Under His Touch. Cathryn Fox

in a deep breath. “Do you?” I ask again, working to maintain a rigid, professional-like composure, despite the fact I’m telling the one woman I’ve always wanted but can never have what I want in a future wife.

      How the hell did we end up here, negotiating a wife for me? Granddad, that’s how. Now that my cousins Tate and Brianna are married, it was only a matter of time before he came after me. I’m not even sure the man’s as weak and frail as he lets on. It could very well be a trick to get what he wants. But can I really take a chance and say no to him? He was there for me my whole life, stepping in to take the place of my dad—his son—when he up and left our family.

      I want to make my grandfather happy, and if it means getting married… I clench down on my jaw with an audible click and grind my back teeth together.

      I focus back on Megan. She’s clearly shocked at what I’m telling her, struggling to digest my words. It takes every ounce of strength, and I mean every ounce I possess, not to press my lips to hers, lose myself in her sweet honeyed taste like I did on prom night.

       You can’t go there with her.

      I stiffen my spine, present cold indifference like I do at every negotiation and study her tense body language. I might not have seen her in eight long years, but I know her well enough to know she’s trying to wrap her mind around my need for a loveless marriage. Only problem is, I can’t tell her the real truth.

      “I… I suppose not.” She blinks a few times, picks up her empty cup and sets it down again. “I mean, it’s your life.” She shrugs. “But I’m not so sure you’re going to find a woman who would want a marriage in name only.”

      I let loose a low, deep humorless laugh. It gives me great pleasure to see that after all these years, little Megan Williams is still as sweet and innocent as the day I met her. I don’t ever want her to change, which is one of the reasons I need to keep my hands and mouth to myself. I’m the last guy she needs in her life.

       Where the hell was that resolve on prom night?

      “You’re wrong about that,” I say.

      Quizzical eyes that once looked at me with adoration narrow, and her thick lashes fall slowly, only to open again. “What makes you say that?”

      “Women like power and are influenced by wealth. I’m willing to give whoever we pick exactly that. They can have it all, the money, jets and lifestyle, with the exception of my heart. That’s not on the negotiation table.”

      “What…what about intimacy,” she blurts out, then slams her mouth shut and glances around to see if anyone overheard her.

      I lean toward her, note the pink flush crawling up her slender neck, pooling on the exact spot I’d like to place my mouth. I take a moment to look her over. At eighteen she was sweet and adorable, but she’s grown more beautiful in the passing years. Prominent cheekbones, beautiful full lips, a body any man would kill for. Perfect then, and even more so now.

      “Intimacy? Are you asking if I plan to have sex with my wife?”

      She takes a deep breath, and as her chest heaves, my gaze slides downward, to her silky white blouse. From my height, and with the top two buttons undone, I’m gifted with a view of her creamy cleavage. I don’t deserve to look. Don’t deserve anything from her. Despite that knowledge, heat prowls through my blood, and my dress pants become increasingly uncomfortable.

      “People…well, people have needs,” she whispers.

      I lower my voice to match hers. “True, and I’m not ruling sex out, but right now I have other concerns.”

      “Such as?”

      “I’m used to living alone. I need a woman who won’t be underfoot in my home. She must be intelligent, likable and a good conversationalist since she’ll be attending dinners with board members.” She stares at me for a moment, disbelief and a measure of repulsion evident in her big doe eyes. Good, that’s the only way I can have her look at me, otherwise… “Perhaps you should be writing this down.”

      “Oh, right.” Her pen flies over the blank pages as she fills it with my criteria. She taps the tip on her chin when done, and stares at her notepad. “Do you care if she works?”

      “I’d like for her to have her own life. She won’t need to work, but if she chooses to stay home, I’d like to see her involve herself in charitable work.” Her eyes lift. “It will look better to the board,” I say. Yeah, I get it. I’m coming off like a grade A prick, but that’s what I want. That’s what I need. If this woman gives me so much as a seed of encouragement, a hint that she might still want me, I could very well lose my shit. I can’t—won’t—let that happen. She deserves better than that. She deserves better than me.

      Last week, when Granddad took me to his study and plied me with brandy, I knew he was up to something. I agreed to his terms, saw the truth in his words. Sure, I come from wealth, but I want to make my own mark in the financial world, want to become Blackstone’s youngest CFO. A wife will help with that and help with my reputation, which will hopefully get the damn paparazzi off my back—Christ knows they destroyed my brother, Will, who is fulfilling the Carson prophecy. But until I walked into this café, I had no idea I’d be facing Megan Williams. The old man never prepared me for her, and I can’t help but think he left the event planner’s name out on purpose. Smart man, because had I known I’d be coming face-to-face with the sweet girl I screwed over in high school, I never would have agreed to any of this.

      I’ll never forget the day I met her. It was the summer before our senior year. I was friends with her cousin Sara Duncan, and after Megan’s parents died in a car accident, she moved from Philadelphia to Manhattan to live with her aunt and uncle, who are friends of Granddad’s. Sara introduced us, and just like that I was lost in her and trying hard to keep it platonic. We were pretty inseparable for the rest of the year, then prom night. Jesus, prom night in St. Moritz. She knocked on my door, and when I opened it…

      “Alec?”

       Shit.

      “Sorry, what?”

      “If I’m going to fill out your online profile, I have to know what kind of woman you’re attracted to.”

      Ah. I need to be careful here. My gaze rakes over Megan, and the frizzy state of her auburn hair, my absolute favorite color. It brings a smile to my face. She always hated it when it rained, but I think her wild locks are adorable. With light brown eyes—the color of a root beer Popsicle—fair skin clear of makeup, save for her pink lipstick, she still has that same girl-next-door look going on.

      And that, my friends.

      Right there.

      Is the kind of woman I’m attracted to.

      “I prefer blonde,” I say, and as she nods her head, her drying auburn locks bouncing, she jots it down.

      She plants her elbow on the table and rests her chin in her palm. She goes thoughtful for a long time, then blinks her eyes back into focus. “Can I ask something?”

      “Yes, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to answer,” I say, wanting to be as honest with her as possible, but there are some things I just can’t divulge.

      “You date all the time. Thanks to the tabloids, I see the gorgeous women on your arm. Why not one of them? If it’s to be a loveless marriage, and you think women want you for power and money, and they’re probably on your arm because of that, why not just ask one of them to marry you?”

      It’s a legit question that deserves an honest answer. I might be a tough negotiator, but deep down I do have morals and I respect integrity as much as the next guy. With Megan, though, I have to be less than forthright with this answer, for her own good.

      “The women from my circle aren’t suitable for what I need.”

      “How so?”

      “They’re glamorous, over-the-top, high