Renee Roszel - The One-Week Marriage

By the time the shock of being dragged onto the plane wore off, Izzy and her boss were thirty thousand feet above the Eastern seaboard, winging south toward Miami. From her window seat, she blinked, coming fully back to reality. She glowered at the man beside her. He was on the phone. His deep chuckle filled the cabin. Izzy saw people turn and smile. His laughter was contagious. People around him caught it like the flu—only with more palatable results.

However, there was nothing palatable going on from where Izzy sat. She had a feeling she was the only person in the half-filled first-class section who wasn’t smiling. As her boss talked business with one of his advertising clients, he happened to catch sight of her frown and winked nonchalantly. As if he thought that would make it all better! How dare he drag her onto a plane, without even a toothbrush, expecting her to spend the week lying for him.

He hung up. “Okay, Peabody,” he said, drawing her glance. “I know you’re not crazy about this.” She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand, halting her. “Neither am I, but we can make this work.” He shifted to better see her. “Don’t forget, you’re getting a new wardrobe out of the deal, and I’ll pay double overtime.” His grin was sunny, meant to charm the daylights out of her.

But to Izzy that smile was pure cruelty. He knew no flesh-and-blood woman could withstand it—fiendish, manipulative beast! However, since he didn’t think of Izzy as a woman, she had no plans to quiver and sigh and melt like one. Lifting her chin, she muttered, “It didn’t cross your mind that I believe this ruse is unfair and that I might refuse to have anything to do with it?”

His smile didn’t dim, but somehow became wry. She realized the change was in his eyes, which narrowed slightly. “It crossed my mind.”

“And then flitted right out?”

“Yes.”

She eyed heaven and turned toward the window. Outside the sun shone on fluffy clouds below them, the image of a snow-covered landscape in some arctic wonderland. “You take me for granted, Mr. Parish,” she said. “I don’t like that trait in you.”

“Are you bucking for a raise, Peabody?” Amusement rode his words.

She twisted to scowl at him. “Everything is not about money, sir.”

“Reverse psychology.” He nodded. “Good strategy. What about five percent?”

She gaped, anger welling inside her. “What?”

He chuckled. “Okay, seven.”

With an exasperated moan she lay back and closed her eyes. “I don’t want a raise, Mr. Parish. I simply can’t abide the idea of lying to that nice man.”

“If you like him, you’ll go along with my plan.”

She peered at him from behind her lashes. “Excuse me?”

“He needs me, Peabody.” Mr. Parish leaned closer. Reflexively she fumbled for the controls, pressing her seat back to recline. With her retreat, his grin grew crooked. “There, you see? You’re acting like a wife, already.”

She frowned. “Your attitude about marriage alone should disqualify you!”

“My attitude about marriage shouldn’t come into it.”

“Well I shouldn’t be here, but I am.” She wasn’t sure if her argument held a scrap of logic. With Mr. Parish leaning over her, his face inches above hers, her brain was misfiring. Frantically she pressed her seat button, but nothing happened. She was as far back as she could go.

“Are you telling me life isn’t fair, Peabody, and that we must play the hand we’re dealt?”

She had no idea if that’s what she meant, but decided it sounded good and nodded.

The humor in his expression reminded her of a father tolerating a pampered child. “You don’t think I’m playing the hand I was dealt?”

“Yes, I do,” she retorted. “But they used to shoot cardsharps for playing a hand the way you’re playing yours.”

“You think I’m cheating?”

“Think?” She was amazed he could even ask the question.

“I’m not, Peabody. I can’t.”

“No?” She eyed him with distrust, curious to see how he thought he could weasel out of admitting he was a scoundrel. “I doubt that.”

His grin was cocky and sexy. “You can embezzle from a company and cheat on a spouse, Peabody. There are as many ways to cheat as there are people. But you can’t cheat on inspiration.” He watched her speculatively. “Quality can’t be faked. Married or not, I’ll give old Rufus quality work.” He nudged her, a brief, teasing gesture. “Tell me honestly, do you believe I have any intention of cheating the man?”

She stared at him. How did he do it? Deep down, she knew if he got the Yum-Yum account, he would work a miracle—conceive a campaign that would elevate baby food above the mundane and make the hawking of it an earth-shattering event.

Gabriel Parish was gifted that way. She’d seen it happen too many times to doubt his ability. It was almost scary. Defeat washed over her, and she opened her mouth to admit he was right. He wasn’t cheating, wouldn’t cheat. He was merely playing his hand—his own way. His motto was Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained and this was simply another venture to him. The method be damned.

Yet, in a sudden flash of insight she couldn’t make the admission. Wouldn’t. No matter how pretty the words he used to justify it, he would still be lying about being married, and she would have to join him in his lie. Forcing herself, she met his gaze. She had to be firm. “I won’t do it, Mr. Parish.”

He watched her for a minute, his nearness making her too aware of him. The seconds dragged by.

She glared.

He smiled.

She grew panicky. If she looked into those eyes for another second she would agree to anything he asked. “Would you...” She swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat. “Would you back off, sir?”

One dark eyebrow rose a trifle. He turned away to steeple his fingers before his face. He seemed to fall into deep thought. Izzy wondered about what.

Her boss had a keen, unorthodox mind. At thirty-five, he was called “the young genius of promoting” in New York’s fast-paced advertising world. His career was his family, his passion, his children, his wife and his love. In the three years she’d been part of his breakneck-take-no-prisoners world she’d never complained, never objected. She had a feeling he wouldn’t take her rejection well. She was tampering with his whole existence.

Staring out her window, she heaved a sigh. Quite possibly she wouldn’t have to hand him her resignation letter after all.

Renewed yearning swelled in her breast. If Mr. Parish only knew how badly she wanted to be his wife. His real wife. Someone he loved, someone he could come to for comfort and happiness. But a sham wife? She couldn’t go through with it—being near him, braving false endearments and displays of affection.

The idea was too painful to bear.

She breathed deeply in an effort to remain composed. This was no time for silly tears. After staring out the window for what seemed to be a hundred years, it began to nag her that Mr. Parish continued to say nothing. Her nerves tightened like overwound clock springs, and she felt close to screaming. Why didn’t he just say, “You’re fired!” and get it over and done? She wanted to look at him, gauge his expression, his posture, his demeanor, but she didn’t have the nerve.

After ten more agonizing minutes, she knew if she didn’t do something she would jump up and start screaming. That sort of behavior would only get her sent to a home for the mentally disturbed or a cell in airline prison.

She peeked at her boss. It startled her to see that he’d reclined his seat and appeared to be sleeping. Sleeping? The sight did unruly things to her. His hawk-like features were riveting and seductive, even in repose.