A Millionaire at Midnight (Bachelor Auction) Read online

  Sighing, she tugged on the sash of her coat and grasped the top button. “Do you mind?” she asked.

  “You plan on staying that long?” He had a book to get back to, and the less time in her unsettling presence, the better.

  She tilted her head, nodding. “’Fraid so. This is going to be one of those you’d-better-sit-down-for-this conversations.”

  Damn. Heaving his own sigh, he extended his hand, and she swiftly released the remaining buttons on the coat and shrugged out of it before passing the garment to him. Against his will, curiosity wormed its way inside him and quickened his movements to the hall closet. But as he hung the coat on a hanger, the sense of disquiet thickened. Her reply might’ve been flippant, but as carefully as he studied her—always studied her—he didn’t miss the apprehension that had flashed in her eyes or momentarily tightened her mouth. Whatever she’d shown up at his home to speak with him about made her nervous.

  And a nervous Morgan should be terrifying.

  Again, the notion that he should be shoving her arms back in her coat and escorting her to and out the front door flickered in his head. But an unknown streak of masochism had him closing the closet door and returning to her. He dipped his head in the direction of the nearest living room and strode toward it, leaving her to follow.

  The house boasted two living areas, and this one, larger than the other, had been intended for formal guests, not comfort. The stark white couch and love seat complemented the pristine glass table and scattering of delicate antique furniture, but none of them put a visitor at ease. Instead of relaxing and comforting, the pieces practically screamed, “Don’t eat on me. Don’t drink on me. Matter of fact, just don’t touch me.” Only the wide, large-enough-for-a-man-to-stand-inside-of fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an amazing view of the surrounding lawn and wooded area combated the sterile feeling of the room. He didn’t spend any time here, preferring the small, more intimate living area.

  But for Morgan, who wasn’t a guest or a friend, this would do perfectly. It reflected the relationship they shared. Impersonal. Distant.

  Careful.

  He didn’t bother to sit but pivoted to face her. Waiting.

  She didn’t lower to one of the couches or chairs, either, and they stood across from one another in a timeless standoff. Arms by her side and wearing a long-sleeved, floor-length dress that managed to look both casual and elegant, all she needed was a hip holster and silver-handled gun to complete the image of a woman about to enter a showdown.

  “You’re barefoot,” she pointed out, her first shot unexpected. And so Morgan. “And you’re wearing jeans,” she whispered, the tone almost scandalized.

  He glanced down; he often eschewed suits and shoes when home. Since turning twenty-one, his everyday uniform was a suit and tie, and as at ease as he was in them, removing the business attire in the privacy of his home was like removing armor.

  “You showed up at my house on a Saturday night,” he said, irritation he couldn’t keep at bay crawling into his voice. “Presumably to discuss something other than my home or choice in wardrobe.”

  “Yes.” But she didn’t continue, her gaze taking another, slow, unabashed tour of his body.

  He shouldn’t like her eyes on him—should be offended by the brazen inspection. But he wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself. He did like it. Part of him—the raw, primal side only she seemed to awaken—wanted to challenge her, demand if she needed him to lift up his shirt or drop his pants so she could get a better look. But he tightened the chains on that part of his psyche. Out-of-control behavior only led to chaos and regretful choices and actions that couldn’t be taken back.

  “Right.” She cleared her throat, returned her gaze to his. “Why I’m here.” A grimace floated over her lovely features. “To fully explain, I have to admit to something that’s rude and could potentially have me fired. I need you to grant me immunity first before we begin.”

  He frowned, confused. Fired? Immunity? What the hell was she talking about? Yes, on his first day, he’d had every intention of letting her go at the end of the two weeks she’d “requested.” But, surprisingly, Morgan had proven to be efficient, hardworking, extremely knowledgeable, and professional. Without her, the initial phase of the transition wouldn’t have run so smoothly. He still didn’t understand why a woman with her intelligence and a master’s degree wasn’t in a senior or even vice-president position. It was as much a mystery as it’d been when he’d read her file. A riddle. And he couldn’t leave a riddle alone. Not until he solved it.

  Like the one explaining why she was here demanding immunity like she was about to face a DA and a ten-year stretch in jail.

