The Billionaire's Counterfeit Girlfriend (4 page)

“You’re probably right.”

“Hop in the car,” he said, opening the door to his Bugatti. “And let’s go.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.” He drove, weaving in and out of the early lunch traffic. “Just so you know, somebody put the scene at the lobby from yesterday up on YouTube.”

She covered her face. “Oh no.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“How did you find out?”

“Mom saw it.”

“Oh my god. She and how many other people?”

He shrugged. “Who cares? Most of them are strangers anyway, and the person who should be ashamed of himself is Walt.”

Dropping her hands, she looked outside and sighed. After a few moments, she asked, “Why lunch?”

Several flippant responses leapt to mind, but he chose honesty. “I need to make people think we’re a real couple before the party.” He gave her a quick grin. “So sit back and enjoy the courtship phase, where I’m trying to get to know everything about you.”

She laughed, the sound reluctant and repressed at first, then growing more free-flowing as she shook her head. Was there an odd undertone of disbelief and semi-horror? Maybe he’d imagined it. “What’s there to know?” she said. “I’m a pretty boring person.”

“I don’t think so.” A boring woman wouldn’t have had the confidence to stand tall and proud, despite the ample curves that had somehow become unfashionable in the last few decades. A boring woman wouldn’t have the brainpower or emotional control to manage the schedule of somebody as dynamic and busy as Gavin. And a boring woman definitely wouldn’t have possessed the silent siren allure that seemed to be all Hilary’s own. Mark found her irresistible.

He pulled into an empty parking lot; before them was a semi-gutted building. “Come on,” he said, opening the door for her.

She stepped out and stared at the dark and barren place. One of the big front windows was missing; the other still had white tape crossing it diagonally. Some of the girders were exposed, and loose wires hung from the ceiling like vines in a jungle. “Wow. This is sort of unusual. Most people go to restaurants or a food court.”

“Yeah, I know.” He cleared his throat. “The place is nowhere near ready yet, but the chef wants to show off some stuff. I figured I’d bring you.”

“This is going to be another one of your restaurants?”

“That’s the plan. French-Japanese fusion.”

“What’s the name of the place?”

“I haven’t decided yet. But inspiration will come. It always does.”

“I thought you were going to start a new restaurant in Houston.”

He gave her a crooked smile. There was one benefit to her working for Gavin: she heard about him. Now he just needed to make her more aware of him as a man. “I’ve been looking into some possibilities there, but I haven’t found anything that really catches my imagination.”

She started toward the building, intrigued despite herself. “When are you going to open it?”

“When it’s ready.” He gently took hold of her wrist, resting his thumb over the pulse point. He could feel it throb against his bare skin, and his heartbeat picked up its pace to match hers. His breath caught. How could this simple touch make him feel like he was fundamentally and inexorably connected to her? He found that he didn’t want to let go. “Come on. Our lunch awaits.”

The interior was stark. The walls needed paint; the floor something other than the flat concrete surface. Panels of drywall were stacked in a corner, a circular saw lying on them with its cord hanging over the edge. The only section that seemed complete was the bar in the front—but then Mark
was
an expert bartender—and an open kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances and gas stoves and grills and everything else a chef could possibly want. Curved track lights lit the counter like a stage, and a stout, dark-haired man—probably the chef for the new restaurant—nodded at them.

“What do you think?” Mark said.

“I like the bar,” Hilary said.

He laughed. “Who cares about the bar?”

“You, apparently.” As she got close, she could make out intricate patterns on the counter that looked Asian. She didn’t know eastern art well enough to know if it was authentically Japanese, but she knew Mark didn’t believe in neglecting details. “So what kind of design theme are you thinking of?”

“Clean. Minimalist. Lots of open space, but with a sense of privacy for the diners with strategic screens and translucent silk hangings. They’re going to be embroidered by hand, and each is going to be unique. I already have an artist who’s working on the designs.” His eyes bright, he gestured at the loft. “That up there is going to be turned into a special seating area for parties or business dinners or whatever. When people come in here, I want them to feel like they’re on a pleasure boat with the most incredible culinary delights. I’m also in the middle of formulating my own specialty cocktail recipes for the restaurant.”

