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Falling For Her Fake Fiancé
Sarah M. Anderson
All it takes to seal the deal is one little temporary engagement….Ethan Logan never fails. But taking over the multi-million-dollar Beaumont Brewery is proving impossible. To succeed will mean taking drastic measures. It means proposing to a red-haired Beaumont bombshell. It’s the perfect plan—until Ethan realizes he wants her for more than just business….Frances Beaumont won’t marry a total stranger and get nothing in return. But once Ethan agrees to the socialite’s terms, she expects their charade to go off without a hitch. Frances doesn’t believe in love and has never met a man she couldn’t handle. And then one kiss from her fake fiancé changes everything….


All of the raw power he projected was clearly—and safely—locked down.
He turned her hand over and kissed the back of it. 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 start taking 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. “I’m not going to take the job.”
He laughed then. It was a warm sound, full of humor and honesty. It made her want to smile.
“I wasn’t going to offer it to you again. You’re right—it is beneath you.”
Here it came—the trap he was waiting to spring. He leaned forward, his gaze intent on hers.
“I don’t want to hire you. I want to marry you.”
* * *
Falling for Her Fake Fiancé is part of the Beaumont Heirs series: One Colorado family, limitless scandal!
Falling for her Fake Fiancé
Sarah M. Anderson


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Award-winning author SARAH M. ANDERSON may live east of the Mississippi River, but her heart lies out West on the Great Plains. With a lifelong love of horses and two history teachers for parents, she had plenty of encouragement to learn everything she could about the tribes of the Great Plains.
When she started writing, it wasn’t long before her characters found themselves out in South Dakota among the Lakota Sioux. She loves to put people from two different worlds into new situations and to see how their backgrounds and cultures take them someplace they never thought they’d go.
Sarah’s book A Man of Privilege won the 2012 RT Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best. Her book Straddling the Line was named Best of 2013 by CataRomance, and Mystic Cowboy was a 2014 Booksellers’ Best Award finalist in the Single Title category as well as a finalist for the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence.
When not helping out at her son’s school or walking her rescue dogs, Sarah spends her days having conversations with imaginary cowboys and American Indians, all of which is surprisingly well tolerated by her wonderful husband. Readers can find out more about Sarah’s love of cowboys and Indians at www.sarahmanderson.com (http://www.sarahmanderson.com).
To Jennifer Porter, who took me under her wing before I was published and helped give me a platform to talk about heroes in cowboy hats. Thank you so much for supporting me! We’ll always have dessert at Junior’s together!
Contents
Cover (#uc37479a4-da0d-528f-bd6d-2538f7f7c736)
Introduction (#ub4e55dd0-70a6-5840-95bf-2a7182694779)
Title Page (#ud16c1e5e-da3d-52ad-b699-de313013b035)
About the Author (#uafe354b1-a3c4-5786-b131-af732d5b8589)
Dedication (#u083b7ef1-6673-5cec-85b3-babf8d997ebe)
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#u5aa978d0-710e-530f-ba53-5c496bf1f888)
“Mis-ter Logan,” the old-fashioned intercom rasped on Ethan’s desk.
He scowled at the thing and at the way his current secretary insisted on hissing his name. “Yes, Delores?” He’d never been in an office that required an intercom. It felt as if he’d walked into the 1970s.
Of course, that was probably how old the intercom was. After all, Ethan was sitting in the headquarters of the Beaumont Brewery. This room—complete with hand-carved everything—probably hadn’t been redecorated since, well...
A very long time ago. The Beaumont Brewery was 160 years old, after all.
“Mis-ter Logan,” Delores rasped again, her dislike for him palatable. “We’re going to have to stop production on the Mountain Cold and Mountain Cold Light lines.”
“What? Why?” Logan demanded. The last thing he could afford was another shutdown.
Ethan had been running this company for almost three months now. His firm, Corporate Restructuring Services, had beat out some heavy hitters for the right to handle the reorganization of the Beaumont Brewery, and Ethan had to make this count. If he—and, by extension, CRS—could turn this aging, antique company into a modern-day business, their reputation in the business world would be cemented.
Ethan had expected some resistance. It was only natural. He’d restructured thirteen companies before taking the helm of Beaumont Brewery. Each company had emerged from the reorganization process leaner, meaner and more competitive in a global economy. Everyone won when that happened.
Yes, thirteen success stories.
Yet nothing had prepared him for the Beaumont Brewery.
“There’s a flu going around,” Delores said. “Sixty-five workers are home sick, the poor dears.”
A flu. Wasn’t that just a laugh and a half? Last week, it’d been a cold that had knocked out forty-seven employees. And the week before, after a mass food poisoning, fifty-four people hadn’t been able to make it in.
Ethan was no idiot. He’d cut the employees a little slack the first two times, trying to earn their trust. But now it was time to lay down the law.
“Fire every single person who called in sick today.”
There was a satisfying pause on the other end of the intercom, and, for a moment, Ethan felt a surge of victory.
The victorious surge was short-lived, however.
“Mis-ter Logan,” Delores began. “Regretfully, it seems that the HR personnel in charge of processing terminations are out sick today.”
“Of course they are,” he snapped. He fought the urge to throw the intercom across the room, but that was an impulsive, juvenile thing to do, and Ethan was not impulsive or juvenile. Not anymore.
So, as unsatisfying as it was, he merely shut off the intercom and glared at his office door.
He needed a better plan.
He always had a plan when he went into a business. His method was proven. He could turn a flailing business around in as little as six months.
But this? The Beaumont freaking Brewery?
That was the problem, he decided. Everyone—the press, the public, their customers and especially the employees—still thought of this as the Beaumont Brewery. Sure, the business had been under Beaumont management for a good century and a half. That was the reason AllBev, the conglomerate that had hired CRS to handle this reorganization, had chosen to keep the Beaumont name a part of the Brewery—the name-recognition value was through the roof.
