Man Candy: A Fake Marriage Romance (Fire & Ice Romance Series Book 3) Read online

  “Mr. Hawke,” she blurts. “I'm pleased to meet you. I am so sorry about the uh, coffee,” she says, motioning to my stained shirt. I hadn't had time to change. In fact, I really didn't care what anyone thought of my attire. Nobody would dare mention it—to my face.

  I wave her apology away. She wasn't going to get off that easy. She owed me. I was going to make her pay for the painful hard-on I was trying to hide. After all, she was at my disposal.

  “You've met?” the big guy asks. “Don't tell me you're responsible for that,” he says, gesturing to my stained shirt.

  I raise an eyebrow, challenging him to mention my wardrobe again.

  The man gets the hint and turns back to the woman I know I will be fantasizing about for the rest of the day. She stares at me in horror another few seconds before grabbing the stack of papers she had pulled from her briefcase.

  “Well, then,” she starts, clearly flustered. I smile. I got under her skin. I can't wait to get under her. “I have put together a list of points that will need to be covered when you buy out that, um, the uh--”

  I had been staring at her breasts. She caught me and it threw her off. I didn't want to hear about the talking points or whatever it was she was saying. I had people that did that. People like her that dotted my i's and crossed my t's. I was only here as a formality.

  My male assistant has been standing near the door as he always did. I casually gave him the signal, which was nothing more than a quick tug of my ear. I drag the kid along to these meetings for this reason alone—he is my excuse to escape. He doesn't really do anything else—that I know of. Maybe he does. I don't know. I don't pay all that much attention to the little stuff that happens. I focus on the big deals that pay that kid and make me very wealthy.

  “Thank you,” the young kid jumps in, eager to help me make my exit. He knows if he doesn't, he won't be around for the next meeting. I know I pay well and working for me opens doors for kids like him who want a start in the business. “Mr. Hawke has another meeting and needs to go. You can forward everything to his secretary by email.”

  I stand, ready to escape. I figure I only have about three minutes before the erection I have just managed to calm demands attention again. Alexa was testing my self-control. I stroll around the long conference table, holding her gaze the entire way. As I walk towards her, I see her breath hitch and a pop of pink, same shade as her blouse, stains her cheeks.

  I smile, “I look forward to working with you, Alexa. Please make sure my assistant has your cell number. I tend to do business at odd hours. If I need you, I will call. I like to be direct and skip the middle men. We'll be doing a lot of one on one.”

  My choice of words is intentional. She knows exactly what they mean. I want her uncomfortable. I want her to know I am going to have her. This is me, making my intentions known.

  She presses her lips together, slowly nodding, “Of course,” she stammers. “Anytime. You can call me at any hour.”

  The words, innocent enough, create this little spark of I don't know what—lust? I don't lust after anyone. The feeling is strange. Like eating a food for the first time. It's exciting and a little dangerous. I want her more than I have ever wanted another woman. I debate grabbing her by the hand and dragging her into that tiny windowless room I had recently considered using with the other female in the room. Alexa brings out a very carnal side of me.

  “I will,” I say in a voice I barely recognize. Oh, I had heard the voice before, but it was usually about midway through the seduction of a beautiful woman. It was my sex voice.

  I take one last glance at the woman I have declared my latest mission and leave the room. My assistant trots after me, laying out my schedule for the day. I'm not paying attention. My brain is focused on that black bra I got a sneak peek of through the buttons that were straining on Alexa's top. I can't wait to rip that shirt off and send everyone of those tiny buttons flying.

  3

  Dylan

  As I ride through the streets of the city, completely blocked from view by the blackout tint on the windows of my SUV, I can't stop thinking about Alexa. There is something about her I can't quite put my finger on. She dresses horribly. No makeup, no real styling of her hair—nothing that would make her appear more attractive. There is nothing that should have me so drawn to her in the physical sense and considering we haven't actually had a real conversation, I can't be drawn to her intellect.

  That's it! She reminds me of a Christmas gift, all wrapped up in a plain box. I know there is something I want in that box—figuratively speaking in more ways than one. I will unwrap that box—layer by lacy black layer. I have to know what's under all that horrible clothing and behind those extremely unattractive glasses.

  My phone rings, stopping my pondering and thoughts of undressing my new, sweet little lawyer. I look down at the screen to discover it's Blake. He is probably calling to ask me to hit the club with him again this weekend. My CEO and best friend is searching for Mrs. Right. I have lectured him at least a hundred times she isn't going to be where he is looking.

  “Yes, Blake,” I answer, knowing what's coming.

  “You, me Nitrogen this Friday night,” he says.

  “Blake,” I start.

  “No, no, no, this time it isn't for me. It's for you. We have got to get you a woman. I have been meeting with several software companies and potential investors and quite frankly, nobody likes you,” he says bluntly. “The money men don't like you a whole hell of a lot either, which is making it difficult for us to stay filthy rich.” I know he is only half joking. The problems with my bachelor status have been brewing for years.