  “I’ll grant you ten more minutes. How about that?” he countered.

  Throwing her palms up, she shrugged. “Okay, I tried.” She started to pace, her long, graceful legs carrying her to the couch, then to the love seat, then back to the couch. “Remember the first day you came to Lier, and you and Kim were in your office? Well, I might have…overheard part of your conversation.”

  “Eavesdropping.” Disbelief ricocheted through him. “You eavesdropped on a private discussion. Your employer’s private discussion.”

  “No,” she objected, pausing mid-pace. “Well…yeah. I did. But I wasn’t trying to steal company secrets. Just find out whether or not you intended to fire me.”

  “That possibility is looking better and better, Ms. Lett,” he snapped.

  “Oh shit.” She winced. “Can you hear me out before you give me the boot, please?” Taking his silence for acquiescence, she continued, “Like I said, my bad about the whole eavesdropping thing. Nasty habit, I admit. Still, I can’t unhear what I heard. And I heard that you’re looking for a, umm…” She paused. Rubbed her palm across the back of her neck. “Fake fiancée,” she mumbled.

  Astonishment blasted him, leaving him frozen. Quickly, he flipped through his memory’s Rolodex back to that day and his exact words to Kim. She’d brought the file with the information on the two women and Chelsea Benson. They’d talked about how he needed to find a fiancée or lose the opportunity to take over Bishop Enterprises. The unease that had taunted him since he’d opened the door expanded until it mushroomed in his chest like an atom bomb cloud. Morgan knew about his search, his plans. Anger churned with humiliation, burned a hole in his chest. Had she told anyone? Why was she bringing it up? Did she intend to blackmail him with the information?

  He should’ve fucking sent her packing day one. Instead he’d allowed a flash of vulnerability to deter him, convince him to relent. Now she had him by the short hairs. He knew better than to allow emotion to enter into a decision, damn it.

  “What do you want?” he asked, voice flat.

  “To volunteer for the job, to be your fiancée.”

  Again, surprise rocketed through him, almost sent him rocking back on his bare feet. She wanted to…

  “What?” he damn near stuttered. “Are you crazy?”

  Her chin jerked up, as if she were offended. He swallowed a snort. Right. That couldn’t have possibly been the first time she’d been on the receiving end of that question.

  “No, I’m not crazy,” she carefully enunciated. Then, seconds later, muttered, “Desperate, maybe, not crazy.”

  “Explain,” he ordered. Christ, the woman had reduced him to monosyllabic words like a fucking caveman.

  Heaving a loud gust of breath, she resumed her pacing. “I guess I need to start with my stepfather’s will.” She narrated a tale about work ethic, wills, and stipulations. It all sounded too familiar to his own father and his antiquated and obtrusive demands.

  “So, this Phoenix House means so much to you that you capitulated to the terms?” he questioned.

  She paused in her compulsive walking back and forth. “Yes, it does,” she said, her shoulders straightening, and he recognized the gesture for what it was: a bracing for an attack. “I know what you’re thinking. What’s one more charity to a socialite, righ
t? Sign a check like I do the others and move on. But Phoenix House is more than a signature on a check. They are important—to this community, to the women who go there, to the children who depend on those mothers for security…” She trailed off, glancing away, her teeth sinking into the plump curve of her bottom lip. “They’re important,” she repeated, voice soft.

  “I wasn’t thinking that,” he murmured, and her head jerked up, the crystal blue scrutiny studying him. As if searching for any sign of derision. Who had belittled her obvious commitment to this organization? Who had dismissed her? Someone had, and that person had been a fool. A deaf and blind person could’ve caught the zeal in her voice while speaking of Phoenix House, noted the devotion in her fervent expression. “I understand why you wanted to keep your job, though.”

  “Yes.” She swept a palm over her hair, narrowly missing dislodging the knot at the top of her head. “But now, none of that matters. My stepsister called me.” Her full mouth thinned into a grim line. “The board decided to sell the building. They found a way of getting past the stipulation, and they’re selling it to someone else. Phoenix House will most likely be evicted, and since finding another place to lease would take time, the services would be discontinued, the classes cancelled. The women who depend on them, shit out of luck,” she sneered.

