Falling For Her Fake Fiancé (The Beaumont Heirs 5) (2 page)

God, how had he missed her? A woman with a stunning mane of flame-red hair sat on the edge of Delores’s desk. Her body was covered by an emerald-green gown that clung to every curve like a lover’s hands. His fingers itched to trace the line of her bare shoulders.

She was not an employee. That much was clear.

She was, however, holding a box of donuts.

The good-natured hum he’d heard on the intercom died away. The smiles disappeared, and people edged away from him.

“What is this?” he demanded. The color drained out of several employees’ faces, but his tone didn’t appear to have the slightest impact on the woman in the green gown.

His eyes were drawn to her back, to the way her ass looked sitting on the edge of the desk. Slowly—so slowly it almost hurt him—she turned and looked at him over her shoulder.

He might have intimidated the workers. He clearly had not intimidated her.

She batted her eyelashes as a cryptic smile danced across her deep red lips. “Why, it’s Donut Friday.”

Ethan glared at her. “What?”

She pivoted, bringing more of her profile into view.
Dear God, that dress—that body.
The strapless dress came to a deep V over her chest, doing everything in its power to highlight the pale, creamy skin of her décolletage.

He shouldn’t stare. He
wasn’t
staring. Really.

Her posture shifted. It was like watching a dancer arrange herself before launching into a series of gravity-defying pirouettes. “You must be new here,” the woman said in a pitying tone. “It’s Friday. That’s the day I bring donuts.”

Individually, he understood each word and every implication of her tone and movement. But together? “Donut Friday?” He’d been here for months, and this was the first time he’d heard anything about donuts.

“Yes,” she said. She held out the box. “I bring everyone a donut. Would you like the last one? I’m afraid all I have left is a plain.”

“And who are you, if I may ask?”

“Oh, you may.” She lowered her chin and looked up at him through her lashes. She was simply the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, which was more than enough to turn his head. But the fact that she was playing him for the fool—and they both knew it?

There were snickers from the far-too-large audience as she held out her hand for him—not to shake, no. She held it out as though she expected him to kiss it, as if she were the queen or something.

“I’m Frances Beaumont. I’m here to appraise the antiques.”

Two

O
h, this
was
fun.

“Donut?” she asked again, holding out the box. She kept as much innocence as she could physically manage on her face.

“You’re the
appraiser
?”

She let the donut box hang in the space between them a few more moments before she slowly lowered the box back to her lap.

She’d been bringing donuts in on Fridays since—well, since as long as she could remember. It’d been her favorite part of the week, mostly because it was the only time she ever got to be with her father, just the two of them. For a few glorious hours every Friday morning, she was Daddy’s Little Girl. No older brothers taking up all his time. No new wives or babies demanding his attention. Just Hardwick Beaumont and his little girl, Frannie.

And what was more, she got to visit all the grown-ups—including many of the same employees who were watching this exchange between her and Logan with rapt fascination—and hear how nice she was, how pretty she looked in that dress, what a sweetheart she was. The people who’d been working for the Brewery for the past thirty years had made her feel special and loved. They’d been her second family. Even after Hardwick had died and regular Donut Fridays had faded away, she’d still taken the time to stop in at least once a month. Donuts—hand-delivered with a smile and a compliment—made the world a better place.

If she could repay her family’s loyal employees by humiliating a tyrant of an outsider, then that was the very least she could do.

Logan’s mouth opened and closed before he ordered, “Get back to work.”

No one moved.

She turned back to the crowd to hide her victorious smile. They weren’t listening to him. They were waiting on her.

“Well,” she said graciously, unable to keep the wicked glint out of her eye. Just so long as Logan didn’t see it. “It has been simply wonderful to see everyone again. I know I’ve missed you—we all have in the Beaumont family. I do hope that I can come back for another Donut Friday again soon?”

Behind her, Logan made a choking noise.

But in front of her, the employees nodded and grinned. A few of them winked in silent support.

“Have a wonderful day, everyone,” she cooed as she waved.

The crowd began to break up. A few people dared to brave what was no doubt Logan’s murderous glare to come close enough to murmur their thanks or ask that she pass along their greetings to Chadwick or Matthew. She smiled and beamed and patted shoulders and promised that she’d tell her brothers exactly what everyone had said, word for word.

The whole time she felt Logan’s rage rolling off him in waves, buffeting against her back. He was no doubt trying to kill her with looks alone. It wouldn’t work. She had the upper hand here, and they both knew it.

Finally, there was only one employee left. “Delores,” Frances said in her nicest voice, “if Mr. Logan doesn’t want his donut—” She pivoted and held the box out to him again.