She had no idea how he was going to merge French and Japanese aesthetics, but if anybody could do it, it was him. People had thought he was crazy when he’d explained his ideas for La Mer. It would be surrounded by walls made of aquariums and serve the best seafood in the world. It’d turned out to be one of the most successful restaurants in the country. Everyone talked about it, and everyone wanted to go there. “I can see how this place could become something amazing.”

He grinned. “You think so?”

“Yes.” She grinned back. “I hope you let me in on opening night.”

“You got it. A VIP table and the best champagne, on the house.” He pulled out a chair at the only table that had a cloth over it. “Please.”

After she settled in, he sat down and draped a thick cloth napkin over his lap. “You have to tell me honestly what you think about everything.”

“I can try, but I do need to go back in an hour or so.”

“Gavin can tie his shoes without you for a little while.”

She chuckled. “People give me entirely too much credit.” Still she couldn’t deny a small pleasure at hearing Mark praise her professional capacity. It was important—the only thing she could count on, really. No matter what anybody said, people didn’t stay the same. They changed…generally for the worse…and let her down.

A server she remembered seeing at La Mer brought out a small appetizer of green crepes made with avocado, cream cheese and smoked salmon. A giant raw shrimp joined the plate, its succulent body bathed in light, lemony sauce. “This is really good,” she said after a bite.

“Think so?”

“Uh-huh. Where did you find the chef?”

He popped a small piece of crepe in his mouth and nodded with approval. “I met him in Marseilles.”

“French?”

“Well, ah, yes…”

Okay, that had sounded dumb. She resolved to do better. “How did you get him to come over?”

“He said he wanted to work at a place where his talent was appreciated. Apparently he thought I appreciated his talent the most.”

“You like his food.”

“Yes. There’s nothing to really nitpick. He’s one of the most brilliant
cuisiniers
I know”—Mark leaned across the table and brushed the back of her hand gently—“although you shouldn’t tell him that. His head might get too big for that chef’s hat.”

She chortled to hide her reaction to his touch and reached for her glass. She didn’t know why his barest stroke made her want to take his hand in hers. “All right. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The rest of the lunch was excellent, but not quite as leisurely as she would’ve liked since she had to go back to work. The entrée was sea bream in the most delightful butter sauce with the barest hint of wasabi. Somehow they worked beautifully together to compliment the firm, fleshy fillet. The final course consisted of slivers of hard cheese, fresh berries and crème brûlée.

“Mmm, my favorite,” she said, taking a big bite.

“I don’t know anybody who doesn’t like crème brûlée.”

“Too bad. I’d help them finish their dessert.” The top was caramelized to perfection, the sugary film extra sweet and crisp. She sighed with pleasure. “Do you know how to cook?” She was always curious about that.

“Me?” He blinked like the notion was somehow unthinkable. “No.”

“Not even the most basic stuff?”

“Nope.”

“But you own so many restaurants.”

“Exactly. I own them. I don’t cook in them. If I did the places would go bankrupt.” He flashed a quick grin. “But I’m good at making drinks. So when a new restaurant opens, I might bartend for a few weeks to see how things go. And to say hi to people who come by.”

Mark had lots of friends, most of them well-connected and wealthy. Mark’s restaurant menus didn’t have prices on them. If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford the meal.

Unless you were one of his Quarterly Girls.

“What?” Mark said.

“Huh?”

“You had an odd look just now. What is it?”

Surprised at his observation, she took a sip of her ginger ale to give herself time. “Well. I was just thinking about your reputation.”

“Ah.” He leaned closer and gave her a wicked smile. “The whole awesome lover thing? I have to tell you, it’s entirely deserved.”

“Not that.” She felt her cheeks heat like a young girl’s. What about him made her smile so easily and blush? It was like she was back in her teenage groupie years or something.