  For the first time since meeting her, the flippant veneer she wore like one of her expensive dresses slipped. And he glimpsed another side of the sarcastic, devil-may-care woman who’d told him he needed tough love and blackmailed him for her job. This one was more serious, committed, and impassioned. He almost demanded the return of the socialite who wielded snark like a broad sword. Her, he understood. Her, he was familiar with and could withstand, even though she tempted him.

  But this woman? She stirred the need to take her in his arms, not to fuck, but to hold. To promise he’d solve her problems. She could be even more dangerous because she made him want to dig deeper, to find all the other fascinating facets of her.

  In his mind, he took a step back.

  A shrill warning joined the neon, blinking sign of danger that surrounded her.

  Fascination represented a slippery slope. First the infatuation, the attraction. Then curiosity to know more. Followed by a need to keep and hold, to commit.

  Then came the desertion— Shit. He needed to get back to The Fever Code, or he would suddenly start watching Gilmore Girls or something else equally as emasculating.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. She had kept—and had been keeping—her end of the bargain. It wasn’t fair that they flipped the tables on her. “What does that have to do with me?” Or being my fiancée?

  “Cynthia convinced the board to give me one week to come up with the funds to purchase the building,” she explained, her thick fringe of lashes lowering over her eyes. “I know you’re aware of my trust fund from my biological father, but I can’t access all of it until I’m twenty-eight. I don’t have 1.5 million dollars.” The lashes lifted, and he stared into the shadowed blue depths. “But you do.”

  Comprehension dawned like the sun breaking through a bank of storm clouds. “Yes, I do,” he agreed. “And in exchange for playing the role of my fiancée, you want that amount.”

  She nodded. “To buy the building for the Phoenix House. If you’ll give me enough money to outbid anyone else interested in it, I’ll be your fake bride-to-be.”

  He cocked his head. “And how do you know I haven’t already found someone? If you heard my entire conversation with Kim, then you also know I had selected a person.”

  “A possible,” she corrected, proving she had indeed heard everything. “And tonight my sister mentioned to me that she saw you and Chelsea Benton together last week. I’m willing to bet you haven’t delivered your offer yet. One.” She ticked up a finger. “As pressed as you sounded a couple of weeks ago, I think I would’ve read something in those nosy-ass gossip columns about your engagement. You don’t strike me as the type to waste time when he has a goal set. And two.” She flipped up another finger. “If you’re planning on asking her, let me caution you first. Chelsea is a sweetheart, but she’s like a toddler who’s drunk too much Kool-Aid—can’t hold her water. She wouldn’t maliciously spill your business, but she also wouldn’t be able to help sharing it with her fifteen closest friends who wouldn’t tell a soul,” she drawled. “Also, Claudia Benson, her mother, is on the hunt, and she’s chasing down a potential husband for her daughter. So unless you want the details of your arrangement fodder for the Beautification Committee and an overbearing, uh, hands-on mother-in-law, I’d pass on that option.”

  Well shit. He had no idea if her claims about Chelsea’s propensity to gossip was true, but everything she’d said about the other woman’s mother hit the nail on the head. As soon as he’d sat down with Chelsea at the restaurant opening, Claudia Benson had “dropped by” the table no less than four times, a speculative glint in her eyes.

  Morgan had missed one more thing about Chelsea, though. Yes, she was nice…and boring as hell. She didn’t even talk about herself, just nothing but single-word answers and giggles. Fucking giggles. He couldn’t be with a woman who giggled—not even for a fake engagement. That was a deal-breaker.

  But Morgan didn’t know he’d already scratched Chelsea off his list of one, leaving him with no one. All week, panic had been tormenting him like a bad case of heartburn. He could feel his time ticking by. Feel the phantom brush of the CEO position as it slipped through his fingers. And now Morgan offered him his Hail Mary. Her.

  Hell no.

  He wasn’t that desperate…or cracked.

  “Whether or not Chelsea is an option, doesn’t change the fact that you aren’t,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Since being blunt and saying ‘hell no’ might be misconstrued as rude, I’ll just say no thank you.”