But it wasn’t the Beaumont family’s brewery anymore. They had been forced out months ago. And the sooner the employees realized that, the better.
He looked around the office. It was beautiful, heavy with history and power.
He’d heard that the conference table had been custom-made. It was so big and heavy that it’d been built in the actual office—they might have to take a wall out to remove it. Tucked in the far corner by a large coffee table was a grouping of two leather club chairs and a matching leather love seat. The coffee table was supposedly made of one of the original wagon wheels that Phillipe Beaumont had used when he’d crossed the Great Plains with a team of Percheron draft horses back in the 1880s.
The only signs of the current decade were the flat-screen television that hung over the sitting area and the electronics on the desk, which had been made to match the conference table.
The entire room screamed Beaumont so loudly he was practically deafened by it.
He flipped on the hated intercom again. “Delores.”
“Yes, Mis—”
He cut her off before she could mangle his name again. “I want to redo the office. I want all this stuff gone. The curtains, the woodwork—and the conference table. All of it.” Some of these pieces—hand carved and well cared for, like the bar—would probably fetch a pretty penny. “Sell it off.”
There was another satisfying pause.
“Yes, sir.” For a moment, he thought she sounded subdued—cowed. As if she couldn’t believe he would really dismantle the heart of the Beaumont Brewery. But then she added, “I know just the appraiser to call,” in a tone that sounded...smug?
He ignored her and went back to his computer. Two lines shut down was not acceptable. If either line didn’t pull double shifts tomorrow, he wouldn’t wait for HR to terminate employees. He’d do it himself.
After all, he was the boss here. What he said went.
And that included the furniture.
* * *
Frances Beaumont slammed her bedroom door behind her and flopped down on her bed. Another rejection—she couldn’t fall much lower.
She was tired of this. She’d been forced to move back into the Beaumont mansion after her last project had failed so spectacularly that she’d had to give up her luxury condo in downtown Denver. She’d even been forced to sell most of her designer wardrobe.
The idea—digital art ownership and crowdsourcing art patronage online by having buyers buy stock in digital art—had been fundamentally sound. Art might be timeless, but art production and collection had to evolve. She’d sunk a considerable portion of her fortune into Art Digitale, as well as every single penny she’d gotten from the sale of the Beaumont Brewery.
What an epic, crushing mistake. After months of delays and false starts—and huge bills—Art Digitale had been live for three weeks before the funds ran out. Not a single transaction had taken place on the website. In her gilded life, she’d never experienced such complete failure. How could she? She was a Beaumont.
Her business failure was bad enough. But worse? She couldn’t get a job. It was as if being a Beaumont suddenly counted for nothing. Her first employer, the owner of Galerie Solaria, hadn’t exactly jumped at the chance to have Frances come back, even though Frances knew how to flatter the wealthy, art-focused patrons and massage the delicate egos of artists. She knew how to sell art—didn’t that count for something?
Plus, she was a Beaumont. A few years ago, people would have jumped at the chance to be associated with one of the founding families of Denver. Frances had been an in-demand woman.
“Where did I go wrong?” she asked her ceiling.
Unsurprisingly, it didn’t have an answer.
She’d just turned thirty. She was broke and had moved back in with her family—her brother Chadwick and his family, plus assorted Beaumonts from her father’s other marriages.
She shuddered in horror.
When the family still owned the Brewery, the Beaumont name had meant something. Frances had meant something. But ever since that part of her life had been sold, she’d been...adrift.
If only there was some way to go back, to put the Brewery under the family’s control again.
Yes, she thought bitterly, that was definitely an option. Her older brothers Chadwick and Matthew had walked away and started their own brewery, Percheron Drafts. Phillip, her favorite older brother, the one who had gotten her into parties and helped her build her reputation as the Cool Girl of Denver high society, had ensconced himself out on the Beaumont Farm and gotten sober. No more parties with him. And her twin brother, Byron, was starting a new restaurant.
Everyone else was moving forward, pairing off. And Frances was stuck back in her childhood room, alone.
Not that she believed a man would solve any of her problems. She’d grown up watching her father burn through marriage after unhappy marriage. No, she knew love didn’t exist. Or if it did, it wasn’t in the cards for her.
She was on her own here.
She opened up a message from her friend Becky and stared at the picture of a shuttered storefront. She and Becky had worked together at Galerie Solaria. Becky had no famous last name and no social connections, but she knew art and had a snarky sense of humor that cut through the bull. More to the point, Becky treated Frances like she was a real person, not just a special Beaumont snowflake. They had been friends ever since.
Becky had a proposition. She wanted to open a new gallery, one that would merge the new-media art forms with the standard classics that wealthy patrons preferred. It wasn’t as avant-garde as Frances’s digital art business had been, but it was a good bridge between the two worlds.
The only problem was Frances did not have the money to invest. She wished to God she did. She could co-own and comanage the gallery. It wouldn’t bring in big bucks, but it could get her out of the mansion. It could get her back to being a somebody. And not just any somebody. She could go back to being Frances Beaumont—popular, respected, envied.
She dropped her phone onto the bed in defeat. Right. Another fortune was just going to fall into her lap and she’d be in demand. Sure. And she would also sprout wings.
True despair was sinking in when her phone rang. She answered it without even looking at the screen. “Hello?” she said morosely.
“Frances? Frannie,” the woman said. “I know you may not remember me—I’m Delores Hahn. I used to work in accounting at—”
The name rang a bell, an older woman who wore her hair in a tight bun. “Oh! Delores! Yes, you were at the Brewery. How are you?”
The only people besides her siblings who called her Frannie were the longtime employees of the Beaumont Brewery. They were her second family—or at least, they had been.
“We’ve been better,” Delores said. “Listen, I have a proposal for you. I know you’ve got those fancy art degrees.”