Oh, yes—she had the advantage here. He could go right on trying to glare her to death, but it wouldn’t change the fact that the entire administrative staff of the Brewery had ignored his direct order and listened to hers. That feeling of power—of importance—coursed through her body. God, it felt
good
.

“I do not,” he snarled.

“Would you be a dear and take care of this for me?” Frances finished, handing the box to Delores.

“Of course, Ms. Frances.” Delores gave Frances a look that was at least as good as—if not better than—an actual hug, then shuffled off in the direction of the break room, leaving Frances alone with one deeply pissed-off CEO. She crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned toward him, but she didn’t say anything else. The ball was firmly in his court now. The only question was did he know how to play the game?

The moment stretched. Frances took advantage of the silence to appraise her prey. This Logan fellow was
quite
an attractive specimen. He was maybe only a few inches taller than Frances, but he had the kind of rock-solid build that suggested he’d once been a defensive linebacker—and an effective one at that. His suit—a very good suit, with conservative lines—had been tailored to accommodate his wide shoulders. Given the girth of his neck, she’d put money on his shirts being made-to-order. Bespoke shirts and suits were not cheap.

He had a square jaw—all the squarer right now, given how he was grinding his teeth—and light brown hair that was close cut. He was probably incredibly good-looking when he wasn’t scowling.

He was attempting to regain his composure, she realized. Couldn’t have that.

Back when she’d been a little girl, she’d sat on this very desk, kicking her little legs as she held the donut box for everyone. Back then, it’d been cute to hop down off the desk when all the donuts were gone and twirl in her pretty dress.

But what was cute at five didn’t cut it at thirty. No hopping. Still, she had to get off this desk.

So she extended her left leg—which conveniently was the side where one of the few designer dresses she’d hung on to was slit up to her thigh—and slowly shifted her weight onto it.

Logan’s gaze cut to her bare leg as the fabric fell away.

She leaned forward as she brought her other foot down. The slit in the dress closed back over her leg, but Logan’s eyes went right where she expected them to—her generous cleavage.

In no great hurry, she stood, her shoulders back and her chin up. “Shall we?” she asked in a regal tone. “My cloak,” she added, motioning with her chin toward where she’d removed the matching cape that went with this dress.

Without waiting for an answer from him, she strode into his office as if she owned it. Which she once had, sort of.

The room looked exactly as she remembered it. Frances sighed in relief—it was all still here. She used to color on the wagon wheel table while she waited for the rest of the workers to get in so she could hand out the donuts. She’d played dolls on the big conference table. And her father’s desk...

The only time her daddy hugged her was in this room. Hardwick Beaumont had not been a hard-driven, ruthless executive in those small moments with her. He’d told her things he’d never told anyone else, like how his father, Frances’s grandfather John, had let Hardwick pick out the color of the drapes and the rug. How John had let Hardwick try a new beer fresh off the line, and then made him tell the older man why it was good and what the brewers should do better.

“This office,” her daddy used to say, “made me who I am.” And then he’d give her a brief, rare hug and say, “And it’ll make you who you are, too, my girl.”

Ridiculous how the thought of a simple hug from her father could make her all misty-eyed.

She couldn’t bear the thought of all this history—all
her
memories—being sold off to the highest bidder. Even if that would result in a tidy commission for her.

If she couldn’t stop the sale, the best she could do was convince Chadwick to buy as much of his old office as possible. Her brother had fought to keep this company in the family. He’d understand that some things just couldn’t be sold away.

But that wasn’t plan A.

She tucked her tenderness away. In matters such as this one, tenderness was a liability, and God knew she couldn’t afford any more of those.

So she stopped in the middle of the office and waited for Logan to catch up. She did not fold herself gracefully into one of the guest chairs in front of the desk, nor did she arrange herself seductively on the available love seat. She didn’t even think of sprawling herself out on the conference table.

She stood in the middle of the room as though she was ruler of all she saw. And no one—not even a temporary CEO built like a linebacker—could convince her otherwise.

She was surprised when he did not slam the door shut. Instead, she heard the gentle whisper of it clicking closed.
Head up, shoulders back
, she reminded herself as she stood, waiting for him to make the next move. She would show him no mercy. She expected nothing but the same returned in kind.

She saw him move toward the conference table, where he draped her cape over the nearest chair. She felt his eyes on her. No doubt he was admiring her body even as he debated wringing her neck.

Men were so easy to confuse.

He was the kind of man, she decided, who would need to reassert his control over the situation. Now that the audience had dispersed, he would feel it a moral imperative to put her back in her place.

She could not let him get comfortable. It was just that simple.

