The Lie, Natalie Wrye [ebook reader play store txt] 📗

for a moment. He just stares at me hard. “I don’t lie,” he says. “And if you need a place to stay tonight, I have to say, you’re welcome to stay at my suite at the Baccarat hotel.”

I scoff. “You have a room at the Baccarat hotel?”

He doesn't respond right away, taking a minute to let his gaze graze over me. His strong jaw ticks as he speaks.

“I know you don’t like me,” he says, tone tight as ever, “but you’re doing yourself a disservice by being so irrationally judgmental. It's a big deal to me.”

I twist the watch around my wrist, my eyes focused on the small display. “It’s a big deal to me too.”

“And I’m not asking you to marry me,” he says. “Only to pretend to. It should be easy.”

Easy?

I want to say nothing is easy when it comes to Andrew Fletcher, but he stops me, motioning towards the door.

“I'll take you to the suite now, so you can wrap your head around this.”

My face burns. I feel too many things at this moment to count.

Rage.

Anguish.

Lust.

And then…a flicker of something else.

Something I thought was long gone.

Something I thought I'd never feel again…

And then a promise.

A promise of better. A promise of more.

All the things that Sophia was talking about that didn’t make sense.

I hesitate, hating that I know what my answer will be. Hating that Andrew seems to know it as he looks at me, his eyes scanning my face as if reading my mind.

“I'll think about it,” I tell him.

But he smiles—knowing what I mean. I’m almost sure of it. “I won't take no for an answer. I'll be at the hotel tomorrow morning at nine to collect you. Please stay away from the mini-bar. You do not want a hangover around these people.”

“Nine? You're serious?” I ask.

“And if you even think about telling anyone about this, I’ll make sure you regret it.” He opens the front door of the penthouse so I can walk out.

Then, he stops and looks over at me. “Oh, and I hope you know how to cook.”

Chapter 7

NANCY

Five hours, one expensive hotel suite and two whiskeys later, I lie awake in the middle of an unruffled king-sized bed Andrew has paid for, wondering how the hell I can justify the mess I know I’ll be walking into.

A week has taken place in the space of twelve hours.

Twelve hours ago, I was sane…

At least, a large part of me was.

The part that still had a business. A potential boyfriend. And half a brain.

Now, I’ll be lucky if I have any of those three come daylight.

My phone on Do Not Disturb, I starfish out on the bed with nothing but the mini-bar’s selection, the soft sounds of forties film White Heat and my own memories of tonight to keep me company.

It’s not enough that the most aggravating man on the planet looks like a cross between heaven and the devil in one package.

No. He had to be a secret billionaire with a mean right hook and a protective streak.

I can’t lie: Andrew knocking that Reed Hutton’s head off gave more pleasure than my vibrator’s given me in months.

And even though everything in my rational brain is screaming at me to say no…there’s still another part of me that whispers yes to a proposition so damned ridiculous that I should get a CAT scan for even considering it.

Six hours ago, I’d needed a loan. And a loan had just fallen out of the sky.

An answer to all my prayers.

The small voice inside me knows that. And won't let me forget it.

I’m sure that small voice is nothing but Sophia—nothing but my best friend choosing to speak to me from inside every glass of alcohol I’ve drunk tonight.

And for once, I let her win out, reaching over to the room’s phone, the suite slightly swaying as I grab the handle, dialing the number written on the sticky note beside it before I can stop.

Mr. Aggravating picks up in less than two rings, his deep voice rough—heavy with sleep.

I choose not to care.

“Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” I slur.

Andrew grunts. “By the fact that you called, I’m guessing that’s what you expected.”

“Oh, I don't know. I don’t know much about anything. I’m the queen of not knowing things. Especially about you, it seems…”

“Are you drunk?” he asks, a little shocked.

“Yes,” I confess, feeling high. “I'm in my hotel room. That you paid for. With an entire bottle of whiskey to myself. I feel like a million dollars.”

“I thought I told you not to drink. I’m picking you up at nine in the morning,” he chastises me.

“I know,” I say, laughing, not recognizing my own voice. “But sober me has a little too much sense, so I put her on the back burner.”

“Sounds about right. So…what can I do for you, Anne? At…three o’clock in the goddamned morning?”

I point, my finger fiddling with the receiver as I talk. “I think the better question, Lincoln…is not what you can do for me…but what I have to do for you. Since you’re the one asking for this.”

“What’d you have to do as what?”

“Your fake wife. Or fiancée. Or whatever.” I press, the sounds of White Heat and actor James Cagney taunting me on the hotel TV. I sit up. “What would I have to do as your fake fiancée?”

Andrew coughs, not succeeding in clearing the rasp from his voice. His voice grates like fine salt in my ear. “Well, for one thing, you’d have to put down the mini-bar bottles before you talked to anyone.”

“Got it. And?”

“And what?”

“Besides the lying and pretending and tricking everyone in your family so I could help you smuggle away a fortune…would I really have to cook or clean? Your last little warning has me on edge.”

Andrew sighs, the deep timbre of his voice rumbling in my ear and sending shivers up my spine. I try to ignore them as he begins speaking again. “To your question of cleaning,” he prompts, “the answer