Sarah Anderson - Falling For Her Fake Fiancé

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.

Not that they worked. “I am, in fact,” he said in a mocking tone as he parroted her words, “highly qualified to run this company. I am a co-owner of my firm, Corporate Restructuring Services. I have restructured thirteen previous companies, raising stock prices and increasing productivity and efficiency. I have a bachelor’s degree in economics and a master’s of business administration, and I will turn this company around.”

He said the last part with all the conviction of a man who truly believed himself to be on the right side of history.