In the safety of her room, Frances blushed. After today’s rejections, she didn’t feel particularly fancy. “What kind of proposal?” Maybe her luck was about to change. Maybe this proposal would come with a paycheck.
“Well,” Delores went on in a whisper, “the new CEO that AllBev brought in?”
Frances scowled. “What about him? Failing miserably, I hope.”
“Sadly,” Delores said in a not-sad-at-all voice, “there’s been an epidemic of Brew Flu going around. We had to halt production on two lines today.”
Frances couldn’t hold back the laugh that burst forth from her. “Oh, that’s fabulous.”
“It was,” Delores agreed. “But it made Logan—that’s the new CEO—so mad that he decided to rip out your father’s office.”
Frances would have laughed again, except for one little detail. “He’s going to destroy Daddy’s office? He wouldn’t dare!”
“He told me to sell it off. All of it—the table, the bar, everything. I think he’d even perform an exorcism, if he thought it’d help,” she added.
Her father’s office. Technically, it had most recently been Chadwick’s office. But Frances had never stopped thinking of her father and that office together. “So what’s your proposal?”
“Well,” Delores said, her voice dropping past whisper and straight into conspirator. “I thought you could come do the appraisals. Who knows—you might be able to line up buyers for some of it.”
“And...” Frances swallowed. The following was a crass question, but desperate times and all that. “And would this Logan fellow pay for the appraisal? If I sold the furniture myself—” say, to a certain sentimental older brother who’d been the CEO for almost ten years “—would I get a commission?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Frances tried to see the downside of this situation, but nothing popped up. Delores was right—if anyone had the connections to sell off her family’s furniture, it’d be Frances.
Plus, if she could get a foothold back in the Brewery, she might be able to help all those poor, flu-stricken workers. She wasn’t so naive to think that she could get a conglomerate like AllBev to sell the company back to the family, but...
She might be able to make this Logan’s life a little more difficult. She might be able to exact a little revenge. After all—the sale of the Brewery had been when her luck had turned sour. And if she could get paid to do all of that?
“Let’s say Friday, shall we?” That was only two days away, but that would give her plenty of time to plan and execute her trap. “I’ll bring the donuts.”
Delores actually giggled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Oh, yes. This was going to be great.
* * *
“Mis-ter Logan, the appraiser is here.”
Ethan set down the head count rolls he’d been studying. Next week, he was reducing the workforce by 15 percent. People with one or more “illness absences” were going to be the first to find themselves out on the sidewalk with nothing more than a box of their possessions.
“Good. Send him in.”
But no nerdy-looking art geek walked into the office. Ethan waited and then switched the intercom back on. Before he could ask Delores the question, though, he heard a lot of people talking—and laughing?
It sounded as though someone was having a party in the reception area.
What the hell?
He strode across the room and threw open his office door. There was, point of fact, a party going on outside. Workers he’d only caught glimpses of before were all crowded around Delores’s desk, donuts in their hands and sappy smiles on their faces.
“What’s going on out here?” he thundered. “This is a business, people, not a—”
Then the crowd parted, and he saw her.
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 (#u5aa978d0-710e-530f-ba53-5c496bf1f888)
Oh, 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.
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.
“I’m quite sure you will.” Of course she agreed with him. He was expecting her to argue. “Why, once the employees all get over that nasty flu that’s been going around...” She lifted a shoulder, as if to say it was only a matter of time. “You’ll have things completely under control within days.” Then, just to pour a little lemon juice in the wound, she leaned forward. His gaze held—he didn’t even glance at her cleavage. Damn. Time to up the ante.
She let her eyes drift over those massive shoulders and the broad chest. He was quite unlike the thin, pale men who populated the art world circles she moved within. She could still feel his lips on the back of her hand.
Oh, yes, she could play this game. For a short while, she could feel like Frances Beaumont again—powerful, beautiful, holding sway over everyone in her orbit. She could use Ethan Logan to get back what she’d lost in the past six months and—if she was very lucky—she might even be able to inflict some damage on AllBev through the Brewery. Corporate espionage and all that.
So she added in a confidential voice, “I have faith in your abilities.”
“Do you?”
She looked him up and down again and smiled. A real smile this time, not one couched to elicit a specific response. “Oh, yes,” she said, turning away from him. “I do.”
Three (#u5aa978d0-710e-530f-ba53-5c496bf1f888)
He needed her.
That crystal clear revelation was quickly followed by a second—and far more depressing one—Frances Beaumont would destroy him if he gave her half the chance.
As he watched Frances move around his office, taking pictures of the furniture and antiques and making completely harmless small talk about potential buyers, he knew he would have to risk the latter to get the former.
The way all those workers had been eating out of her hand—well, out of her donut box? The way not a single damn one of them had gotten back to work when he’d ordered them to—but they’d all jumped when Frances Beaumont had smiled at them?
It hurt to admit—even to himself—that the workers here would not listen to him.
But they would listen to her.
She was one of them—a Beaumont. They obviously adored her—even Delores, the old battle-ax, had bowed and scraped to this stunningly beautiful woman.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” she said in that delicate voice that he was completely convinced was a front. She kicked out of her shoes and lined one of the conference chairs up beneath a window. She held out her hand for him. “I’d like to get a better shot of the friezes over the windows.”
“Of course,” he said in his most diplomatic voice.
This woman—this stunning woman who’s fingertips were light and warm against his hand as he helped her balance onto the chair, leaving her ass directly at eye level—had already ripped him to shreds several times over.
She was gorgeous. She was clearly intelligent. And she was obviously out to undermine him. That’s what the donuts had been about. Announcing to the world in general and him in particular that this was still the Beaumont Brewery in every sense of the word.
“Thank you,” she murmured, placing her hand on his shoulder to balance herself as she stepped down.
She didn’t stick the landing, although he couldn’t say if that was accidental or on purpose.
Before he could stop himself, his arm went around her waist to steady her.
