I roll my eyes, and she chuckles. "Myers."
"Sorry. Couldn't resist. Are you going to work now?"
"Do you work every evening?"
I frown. "Yes. What else is there to do?"
She smiles, like she had expected my answer. Like she feels sorry for me. I don't like it. I leave her and her questions by the table, retreating to the one place I've always felt at home. The place where I don't have to take care of deceased relatives' houses or sort out what ruse to put on with my assistant-turned-wife. The place where I'm in charge of all that happens.
My office. I pause with the door half-open, and then, knowing he'd disapprove, I shut it entirely.
My room has a few spectacular advantages. One is the Central Park view, which I still haven't gotten over. When I work at my desk, I sometimes get lost in it.
Another is the rain shower in the en-suite. There's just no denying that money buys quality, and nowhere is that clearer than in marble sinks and glorious water pressure.
But the full-length mirror in the closet is a game changer.
I turn around to get the full three-sixty look, examining every angle of the dress I'm wearing. It's black, fitted with three-quarter sleeves and a slit up my leg. Modest but sexy.
Perfect for mingling with four billionaires and their significant others, two of whom have been my boss.
Not like I'll be the odd one out or anything.
I'm not wearing any jewelry, and I hope that conveys understated elegance rather than I-didn't-have-anything-that-would-look-right-in-your-esteemed-company. Smokey dark eyes, no lipstick, blush and blowdried hair. If we were going out, Nadine would tell me I looked ready to tear men's hearts out. And that I needed to wear a shorter dress.
I glance at the high-tech alarm clock on my dresser. It's time for us to leave in a few minutes, and knowing Victor, he'll be ready. I slide into my nude pumps and head to my bedroom door.
I'm halfway down the hall when his bedroom door opens. Victor emerges in a black suit, a hand readjusting the cuff of his shirt. It fits him like a glove.
He gets them tailored. I know, because I've made the appointments.
Think what you will of him, he's impressive, all six-foot-two of him. He stops when he sees me.
I run a nervous hand over my dress. "Hello."
His gaze travels over my face, my neckline, down my body to my shoes. There's no mistaking the surprised admiration in his eyes. Seeing it is delicious.
"You look… well."
"Will it do?"
"Yes, it will."
"Well. Thank you."
He clears his throat and walks down the hall, reaching inside his suit jacket. His face is once more the collection of sharp lines I know so well.
"Rings," he says. There, in the palm of his hand, are two of them.
"Oh. Right." I'd sent him my ring size last night. He must have found a jeweler during the day.
I reach for the smaller of the two gold circles. My fingers brush over his palm as I take it. "This one is mine?"
I slide it on my ring finger and watch him do the same. His thick gold band fits perfectly, a contrast to the tan skin of his long fingers and broad hand.
"Does yours fit?" he asks.
I nod, curling my hand into a fist. The gold feels cold against my palm. "Sure does."
"Just one more." He reaches for his other pocket, and hand still inside it, he spins something around. Then he pulls out an engagement ring.
"Oh," I breathe. It's beautiful. A solitaire diamond on a gold band, surrounded by a ring of emeralds.
"As your engagement ring," he mutters. "See if it fits."
I slide it on my finger. It's tight over the knuckle, but once I've worked past the bump, the gorgeous ring slides into position next to the wedding band. It glitters beneath the spotlights.
"It fits," I say.
"Right. Well, we'll wear them for tonight."
This might be a business decision and a fake marriage, but it feels very real to look down at your hand and see rings there, to see your husband slide his on his own ring finger. "I'll give them back to you when we get home," I say. "I'd hate to lose one."
"They're insured."
"Right, well, I still wouldn't want to lose them."
"Let's get this over with."
My Prince Charming, I think, following him down the staircase. Bonnie is in the kitchen and she gives us both a smile as we pass. It widens as I meet her gaze, and she doesn't have to speak the words for me to hear them. Good luck.
Steven has the car ready for us outside. "Mr. St. Clair," he says, opening the door. "Mrs. St. Clair."
Victor's hand pauses on the hood of the car. The name hangs in the air between us. Mr. and Mrs. Is he about to protest?
But then he folds his tall length into the car and I follow, stretching out my legs. Knot my hands together to keep them from shaking.
I've done crazy and challenging things before. I've worked long hours, I've traveled with both Tristan and Victor for work, I've had no problem making last-minute phone calls demanding they get the last suite or a table at a fully booked restaurant.
I can do this.
I look over, only to see Victor's gaze resting on my hands. On the rings on my left finger. I can't decipher the expression on his face.
"Everything all right?"
He looks up, blue eyes meeting mine. They look dark in the dim lighting of the car. "There's something you should know about the guests tonight."
"There is?"