Heir of the Hamptons Read online

  “You’re out of your mind,” I said. “I’m a healthy, horny guy. How do you expect me to live without sex for two fucking years?”

  She glared at me. “Porn? A blow-up sex doll? Your right fucking hand?”

  Ava wasn’t seeing our arrangement the way she should have, which pissed me off. But damn it, the woman knew how to put up a fight.

  “Why not simply agree to keep our personal lives discreet?” I said. “I’ve already agreed to add financial penalties to the contract, which would give us both additional incentive for discretion.”

  “Too risky,” she said dismissively. “Did you listen to a word of your sister’s advice? Cara’s been more than clear that your stepmother’s going to be suspicious no matter what we do, and that she may well hire investigators to follow us. If Veronica scores a photo or two of you with some random chick and uses those photos to sic your father’s lawyers on us, it’s impossible to predict how far they’ll go.”

  “That won’t happen,” I said.

  “Not if you keep your dick in your pants—but apparently, that’s not an option. I’m prepared to give up two years of my life, but I’m not willing to get dragged into a lawsuit.”

  “It won’t happen,” I said.

  “You can’t deny that it could.”

  “It won’t.”

  Ava stood to her feet. “You’re right, Ronan. It won’t happen—because I’m done here.” She reached into her tote bag, pulled out the folder I’d given her two days before, and tossed it on my desk. “Here are the copies of the agreement that you gave me. I wish you the best of luck in solving your financial problems. But I need to find a different way of solving mine.”

  And with that, she turned and glided toward the door. My gut clenched as I felt my hopes leaving with her.

  “Wait a minute,” I called after her.

  She stopped and turned toward me. “What the hell for?”

  “Give me a minute to think,” I said.

  Could I sign away my life for two years? If I didn’t, then I was back in a quagmire of financial problems, two hours after I’d told Jack that I had everything under control.

  I didn’t have time to look for another fake wife, and even if I did, it would be next to impossible to find one as ideal as Ava. And if things fell apart with her, I wouldn’t be able to rely on my sister’s help to find another woman to marry. Cara would blame me for screwing things up with Ava, and she’d be furious with me.

  Too much was on the line, and with the clock running out, it was time to man up.

  So I steeled myself to make the most unwanted deal of my life.

  “Come back and sit down, Ava,” I said. “Let’s discuss your adjustments to the contract.”

  “My adjustments are nonnegotiable,” she said.

  “Do you have a draft of the contract with your changes?”

  “I do.”

  “Show it to me.”

  She walked back to my desk, reached into her bag, and withdrew a folder, which she handed to me. “I’ve enclosed two copies, one for each of us. The no-hookups requirement is on page four, and the financial penalties have been added to the termination clause at the end of the agreement.”

  “Have a seat,” I said. “It’s going to take me a minute to read this.”

  Ava perched on the chair across from me, and as I read her edits to the contract, I sensed her annoyance coming off her in waves. When we’d had dinner together, I’d suspected that she might have a feisty side, but I hadn’t expected a woman who arranged flowers for a living to negotiate so aggressively. Apparently, I was dealing with a real-life steel magnolia. She could probably manhandle a fistful of roses without feeling the stabs of their thorns.

  Her no-hookups requirement was straightforward, but when I read her revisions to the termination clause, it floored me. In addition to assigning hefty financial penalties to either of us if we broke the agreement, she’d added a paragraph requiring me to make her whole in the event of any lawsuits arising from my breaking it. I’d not only have to repay any portion of her money that was taken from her but also pay her legal bills and compensate her for any time lost from work.

  The little witch had thought of everything, and I looked up at her with new respect.

  “The paragraph addressing potential lawsuits is unnecessary,” I said. “I’m a man of my word, and if I commit to denying the women of Manhattan for the next two years, you can trust me to do just that.”

  “Bullshit,” she said. “Your history indicates otherwise.”

  “I’ve never broken a promise in my life,” I said.

  She lifted a delicate eyebrow at me. “Maybe not—but you’ve never promised to keep your pants on, have you?”

  Once again, she’d scored, and since I’d already committed to signing my life away, I resigned myself to the inevitable.

  “Very well,” I said. “I’ll agree to leave it in, because it’s a moot point anyway. I’ll keep my word, and there won’t be any lawsuits.”

  “I hope not,” she said. “But if your cock drags both of us into court, you’re the one who’s going to pay the bill.”

  Thanks to her, my cock was about to go on lockdown for two years, which was unimaginable to me. But I needed to save Kingsley Tech, and if that meant reviving my relationship with my right hand, then that was what I had to do.

  I picked up a pen and signed both copies of the revised contract, before handing the pen and the contracts to her. “Ready to sign?”

  For a long moment, she just looked at me.

  “What is it now?” I said. “Having second thoughts about signing your revised contract?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Not at all,” she said, before she leaned forward, signed both copies, and slid one across the desk to me, before dropping the other into her bag.

  Relieved that the deal was done, I leaned back in my chair. “So,” I said, “we have an agreement, which requires you to move into my apartment within one week. As soon as you’ve moved in, I’ll announce our engagement to my father and stepmother.”