Which was a mistake because electricity arced between them. She looked up at him through those lashes—he’d lost count of how many times she’d done that so far—but this time it hit him differently.
After almost a month of dealing with passive-aggressive employees terrified of being downsized he suddenly felt like a very different man altogether.
“Thank you,” she said again, in a quiet whisper that somehow felt more honest, less calculated than almost every other word she’d uttered so far. Imperceptibly, she leaned into him. He could feel the heat of her breasts through his suit.
As soon as he was sure she wouldn’t fall over, he stepped well clear of her. He needed her—but he could not need her like that. Not now, not ever. Because she would destroy him. He had no doubt about that. None.
Still...an idea was taking shape in his mind.
Maybe he’d been going about this all wrong. Instead of trying to strip the Beaumont out of the Beaumont Brewery, maybe what he needed to do was bring in a Beaumont. The moment the idea occurred to him, he latched on to it with both hands.
Yes. What he really needed was to have a Beaumont on board with the management changes he was implementing. If the workers realized their old bosses were signing off on the reorganization, there wouldn’t be any more mass food poisonings or flu or whatever they’d planned for next week. Sure, there’d still be grumbling and personnel turnover, but if he had a Beaumont by his side...
“So!” Frances said brightly, just as she leaned over to adjust the strap on her shoe.
Ethan had to slam his eyes shut so he wouldn’t be caught staring at her barely contained cleavage. If he was going to pull this off, he had to keep his wits about him and his pants zipped.
“How would you like to proceed? Ethan?” It was only when she said his name that he figured it was safe to look.
As safe as it got, anyway. More than any other woman he’d seen in person, Frances looked as if she’d walked right off a movie screen and into his office. Her hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders and her eyes were a light blue that took on a greenish tone that matched her dress. She was the stuff of fantasies, all luscious curves and soft skin.
“I want to hire you.”
Direct was better. If he tried to dance around the subject, she’d spin him in circles.
It worked, too—at least for a second. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly got herself back under control. She laughed lightly, like a chime tinkling in the wind. “Mr. Logan,” she said, beaming a high-wattage smile at him. “You already have hired me. The furniture?” she reminded him, looking around the room. “My family’s legacy?”
“That’s not what I mean,” he replied. “I want you to come work for me. Here. At the Brewery. As...” His mind spun for something that would be appropriate to a woman like her. “As executive vice president of human resources. In charge of employee relations.” There. That sounded fancy without actually meaning anything.
A hint of confusion wrinkled her forehead. “You want me to be a...manager?” She said the word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. “Out of the question.” But she favored him with that smile he’d decided she wielded like other people might wield a knife in a street fight. “I’m so sorry, but I couldn’t possibly work for the Beaumont Brewery if it wasn’t owned by an actual Beaumont.” With crisp efficiency, she snatched up her cape and elegantly swirled it around her shoulders, hiding her body from his eyes.
Not that he was looking at it. He felt the corners of his mouth curve up in a smile. He had her off balance for possibly the first time since she’d walked onto the Brewery property.
“I’ll work up an appraisal sheet and a list of potential buyers for some of the more sentimental pieces,” she announced, not even bothering to look over her shoulder as she strode toward the door.
Before he realized what he was doing, he ran after her. “Wait,” he said, getting to the door just as she put her hand on the knob. He pushed the door shut.
And then realized he basically had her trapped between the door and his body.
She knew it, too. Moving with that dancer’s grace, she pivoted and leaned back, her breasts thrust toward him and her smile coy. “Did you need something else?”
“Won’t you at least consider it?”
“About the job offer?” She grinned. It was too victorious to be pretty. “I rather think not.”
What else would she be thinking about? His blood began to pound in his veins. He couldn’t admit defeat, couldn’t admit that a beautiful woman had spun him around until he hadn’t realized he’d lost until it was too late. He had to come up with something to at least make her keep her options open. He could not run this company without her.
“Have dinner with me, then.”
If this request surprised her, it didn’t show. Instead, she tilted her head to one side, sending waves of beautiful red hair cascading over her cloaked shoulders. Then she moved. A hand emerged from the folds of her cloak and she touched him. She touched the line of his jaw with the tips of her fingers and then slid them down to where his white shirt was visible beneath the V of his suit jacket.
Heat poured off her as she flattened her palm against him. He desperately wanted to close his eyes and focus on the way her touch made his body jump to full attention. He wanted to lower his head and taste her ruby-red lips. He wanted to pull her body into his and feel her skin against his.
He did none of those things.
Instead, he took it like a man. Or he tried to. But when she said, in that soft whisper of hers, “And why would I agree to that?” it nearly broke his resolve.
“I’d like the chance to change your mind. About the job offer.” Which was not strictly true, not any longer. Not when her palm moved in the smallest of circles over his heart.
“Is that all?” she breathed. He could feel the heat from her hand burning his skin. “There’s nothing else you want from me?”
“I just want what’s best for the company.” Damn it all; his voice had gotten deeper on him. But he couldn’t help it, not with the way she was looking up at him. “Don’t you?”
Something in her face changed. It wasn’t resignation, not really—and it wasn’t surrender.
It was engagement. It was a yes.
She lightly pushed on his chest. He straightened and dropped his arm away from the door. “Dinner. For the company,” she agreed. He couldn’t interpret that statement, not when his ears were ringing with desire. “Where are you staying?”
“I have a suite at the Hotel Monaco.”
“Shall we say seven o’clock tomorrow night? In the lobby?”
“It would be an honor.”
She arched an eyebrow at him, and then, with a swirling turn, she was gone, striding into the reception area and pausing only to thank Delores again for all her help.
He had to find a way to get Frances on his side.
It had nothing to do with the way he could still feel her touch burned into his skin.
Four (#u5aa978d0-710e-530f-ba53-5c496bf1f888)
In the end, it’d come down to one of two dresses. Frances only had four left after the liquidation of her closet anyway. The green one was clearly out—it would reek of desperation to wear the same dress twice, even if Ethan’s eyes had bugged out of his head when he’d looked at her in it.
