His Not-So-Blushing Bride. Fiona Brand

years old. Designed by Brown & Worthington in an innovative, award-winning Mediterranean/modern architectural mix. Approximately three million square feet with access to the DART light-rail.

      “Slightly.”

      “My grandfather would be thrilled to give the exclusive sales contract for the complex to my husband.”

      She waited, but calculations had already scrolled through his head.

      The commission on Manzanares beat the Rose building by quadruple. And the prestige—it could lead to other clients for Wheeler Family Partners, and instead of being the Wheeler who’d screwed up, he’d be the family’s savior.

      Out of nowhere, the fifty-pound weight sitting on his chest rolled off. “If I went so far as to entertain this insane idea, can I call you Dulciana?”

      “Not if you expect me to answer. My name is Cia, which, incidentally, sounds nothing like darling, so take note. Are you in or out?”

      He had to tell her now? Evidently Cia did not subscribe to the Lucas Wheeler Philosophy of Life—anything worth doing was worth taking the time to do right. “Why me?”

      “You may play the field well and often, but research shows you treat women with respect. That’s important to me. Also, everything I’ve read says you’ll keep your word, a rare commodity. I can’t be the one to file for divorce so I have to trust you will.”

      Oddly, her faith touched him. But the feeling didn’t sit well. “Don’t you have a boyfriend or some other hapless male in your life you can railroad into this?”

      “There’s no one else. In my experience, men have one primary use.” She let her gaze rove over him suggestively, and the atmosphere shifted from tense to provocative. Hidden terrace lighting played over her features, softening them, and that unrevealing dress dangled the promise of what she’d hidden under it.

      Then she finished the sentiment. “To move furniture.”

      That’s why this exotically beautiful woman didn’t have a boyfriend stashed somewhere. Any guy sniffing around Miz Allende had to want it bad enough to work for it. Nobody was worth that much effort, not even this ferocious little crusader with the mismatched earrings who’d waltzed into the Black Gold Club and walked across the room with a deliberate, slow gait he’d thoroughly enjoyed watching. “You win. I’ll call you Cia.”

      Her brows snapped together. “Throw down your hand, Wheeler. You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain by marrying me. Yes or no?”

      She was all fire and passion, and it was a dirty shame she seemed hell-bent on keeping their liaison on paper. But he usually liked his women uncomplicated and easygoing, so treating this deal as business might be the better way to go.

      He groaned. At what point had he started to buy into this lunatic idea of a fake-but-pretend-it’s-real marriage to a woman he’d just met? Call him crazy, but he’d always imagined having lots of sex with the woman he eventually married…way, way, way in the future.

      If he pursued her, he’d have to work hard to get Miz Allen de into bed, which didn’t sound appealing in the least, and the deal would be difficult enough.

      Business only, then, in exchange for a heap of benefits.

      The Manzanares contract lay within his grasp. He couldn’t pass up the chance to revitalize his family’s business. Yeah, Matthew would be right there, fighting alongside Lucas no matter what, but he shouldn’t have to be. The mess belonged to Lucas alone, and a way to fix it had miraculously appeared.

      “No,” he said.

      “No?” Cia did a fair impression of a big-mouth bass. “As in you’re turning me down?”

      “As in I don’t kowtow to the X chromosome. You want to do business, we’ll do it in my office tomorrow morning. Nine sharp.” Giving him plenty of time to do a little reconnaissance so he could meet his future wife-slash-business-partner toe-to-toe. Wheelers knew how to broker a deal. “With lawyers, without alcohol, and darlin’, don’t be late.”

      Her face went blank, and the temperature dropped at least five degrees. She nodded once. “Done.”

      Hurricane Cia swept toward the door, and he had no doubt the reprieve meant he stood in the eye of the storm. No problem. He’d load up on storm-proof, double-plated armor in a heartbeat if it meant solving all his problems in one shot.

      Looked like he was going to make an effort after all.

Two

      Cia had been cooling her heels a full twenty minutes when Lucas strolled into the offices of Wheeler Family Partners LLC at 9:08 a.m. the next morning. Renewed anger ate through another layer of her stomach lining. She’d had to ask Courtney to cover her responsibilities at the shelter to attend this meeting, and the man didn’t have the courtesy to be on time. He’d pay for that. Especially after he’d ordered her not to be late in that high-handed, deceptively lazy drawl.

      “Miz Allende.” Lucas nodded as if he often found women perched on the edge of the leather couch in the waiting area. He leaned on the granite slab covering the receptionist’s desk. “Helena, can you please reschedule the nine-thirty appraisal and send Kramer the revised offer I emailed you? Give me five minutes to find some coffee, and then show Miz Allen de to my office.”

      The receptionist smiled and murmured her agreement. Her eyes widened as Cia stalked up behind Lucas. The other women often found on Lucas’s couch must bow to the master’s bidding.

      Cia cleared her throat, loudly, until he faced her. “I’ve got other activities on my agenda today, Wheeler. Skip the coffee, and I’ll follow you to your office.”

      Inwardly, she cringed. Not only were her feminine wiles out of practice, she’d let Lucas get to her. She couldn’t keep being so witchy or he’d run screaming in the other direction long before realizing the benefits of marrying her.

      If only he’d stop being so…Lucas for five minutes, maybe she’d be able to bite her tongue.

      Lucas didn’t call her on it, though. He just stared at her, evaluating. Shadows under his lower lashes deepened the blue of his irises, and fatigue pulled at the sculpted lines of his face. Her chin came up. Carousing till all hours, likely. He probably always looked like that after rolling out of some socialite’s bed, where he’d done everything but sleep.

      Not her problem. Not yet anyway.

      Without a blink, he said, “Sure thing, darlin’. Helena, would you mind?”

      He smiled gratefully at the receptionist’s nod and ushered Cia down a hall lined with a lush Turkish rug over espresso hardwood. Pricey artwork hung on the sage walls and lent to the moneyed ambience of the office. Wheeler Family Partners had prestige and stature among the elite property companies in Texas, and she prayed Lucas cared as much as she assumed he did about preserving his heritage, or her divorce deal would be dead on arrival.

      She had to convince him to say yes. Her mother’s tireless efforts on behalf of abused women must reach fruition.

      They passed two closed doors, each with name plaques reading Robert Wheeler and Andrew Wheeler, respectively. The next door was open. Lucas’s office reflected the style of the exterior. Except he filled his space with a raw, masculine vibe the second he crossed the threshold behind her, crowding her and forcing her to retreat.

      Flustered, she dropped into the wingback chair closest to the desk. She had to find her footing here. But how did one go about bloodlessly discussing marriage with a man who collected beautiful women the way the shore amassed seashells?

      Like it’s a business arrangement, she reminded herself. Nothing to get worked up over. “My lawyer wasn’t able to clear her morning schedule. I trust we can involve her once we come to a suitable understanding.”