone just as her sister picked up.
“Hello?” Jennifer’s voice came through, hesitant, confused. “Who’s this?”
“Jennifer? It’s Katie, calling from a, uh, friend’s phone.” Her eyes zipped back to Duarte and his silky pants riding low on his trim hips. “I have some important news for you.”
“Are you coming to see me?” She pictured Jennifer in her pj’s, eating popcorn with other residents at the first-rate facility outside Boston.
“Not tonight, sweetie.” She had a date with an honest-to-God prince. The absurdity of it all bubbled hysteria in her throat.
“Then when?”
That depended on a certain sexy stranger who was currently getting mouth-wateringly naked.
“I’m not sure, Jennifer, but I promise to try my best to make it as soon as possible.”
Duarte pulled out a tuxedo and hung it on the door. She caught the reflection of his chest in the mirror inside the wardrobe. The expanse of chest she’d only seen a slice of from his open jacket—
“Katie?” Jennifer’s voice cut through the airwaves. “What’s your news?”
“Oh, uh…” She gulped in air for confidence—and to still her stuttering heart as Duarte knelt to select shoes. “I’m engaged.”
“To be married?” Jennifer squealed. “When?”
Wincing, Kate opted to deliberately misunderstand the whole timing question since there wasn’t going to be a wedding. “He gave me a ring tonight.”
“And you said yes.” Her sister squealed again, her high-pitched excitement echoing around the room. “Who is he?”
At least she could answer the second question honestly. “He’s someone I met through work. His name is Duarte.”
“Duarte? That’s a funny name. I’ve never heard it before. Do you think he would mind if I call him Artie? I like art class.”
He glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow arched, his first sign that he even noticed or cared that she was still in the room while he stripped.
Kate cradled the phone. “Artie is a nice name, but I think he prefers Duarte.”
A quick smile chased across his face before he turned back to the tux. His thumbs hooked in the waistband of his whispery black workout pants. Oh, boy. Her breath went heavy in her lungs and she couldn’t peel her eyes off him to save her soul. So silly. So wrong. And so compelling in his arrogant confidence.
Then she realized he was watching her watch him in the mirror. His eyes were dark and unreadable. But he wasn’t laughing or mocking, because that would have shown, surely.
Silence stretched between them, his thumbs still hooked on the waistband. His biceps flexed in anticipation of motion.
She spun away, zeroing in on the conversation instead of the man. “You will probably see something in the paper, so I want you to understand. Duarte is a real-life Prince Charming.”
God, it galled her to say that.
The whistle of sliding fabric carried, the squeak of the floor as he must have shuffled from foot to foot to step out of his pants.
“A Prince Charming? Like in the stories?” Jennifer gasped. “Cool. I can’t wait to tell my friends.”
What would all those friends think and say when they learned he was a prince in more than some fairy-tale fashion? Would people try to get to Duarte through especially vulnerable Jennifer? The increasing complications of what she’d committed to hit her. “Sweetie, please promise me that if people ask you any questions, you just tell them to ask your sister. Okay?”
Jennifer hesitated, background sounds of a television and bingo game bleeding through. “For how long?”
“I’ll talk to you by tomorrow morning. I swear.” And she always kept her promises to Jennifer. She always would.
“Okay, I promise, too. Not a word. Cross my heart. Love you, Katie.”
“I love you, too, Jennifer. Forever and always.”
The phone line went dead and Katie wondered if she’d done the right thing. Bottom line, she had to provide for her sister and right now her options were limited. The lure of those wedding photos tempted her. A family member, Duarte had said. One of his brothers? An unknown cousin? His father even?
A hanger clanked behind her and she resisted the urge to pivot back around. Right now she cursed her artistic imagination as it filled in the blanks. In her mind’s eye, she could see those hard, long legs sliding into the fine fabric tailored to fit him. The zipper rasped and she decided it was safe to look.
Although that also put his chest back in her line of sight. He was facing her now, pulling his undershirt over his head, shoes on, his tuxedo pants a perfect fit as predicted. As the cotton cleared his face, his eyes were undiluted. And she could read him well now.
She saw desire.