“You know—”

Her phone beeped, and she almost jumped. “Sorry.” She held up a finger. “Let me just check that.” It was a reminder about the big banquet for a charitable foundation Gavin was involved in. She needed to follow up on a few details and have a conference call with the organizers to finalize everything. With Gavin’s wife Amandine still without an assistant, Hilary was taking on more work to smooth things out with their philanthropy projects. “Oh shoot. I’m sorry, but I really do have to get back to the office.”

“No problem.”

As she stood up, he took her hand. The touch sent shivers along her arm, followed by heat unfurling in her belly. She swallowed. Good god, this was dangerous. She shouldn’t be attracted to somebody as bad for her as Mark would be. She started to pull away until she noticed his disarming smile. This contact meant nothing to him—it was something he did because he was Mark. It’d be ludicrous for her to make a big deal about it.

“Thank you for the lovely company, Hilary. I enjoyed it very much.”

“Me too. And the food was amazing.”

“So,” he said, eyebrows raised expectantly, “about our next
rendezvous
before the party…”

The man was relentless…even if he did have a pretty good French accent. “Why do you need a date to this party? It’s just a family thing, right?”

He looked at her for a moment, then said, “If I show up solo, I’m going to be set up with a woman my mother deems perfect for me.”

“So?” Maybe his mother knew just the type of woman her son wouldn’t dump after three months.

“I’m not interested. I’m not the kind of guy who does commitment.”

Hilary laughed. “It’s just a little set-up, not a marriage.” When he didn’t laugh, she peered at him. “Isn’t it?”

He shook his head grimly. “I’m pretty sure they’re picking out china even as we speak.”

She pulled her lips in. She didn’t want to help him out. Associating with a playboy who threw her off her equilibrium was equivalent to standing next to a ticking time bomb and hoping it wouldn’t go off. On the other hand, she owed him one, and he was asking for a relatively simple favor. “Fine. I said I’d go. You don’t have to take me out for the entire month.”

“Oh no, we do.” He gave her the most wicked grin. “Remember—we have to make everyone think we’re a real couple.”

* * *

Around seven thirty, Hilary pulled into the driveway of her aunt’s humble two-story home in a lower middle-class neighborhood that once had been nicer but now had a run-down feel. The houses had a mildly worn look about them, reflecting their owners’ priorities. Most didn’t have the time or money to garden or paint or do any fancy upkeep. But none of them looked grossly neglected either.

She frowned when she saw a shiny black Mercedes in front of her aunt’s house. No one in the neighborhood owned a car that expensive, and she doubted her aunt knew anybody rich enough to drive one.

As she got out of her environmentally correct Prius, the Mercedes flashed its high beams at her. She raised a hand and squinted. There was a man behind the wheel, but he didn’t look like anyone she knew.

He got out, wearing a chauffeur’s uniform, and opened the back door. The familiar figure of Ceinlys Pryce unfolded from the car. She was still a gorgeous woman, apparently having taken good care of herself in the last few decades. From what Hilary had heard, Ceinlys had been one of the greatest beauties of her generation, which was how she’d managed to snare Salazar into marriage. Her high society husband had a reputation as the biggest player around, with probably at least one mistress in every major city in America, and maybe Europe as well.

A dress as black as her hair added severity to her solemn expression. There was a ruby brooch on one slim shoulder that glittered like fresh blood. Stylish high heels with diamond accents encased her small feet. Everything about her was expensive and elegant. “Hilary,” she said. “Mind if we go for a drive?”

The invitation didn’t sound all that friendly. Not that her voice was frosty or rude. Far from it. It was the aloof way she held herself and spoke.

On the other hand, what could Ceinlys do to Hilary? Maybe she was just concerned about the unfortunate video on YouTube. “Sure.”

Ceinlys disappeared into the car, and Hilary followed. The driver closed the door and started pulling away. Ceinlys raised the partition. “I heard about what’s going on between you and my son.”

“I’m sorry about the incident in the lobby.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I heard that you saw it on YouTube.”

“Ah that. Yes. It was quite…vulgar, but somewhat to be expected. But I’m not here to talk about that.”

It was Hilary’s turn to be surprised. “You’re not?”

“I’m wondering what you’re doing with my son. I heard you had lunch with him.”

“Wow, news travels fast. Are you having him watched?”