His Thirty-Day Fiancée. Catherine Mann

bad for both of us. That could have been…” He stopped mid-sentence and steadied the lamp—a gift from his brother Antonio—filled with Spanish doubloons from a shipwreck off San Rinaldo. No need to torment her for the hell of it, not when he had a more complex plan in mind. “It’s not that kind of proposition. Believe me, I don’t have to trade money—or media exclusives—for sex.”

      She eyed him warily, surreptitiously hitching up the sinking neckline of her gown. “Then what kind of trade are we talking about here?”

      He watched her every move. The way she picked at her painted thumbnail with her forefinger. How she rubbed her heel over the silly little anklet she wore. He savored up every bit of reeling her in, the plan growing more fulfilling by the second.

      This was the best way. The only way. “I have a bit of a, uh, shall we say ‘family situation.’ My father is in ill health—as the world now knows thanks to your invasive investigative skills.”

      She winced visibly for the first time. “I’m very sorry about that. Truly.” Then her nervousness fell away and her azure-blues gleamed with intelligence. “About the trade?”

      “My father wants to see me settled down, married and ready to produce the next Medina heir. He even has a woman chosen—”

      Her eyes went wide. “You have a fiancée?”

      “My, how you reporters gobble up tidbits like fish snapping at crumbs on the water. But no. I do not have a fiancée.” Irritation nipped, annoying him all the more since it signaled a bit of control sliding to her side. “If you want another bread crumb, don’t anger me.”

      “My apologies again.” She fingered her empty ear-lobe. “What about our trade?”

      Back to the intriguing problem in front of him.

      He would indulge those impulses with her later. When she was ready. And gauging by her air of desperation, it wouldn’t take much persuasion. Just a little time he could buy while settling a score and easing his father’s concerns about future heirs.

      “As I said, my father is quite ill.” Near death from the damage caused by hepatitis contracted during his days on the run. The doctors feared liver failure at any time. He shut off distracting images of his pale father. “Obviously I don’t want to upset him while his health is so delicate.”

      “Of course not. Family is important.” Her eyes filled with sympathy.

      Ah. He’d found her weakness. The rest would be easy.

      “Exactly. So, I have something you want, and you can give me something in return.” He lifted her chilly hand and kissed her short red nails. Judging by the way her pupils dilated, this revenge would be a pleasure for them both. “You cost our family much with your photos, destroying our carefully crafted anonymity. Now, let’s discuss how you’re going to repay that debt.”

      Two

      “Repay the debt,” Kate repeated, certain he couldn’t be implying what she’d thought. And she would look like a fool if she let him know what she’d assumed. She inched her chilly hand from his encompassing grip. “I’m going to work for you?”

      “Nice try.” He stepped closer, his ninja workout pants whispering a dark, sexy hello.

      Holding her silence, she crossed her arms to hide her shivery response and keep him from moving closer. This man’s magnetism was mighty inconvenient. Her toes curled into the Aubusson rug.

      He tipped his head regally, drawing her attention to the strong column of his neck, his pulse steady and strong. “I want you to be my fiancée.”

      Shock unfurled her toes. “Are you smoking crack?”

      “Never have. Never intend to.” He clasped her wrists and unfolded her arms slowly, deliberately until they stood closer still. His eyes bored into hers. “I’m stone-cold sober and completely serious. In case you haven’t noticed, I do not joke.”

      Her breasts strained against the bodice of her dress with each breath growing deeper, more erratic. She didn’t know what he was up to. Right now, he held all the cards, including all her photos.

      Any hope of salvaging an article from this required playing with fire. “Seems to me like you have a fine sense of humor to suggest something as ridiculous as this. What do you really hope to accomplish?”

      “If my father thinks I’m already locked into a relationship—” he skimmed his knuckles up her arm “—with you, he will quit pressing me to hook up with one of the daughters of his old pals from San Rinaldo.”

      “Why choose me?” She plucked his hand away with a nonchalance she certainly didn’t feel inside. “Surely there must be plenty of women who would be quite happy to pretend to be your fiancée.”

      He leaned on the back of the sofa, muscular legs mouth-wateringly showcased in his ninja pants. “There are women who want to be my fiancée, but not pretend.”

      “What a shame you’re suffering from such ego problems.” She playfully kicked his bare foot with hers.

      Oops. Wrong move. Her skin flamed from the simple touch. An answering heat sparked in his eyes.

      It was just their feet, for pity’s sake. Still, she’d never felt such an intense and instantaneous draw to a man in her life, and she resented her body’s betrayal.

      Heels staying on the ground, Duarte toed her anklet, flicking at the beads. “I fully realize my bank balance offers a hefty enticer. With you, however, we both know where we stand.”

      Her yarn and plastic contrasted sharply with his suite sporting exclusive artwork. The seascape paintings weren’t from some roadside stand bought simply to accent a Martha’s Vineyard decor. She recognized the distinctive brushstrokes of Spanish master painter Joaquín Sorolla y Bastida from her college art classes.

      She forced herself not to twitch away from Duarte’s power play, not too tough actually since the simple strokes felt so good against her adrenaline-pumped nerves. “Won’t your father wonder why he’s never heard you mention me before now?”

      “We’re not a Sunday-dinners sort of family. You can use that as a quote for articles if you wish, once we’re finished.”

      Articles. Plural. But would they be timely enough to generate the money to settle her sister’s bill for next month? “How long from now until that finish date?”

      “My father has asked for thirty days of my time to handle estate business around the country while he’s ill. You can accompany and compile notes for your exclusive. I’ll be hitting a number of hot spots around the U.S., including a stop in Washington, D.C., for a black-tie dinner with some politicians who could put your name on the map. And of course you’ll get to meet my family along the way. I ask only that I get to approve any material you plan to submit.”

      Thirty days?

      She did a quick mental calculation of her finances and Jennifer’s bills. With some pinching she could squeak through until then. Except what kind of scoop would she have when every news industry out there could have jumped in ahead of her? “The story could be cold by then. I need some assurance of a payoff—at work—that will help advance my career.”

      Bleck, but that made her sound money-grubbing. How come men struck hard bargains and they were corporate wizards, but the same standards didn’t apply to women? She had a career to look after and responsibilities to her sister.

      Duarte’s eyes brimmed with cynicism. “So we’re going to barter here? Quite bold on your part.”

      “Arrest me, then. I’ll text a story from my jail cell. I’ll describe the inside of your personal suite along with details about your aftershave and that birthmark right above your belly button. People can draw their own conclusions and believe me, the click-throughs will be plentiful.”

      “You’re willing