Playing Mr. Right. Kat Cantrell

hadn’t figured out yet how to veer her back into something a little less invasive. “I am actually doing paperwork.”

      If staring at paperwork counted, then it wasn’t so much of a lie. Otherwise, he’d stopped doing paperwork an hour ago and instead had been stewing about the latest fundraising numbers.

      He was short. A lot. He had less than three months to raise north of seven million dollars and the near impossibility of the task writhed in his stomach like a greasy eel. As a result, he’d spent a lot of time sorting through fundraising ideas on his own, which was something he’d outsource to Laurel over his dead body.

      The trick was engaging her enough so that she thought she’d snowed him into this partnership, when in reality, he only let her have enough rope to bind them very closely together—strictly so he didn’t miss whatever she had up her sleeve. Sharing the actual work with Laurel wasn’t happening.

      Thus far, she hadn’t seemed to clue in. She barged into his office at her leisure to discuss what had become her pet project. He’d bet a hundred K that she’d spotted a notice in the society pages about the Art for Autism Association fundraiser tonight and she’d come by to announce she was dragging him along to it, pretending it wasn’t a date when, in reality, it was a great excuse to spend the evening together without admitting she wanted to.

      He’d put up some empty protests and eventually let her think she’d talked him into it. Getting out from underneath the eyes at LBC sounded like an opportune way to dig a little deeper into Laurel Dixon and whatever it was about her that niggled at his suspicions.

      She curled her lip at the printed pages under his fingers, eyeing the black type as if she could actually read it from that distance. “Good thing for you I have something much more exciting to put on your agenda. You’re taking me on a hot date tonight.”

      Oh, God, yes. The scene spilled through his mind without an ounce of prompting. Laurel in a little black dress—backless, of course, designed to make a man’s mouth water—and sky-high heels that did amazing things to her legs. Her voice would be lowered enough to keep their conversation private. Hair down and brushed to a high gleam. She’d take his breath away the moment he opened the door and he’d never quite get his equilibrium back until maybe the next day...

      What was he thinking?

      Xavier sat back in his chair and crossed his arms with feigned nonchalance in case his initial—and so very inappropriate—response got too big to stay under his skin and started leaking out of his pores.

      And this even though he’d known it was coming. It was just...she’d called it a date, after all, and in the process, uncovered his previously undiscovered craving to do it for real. What was he supposed to do with her?

      Laurel was so much more dangerous than he’d credited.

      “We’re not dating.” A token protest. It was only a matter of time before he figured out how to keep his wits about him as he seduced the truth out of her. Meanwhile, he had to play it like he still planned to keep her at arm’s length. All the balls they had in the air should be exhausting. “We’ve covered this.”

      Instead, it was invigorating.

      She waved it off. “Yeah, yeah. This isn’t a real date. You’re taking me on a field trip. I found a great foundation doing a unique fundraiser. Tonight.”

      Pretending it was not a real date he could do. In fact, it got a righteous hallelujah. Silently, of course, but still. His arms relaxed and dropped into his lap. “Fantastic. Where?”

      “Art gallery.” She glanced at her watch, her attention already galloping away from this conversation into whatever else was going on in her brain. “I called as your representative and they were more than happy to take your money. The lady even sent a courier over with the tickets. I have to leave now so I can pick up a dress and get my hair done. I have reservations at LaGrange at eight. Meet me there.”

      Like hell. He did things the right way when it came to taking a woman to dinner. Especially one he wanted to keep close for more reasons than one. “We’ll need time to strategize. I’ll be at your house at seven thirty to pick you up.”

      Her eyebrows lifted and he couldn’t help the smug sense of satisfaction that crept through him. Laurel wasn’t so easy to surprise. He’d have to repeat that a whole bunch more, simply because he liked the idea of knocking her off balance before she did it to him.

      “Well, then, I have to say yes to strategizing.”

      Innuendo dripped from her voice and the suggestion pinged around inside him, doing interesting things down below. He let the charged moment drag out because it suited him and then smiled. “Wear black.”

      “Duh. You, too,” she suggested with a once-over that clearly said she found his jeans and T-shirt lacking in some way.

      “I’ve been to my share of society events. I think I’m good.” Finally, he’d have a chance to slip back into his old self, the one that wore three-thousand-dollar suits to the office as a matter of course. He could even pull his Yacht-Master out of the box in his closet. “See you at seven thirty.”

      She lifted her chin in amused acknowledgment that he’d won that round and took off to do whatever female rituals she’d lined up to get herself ready for tonight.

      Xavier was dressed in his favorite tux by seven, but forced himself to cool his heels. Laurel did not need any ammunition, and showing up early would clue her in as to how much he’d been anticipating this not-a-date—and not just because he had an agenda of his own for the evening. He wanted to see her.

      Labels were simply a mechanism to drive them both toward what they wanted using acceptable parameters. They’d be spending the evening together in formal wear, eating dinner and attending an art show, all of which could lead to something very good. Sure, it was pitched as an opportunity to scout out how another charity did fundraising, but they were both adults who shared a sizzling attraction.

      There was no reason he couldn’t enjoy the results of seducing her, even if his motives weren’t entirely pure. Women who hid things didn’t get to be self-righteous about how their secrets came to light.

      Besides, if she hadn’t wanted to play with fire, she’d have picked a fundraising field trip with a lot fewer matches. Like the 5k run through Highland Park that the Chicago Children’s Advocacy Center had on tap for tomorrow. No chance to get the slightest bit cozy in the middle of the day while sweating your butt off. Probably that’s what they should have signed up for.

      But he had to be honest and admit that he liked a good fire, himself. As long as he was the one controlling the flame.

      The moment he rang Laurel’s doorbell at 7:31, she swung it open as if she’d been standing there waiting. Clearly she had no qualms about letting him know she’d been eagerly anticipating his arrival. And then his brain registered the woman. Whatever illusion he’d cooked up that had given him the idea he might have the slightest iota of control vanished like smoke in a hurricane.

      Holy hell. “Laurel...”

      His brain couldn’t form coherent sentences after that. She was so far past gorgeous that she bordered on ethereal. Angelic. Something a man with far more poetry in his soul than Xavier LeBlanc would have to immortalize because all he could think was wow.

      Black was Laurel’s color. There was something about it that paired with her skin and eyes to make both luminous. The dress was exactly the right length to be considered modest, but also to make a man wishful. And her stilettos—sexy enough to make his teeth ache along with the rest of his body.

      “I got lucky,” she said with a laugh, like everything was fine and his entire world hadn’t just been knocked from its axis. “This was the first dress I tried on and the price tag wasn’t the equivalent of my mortgage.”

      “It’s...” Perfect. But his tongue went numb. He swallowed. What the hell was wrong with him? It was just a dress.