  She fixed me with a look. “Before I move anything, you’ve got one more piece of paper to sign,” she said. “My fifty-thousand-dollar check. And one more thing, Ronan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t cheap out on the ring.”

  11

  AVA

  One week later

  “This should do it,” Cara said with an air of satisfaction as she adjusted the position of a lamp on an end table. “We’ve transformed Ronan’s boring guest bedroom into an attractive chill space where you can kick your heels off, and while the bath isn’t as nice as the one in the master, it’s adequate.”

  “It’s nicer than any place I’ve lived,” I said as I stepped back and took in the changes that we had made over the past few days. At Cara’s urging, I’d chosen a muted mossy green for the walls, and we’d hung several of her brightly colored abstract paintings. We’d replaced the original bedroom set with a beige leather Chesterfield daybed flanked by antique-white end tables, whose finishes were almost a perfect match to the one piece of furniture I’d kept from my apartment—my grandmother’s rolltop desk. Aside from the desk, my television, and a few favorite books, just about everything else had gone to Goodwill, since none of it was worth what it would cost to store it for two years.

  “Your concept was spot-on,” I said. “Despite looking like a couch, the daybed is super-comfortable, and with the daybed and matching ottoman facing the television, the room gives the impression of being a space for me to retreat to when Ronan takes over the living room to watch football.”

  “Or shoot zombies with the volume dialed up to eleven,” Cara said. “He claims that playing video games relaxes him, which is a mystery to me. What could possibly be relaxing about shooting three monsters while running from six more?”

  “I kind of get it,” I said. “Video games aren’t my thing, but they’re one way of releasing stress.”

  “I suppose,”
Cara said. “Now that we’re done in here, let’s review our staging of the rest of the apartment before I head home for the night. We need to make sure that we haven’t forgotten anything.”

  I trailed her down the hall that led to the main living space of Ronan’s loft apartment. As we passed the door to his workout room, which was closed, the whirring rhythm that came through the door told me that he was exercising on his rowing machine.

  “The vases of fresh flowers were a stroke of genius,” Cara said as we entered the living area. “They add a splash of color and signal that there’s a woman living here.”

  “I wanted to contribute something,” I said. “The bill for this fake marriage only continues to grow, and Ronan still has to put a rock on my finger.”

  “A big rock,” Cara said. “There’s no doing this halfway.”

  “I told Ronan as much when we signed the paperwork,” I said.

  She laughed. “You didn’t!”

  “I did. Given Ronan’s financial issues, I want to keep our wedding as inexpensive as possible, but that diamond is an investment in convincing Veronica that Ronan’s in love with me. He can sell the ring and get his money back when I return it to him in two years.”

  “Going too minimal isn’t wise,” Cara said. “Given that we’re talking about a fake marriage, there’s no better cover than a big white wedding.”

  “You’ve already promised to be my maid of honor, and I imagine Ronan will ask Jack to be his best man,” I said. “There’s no need for a retinue of bridesmaids and groomsmen.”

  “It’s fine to keep the ceremony brief and simple,” Cara said. “Everyone hates long ceremonies, anyway. But the reception and dinner need to be epic. If you and Ronan throw the kind of party that impresses Veronica’s society friends, that could go a long way toward convincing her that your marriage is real. If you can use the wedding to push her to that conclusion, the next two years will be a hell of a lot easier for you and Ronan.”

  “Then I’ll do my best to get her there,” I said. “If there’s anything I know, it’s how to throw a good party. Between my floral-design career and the catering jobs I worked during college, I’ve been part of hundreds of weddings.”

  “You have,” she said. “Which is why I know you’ve got this.”

  “At least the wedding part of it,” I said. “Thanks to ten years of sweating over wilting flowers, carting trays of lukewarm food, and witnessing bridezilla moments.”

  “You’d better plan on dishing up a few of those yourself,” Cara said. “You don’t have to go total bridezilla, but you do have to put your stamp on this wedding—especially since weddings are part of your work. If you don’t, my stepmother’s suspicions will go through the roof.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’ll find a way to put my stamp on the wedding. Although I’m sure it won’t be easy.”

  “Don’t overthink it,” Cara said. “Take one step at a time, stay focused on the goal, and remember that I’ve got your back.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” I said as we entered Ronan’s master suite.

  Furnished with a king-sized sleigh bed, matching end tables, and several large abstract paintings that were Cara’s work, the master bedroom was at the end of a short hallway that connected to separate areas with twin dressing rooms, closets, and baths. Earlier today, Cara and I had purchased duplicates of many of my toiletries and makeup, which we had used to stage the bathroom that was now supposedly mine, and most of my wardrobe now occupied the adjacent dressing room.

  Cara stepped into the dressing room, which contained an alcove with a counter, a chair, and a well-lit mirror for applying makeup.

  “This room needs a few finishing touches,” she said as she glanced around. “We need it to look like you’re using it.”

  I stepped into the bathroom, opened the drawer where I’d stored my makeup, and grabbed two handfuls of items, before returning to the dressing room, where I arranged the items on the counter beneath the mirror.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Good,” she said. “But I have another idea that will make it more convincing.”

