The Bravo Billionaire. Christine Rimmer

burdened with an excess of integrity.

      Still, a man in his position couldn’t be too careful. “I’ll expect you to sign a prenuptial agreement. I’ll settle a few million on you, but that’s all you’ll get out of me.”

      She stiffened. And her soft red mouth became a firm line. “I don’t need a few million from you, Jonas Bravo. You make out those papers to say I get nothin’—and you get nothin’ of my fortune, either.”

      He couldn’t help it. He laughed. As the sound escaped him, he realized it was something he didn’t do all that often. He composed himself, asked, quite seriously, “What fortune is that, Emma Lynn?”

      She had that cute little turned-up nose of hers aimed at the ceiling. “The fortune I’ll earn soon enough, you watch me.”

      He was watching. And he was thinking that she did possess a certain spunky charm. She had just succeeded in amusing him. And that was a rare thing. Women so seldom amused him anymore.

      Maybe he’d become jaded. There had, after all, been an excess of women in his life during his mid-to-late twenties. All of them had been beautiful and bright and so clever. But sooner or later, they all wanted more than he wanted to give them. He would move on.

      The endings of affairs tended to be unpleasant—all those tears and impassioned recriminations. Gradually, he’d come to the conclusion that the great sex at the beginning of a romance just wasn’t enough to make up for all the big emotional scenes at the end. So he had dated less and less until, in the past two or three years, he found that he wasn’t dating at all.

      But he had to admit that sometimes he missed having a woman in his life. He missed the feel of a soft, warm body beneath him in bed. He missed kissing. Yes, he really had liked kissing. He liked the taste of women, the sweetness of their mouths beyond the soft boundary of their lips.

      Emma Lynn, he couldn’t help but notice, had a very pretty mouth, not too wide, but with full lips. Her mouth was slightly open at the moment. He could see her nice white teeth, which were just the slightest bit overlapping in front—not perfect.

      Strange. He liked that.

      He also was finding that he’d begun to like that mole above her lip on the right side, the way it slid into shadow when she smiled.

      He moved a step closer to her, took in a careful breath.

      Yes. A fresh, sweet, scent. Like roses—roses wet with morning dew.

      It probably wouldn’t be entirely unpleasant to have her in bed. In fact, having sex with his wife…that could be an interesting diversion. He doubted the attraction would last the entire year, but why not make the most of it while it did?

      He wanted to touch her, to reach out and run his finger along her cheek.

      Had he ever touched her? He didn’t believe so. He didn’t believe he’d ever so much as taken her hand.

      That was odd, wasn’t it? It had been five years since his mother had first introduced them. He remembered that introduction clearly. He had heard them, the two of them, laughing together in the living room off the grand foyer. Or perhaps laughing wasn’t the word for it. They were giggling, like a pair of teenage girls sharing secrets. He’d decided to investigate.

      He’d pushed open the tall double doors. And there was his mother in her Chanel and pearls, sitting on one of the striped silk sofas with a way-too-sexy blonde. The blonde wore a very red, very revealing pair of shorts and a skimpy halter top.

      His mother had glanced over at him in the doorway. “Jonas, come in. You must meet Emma Lynn…”

      He had not come in. He had nodded a curt greeting and bowed from the room, pulling the doors shut as he went.

      After that, there’d been no real occasion to touch Emma Lynn. No reason he would want to. She irritated him, and she’d never seemed particularly fond of him, either.

      Well, now he was going to marry her—for a limited time, anyway. And he’d decided he’d probably take her to bed. He did want to touch her now. So he would. He reached out his hand.

      Emma gulped.

      Omigoodness. Jonas was going to touch her. Now why in the world would he go and do that?

      She knew she should say something, move back, flinch away.

      But she didn’t. She remained absolutely still as his big, square hand brushed at her hair, slid along her cheek—and then dropped away.

      They were standing just inside the door of his study. And now neither of them was moving. Emma felt that she couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Could hardly even breathe.

      Jonas Bravo had touched her.

      And now, he was looking at her so strangely. The very air felt changed. Charged. It seemed to vibrate with the tension between them—a whole new kind of tension. The sexual kind.

      Emma’s silly throat had gone bone-dry. She gulped again.

      What was this? She did not need this—to get all hot and bothered over Blythe’s big old bully of a son.

      Okay, they were getting married. But there wasn’t going to be any funny stuff, no there was not. Blythe’s will hadn’t said a thing about the two of them sleeping together. Emma was going to open him up and teach him a little about giving and caring.

      But sex? Uh-uh. There was no need for that and they were not going to go there.

      “Um. It’s getting late, isn’t it? I’d better be headin’ out.”

      Jonas allowed himself a second smile—this one more obvious than the first.

      Yes, he was thinking. There it was, beneath the irritation. Attraction. Mutual attraction. Interesting.

      And she was completely bewildered by it. Not prepared for it, fighting it, even.

      Jonas felt better by the second.

      The way he saw it, Emma Lynn Hewitt’s confusion provided a clear opportunity. It represented his chance to get the upper hand with her. And if there was one thing that Jonas Bravo understood, it was the importance of getting and keeping the upper hand.

      He moved in closer. Her eyes got wider. “When?” he asked softly.

      She actually licked those pretty full lips. “Um…what?”

      “The wedding. When?”

      She only stared at him, her gaze sliding from his mouth, to his eyes, then back to his mouth.

      Imagine that. Emma Lynn Hewitt had nothing to say.

      He answered the question for her. “I’ll tell you when. Tomorrow. First thing. We’ll fly to Vegas. We can be back in L.A. by tomorrow night.”

      “Tomorrow?” She looked more bewildered by the second. She also looked aroused. Jonas decided he liked her that way. Aroused and bewildered. And at a loss for words.

      “Tomorrow,” he repeated. “I have some important meetings on Wednesday. I’ll need to be back in town for those.”

      “Oh. Important meetings. Of course.”

      Jonas found himself debating the pros and cons of a kiss. He did want to taste her—but no. Waiting would be better. Tomorrow night, he’d be kissing his wife.

      The idea sent a bolt of heat through him. All at once, he was rock-hard.

      Yes. It could be amusing, to be married for a year.

      Marriage wasn’t for him. He never would have willingly agreed to such a thing. But since his dotty mother had fixed it so he had to marry, well, at least he’d be marrying a woman who, he might as well admit it now, had begun to intrigue him.

      She was so deliciously contradictory. The high moral standards, the do-it-to-me shoes…

      And it was only temporary. Might as well make the best