My Fake Fiancée. Nancy Warren

she did.”

      Rapidly, he reviewed his options. Five minutes until they were supposed to meet for dinner.

      He could either tell her to go home and make up some tale about his fiancée being sick, or he could go through with this charade. Maybe he could break up with her much sooner than planned, since the fiancée he’d imagined would help forward his career seemed in imminent danger of destroying it.

      He forced a smile. He didn’t have any options. “You look fine.” He stepped forward, leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for helping me out.”

      “I could say the same. I guess we’re helping each other out.”

      He almost groaned. He’d forgotten his sister’s conditions. Not only was she single-handedly destroying his career, but she’d also finagled him into allowing this woman to stay in his house for three months.

      No doubt there were morality tales about the consequences of telling lies, tales that would terrify children into behaving perfectly. He felt like he was living a morality tale right now. The Liar is Punished.

      “Can you walk in those heels? The restaurant is a couple of blocks that way.”

      “I think I can manage.”

      They headed off to the restaurant. He had five minutes to prime her, when he’d planned to spend hours telling her everything he figured a fiancée would need to know. But she’d so addled his brain he couldn’t think of any of the things he’d imagined would be so important.

      What did it matter, anyway?

      He was doomed.

      Chelsea didn’t seem to appreciate she was his doom. As she walked beside him, her body seemed to dance to the tap of her shoes on the pavement. “Who are these people I’ll be meeting tonight?”

      “Right.” Luckily she was smart, and obviously not as thrown off stride by seeing him again as he was by seeing her. He gave her a quick rundown of all the players and she listened intently, with a tiny line between her eyes, reminding him for the first time of the girl he’d known.

      “Is there anything in particular I should say or not say?” she asked, as though she were cramming for an exam. But he’d pretty much already accepted the failing grade.

      “Just be yourself,” he said, “and if you’re unsure of anything, defer to me.”

      “What have you told them about me?” Her hair swung against her jaw, sleek and sophisticated, and he noticed how long and elegant her neck was.

      “Nothing. They didn’t even know your name until a couple of days ago. Oh, we went to the Caribbean in March. You got sunburned.”

      “Foolish of me.”

      “I might have told them you love skiing.”

      “Foolish of you.”

      “Yeah. I think we went to Vail in February.”

      She turned to stare at him. “From Paris?”

      “I didn’t know you were in Paris when we got engaged.” He threw his hands up in the air. “You know what I mean. We’ll wing it.”

      “I’ll do my best,” she said.

      Even with her in those ridiculous heels they made good time and before he was remotely prepared, they were standing outside the restaurant. He drew in a quick breath. “Ready?”

      “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

      “Okay.” He reached for her hand. “Hope you don’t mind. We should act like, you know …”

      “Lovers,” she replied, wrapping her fingers around his. The clasp was perfect. Her hand felt surprisingly reassuring in his. Even if the word lovers, and the way she’d said it, had him conjuring up a vision of the two of them in bed, hot and sweaty and orgasmic. Which was not what he wanted to be thinking about when he saw his bosses.

      They walked into the restaurant, an upscale French place, and were directed to the upper floor, where a private space had been reserved.

      There weren’t many people there yet. Only the key ones. Piers and his wife, Helen. Piers’s brother, Lars, and his wife, Amelia, and several board members and their wives. Damien Macabee nodded to him affably, and David was already so rattled he barely thought about any awkwardness that might be attached to him coming to dinner with the man he planned to replace. Macabee’s wife also nodded and under her scrutiny he felt even more uncomfortable. But then, the woman was a judge, and he was always convinced she could see right through him.

      Not only were he and Chelsea the youngest by a few decades, but bringing Chelsea into this room was like bringing a gorgeous parrot into a flock of drab pigeons.

      For a second total silence fell over the assembled company. Piers recovered first. He walked forward with a welcoming smile on his face. “Well, David, good to see you. And please introduce me to your lovely lady.”

      “Glad to, Piers. Piers Van Horne, this is my fiancée, Chelsea Hammond.” His tie was choking him again. He’d been engaged once and never, ever planned to put himself in the same position again, where a woman had the power to gut him. Not that this one did—obviously, he didn’t love her. Barely knew her, but still, introducing her as his fiancée left him feeling like he needed to down a bottle of Maalox.

      She held out her hand and shook her host’s. “Thank you for inviting me,” she said.

      “We’re so glad to finally meet you. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

      “David’s told me a little about you, too.” But not nearly damned enough to prevent disaster, he was certain.

      “Come and meet some of the other people we work with.”

      He ushered her forward. “My wife, Helen. Helen, this is Chelsea.”

      Helen was not what you’d call well-preserved. She’d let her hair go gray long before it was fashionable to do so, and always wore the same hairstyle, a simple bun at the back of her head. She was on the heavy side and wore clothes and shoes that were comfortable rather than stylish.

      Helen and Chelsea shook hands and he couldn’t imagine two women in the world who could have less in common.

      “Let’s get the women drinks, shall we?” Piers said. He hated to leave them, but what choice did he have. “Sure. Honey? What do you want to drink?”

      “I’ll have my usual Pernod, if they have it,” she said. “White wine, if they don’t.”

      Pernod. Why the hell couldn’t she drink something normal. Scotch or a martini or something.

      “Pernod,” he heard Helen say and inwardly cringed. “I remember my brother used to drink that. He picked up the habit when he was living in France.”

      “That’s how I started, too. I was living in Paris until recently.”

      “Really? We took the children to visit Bob one Christmas. He was with IBM and it was a great treat for us all to go over there. Were you on holiday?”

      “No. I studied at Le Cordon Bleu. I’m a chef.”

      “Really? How interesting. Oh, how I envy you. I married so young I never …” And then they were out of earshot and he didn’t know what Helen had never done. At least the first five minutes of his ordeal were going better than he’d hoped.

      He and Piers picked up the drinks and returned to the ladies, by which time the women were talking about pastry. Pastry!

      David downed his scotch-and-soda. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he definitely felt the need for some false courage if he was going to get through this night.

      More board members began to arrive and if Chelsea still stuck out as the most glamorous and sexy woman at the party, he began to realize that she wasn’t the embarrassment