  She opened one of the drawers, went through its contents, and pulled out a silk dressing gown and a lacy black brassiere. She draped the dressing gown over the back of the chair and then tossed the brassiere onto its seat.

  “There,” she said. “Always leave something for the maid to pick up. Staff know everything, and you can’t necessarily trust them.”

  “I didn’t realize Ronan had a maid,” I said.

  “Only a part-time one,” Cara said. “Josefina comes in twice a week for a few hours, and the one time I met her, she struck me as a very nice person. It’s not that I think she’s untrustworthy or anything—I just don’t know her well enough to be certain of how she’d respond if Veronica questioned her or offered her a fistful of cash in exchange for information.”

  “We’ve mostly talked about your stepmother,” I said. “While she’s the one most likely to make trouble, what about your father and your half brother, Aiden? What kind of reception should I expect from them?”

  “My father’s a very busy man,” Cara said. “Initially, he’ll just accept your engagement at face value. Aiden’s a brat, but due to his spoiled existence, he’s a young twenty-five and not nearly as savvy as he thinks he is.”

  “So your father isn’t likely to be a problem,” I said. “At least not initially. And Aiden doesn’t sound too difficult to handle.”

  “Beyond the occasional snarky comment, he isn’t,” Cara said. “That said, anything Aiden sees or hears reaches Veronica at the speed of light, so you need to watch your step when he’s within earshot.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s nearly eight, and I need to head home, but call me in the morning. I know you’re planning to work at Oasis tomorrow, but we can at least touch base via phone.”

  “Will do,” I said and gave her a big hug. “Thank you for everything.”

  After Cara left, I returned to the dressing room to grab a few items of clothing that I needed for tonight and tomorrow morning. With Cara gone, and the rush of staging the apartment over, the reality of my commitment sank into me. Although I’d spent most of the past three days in Ronan’s apartment, tonight would be the first night that I slept here, and the realization of how much my life was about to change wasn’t easy to grasp.

  Any more than Ronan was. Over the past three days, he’d mostly ignored Cara and me—until last night. When Cara and I were putting the final touches on the last coat of paint in my bedroom, Ronan appeared with bags of spicy, savory Thai takeout, which the three of us consumed together while engaging in a spirited discussion about the Yankees’ odds of winning the World Series this year.

  Last night, I’d felt the warmth of his attention and sensed why so many women had fallen at his feet—and into his bed. On top of his good looks, which gave Henry Cavill a run for his money, the man could charm paint off walls. When he’d arrived with the takeout, I’d been exhausted and paint-covered, but within minutes he’d made me laugh and relax.

  But this morning, when I’d arrived at the apartment to meet the furniture-delivery men, he’d been gruff to the point of surliness and left the apartment before the delivery was even finished.

  The man was an enigma. A living, breathing contradiction. And I had signed up to live with him and play his fake wife for two years.

  Just then, he appeared in the entrance to the dressing room. It was the first time I’d seen him shirtless, and the sight shot an unexpected bolt of lust to my groin.

  Dressed in navy sweat pants that hung low on his trim waist, the perspiration on his brow and the dampness of his dark hair testified to the strenuousness of his just-finished workout. Heat and a trace of musky male scent reached my nostrils, and my lips parted as I took in the thick, defined muscles of his shoulders and chest, which carried a light sheen of sweat. My gaze dipped lower, following the ripples of his corded abs, tracing the line of hair that led downw
ard, before I caught myself and tore my gaze away from the generously sized package that his sweat pants did little to conceal.

  With unsteady hands, I resumed stacking the clothes that I had come here to retrieve, hoping that he hadn’t noticed me gaping at him.

  “Like what you see?” he said.

  Annoyed that he’d caught me, I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Looks like you worked up a sweat.”

  His expression told me that he hadn’t bought my cover-up. “Isn’t that the point of working out?”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “You could seriously use a shower.”

  “That’s where I’m headed now,” he said. “Before I go, is my apartment pretty enough for you yet? You and my sister have been at it for three days.”

  My annoyance grew. Cara and I had worked our butts off to stage the apartment, and he hadn’t lifted a finger to help. On the contrary, aside from the one night he’d deigned to show up with the takeout, the man had gone about his life as if nothing out of the ordinary was taking place around him.

  “Cara and I are finished,” I said. “If you’re done working off your sexual tension, perhaps you’d care to look at what we’ve done with the guest bedroom.”

  He leaned against the doorframe and regarded me. “The one with the bed of nails I bought for you?”

  Something snapped inside me. “That’s right, Ronan,” I said sweetly. “The very one. And thank you for the guillotine you put in the shower. That was thoughtful of you.”

  A slow smile spread across his face, and he released a chuckle. “You’re quick.”

  “Unfortunately, when it comes to your reputation, I’ve heard the same about you.”

  His eyes narrowed and his smile vanished. “Unfortunately for you, Ava, finding out the truth isn’t part of our contract.”

  “If it had been, I wouldn’t have signed it.”

  “Your loss,” he said, before turning away and disappearing into his dressing area. A second later, a door slammed shut and the water turned on.