Arranged(4)

“It’s bourbon. Go ahead. Have a taste.”

I took a sip and nearly choked on the burning liquid.

One corner of his mouth quirked up. I’d amused him.

“Not a bourbon girl,” he remarked. “It’s not for everyone. More champagne?”

“Yes, please,” I said instantly. I should have been worried about overindulging, but just then I’d have done anything to soften the edges of the day.

He sighed heavily. “Well, if you’re not dying to go to bed early, we should probably commit to a few rounds of dancing.”

He stood, holding his hand out to me. I let him pull me to the dance floor and take me in his arms.

My belly felt warm from the champagne, and his proximity. Being close to him, his hands on my back, mine on his broad, hard shoulders, made it much warmer.

The shaking in my hands and the trembling in my lips had eased. Yay alcohol.

His mouth was near my ear, his voice, oh that voice, was a deep rumble that resonated through my whole body when he spoke. “You might want to smile. These pictures will likely end up in the local paper and, if I know my mother, People.”

I obeyed, eyes running over his tan throat, his thick, attractively stubbled jaw, his lips. I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. He was very tall, I noted pleasantly.

I didn’t even have to pretend to get lost in his stormy gray eyes. He was just as intent on mine, and he looked different suddenly. Hungry.

My whole body felt heated. My knees went a little weaker, but his arms were holding me so securely that it didn’t even slow us down.

I let him guide the dance, following his lead easily. Too easily. The strength and demand of his will issued an almost tangible command over my movements. He was clearly his father’s son; a man who was built to command, and I was sure that my body was a paltry conquest for him.

Perhaps this wouldn’t be as miserable as I thought. We moved well together. Naturally.

This was a sham marriage, but at least we wouldn’t have to fake the chemistry.

“What should I call you?” I asked him. I’d heard family and friends calling him Banks throughout the day, and I knew he went by that, his middle name, more often than not.

It took him a long time to answer, and I realized as I waited for him to speak that my question had somehow shattered the moment, whatever it had been. “Calder,” he said stiffly, his jaw setting stubbornly.

Despite mentioning multiple rounds of dancing, Calder deserted me to his brothers after just one.

The doom of my groom’s life was that he had too many male siblings. Too many other inheritors to his family’s vast fortune. From what I understood, they kept each other relatively honest, for spoiled rich kids. Poor little rich boy Calder had too many brothers and had to dance to his billionaire father’s tune if he wanted a slice of that thick cash pie.

I was Calder’s act of good faith.

My husband’s five brothers were in attendance. They ranged in age from fifteen to twenty-nine, and I danced with each one.

All five were far more pleasant than my husband. Wasn’t that just my luck?





CHAPTER





TWO





It was a solid hour before I dealt with Calder again. I was sitting back in my seat, and he took his beside me again without a word.

I accepted another glass of champagne. He knocked back another drink then turned, speaking to the server, his voice so low I couldn’t catch the words.

The server returned promptly with two tiny glasses filled with dark liquid.

My husband handed me one, clinking them together when I accepted. “It’s port. Bottoms up,” he said, then polished his off, eyes unblinking on me.

I blushed and looked away.

With a trembling breath, I took a drink of the port. I nearly had to choke it down. It was strong and bitter compared to the champagne, and I felt the effects within moments after finishing the tiny glass.

“It does not go well with champagne,” he noted, “you’ll have to try it again sometime when you’ve learned to drink properly.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded. If drinking port was part of this arrangement, then it went without saying that I would do it and just about anything else that was required of me. Worse than this was undoubtedly coming. I’d suck it up and deal with whatever I had to.

I’d been working nonstop for years, and with the cost of living in New York, combined with my fair share of misfortunes, I’d never managed to do much more than keep myself afloat.

After today, that was all going to change. I’d traded my body for wealth beyond my wildest dreams.

It’s a small price to pay, I told myself, yet again.

The wealthy of the world did what they liked. Their money made the world go round and solved all of their problems, while the little people took what life gave them, weathering whatever punches fate decided to lay on them with no anesthetic to soften the blows or means of protecting themselves. I knew that firsthand.

I had a chance to switch from the latter to the former, and I was taking it with both hands and eyes wide open.

Yes, I had sold myself. Yes, it was my choice. The price: my freedom. The benefit: I’d just been upgraded from lowly peasant to one of the elite of society.

Now I was set for life. Untouchable.