“Yeah? Well, apart from the fact you could be an axe murderer for all I know, I can’t afford to not work for a week.”
“I can address both of those concerns.” His reply is so smooth it melts into my ears like butter.
Reaching into his jacket again, he drops an ID on the bar. I reluctantly pick it up and stare a little too long at the photograph. The ID reads ‘August King.’
My God, even his name is sexy.
“My company is called King Associates.”
He whips out a phone, opens the web browser and turns the screen toward me. I’m looking at the exceptionally slick homepage of what appears to be an investment bank.
I take the phone, select the dropdown menu and click on ‘People.’ A column of photographs appears, at the top of which is the man sitting in front of me: August King, President of King Associates.
Of course he is.
I frown, handing back the phone. “Seriously, why do you need a wife? Surely you have plenty of female friends to call upon.”
There’s no way this unutterably handsome man doesn’t have at least a dozen beautiful women on speed dial.
His mouth twitches. “I do have female friends, but none of them would fit the description of my wife quite like you.”
A flood of heat rushes through me, my stupid lady organs shivering at the thought I’m the only one who can fulfill thistask, while my brain scrambles around the question of ‘is that because I’m a typical dull-dud wife?’
“Hopefully this gives you some reassurance about who I am.”
His eyes haven’t shifted from my face and I’m beginning to liquify under the intensity.
“And now let me address the second concern. I’ll make sure this is financially worth your while. Two hundred thousand for the week.”
“Is that all— Wait, what?” My mouth falls open and I have to grip the bar to stay upright. “What did you just say?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars. Seven days and nights. It works out at just over twenty-eight thousand, five hundred a day.”
Holycrap! That’s quite a day rate. Beats my fifty-bucks-a-shift rate here at the bar.
I shake my head, wondering if I’ll wake up in a few seconds.
“I don’t understand,” I mutter.
He lays his forearms flat on the bar and breaks my gaze to look down at his hands. There’s no groove on his finger where a wedding band might once have been.
“Look,” he starts, his voice deep and husky. “You need the money, and I really need this favor.”
I bristle. “You don’t know that I need the money.”
He looks up with a thick brow raised. “You just said you couldn’t afford to not work. Plus, you’re mid-divorce, you have a kid to support and you’re working in a shitty bar.”
I flatten my shoulders. “I mightlikebeing poor.”
He bites the inside of his cheek. “Then don’t take the money and just be a good Samaritan.” His expression sobers. “I need yourhelp, Erin.”
Well, fuck if hearing my name again on the edge of this man’s tongue doesn’t make me quiver.
I swallow, loudly.
His lashes lift.
I open my mouth to decline his offer, then close it again.
