The Billionaire Bargain #2(12)
“So pleased to meet you,” I managed to muster in response to Siobhan’s greeting of a pointedly raised eyebrow and half-sigh at my presence. Then I rounded on Grant. “I said no wedding plans! You promised.”
“And I have delivered,” Grant assured me. “Siobhan is solely here to help us plan our engagement party.”
“Our—you rules-lawyering little weasel—”
“Don’t worry,” Grant said with his trademark wicked grin. Did he actually have that trademarked? I’d be willing to bet real money that he had that trademarked, and probably insured for several million. “It’ll be an intimate little affair. Just me, you, and oh, five hundred of our closest friends.”
“Oh, you won’t have to lift a finger,” Siobhan murmured, as if speaking any louder might cause her irreparable pain, or else exhaust her to the point where she had to drop onto the carpet in a deep sleep. “I’ll take care of everything. But, if inspiration should strike—” she threw me a look that suggested inspiration would be more likely to strike a lamppost or small potting shed—“here’s my card.”
She languidly extended her hand with the card in it, and after I took it, glided from the room as if she were dancing underwater.
“She really is quite brilliant,” Grant said, though he was struggling to keep a straight face. “Eccentric, certainly, but she’ll take care of everything. Jennings recommended her.”
“Ah, so that’s why you went for Sleeping Beauty,” I said. “Everything makes much more sense now.” I wandered around to the other side of the desk and sank into the lush upholstery of his leather chair. “Are you done complicating my life, or is there anything else you want to throw at me?”
“Well, I had planned on just handing this to you, but if you want to test your hand-eye coordination—”
Grant tossed a small object into the air and without thinking, I caught it. It was a key.
“I know you think I’ve been doing a good job, but I think the key to the city can wait,” I snarked. “Give me another couple weeks, at least.”
“While I have no doubt you will one day earn that privilege, this is another matter entirely,” Grant said. “It’s a duplicate of the key to my apartment. You’re moving in tonight.”
“What? No way!” Of all the entitled, pigheaded—
“Anticipating your objections, I’ve had your things packed up and moved. And I’ve called the press.” He raised his hand to forestall objections, smirking. “Don’t worry—I very discreetly boxed up your book collection myself. No one will ever know of your penchant for shirtless Highlanders with inexplicable Maori tribal tattoos.”
“What the hell gives you the right—”
“Lacey, Lacey, Lacey.” Grant shook his head at my obtuseness, and took my hand across the table. “Obviously we have to live together. We want people to think we’re a real couple, don’t we?”
“Yes, because no other couple in the history of the universe has ever lived apart before marriage,” I snapped. “People really will be shocked and horrified at the state of our morals, living apart like this. There will probably be fainting and fetching of smelling salts. Jane Austen will be set spinning in her grave.”
Grant laughed and kissed my hand. “Jane Austen will be fine. Are you really so attached to that apartment? There are gunshot holes in the front door.”
I tried not to let myself be swayed by this reasonable argument or by the press of his lips against my skin and the memories that evoked.
“Some of those gunshot holes have nostalgic value.”
“The entire neighborhood smells of sewage and overly greasy take-out,” he pointed out, beginning to kiss his way up my wrist.
“It adds to the ambience.”
“Your landlord is overcharging on the utility bills and skimming the profits.”
“What? Seriously? That slimy, no-good—” I coughed, got ahold of myself. “Um, I mean, adversity builds character.”
Although if that were really the case, this thing with Grant would have built me enough character to populate all seven Harry Potter books.
I was weakening, and Grant could sense it.
“Just try it for a few weeks,” he promised. “If it doesn’t suit you, we’ll smuggle you back to your apartment and have you drop by every once in awhile to maintain the pretense. Just give it a chance—there’s a pool on the roof, you know. Organic produce gets delivered weekly. I have contacts in the video game industry that can give us sneak previews of games!”
“All right, all right,” I said. “You can call off the cavalry, Mr. Charm Offensive. You had me at the pool.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. He reached into his pocket. “Everything you need should be there, but just in case you need to pick up any odds and ends—”
And then he tried to hand me a credit card the deep black of empty space, embossed with letters in gold so thick I’d be willing to bet it was the actual metal.
I tried to knock his hand away. “Grant, I told you, no money.”
“Haven’t you heard? Credit cards aren’t real money.”
“Yeah, I heard that on a 60 Minutes episode about why the economy is in the toilet!”