Duarte was every bit as turned on as she was, which seemed ironic given she was wearing that god-awful dress and he was putting on a custom-cut tuxedo. Somewhere in that contrast, a compliment to her lurked if he could see past the thrift-store trappings of her unflattering dress.
“We need to talk about my sister,” she blurted.
“Speak,” he commanded.
Duarte carried this autocratic-prince thing a little far, but she wasn’t in the mood to call him on it. She had other more pressing matters to address, making sure he fully understood about her sister.
“Earlier, I told you that my sister has special needs. I imagine you couldn’t misunderstand after hearing our conversation.” Hearing the childlike wordings with an adult pitch.
“I heard two sisters who are very close to each other,” he said simply, striding toward the stack of jewelry boxes he’d set on a table beside the safe, his shirttails flapping. He creaked open the one on top to reveal shirt studs and cuff links, monogrammed, and no doubt platinum. “You said there’s nobody else to call. What happened to the rest of your family?”
She watched his hands at work fastening his shirt and cuffs, struck again by the strange intimacy of watching a stranger dress. “Our mother died giving birth to Jennifer.”
Glancing over at her, the first signs of some kind of genuine emotion flickered through his eyes. A hint of compassion turned his coal-dark eyes to more of a chocolate brown. “I am sorry to hear that.”
The compassion lingered just for a second, but long enough to soften her stiff spine. “I wish I remembered more about her so I could tell Jennifer. I was seven when our mother died.” Jennifer was twenty now. Kate had taken care of her since their father walked out once his youngest daughter turned eighteen. “We have a few photos and home videos of Mom.”
“That is good.” He nodded curtly, securing his cummerbund. “Did your mother’s death have something to do with your sister’s disability?”
She didn’t like discussing this, and frankly considered it none of people’s business, but if she would even consider being around this man for a full month, he needed to understand. Jennifer came first for her. “Our mother had an aneurysm during the delivery. The doctors delivered Jennifer as soon as possible, but she was deprived of oxygen for a long time. She’s physically healthy, but suffered brain damage.”
He looped his tie with an efficiency that could only come from frequent repetition. “How old is your sister?”
Now wasn’t that a heartbreaking question? “She’s an eight-year-old in a twenty-year-old’s body.”
“Where’s your father?”
Sadly, not in hell yet. “He isn’t in the picture.”
“Not in the picture how?”
“As in, he’s not a part of our lives now.” Or ever again, if she had anything to say about contact with the self-centered jackass. Anger spiked through her so hot and furious she feared it might show in her eyes and reveal a major chink in her armor. “He skipped the country once Jennifer turned eighteen. If you want to know more, hire a private investigator.”
“You chose to be Jennifer’s legal guardian.” He slid his tuxedo coat off the hanger. “No law says you had to assume responsibility.”
“Don’t make it sound like she’s a burden,” she responded defensively. “She’s my sister and I love her. Your family may not be close, but I am very close to Jennifer. If you do anything at all to hurt her, I will annihilate you in the press—”
“Hold on.” He paused shrugging on his jacket. “No one said anything about hurting your sister. I will see to it that she’s protected 24/7. Nobody will get near her.”
How surprising that he would commit such resources to her family. She relaxed her guard partway, if not fully. She couldn’t imagine ever being completely at ease around this man. “And you won’t let your guards scare her?”
“They take into account the personality of whomever they’re protecting. Your sister will be treated with sensitivity and professionalism.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, lacing her hands and resisting the urge to smooth his satiny lapels. She hadn’t expected such quick and unreserved understanding from him.
“Turn around,” he commanded softly, hypnotically, and without thinking she pivoted.
His hand grazed the back of her neck. Delicious awareness tingled along her skin. What was he doing? Hell, what was she doing?
Something chilly slithered over her heated skin, cold and metallic. Her fingers slid up to his fingers…
Jewels. Big ones. She gasped.
He cupped her shoulders and walked her toward the full-length mirror inside the armoire door. “It’s not bad for having to make do with what I had in the safe.”
His eyes held hers as they had earlier when he’d been changing. Diamonds glinted around her neck in a platinum setting, enough jewels to take care of Jennifer for years.
“Stand still and I’ll put on the matching earrings.” They dangled from between his fingertips in much the same way her purloined camera earrings had earlier. Except these were worth a mint.