  “I don't care,” I reply.

  I really don't. I have more money than Gates for now and it isn't like I am going to be penniless anytime soon. People like me for my money. They like the fact that I can make them lots of money. The only person who actually knows me well enough to like or dislike me is Blake.

  Blake sighs, “You have to care. People aren't going to take you seriously. You are the consummate bachelor. It's time to grow up and get rid of that womanizer reputation. It was cool when you were in your twenties and a young guy making a few million, but you have crossed that bridge of young and fun to get your shit together.”

  I scoff, “Look who's talking!”

  Blake chuckles, “I'm not a billionaire. I'm just the right hand man to the billionaire. I have time to sow my wild oats.”

  “Do you have any left? I think you have sown plenty.”

  He ignores my objections, “I'll meet you there. I'll reserve our VIP section. Don't even bother saying you won't go, we both know you will,” he tells me. I know he's right, even though I want to protest.

  “Fine, aren't you supposed to be closing that deal? Why are you worried about my love life?” I ask, realizing it is nine in the morning. He should be buying that small startup I discovered.

  “They don't like you. Didn't you hear me? This is why you have to settle down. The kid that started the company is willing to sell, but we are in the Bible belt here and daddy, who technically owns said company, doesn't want your, and I quote, 'sinful hands near the hard work they put in.'”

  “Morons,” I grumble. “The man is going to deprive his kid in order to take a stand against my depravity? Fine. Wait until Page Six publishes my night out at the club. I'll make damn sure he knows how sinful my hands are.”

  I hate the gossips. I'm either gay, fucking fifteen women at once or pining after some current flavor of the month in Hollywood. Why my personal life and who is or isn't in my bed interests the world is beyond me.

  “Get home and I'll see you tomorrow night,” I say, disconnecting the call.

  I can't believe we still live in a society where a single man is criticized for his relationship status. How in the hell does it effect how much money I can earn or the business decisions I make? I made my money on my own and no one is going to dictate my personal life.

  My dad learned long ago that I make my
own decisions. He tried to push me into becoming a lawyer. I hate lawyers. I think. There is one pretty lawyer that may make me change my mind. It was my rebellious nature and computer savvy that made me rich. Dear ol' dad couldn't stand the thought of me being more successful than him and effectively disowned me. Good riddance, old man.

  My driver pulls into the underground parking of my building—yes my building. I own every last fucking brick of this 58-story monstrosity. Mine, all mine, dad. In fact, I own several buildings, including the tower I live in. Am I bragging? No, I'm stating facts. I'm not an idiot. I know my company could implode at any given moment, which is why I have invested.

  When the car stops, I quickly put dad out of my mind. I have work to do. I won't let anything get in my way of staying on top—including a woman. Marriage would complicate my life. I did the girlfriend thing. She was sleeping with my so-called friend. That was a tough lesson to learn, but I did learn. Never trust women. Blake is the only person I could trust in this world. I grin, he knows I would kill him if he ever tried to sleep with someone I was with.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hawke,” my elderly secretary says as I walk by her desk, heading towards the inner sanctum of my massive corner office.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Daniels,” I greet her. The woman was as slow as molasses, had no idea how to use a computer and was as old as dirt, but I loved her. She had come in nearly seven years ago, applying for the job I had posted. Those days I was just starting out and although she met none of the requirements, I couldn't turn her down. So, I have two secretaries. I have the one out front that the world sees and then I have Mrs. Daniels.

  “I put a coffee in your office, but judging by that shirt, you already had some this morning,” she says, looking down her cat-eye glasses at me. The glasses had to be from the 1960s.

  “I could always use one of your cups Mrs. Daniels. You know just how I like it,” I say with my most charming smile.

  She giggles, “Oh, you save that smile for the young ladies Mr. Hawke,” she says, her crepe skin blushing. “I'll get you a new shirt sent over right away.”

  My office sprawls across the corner of the 58th floor. I walk to the windows that line the outer walls and stare down at the city below. From my view and I'm sure the view from others who see me, I have it all. Deep down, I know I am missing something huge. I am lonely. Sure, I have hundreds of people always around me and wanting something from me, but none of them matter.

  I am all alone in my ivory tower.

  4

  Alexa

  I need to get that man out of my brain. I can tell he is bad news. Even though I know how bad he would be for my life, I can't stop thinking about what it would be like to have those hands running over my body. His lips kissing my neck as my hands run through that full head of coal black hair make my body tingle from tip to top.

  I close my eyes, replaying that last look he gave me before he left. Those dark eyes promised danger. The kind of danger that would curl my toes shortly before breaking my heart. I am not going to be a mistress or some playtoy for a playboy who just happens to be my first real client. I have worked too hard to climb the corporate ladder at the firm and I am not going to risk it for a few moments of heart-stopping bliss.

  I check the clock and realize it's almost lunchtime. My brain has been stuck on that man for hours. Snap out of it!

  I know the problem. I grab my phone to text Jessica. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  I need to get laid.