She also had her bridesmaid’s dress from her brother Phillip’s wedding, a sleek gray one with rhinestone accents. But that felt too formal for dinner, even if it did look good on her.
Which meant she had to choose between the red velvet and the little black dress for her negotiation masquerading as dinner with Ethan Logan.
The red dress would render him completely speechless; that she knew. She’d always had a fondness for it—it transformed her into a proper lady instead of what she often felt like, the black sheep of the family.
But there was nothing subtle about the red dress. And besides, if the evening went well, she might need a higher-powered dress for later.
The little black dress was really the only choice. It was a halter-top style and completely backless. The skirt twirled out, but there was no missing the cleavage. The dark color made it appear more subdued at first, which would work to her advantage. If she paired it with her cropped bolero jacket, she could project an air of seriousness, and then, when she needed to befuddle Ethan, she could slip off the jacket. Perfect.
She made it downtown almost twenty minutes late, which meant she was right on schedule. Ethan Logan could sit and cool his heels for a bit. The more she kept him off balance, the better her position would be.
Which did beg the question—what was her position? She’d only agreed to dinner because he’d said he wanted what was best for the company. And the way he’d said it...
Well, she also wanted what was best for the company. But for her, that word was a big umbrella, under which the employees were just as important as the bottom line.
And after all, if something continued to be named the Beaumont Brewery, shouldn’t it still be connected to the Beaumonts?
So dinner was strictly about those two objectives. She would see what she could get Ethan to reveal about the long-term plan for the Brewery. And if there was something in those plans that could help her get her world back in order, so much the better.
Yes, that was it. Dinner had nothing to do with how she’d felt Ethan’s chest muscles twitch under her touch, nothing to do with the simmering heat that had rolled off him. And it had even less to do with the way he’d looked down at her, like a man who’d been adrift at sea for too long and had finally spotted land.
She was Frances Beaumont. She could not be landed. For years, she’d had men look at her as if they were starving and she was a banquet. It was nothing new. Just a testament to her name and genetics. Ethan Logan would be no different. She would take what she needed from him—that feeling that she was still someone who mattered, someone who wielded power—and leave the rest.
Which did not explain why, for the first time in what felt like years, Frances had butterflies in her stomach as she strode into the lobby of the Hotel Monaco. Was she nervous? It wasn’t possible. She didn’t get nervous, especially not about something like this. She’d spent her entire life navigating the shark-infested waters of wealthy and powerful men. Ethan was just another shark. And he wasn’t even a great white. He was barely a dogfish.
“Good evening, Ms. Beaumont.”
“Harold,” she said to the doorman with a warm smile and a big tip.
“Ms. Beaumont! How wonderful to see you again!” At this rather loud pronouncement, several other guests in the immediate vicinity paused to gape at her.
Frances ignored the masses. “Thank you, Heidi,” she said to the clerk at the front desk with another warm smile. The hotel had been catering to the Beaumont family for years, and Frances liked to keep the staff on her side.
“And what can we do for you tonight?” Heidi asked.
“I’m meeting someone for dinner.” She scanned the crowd, but she didn’t see Ethan. He wouldn’t be easy to miss—a man as massively built as he was? All those muscles would stand out.
Then she saw him. And did a double take. Yes, those shoulders, that neck, were everything she remembered them being. The clothing, however? Unlike the conservative gray suit and dull tie he’d had on in the office, he was wearing a pair of artfully distressed jeans, a white button-up shirt without a tie and...a purple sports coat? A deep purple—plum, maybe. She would not have figured he was the kind of man who would stand outside a sartorial box with any great flair—or success.
When he saw her, he pushed himself off the column he was leaning against. “Frances, hello.” Which was a perfectly normal thing to say. But he said it as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes—or his luck—as she strode toward him.
He should feel lucky. “Ethan.” When he held out his hand, she took it and used it to pull herself up so she could kiss him on the cheek.
His free hand rested against her side, steadying her. “You look amazing,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear.
Warmth that bordered on heat started where his breath kissed her skin and flamed out over her body. That was what made her nervous. Not the man, not the musculature—not even his position as CEO of her family’s company.
It was the way her body reacted to him. The way a touch, a look—a whispered word—could set her fluttering.
Ridiculous. She was not flattered by his attentions. This was not a date. This was corporate espionage in a great dress. This was her using what few resources she had left at her disposal to get her life back on track. This was about her disarming Ethan Logan, not the other way around.
So she clamped down on the shiver that threatened to race across her skin as she lowered herself away from him. “That’s a great color on you. Very...” She let the word hang in the air for a beat too long. “Bold,” she finished. “Not just any man could pull off that look.”
He raised his eyebrows. She realized he was trying not to laugh at her. “Says the woman who showed up in an emerald evening gown to hand out donuts. Have no fear, I’m comfortable in my masculinity. Shall we? I made reservations at the restaurant.” He held out his arm for her.
“We shall.” She lightly placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. She didn’t need his help—she could walk in these shoes just fine—but this was part of setting him up. It had nothing to do with wanting another flash of heat from where their bodies met.
The restaurant was busy, as was to be expected on a Saturday night. When they entered, the diners paused. She and Ethan must have made quite a pair, her with her red hair and him in his purple jacket.
People were already forming opinions. That was something she could use to her advantage. She placed her free hand on top of Ethan’s arm and leaned into him. Not much, but just enough to create the impression that this was a date.
The maître d’ led them to a small table tucked in a dim corner. They ordered—she got the lobster, just to be obnoxious about it, and he got the steak, just to be predictable—and Ethan ordered a bottle of pinot grigio.
Then they were alone. “I’m glad you came out tonight.”
She demurely placed her hands in her lap. “Did you think I would cancel?”
“I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d tried to string me along a little bit. Just to watch me twist.” He said it in a jovial way but she didn’t miss the edge to his voice.
