My Fake Fiancée. Nancy WarrenЧитать онлайн книгу.
one to cook dinner, and she found that she loved to experiment with new recipes, to refine old family favorites.
Other kids played video games and watched Friends when they got home from school. She watched Jacques Pepin and Martha Stewart. She wore the wrong clothes. She was plain and shy and studious. And the perfect fodder for a hopeless crush on the guy most likely to do whatever the hell he pleased.
But even in the fantasy realm where David suddenly noticed her and drew her slowly to him and kissed her, she’d never imagined that it would be quite so earth-shattering—and like most shy, bookish girls, she had quite an imagination.
Who’d have believed that now, now that she was no longer that shy young closet romantic, when she had plenty of experience of life and love, a simple kiss could rock her world.
But it had.
And so she was obsessively thinking about not thinking about that kiss—and about rules.
“I’m thinking about rules,” she said at last in answer to his question.
“Rules?” In the dim light of the cab, she thought she caught the interest on his handsome face. “What kind of rules?”
He said the words in the low, sexy tone of a man who brought women home to his place more often than she cared to think about, and not so they could sleep in the guest room and cook in his kitchen. Oh, no. He thought she was about to invent some sex game with rules. Even as the thought hit her, heat flooded her body.
No. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no!
“Rules of conduct,” she snapped, knowing she must sound like a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school.
“Maybe you’d better explain exactly what you mean.”
“If we’re going to be, um, sharing the same apartment, I think we need some guidelines.”
“If this is a toilet-seat-up-versus-down conversation, you can relax. There are two bathrooms. You’ll have your own.”
“I wasn’t thinking of those kinds of rules, though I suppose we’ll have to work around each other’s preferences. I was thinking more of …” She had no idea how to phrase this, and suddenly felt incredibly foolish. “Rules between you and me.”
Did he have to sit so close? There was plenty of room, but David had positioned himself so his leg was touching hers, thigh-to-thigh, and she felt the heat pulsing between them in a way that did not bode well for her peace of mind.
David, as she knew well, was a player, and she had no interest in being one of his playthings. At least, not in the sensible, self-protective part of her.
“Rules between you and me,” he echoed, sounding a little confused but also hopeful.
“Like no kissing,” she blurted.
He chuckled softly. And it was such a sexy sound she wanted to throw herself at him and break all the rules she’d thought of and a bunch she hadn’t. “Looks like we already broke the first rule.”
“I know. That’s what started me thinking. I can’t live in your house if we’re going to be, you know …”
“Kissing.”
“And so on.”
“I’m willing to negotiate here. What if we skip the kissing and stick to ‘and so on?’”
“This isn’t a joke. I barely know you.”
“What are you talking about? We’ve known each other for years.”
She could feel her red dress riding up her thighs and she tugged it down. “You didn’t even recognize me.”
“You grew up and got all sexy on me, that’s why.” His hand came down to rest on her knee, warm and confident. “We’re going to be spending a couple of months living together. Under the same roof. Based on that kiss, I’m guessing we’ve got pretty amazing chemistry. Are you seriously going to ignore it?”
The question hung in the air far too long before she found the strength to say “Yes.”
His hand moved up and down, not exactly a caress, but the next closest thing. “I think you’re getting pretty serious about something that doesn’t have to be.”
And that, right there, was the very reason that she had to have rules, and force both of them to stick to them.
Turning her body so she was facing him, and that thigh-to-thigh contact was broken, she said, “Sex is serious to me,” knowing he had to understand her position or they’d never make this thing work.
“Why?” He seemed genuinely curious.
“Because it matters.”
“Of course it matters. Sex feels good, is fun, doesn’t hurt anybody and could definitely help reduce some of the tension you’re carrying.”
“Is that really what you think? That sex is only a recreational sport, like a game of tennis?”
“Maybe not exactly like tennis, but a game that feels good, gets your heart rate up and relieves tension. What’s wrong with that?”
“Not for me. For me sex goes together with love. I can’t give myself to someone I don’t have deep feelings for.”
There was silence for a few beats. Then he removed his hand and said, “Okay.”
That was it? Okay? She had no idea why, but she felt let down. He hadn’t tried very hard to argue her out of her position. And not that she’d have caved, but it would have felt good to know she was so desirable he’d make an issue out of wanting to sleep with her.
She supposed he’d find another willing partner to play his games easily enough that not getting into her bed wasn’t going to bother him very much.
How depressing.
She hadn’t even been entirely honest. She’d slept with men she knew she didn’t love, but she’d always felt more than mere friendship, she supposed. And more than simply lust. And she hadn’t been sharing living quarters with them at the time.
Fortunately, since she couldn’t think of anything to talk about and her companion didn’t seem interested in starting a new subject of conversation, the cab pulled up in front of a brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street. The area was one of the nicest in the city, and full of up-and-coming hotshots like David. She could walk everywhere from here, which was great, she reminded herself.
He paid off the cab and climbed out, then held out his hand to help her navigate high heels and a short skirt.
“Thanks,” she said, when she reached the pavement.
He let go of her hand and dug out his keys.
They walked up a few steps to a glossy black door with a leaded window embedded in the upper half, and when he opened the door and flipped on the lights, she followed him in and instantly fell in love.
His town house combined the best of the nineteenth century, when it had been built, with its original wainscoting and gleaming hardwood floors, fireplace and high ceilings, with completely modern furnishings, including the art and lighting.
The designer had stayed with a masculine palette, painting the rooms in burgundies, grays and some greens, but she liked it.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Thanks. The kitchen’s through here,” he said as though he’d known she’d want to see that room before anything else. He led her through the living room, pointing out a powder room on that level, and then he opened double doors and she found herself falling in love all over again.
“It’s huge,” she said, not able to come up with anything more original.
“I had the dining room taken out and one big kitchen put in. I’m not the dining-room type. I figured this was more