“What happens when the priest shows up ready to marry us?”
Michael’s lips quirked at her sudden panic. “It takes a long time for a priest to agree to marry a couple when he does not know the bride, especially if she isn’t Catholic. It will never happen within our short visit. I’ll tell Mama we’re staying for two weeks, but we’ll leave after one and cite an emergency.”
She relaxed, back to her confident, sarcastic self. “You didn’t tell me why you suddenly need a wife. Can’t find your true Juliet, Romeo?”
Michael gave her a brief rundown on his family’s background and his sister’s desire to marry. He prepared himself for her ridicule of such an old-fashioned culture, but she nodded as if she completely understood—and managed to keep him off balance.
“I admire your mother,” she finally said. “It’s hard to keep your beliefs when others mock you. At least your family believes in something. Tradition. Promises kept. Responsibility.” Fascinated by her words, Michael watched the emotion flicker across her face before she shook off the memories. “I just hope your plan works the way you want it to.”
“What do you mean?”
Her elegant shoulders lifted. “Your family may not like me. I photograph underwear models for a living. And I’m not pretending to defer to you, either, so don’t get your hopes up.”
He grinned. “Didn’t I tell you wives obey in every way? Part of the bargain revolves around you treating me like royalty. You’ll cook my supper, serve my needs, and defer to my wishes. Don’t worry—it’s only for a week.”
Her sheer horror ruined his ruse. He chuckled, and her fist fell back to her side. He had a feeling he’d just missed a black eye. Did she bring all that fiery emotion to the bedroom? And if so, was there anything left of her men in the morning other than a brainless smile and a desire for more?
Her lips quirked. “Funny. Nice to see you have a sense of humor, Count. It’ll make the week go faster.”
“Glad you approve. I’ll make the arrangements and we’ll leave tomorrow evening. I’ll give you the rundown on my family during the trip, and you can tell me the important things about yours.”
She nodded and eased her way to the door. Her obvious discomfort at their close proximity soothed him. At least he wasn’t the only one experiencing sexual chemistry. She seemed dedicated to not being attracted to him, which made it easier to ignore the physical connection and get through the week.
Maggie Ryan may be an explosive woman, but he could handle seven days.
No problema.
Chapter Three
Maggie glanced at her fake husband and tried hard not to panic.
The familiar shortening of breath and hammering heart alerted her to trouble. She swallowed, hid her face behind Italian Vogue, and prayed she’d keep it together. She hated the idea of anyone knowing about such a weakness, especially Michael. The whole crazy plan hit her full force as soon as his private plane shot into the air. Her finger itched with the snug band of platinum gold, and the two-carat round diamond sparkled like icicles catching the glint of the sun. The ruse seemed doable in Alexa’s house. A day later, though, with a ring, fake husband, and family to con, she realized she was a complete idiot.
What the hell had she agreed to?
And what was it about the Ryan family that necessitated fake marriages? She’d laughed her ass off when Nick told her he needed to marry in order to inherit their uncle’s company, Dreamscape Enterprises. Thank God, setting him up with Alexa proved to be the best decision, especially when they fell in love and made it real.
Of course, the only reason Alexa agreed to a marriage of convenience with her brother was to save her family. Maggie had no lofty reason to save a business or childhood home. But you have the opportunity to protect family, her inner voice whispered. Alexa and Nick had something real. Michael remained a constant threat: his sensual smile, lilting voice, and come-hither bedroom eyes wrapped her best friend in a false state of protection. Finally, her suspicions confirmed truth.
He admitted he loved her best friend.
When the words fell from his lips, a strange flare of grief pierced her heart. Ridiculous, of course, and she quickly buried the embarrassing emotion. Of course, he wrapped it up in the term friendship, but it was only his way to throw her off base. A powerful man like the count would not be content to wait on the sidelines for long—not if he believed he’d have a shot with the woman he loved. Maggie couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t use the available weapon to keep Michael away from her family.
But at what price? Meeting his sisters and mother. Sleeping in his bedroom. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t?
Her fingers tightened around the glossy pages, and she breathed in through her nose, and out through her mouth. The shrink she’d forced herself to visit prescribed yoga and stress-reducing exercises. She absolutely refused to be medicated and controlled by anxiety. Starting from one hundred and going backward, she forced away the crazed need to gulp for air and reigned herself in. Visualizing her heartbeat slowing, she breathed.
Ninety-eight.
Ninety-seven.
Ninety-six.
Ninety-five.
“Studying for your shoot?”
She waited a few beats until she was under control, then looked up. He leaned back in the seat, one ankle crossed over his knee, a relaxed smile on his face. Funny, she’d always had a thing for long hair on a man, enjoying the modern-day pirate image. His powerful frame was wrapped in a black sports jacket, jeans, and low black boots. His eyes filled with humor as he motioned to her fashion magazine.
A quick lash of irritation caused her to c**k her head and adopt a southern drawl. “Sorry, darlin’, pictures are all I can handle. Too many words on a page makes me all aflutter.”
She’d always hated the easy assumption she couldn’t handle literature more challenging than a fashion magazine. Of course, she did nothing to convince anyone otherwise. She boasted no college education and made her own way in the photography world. She liked the control it gave her in a relationship to keep things hidden. Especially her addiction to crossword puzzles and Civil War literature. If only her dates knew she DVR’d the History Channel more than Project Runway.
He reached over to the minibar and poured himself a Scotch with ice. “Nothing wrong with Vogue. It was my sister’s bible.”
“I read, too. The articles in Playgirl are entertaining.”