So he wasn’t totally befuddled. And he was more than sharp enough to know they were here for something much more than dinner.
That didn’t mean she had to own up to it. “Whatever do you mean?”
His smile sharpened. The silence carried, and she was in serious danger of fidgeting nervously under his direct gaze.
She was saved by the sommelier, who arrived with the wine. Frances desperately wanted to take a long drink, but she could not let Ethan know he was unsettling her. So she slowly twirled the stem of her wineglass until he said, “I propose a toast.”
“Do you now?”
“To a long and productive partnership.” She did not drink. Instead, she leveled a cool gaze at him over the rim of her glass and waited for him to notice. Which, admittedly, did not take long. “Yes?”
“I’m not taking that job, you know. I have ‘considered’ it, and I can’t imagine a more boring job in the history of employment,” she told him.
She would not let the world know she was so desperate as to take a job in management at a company that used to belong to her family. She might be down on her luck, but she wasn’t going to give up.
Then, and only then, did she allow herself to sip her wine. She had to be careful. She needed to keep her wits about her and not let the wine—and all those muscles—go to her head.
“I figured as much,” he said with a low chuckle that Frances felt right in her chest. What was it with this man’s voice?
“Then why would you toast to such a thing?” Maybe now was the time to take the jacket off? He seemed entirely too self-aware. She did not have the advantage here, not like she’d had in the office.
Oh, she did not like that smile on him. Well, she did—she might actually like it a great deal, if she wasn’t the one in the crosshairs.
He leaned forward, his gaze so intense that she considered removing her jacket just to cool down. “I’m sure you know why I want you,” he all but growled.
It was getting hotter in here. She tried to look innocent. It was the only look she could pull off with the level of blush she’d probably achieved by now. “My sparkling wit?”
There was a brief crack in his serious facade, as if her sparkling wit was the correct answer. “I consider that a fringe benefit,” he admitted with a tilt of his head. “But let’s not play dumb, you and I. It’s far too beneath a woman with your considerable talents. And your talents...” She straightened her back and thrust her chest out in a desperate attempt to throw him off balance. It didn’t work. His gaze never left her face. “Your talents are considerable. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a woman like you before.”
“Are you hitting on me?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up, making him look like a predator. She might have to revise her earlier opinion of him. He was not a dogfish. More like...a tiger shark, sleek and fast. Able to take her down before she even realized she was in danger.
“Of course not.”
“Then why do you want me?” Because honestly—for the first time in her adult life—she wasn’t sure what the answer would be.
Men wanted her. They always had. The moment her boobs had put in an appearance, she’d learned about base male lust—how to provoke it, how to manage it, how to use it for her own ends. Men wanted her for a simple, carnal reason. And after watching stepmother after stepmother come and go out of her father’s life, she had resolved never to be used. Not like that.
The upside was that she’d never had her heart broken. But the downside?
She’d never been in love. Self-preservation, however vital to survival, was a lonely way to live.
“It’s simple, really.” He leaned back, his posture at complete ease. “Obviously, everyone at the Brewery hates me. I can’t blame them—no one likes change, especially when they have to change against their will.” He grinned at her, a sly thing. “I should probably be surprised that Delores hasn’t spiked my coffee with arsenic by now.”
“Probably,” she agreed. Where was he going with this?
“But you?” He reached over and picked up her hand, rubbing his thumb along the edges of her fingertips. Against her will, she shivered—and he felt it. That smile deepened—his voice deepened. Everything deepened. Oh, hell.
“I saw how the workers—especially the lifers—responded to you and your donut stunt,” he went on, still stroking her hand. “There’s nothing they wouldn’t do for you, and probably wouldn’t do for any Beaumont.”
“If you think this is going to convince me to take that job, you’re sorely mistaken,” she replied. She wanted to jerk her hand out of his—she needed to break that skin-to-skin contact—but she didn’t. If this was how the game was going to go, then she needed to be all in.
So instead she curled her fingers around his and made small circles on the base of his palm with her thumb. She was justly rewarded with a little shiver from him. Okay, good. Great. She wasn’t entirely at his mercy here. She could still have an impact even without the element of surprise. “Especially if you’re going to call them ‘lifers.’ That’s insulting. You make them sound like prisoners.”
He notched an eyebrow at her. “What would you call them?”
“Family.” The simple reply—which was also the truth—was out before she could stop it.
She didn’t know what she expected him to do with that announcement, but lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss against her skin wasn’t it. “And that,” he whispered against her skin, “is exactly why I need you.”
This time, she did pull her hand away. She dropped it into her lap and fixed him with her best polite glare, the one that could send valets and servers scurrying for cover. Just then, the waiter appeared with their food—and did, in fact, pause when Frances turned that glare in his direction. He set their plates down with a minimum of fanfare and all but sprinted away.
She didn’t touch her food. “I’m hearing an awful lot about how much you need me. So let us, as you said, dispense with the games. I do not now, nor have I ever, formally worked for the Beaumont Brewery. I do not now, nor have I ever, had sex with a man who thought he was entitled to a piece of the Beaumont Brewery and, by extension, a piece of me. I will not take a desk job to help you win the approval of people you clearly dislike.”
“They disliked me first,” he put in as he cut his steak.
What she really wanted to do was throw her wine in his face. It’d feel so good to let loose and let him have it. Despite his claims that he recognized her intelligence, she had the distinct feeling that he was playing her, and she did not like it. “Regardless. What do you want, Mr. Logan? Because I’m reasonably certain that it’s no longer just the dismantling and sale of my family’s history.”
He set his knife and fork aside and leaned his elbows on the table. “I need you to help me convince the workers that joining the current century is the only way the company will survive. I need you to help me show them that it doesn’t have to be me against them or them against me—that we can work together to make the Brewery something more than it was.”