Ah, she’d guessed right. He made a wide circle around her, not bothering to hide how he was checking out her best dress as he headed for the desk. Frances held her pose until he was almost seated. Then she reached into her small handbag—emerald-green silk, made to match the dress, of course—and pulled out a small mirror and lipstick. Ignoring Logan entirely, she fixed her lips, making sure to exaggerate her pouts.

Was she hearing things or had a nearly imperceptible groan come from the area behind the desk?

This was almost too easy, really.

She put the lipstick and mirror away and pulled out her phone. Logan opened his mouth to say something, but she interrupted him by taking a picture of the desk. And of him.

He snapped his mouth shut. “Frances
Beaumont
, huh?”

“The one and only,” she purred, taking a close-up of the carved details on the corner of the desk. And if she had to bend over to do so—well, she couldn’t help it if this dress was exceptionally low-cut.

“I suppose,” Logan said in a strangled-sounding voice, “that there’s no such thing as a coincidence?”

“I certainly don’t believe in them.” She shifted her angle and took another shot. “Do you?”

“Not anymore.” Instead of sounding flummoxed or even angry, she detected a hint of humor in his voice. “I suppose you know your way around, then?”

“I do,” she cheerfully agreed. Then she paused, as if she’d just remembered that she’d forgotten her manners. “I’m so sorry—I don’t believe I caught your name?”

My,
that
was a look. But if he thought he could intimidate her, he had no idea who he was dealing with. “My apologies.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’m Ethan Logan. I’m the CEO of the Beaumont Brewery.”

She let his hand hang for a beat before she wrapped her fingers around his. He had hands that matched his shoulders—thick and strong. This Ethan Logan certainly didn’t look a thing like the bean-counting lackey she’d pictured.

“Ethan,” she said, dropping her gaze and looking up at him through her lashes.

His hand was warm as his fingers curled around her smaller hand. Strong, oh yes—he could easily break her hand. But he didn’t. All the raw power he projected was clearly—and safely—locked down.

Instead, he turned her hand over and kissed the back of it. The very thing she’d implied he should do earlier, when they’d had an audience. It’d seemed like a safe move then, an action she knew he’d never take her up on.

But here? In the enclosed space of the office, with no one to witness his chivalrous gesture? She couldn’t tell if the kiss was a threat or a seduction. Or both.

Then he raised his gaze and looked her in the eyes. Suddenly, the room was much warmer, the air much thinner. Frances had to use every ounce of her self-control not to take huge gulping breaths just to get some oxygen into her body. Oh, but he had nice eyes, warm and determined and completely focused on her.

She might have underestimated him.

Not that he needed to know that. She allowed herself an innocent blush, which took some work. She hadn’t been innocent for a long time. “A pleasure,” she murmured, wondering how long he planned to kiss her hand.

“It’s all mine,” he assured her, straightening up and taking a step back. She noted with interest that he didn’t sit back down. “So you’re the appraiser Delores hired?”

“I hope you won’t be too hard on her,” she simpered, taking this moment to put another few steps between his body and hers.

“And why shouldn’t I be? Are you even qualified to do this? Or did she just bring you in to needle me?”

He said it in far too casual a tone.
Damn.
His equilibrium was almost restored. She couldn’t have that.

And what’s more, she couldn’t let him impinge on her ability to do this job.

Then she realized that his lips—which had, to this point, only been compressed into a thin line of anger or dropped open in shock—were curving into a far-too-cocky grin. He’d scored a hit on her, and he knew it.

She quickly schooled her face into the appropriate demureness, using the excuse of taking more pictures to do so.

“I am, in fact, highly qualified to appraise the contents of this office. I have a bachelor’s degree in art history and a master’s of fine art. I was the manager at Galerie Solaria for several years. I have extensive connections with the local arts scene.”

She stated her qualifications in a light, matter-of-fact tone designed to put him at ease. Which, given the little donut stunt she’d pulled, would probably actually make him more nervous—if he had his wits about him. “And if anyone would know the true value of these objects,” she added, straightening to give him her very best smile, “it’d be a Beaumont—don’t you think? After all, this was ours for
so
long.”

He didn’t fall for the smile. Instead, he eyed her suspiciously, just as she’d suspected he would. She would have to reconsider her opinion of him. Now that the shock of her appearance was wearing off, he seemed more and more up to the task of playing this game.

Even though it shouldn’t, the thought thrilled her. Ethan Logan would be a formidable opponent. This might even be fun. She could play the game with Ethan—a game she would win, without a doubt—and in the process, she could protect her family legacy and help out Delores and all the rest of the employees.

“How about you?” she asked in an offhand manner.

“What about me?” he asked.

“Are you qualified to run a company? This company?” She couldn’t help it. The words came out a little sharper than she had wanted them to. But she followed up the questions with a fluttering of her eyelashes and another demure smile.