over the jet. Brooks read the two-word correspondence:
For consideration.
Knowing, without a smidgen of doubt, that the message was from The Fixer, Brooks double-clicked on the first of three files. A photograph of a raven-haired beauty popped up in front of him and Brooks lifted his eyebrows in appreciation. Beneath the photograph The Fixer had a brief paragraph detailing why she was a suitable candidate to become the first Mrs. Brooks Abbingdon. In Mari Ruiz’s case, she was a divorcée who’d been skinned by her husband, leaving her with a taste for high living but with no one to fund it. She had two degrees, was a champion ballroom dancer and spoke three languages. She was also a gourmet cook.
Mmm, interesting. Brooks opened the next file, a sultry redhead, who was a young widow looking for a dad for her three kids, all under the age of seven. Brooks dismissed her immediately; this situation was messed up already without adding kids to the chaos. Sighing, Brooks opened the third file and sucked in a surprised breath.
Well, well. Nicolette Ryan wasn’t someone he’d expected to find on his computer at nine thirty in the morning. He knew Nicolette, had been introduced to her once or twice and he’d had her microphone pointed in his face on various occasions. She was intelligent and witty and, holy hell, with her long black hair and petite frame, and those expressive, brown-black eyes, as sexy as sin. He liked her. She was the one journalist most of his friends and acquaintances found tolerable.
But why was she on his list of prospective brides? Intrigued, Brooks read The Fixer’s report. Nicolette Ryan was, per his comments, brainy and ambitious and wanted to make a break into serious reporting. Apparently, she’d been floating a documentary film to any producer who’d listen but nobody was taking her seriously. The project was important to her—personally important and related to something in her past—and The Fixer was convinced that there was little she wouldn’t do to see the project on the big screen.
Brooks scrolled down, annoyed to realize that The Fixer hadn’t explained his cryptic comment about her past. Brooks touched the reply button and banged out a quick message asking for an explanation. He was about to hit the Send button when the thought occurred that, had The Fixer wanted him to have that information, he would’ve given it. A demanding email wouldn’t change his mind.
The point was: Nicolette Ryan wanted something and if he could provide her the means to achieve that goal, she might be amenable to a temporary marriage.
Brooks flipped back to look at the picture of the sultry brunette but, compared to Nicolette, she looked over-the-top, too high-maintenance.
He’d met Nicolette; he liked her and there’d been a buzz of attraction when they spoke. It wasn’t love at first sight—who believed in that anyway?—but something definitely arced between them.
He was hopeful. After all, everyone had their price—his was Abbingdon Airlines—and he just needed to find out whether her documentary was important enough to her to sacrifice her single status. God, he hoped so.
He was running out of time.
Nobody in Seattle refused to take his calls and Teresa St. Claire wouldn’t be the first.
Liam stepped into the large open-plan office and met the wide eyes of the young receptionist sitting behind a sleek desk. Early twenties, first job out of college, wide eyes and desperate to please. Child’s play.
“I’m on my way to see Ms. St. Claire.”
Liam had to give her credit; she did jump up from her desk and did try to run after him, but his legs were longer and her headphones were connected to her laptop. Besides, he was a foot taller, bigger and broader; how on earth could she stop him?
Walking across the open-plan offices, he ignored the buzz of chatter his presence generated and ignored the eyes boring into his back. Limitless Events occupied one corner of the top floor of this building and high, arched windows flooded the office with natural light. He flicked a glance outside; it was still raining, and he thought that Teresa had a hell of a view. Slowing down, he approached a messy desk in front of the only self-contained office and growled when he saw that the doors were closed. He looked at Teresa’s PA, surprised to see her leaning back in her chair, legs crossed, a smirk on her pretty face.
“To what do we owe the honor of your illustrious presence, Mr. Christopher?” Oh, yeah, there was a ton of snark under the sweet smile.
“Cut the crap, Corinne. You know damn well that I’ve left six messages and that I’ve been trying to talk to her since early Sunday morning,” Liam retorted. “She’s avoiding me.”
“So you thought the best way to deal with her was to show up at her place of work?” Corinne had the audacity to roll her eyes. “Do you know anything about women, Mr. Christopher?”
Obviously not. Up until Teresa appeared in his life, he thought he had. He could charm them into bed, show them a good time and when he was bored, extracted himself quietly, easing his way out of their lives with flowers or perfume or more expensive gifts, depending on the woman and the situation. Once, when that Russian ballet dancer refused to go quietly, he’d needed to say goodbye with a holiday in Cannes and a diamond tennis bracelet. But generally, women weren’t difficult.
And then there was Teresa...
“Can I go in?”
Corinne bared her teeth at him. “Let me see if she has time for you.”
Before Corinne could connect the call, Liam turned at the sound of a door opening. Teresa stood in the open doorway, looking beautiful but fragile. Her creamy complexion was two shades paler than usual, her sexy mouth was pulled tight and the bags under her eyes were a darker blue than her irises. But as he was coming to accept, Teresa could look like a ghoul and she’d still manage to turn him on.
“What are you doing here, Liam?”
Since there was only one answer to that question—he wanted to speak to her, dammit!—he shook his head and took two steps in her direction. When he stood close enough to her to inhale her sweet breath, close enough for his chest to flirt with hers, he placed both hands under her elbows and lifted her off her feet. Hell, his woman, this woman, needed to eat more! Walking her backward, he deposited her inside her office, back on her two-inch, ice-pick heels—black today to match her severe black suit and, probably, her mood—and kicked the door shut with his foot.
When he heard the snick of the lock, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. His hands, stupid things, desperately wanted to pull that black sweater from her skirt and lift it up and over her head. Would her bra be black, too? Her panties? He thought so but he sure as hell would like to make sure.
“I do not appreciate you barging into my office,” Teresa told him, trying to sound snotty.
“I do not appreciate you not taking my calls,” Liam whipped back, not fazed by her cool eyes and her tight mouth. He knew her well enough to see the pain lurking beneath all that liquid, velvet blue, knew that she was fighting the urge to weep or scream.
She had a right to.
Liam couldn’t resist running a thumb over her cheekbone, skirting the edges of her eye sockets. “Have you slept at all since the weekend?”
He knew that her pride had her wanting to lie but at the last minute she shook her head. “No, I’ve dozed here and there.”
“Things will seem better after you’ve slept.”
Teresa stepped away from him and walked away, dropping into the sleek office chair behind her desk. She placed her hands on the table and her amazing eyes flashed blue fire. “So if I sleep, will I wake up and find that my brother didn’t gate-crash Matt’s party, you didn’t hit him, he wasn’t seen on YouTube and I didn’t have to force him to stay in rehab, with him insisting that he’s not an addict? Will that just all go away with some sleep?”