She snorted. “I’ll be sure to pass such touching sentiments along to my brother—the man you replaced.”
“By all accounts, he was quite the businessman. I’m sure that he’d agree with me. After all, he made significant changes to the management structure himself after his father passed. But he was constrained by that sense of family you so aptly described. I am not.”
“All the good it’s doing you.” She took another sip of wine, a slightly larger one than before.
“You see my problem. If the workers fight me on this, it won’t be only a few people who lose their jobs—the entire company will shut down, and we will all suffer.”
She tilted her head from side to side, considering. “Perhaps it should. The Beaumont Brewery without a Beaumont isn’t the same thing, no matter what the marketing department says.”
“Would you really give your blessing to job losses for hundreds of workers, just for the sake of a name?”
“It’s my name,” she shot at him.
But he was right. If the company went down in flames, it’d burn the people she cared for. Her brothers would be safe—they’d already ensconced themselves in the Percheron Drafts brewery. But Bob and Delores and all the rest? The ones who’d whispered to her how nervous they were about the way the wind was blowing? Who were afraid for their families? The ones who knew they were too old to start over, who were scared that they’d be forced into early retirement without the generous pension benefits the Beaumont Brewery had always offered its loyal employees?
“Which brings us back to the heart of the matter. I need you.”
“No, you don’t. You need my approval.” Her lobster was no doubt getting cold, but she didn’t have much of an appetite at the moment.
Something that might have been a smile played over his lips. For some reason, she took it as a compliment, as if he was acknowledging her intelligence for real this time, instead of paying lip service to it. “Why didn’t you go into the family business? You’d have made a hell of a negotiator.”
“I find business, in general, to be beneath me.” She cast a cutting look at him. “Much like many of the people who willingly choose to engage in it.”
He laughed then, a real thing that she wished grated on her ears and her nerves but didn’t. It was a warm sound, full of humor and honesty. It made her want to smile. She didn’t. “I’m not going to take the job.”
“I wasn’t going to offer it to you again. You’re right—it is beneath you.”
Here it came—the trap he was waiting to spring. He leaned forward, his gaze intent on hers and in the space of a second, before he spoke, she realized what he was about to say. All she could think was, Oh, hell.
“I don’t want to hire you. I want to marry you.”
Five (#u5aa978d0-710e-530f-ba53-5c496bf1f888)
The weight of his statement hit Frances so hard Ethan was surprised she didn’t crumple in the chair.
But of course she didn’t. She was too refined, too schooled to let her shock show. Even so, her eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect O, kissable in every regard.
“You want to...what?” Her voice cracked on the last word.
Turnabout is fair play, he decided as he let her comment hang in the air. She’d caught him completely off guard in the office yesterday and had clearly thought she could keep that shock and awe going. But tonight? The advantage was his.
“I want to marry you. More specifically, I want you to marry me,” he explained. Saying the words out loud made his blood hum. When he’d come up with this plan, it had seemed like a bold-yet-risky business decision. He’d quickly realized that Frances Beaumont would absolutely not take a desk job, but the unavoidable fact was he needed her approval to validate his restructuring plans.
And what better way to show that the Beaumonts were on board with the restructuring than if he were legally wed to the favored daughter?
Yes, it had all seemed cut-and-dried when he’d formulated the plan last night. A sham marriage, designed to bolster his position within the company. He’d done a little digging into her past and discovered that she had tried to launch some sort of digital art gallery recently, but it’d gone under. So she might need funding. No problem.
But he’d failed to take into account the actual woman he’d just proposed to. The fire in her eyes more than matched the fire in her hair, and all of her lit a hell of a flame in him. He had to shift in his chair to avoid discomfort as he tried not to look at her lips.
“You want to get married?” She’d recovered some, the haughty tone of her voice overcoming her surprise. “How very flattering.”
He shrugged. He’d planned for this reaction. Frankly, he’d expected nothing less, not from her.
He hadn’t planned for the way her hand—her skin—had felt against his. But a plan was a plan, and he was in for far more than a penny. “Of course, I’m not about to profess my undying love for you. Admiration, yes.” Her cheeks colored slightly. Nope, he hadn’t planned for that, either.
Suddenly, his bold plan felt like the height of foolishness.
“My,” she murmured. Her voice was soft, but he didn’t miss the way it sliced through the air. “How I love to hear sweet nothings. They warm a girl’s heart.”
He grinned again. “I’m merely proposing an...arrangement, if you will. Open to negotiation. I already know a job in management is not for you.” He sat back, trying to look casual. “I’m a man of considerable influence and power. Is there something you need that I can help you with?”
“Are you trying to buy me?” Her fingertips curled around the stem of her wineglass. He kept one hand on the napkin in his lap, just in case he found himself wearing the wine.
“As I said, this isn’t a proposal based on love. It’s based on need. You’re already fully aware of how much I need you. I’m just trying to ascertain what you need to make this arrangement worth your time. Above and beyond making sure that your Brewery family is well taken care of, that is.” He leaned forward again. He enjoyed negotiations like this—probing and prodding to find the other party’s breaking point. And a little bit of guilt never hurt anything.
“What if I don’t want to marry you? Surely you can’t think you’re the first man who’s ever proposed to me out of the blue.” The dismissal was slight, but it carried weight. She was doing her level best to toy with him.
And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. “I have no doubt you’ve been fending off men for years. But this proposal isn’t based on want.” However, that didn’t stop his gaze from briefly drifting down to her chest. She had such an amazing body.
Her lips tightened, and she fiddled with the button on her jacket. “Then what’s it based on?”
“I’m proposing a short-term arrangement. A marriage of convenience. Love doesn’t need to play a role.”
“Love?” she asked, batting her eyelashes. “There’s more to a marriage than that.”
“Point. Lust also is not a part of my proposal. A one-year marriage. We don’t have to live together. We don’t have to sleep together. We need to occasionally be seen in public together. That’s it.”