  Matching his stance, she folded her arms. Tilted her head. “Give me one good reason why.”

  “We. Don’t. Like. Each. Other,” he bit out. “I might not have fired you yet—and considering this new revelation of your predilection toward eavesdropping, I stress yet—but that doesn’t mean I’m going to willingly chain myself to you for the next few months.”

  “Pfft.” She waved aside his words as if swatting an annoying gnat. “In the immortal words of Tina Turner, what’s love—or like—got to do with it? We’re going to be pretending. Two people pulling a sham over people’s eyes for our own avaricious ends. If that’s not motivation, I don’t know what is. And personally, a little hate will really fuel the passion we fake feel for each other.”

  “Do you fully understand what we would have to do?” he growled, advancing on her, momentarily forgetting his resolve to maintain distance between them. “My father isn’t an idiot. He knows how much I despise the idea of marrying again. He—”

  “Wait, hold up.” She threw up a hand, palm out. “Again?”

  “—won’t be easily fooled. I need to convince him that I’ve done the impossible. That I found a woman I not only want to be with, but who’s also fallen in love with me. Which would explain the whirlwind romance and quick engagement.” The words tasted like day-old ashes in his mouth. “It’s going to be hard enough pretending I’ve gone stupid over a woman—any woman—but can you be that woman, Morgan? Can you pretend you want me? My touch? And not just for a night, but for weeks. Months, if necessary. I don’t think—”

  Morgan moved forward. No, prowled forward with a sensual sway of her hips that had the moisture in his mouth drying up like a drought. She didn’t stop until her chest pressed against him, and her thighs brushed his. Jesus. He ground his teeth together, caging the groan that climbed up the back of his throat. The layers of her dress and his sweater didn’t hide the firmness of her breasts. The soft weight of them had his hands itching to yank down the top, slide inside the cups of her bra, and cradle the tempting flesh. To thumb nipples he knew would be a delicate pink—at least until he had his mouth and tongue on them. Then the color wo
uld deepen into a dark, beautiful rose…

  “Do you know why I came here tonight?” she whispered, lifting a hand and cradling his face. Slumberous blue eyes stared up at him, the same need winding through his blood reflected there. “I couldn’t stop myself, even though I know this is the last place I should be. You…” A breath shuddered out from between her lips, caressing his chin. She whisked her thumb over his cheekbone, shaking her head. “You are like a drug. I shouldn’t want you. I know you’re bad for me, will probably hurt me, but I don’t care. I…need you. Want to just look at you, touch you.” She trailed her fingertips down his temple, over his jaw. Grazed his lips. “You’re all I think about, and…and I can’t fight it anymore,” she confessed on a trembling sigh as her gaze dropped to his mouth. “I don’t want to fight it anymore.” Abruptly she dropped her hand from him and stepped back. “Aaand scene.”

  She flung an arm out to the side and folded over at the waist into a flamboyant, exaggerated bow, the knot of hair at the top of her head bouncing. When she straightened, a smirk quirked her lips. The arousal that had hooded her eyes and softened her generous, a shade-too-wide mouth had disappeared as if it’d never been.

  “As you were saying?” she asked, arching a dark blonde eyebrow high. “I can’t pretend to want you?”

  “You are…” Amazing. Scary as fuck. But he couldn’t force out anything else pass the lust strangling him. His body still hummed with arousal, the need droning inside him like a hundred angry bees.

  “Awesome. I know.” She nodded. “I told Mrs. Bradley she should’ve let me play Peter Cottontail in our third-grade play instead of Tree Number One. She missed out on all this.” She swept a hand down her body. “So?” She held her palms up. “Do we have a deal?”

  When he was still trying to convince his cock that it wouldn’t be finding its way inside her? If anything, his body’s instant reaction to her was another reason to turn her down flat. At least with Chelsea, he hadn’t felt the urgent, primal need to drag her off and bury himself in her as soon as possible like a goddamn caveman. Not like Morgan. She was everything his body craved, and the very thing he couldn’t allow himself to have. To hell with playing with fire. She was like dancing around a ten-alarm fire in gasoline drawers.