What if she lost one in a punch bowl?
“Can’t I just have my own back?”
“I think not.” He looped the earrings through effortlessly until a cascade of smaller diamonds shimmered from her ears almost to her shoulders. “I’ll send a guard to retrieve your shoes, and then we can go.”
“Go where?” she asked, her breath catching at his easy familiarity in dressing her. He sure knew his way around a woman’s body.
Duarte offered his elbow. “Time to introduce my fiancée to the world.”
Three
In a million years, he never would have guessed that tonight he would introduce a fiancée to Martha’s Vineyard movers and shakers. Even though the engaged couple had left the rehearsal, the band, food and schmoozing would continue long into the night.
Duarte had expected to spend the bulk of his evening working out until he decided how to approach his father’s request for a month of his time. He needed to simplify his life and instead he’d added a curvaceous complication.
No looking back, he reminded himself. And by introducing Kate to a ballroom full of people he ensured she couldn’t fade away. Once in the Medina spotlight, always in the spotlight.
Kate stood at his side in the elevator—more private than the two flights of stairs. As the button for the ground level lit up, he slid his iPhone back into his pocket. He’d just sent a text to his head of security, ordering protection for Jennifer Harper, securing all the identification information for Kate. He would follow up on those instructions after the announcement.
The parting doors revealed the back hall, muffled sounds swelling inside. Clinking glasses and laughter mingled as guests downed crate after crate of Dom Perignon. A dance band finished a set and announced their break. His event planners oversaw these sorts of gigs, but he spot-checked details, especially for a seven-figure event.
Offering his arm to Kate, he gestured through the open elevator doors into the hall. This part of the resort was original to the hundred-year-old building, connecting to the newly constructed ballroom he’d added to accommodate larger events. He’d started his chain of resorts as a way to build a cash base of his own, independent of the Medina fortune.
While he spent most of his time in Martha’s Vineyard, scooping up properties around the U.S. allowed him to move frequently, a key to staying undetected. There was no chain name for his acquisitions. Each establishment stood on its own as an exclusive getaway for hosting private events. He didn’t have any interest in owning a home—his had been taken away long ago—so moving from hotel to hotel throughout the year posed no problem for him.
Kate’s hand on his arm seared through his tuxedo, making him ache to feel her touch on his bare skin. His body was still on edge from the glide of her eyes on him as he changed.
Yet, listening to her on the phone with her sister, he’d been intrigued on a deeper level than just sex and revenge. Suddenly Kate’s anklet of yarn and plastic beads made sense. There were layers to this woman that intrigued him, made him want her even more.
And he intended to make sure she wanted him every bit as much before he took her to bed.
Duarte stopped in front of the side door that would open into the ballroom reception area. He reached for the knob.
Her feet stumbled, ensconced in her retrieved black high heels. “You’re really going to go through with this.”
“The ring did not come out of a gum-ball machine.”
“No kidding.” She held it up, the light refracting off the ruby and diamonds. “Looks more like an heirloom, actually.”
“It is, Katie.”
“I’m Kate,” she snapped. “Only Jennifer calls me Katie.”
Jennifer, the sister who’d wanted to call him Artie. If his brothers heard, they would never let him live that one down.
“All right then, Kate, time to announce our arrival.” He wondered what Kate thought of his other name, the one he’d called himself after leaving the island at eighteen. An assumed name he could no longer use thanks to her internet exposé. Now people would always think of him as Duarte Medina instead of Duarte Moreno, the name he’d assumed after leaving his father’s island.
Sweeping the ballroom doors open, he scanned the tables and dance floor illuminated by crystal chandeliers, searching for the father of the groom. He spotted Ramon with his wife a few feet away.
The pharmaceutical heir smiled his welcome and reached for the microphone. “Dear friends and family,” he called for his guests’ attention.
Some still milled over their dinner of beef tenderloin, stuffed with crab and scallops. Others collected around the stage waiting for the band to return from their break.
Ramon continued, “—please welcome our special guest who has generously graced us with his presence—”
Bowing and scraping was highly overrated.
“—Prince Duarte Medina.”