She blinked at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you? What kind of marriage would that be?”
Now it was Ethan’s turn to fidget with his wineglass. He didn’t want to get into the particulars of his parents’ marriage at the moment. “Suffice it to say, I’ve seen long-distance marriages work out quite well for all parties involved.”
“How delightful,” she responded, disbelief dripping off every word. “Are you gay?”
“What? No!” He jolted so hard that he almost knocked his glass over. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I’m not.”
“Pity. I might consider a loveless, sexless marriage to a gay man. Sadly,” she went on in a not-sad voice, “I don’t trust you to hold up your sexless end of the bargain.”
“I’m not saying we couldn’t have sex.” In fact, given the way she’d pressed her lips to his cheek earlier, the way she’d held his hand—he’d be perfectly fine with sex with her. “I’m merely saying it’s not expected. It’s not a deal breaker.”
She regarded him with open curiosity. “So let me see if I understand this proposal, such as it is. You’d like me to marry you and lend the weight of the Beaumont name to your destruction of the Beaumont Brewery—”
“Reconstruction, not destruction,” he interrupted.
She ignored him. “In a starter marriage that has a built-in sunset at one year, no other strings attached?”
“That sums it up.”
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t stab you in the hand with my knife.”
He flinched. “Actually, I was waiting for you to give me a good reason.” She looked at him flatly. “I read online that your digital art gallery recently failed.” He said it gently. He could sympathize with a well-thought-out project going sideways—or backward.
She rested her hand on her knife. But she didn’t say anything. Her eyes—beautiful light eyes that walked the line between blue and green—bore into him.
“If there was something that I—as an investor—could help you with,” he went on, keeping his voice quiet, “well, that could be part of our negotiation. It’d be venture capital—not an attempt to buy you,” he added. She took her hand off her knife and put it in her lap, which Ethan took as a sign that he’d hit the correct nerve. He went on, “I wouldn’t—and couldn’t—cut you a personal check. But as an angel investor, I’m sure we could come to terms you’d find satisfactory.”
“Interesting use of the word angel there,” she said. Her voice was quiet. None of the seduction or coquettishness that she’d wielded like a weapon remained.
Finally, he was talking to the real Frances Beaumont. No more artifice, no more layers. Just a beautiful, intelligent woman. A woman he’d just proposed to.
This was for the job, he reminded himself. He was only proposing because he needed to get control of the Beaumont Brewery, and Frances Beaumont was the shortest, straightest line between where he was today and where he needed to be. It had nothing to do with the actual woman.
“Do you do this often? Propose marriage to women connected with the businesses you’re stripping?”
“No, actually. This would be a first for me.”
She picked up her knife, and he unwittingly tensed. One corner of her perfect rosebud mouth quirked into a smile before she began to cut into her lobster tail. “Really? I suppose I should be flattered.”
He began to eat his steak. It had cooled past the optimal temperature, but he figured that was the price one paid for negotiating before the main course arrived. “I’m never in one city for more than a year, usually only for a few months. I have, on occasion, made the acquaintance of a woman with whom I enjoy doing things such as this—dining out, seeing the sights.”
“Having sex?” she asked bluntly.
She was trying to unnerve him again. It might be working. “Yes, when we’re both so inclined. But those were short-term, no-commitment relationships, as agreed upon by both parties.”
“Just a way to pass the time?”
“That might sound harsh, but yes. If you agree to the arrangement, we could dine out like this, maybe attend the theater or whatever it is you do for fun here in Denver.”
“This isn’t exactly a one-horse town anymore, you know. We have theaters and gala benefits and art openings and a football team. Maybe you’ve heard of them?” Her gaze drifted down to his shoulders. “You might consider trying out for the front four.”
Ethan straightened his shoulders. He wasn’t a particularly vain man, but he kept himself in shape, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered that she’d noticed. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
They ate in silence. He decided it was her play. She hadn’t stabbed him, and she hadn’t thrown a drink in his face. He put the odds of getting her to go along with this plan at fifty-fifty.
And if she didn’t... Well, he’d need a new plan.
Her lobster tail was maybe half-eaten when she set her cutlery aside. “I’ve never fielded a marriage proposal like yours before.”
“How many have you fielded?”
She waved the question away. “I’ve lost count. A quickie wedding, a one-year marriage with no sex, an irreconcilable-differences, uncontested divorce—all in exchange for an investment into a property or project of my choice?”
“Basically.” He’d never proposed before. He couldn’t tell if her no-nonsense tone was a good sign or not. “We’d need a prenup.”
“Obviously.” She took a much longer pull on her wine. “I want five million.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I have a friend who wants to launch a new art gallery, with me as the co-owner. She has a business plan worked up and a space selected. All we need is the capital.” She pointed a long, red-tipped nail at him. “And you did offer to invest, did you not?”
She had him there. “I did. Do we have a deal?” He stuck out his hand and waited.
* * *
She must be out of her ever-loving mind.
As Frances regarded the hand Ethan had extended toward her, she was sure she had crossed some line from desperation into insanity to even consider his offer.
Would she really agree to marry the living embodiment of her family’s downfall for what, essentially, was the promise of job security after he was gone? With five million—a too-large number she’d pulled out of thin air—she and Becky could open that gallery in grand style, complete with all the exhibitions and parties it took to wine and dine wealthy art patrons.
This time, it’d be different. It was Becky’s business plan, after all. Not Frances’s. But even that thought stung a bit. Becky’s plan had a chance of working. Unlike all of Frances’s grand plans.
She needed this. She needed something to go her way, something to work out right for once. With a five-million-dollar investment, she and Becky could get the gallery operational and Frances could move out of the Beaumont mansion. Even if she only lived in the apartment over the gallery, it’d still be hers. She could go back to being Frances Beaumont. She could feel like a grown-up in control of her own life.
All it’d take would be giving up that control for a year. Not just giving it up, but giving it to Ethan.

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