Applause, gasps and the general crap he’d already grown weary of bounced around the half-toasted wedding guests who’d been whooping it up for a week’s worth of celebration. Times like these he almost understood his father’s decision to live in total seclusion.
Once the hubbub died down, Ramon pulled the mic to his mouth again. “A hearty welcome as well to his lovely date for the evening—”
Duarte stopped alongside Ramon and spoke, filling the room without artificial aid. “I hope you will all join me in celebrating a second happy event this evening. This lovely woman at my side, Kate Harper, has agreed to be my wife.”
Lifting her left hand, he kissed her fingers, strategically displaying the ring. Cameras flashed, thanks to the select media that had been invited. Kate had been on target by calling her sister. This news would be all over the internet within the hour—just as he intended.
Comments jumbled on top of each other from the partyers, while Kate stayed silent, a smile pasted on her face. Smart woman. The less said, the better.
“Congratulations!”
“How did you two m—?”
“No wonder he dumped Chelsea—”
“Oh, you both must come to our—”
“Why haven’t we heard anything about her before now?”
Duarte decided that last question deserved addressing. “Why would I let the press chew Kate alive before I could persuade her to marry me?”
Good-natured laughter increased, as did the curiosity in the sea of faces. He needed to divert their thoughts. And the best way?
Claim that kiss he’d been craving since the second he’d felt the give of Kate’s soft body against him on the balcony.
Her ring hand still clasped in his, he folded her arm against his chest. The pulse in her wrist beat faster under his thumb, her pupils widening with a clear signal of awakening desire. She didn’t like him, and he didn’t like her much either after what she’d put his family through.
But neither of them could look away.
The whispers and shuffling from the guests dulled in his ears as he focused only on her. He brushed his mouth across hers, lightly, only close enough to graze the barest friction across her bottom lip. She gasped, opening just enough to send a surge of success through him. As much as he wanted to draw this out and see how long it would take her to melt fully against him, they did have an audience and this kiss served a purpose other than seduction.
Time to seal the deal.
A second after Duarte sealed his mouth to hers, Kate had to grab the front of his tuxedo jacket to keep from stumbling. Shock. It must be shock.
But her tingling body called her a great big liar.
The seductive rasp of his calloused hand cupping her face, the light tug on her bottom lip between his teeth threatened her balance far more than any surprise. Her fingers twisted tighter in the fine weave of fabric. Tingles sparked until her eyes fluttered closed, blocking out their audience, the very reason for this display in the first place. But whatever the reason, she wanted his mouth on hers.
Sure, the attraction had been evident from the start, but still she hadn’t been prepared for this. There were kisses…
And then there were kisses.
Duarte’s slow and deliberate intensity clearly qualified as one of the latter. Tension from the whole crazy night unfurled inside her, flooding her body with a roaring need that blocked out the gawkers and whispers. The cool firm pressure of his lips to hers—confident and persuasive—had her swaying against him, her clenched hands between them.
Memories of his bronzed flesh flashed through her mind. How much more of him would she see in the coming month? And if she was this tempted after a mere couple of hours together, how much worse might the attraction become with a month of these pretend fiancée kisses and touches?
His mandarin-cedar scent enfolded her as seductively as his arms. She splayed her fingers on the hard wall of his chest. The twitch of muscles under her touch offered a cold splash of reality.
What in the world was wrong with her that she could be so thoroughly entranced by a guy she’d just met? Her bank balance, her career, her sister’s very future demanded she keep a level head.
Easier said than done when the stroke of his tongue along the seam of her lips sent a lightning bolt straight through her.
She pulled away sharply before she did something reckless, like ask him to continue this later. Kate scavenged a smile and gave Duarte a playful pat on the chest for the benefit of their witnesses, people dressed in designer clothes and wearing jewels that rivaled even those around her neck. This was his world, not hers. She was just a thirty-day guest and she would do well to remember that.
This party alone offered plenty of lavish reminders. Duarte took her arm and excused them both from the festivities. A legion of uniformed staff gathered the remains of the meal as she walked past. Her mouth watered at the leftover beef tenderloin, stuffed lobster tail…and wedding cake. Okay, technically it was a groom’s cake for the rehearsal dinner, but still.
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