  I put the phone down and pick up the file containing the documents I need to get over to Mr. Hawke's assistant. My phone does the little bird chirping sound, indicating Jessica has texted me back.

  Happy to oblige. I knew I'd get you to the dark side.

  I roll my eyes and quickly text back,

  I like dick. You don't have what I want. Nitrogen. Tomorrow.

  With a plan in place to ease my racing libido, I can focus on work. I scan the documents, making notes about changes I propose to the contract. I can't believe I am working as Mr. Hawke's legal counsel. Amazing! Well, not his actual counsel, but I'm on the team and that is a big deal.

  My phone chirps again, I check the message to see a thumbs up from Jessica. All I have to do is avoid Mr. Hawke for the rest of the day and tomorrow. By Monday, I will be sated and won't feel like jumping in his lap the next time I see him. I hope.

  The contract is a proposal for the acquisition of another software company. Mr. Hawke pretty much dominates the software world and this is how. He buys up any smaller companies that could one day threaten his own position as the leader in the field. The small company makes a small fortune and he gets richer and secures his position. It's a smart move. How did he learn the business I wonder?

  I flip up my laptop and quickly type his name into the Google search bar. The first few pages of the search are filled with stories about who he dated, was seen with and who he was supposedly banging. I tell myself I don't care, but I look anyways. He has dated athletes, models and a few Hollywood celebrities. I analyze each woman. I can't pinpoint his type. Gorgeous, obviously, but other than that, he doesn't seem to have a preference for tall, short, busty or flat. He likes women in general.

  Stop it! I scold myself. I am supposed to be researching his business education, not who he likes to take to bed. My eyes bulge as I discover he started college with the intention of becoming a lawyer. His father is some bigwig lawyer in LA. I am a little excited that we have one tiny thing in common.

  “Dylan,” I say his name out loud, letting the sound roll across my tongue. I love it.

  I go back to reading and discover Dylan dropped out after two years to start his company. According to his biography on Wikipedia, he and his pal Blake realized they were surrounded by young hopefuls who wanted to get their software inventions on the market. It started with one app and then evolved into the multi-billion dollar business he ran today.

  Impressive! The guy was mega rich and didn't even have a college degree. I feel like I took a wrong path. I spent eight years in school—yes, longer than the average person, but I had to work and go to class. I have a law degree and am barely making ends meet. I managed to get scholarships and work full time, but I still have some nasty student loans that will keep me in poverty for at least the next three years.

  I can't stop myself. I say his name again, “Dylan.” I imagine screaming that name in the throes of passion and wonder what it would sound like. I look around my tiny office, are the walls thick enough to muffle the sound if I give it a test run? Better not. That could be really awkward.

  Focus! I mentally scold myself. My brain has been mush since I first laid eyes on Dylan, that's what I'm going to call him now. I like the way it sounds a little too much and realize I need a distraction. I'll eat lunch and then I will get back to work, get the contract sent over and call it a day.

  With my mind made up, I close my laptop and head for the cafeteria downstairs. No fancy, partner lunches for me. I am relegated to eating the cold sandwiches and warm salads served up in the cafeteria.

  As I'm stuffing a too-big bite of wilted lettuce into my face, my phone rings. I take the bite, fish out the phone from my purse and look at the caller ID. I don't recognize the number, but I better take the call.

  “Hewo?” I manage to say around the mouthful of lettuce.

  The other end is silent for a moment, “Hello, is this Alexa?”

  It's Dylan. Dylan Hawke is calling my cellphone. That deep baritone voice fills my ear and sends a delicious chill down my spine. I choke. The lettuce suddenly feels like cardboard in my mouth and I can't seem to chew or swallow.

  “Uh,” I murmur, trying to figure out what to do with the food that seems to be quadrupling in size in my mouth. I swallow. The gulp is big and hurts and sends me into a coughing fit.

  Oh lord, I think to myself. The voice on the other end of the line cuts in, “Are you okay? Should I call back?”

  I clear my throat, “No, sir. How can
I help you?” I choke out, tears clinging to the corners of my eyes from my near death experience in the cafeteria.

  “I want you,” he started, making my heart do some weird skip, flop, drop thing. “To be at my office at 8 am tomorrow. I want the contract in hand.”

  I nod, before realizing he can't see me, “Yes, sir. I'll be there. Or, I could have a messenger deliver it later today?” I ask, hoping he will take option B. I can't see him. If I see him before I find a random guy to take the edge off, it's hard to say what I may do.

  “No. I want you to bring it to me,” he demanded, leaving no room for arguing. The way he says it turns me on. I don't know why. It's far too overbearing for my tastes, but it is sexy as hell.

  “Okay,” I squeak out. “Thank you.”

  There was a pause, “You're welcome?” he replied.

  I'm an idiot. I thanked him for demanding I come to his office. I quickly end the call. My palms are sweaty and my stomach is a giant ball of nerves. I have to actually see him—face to face. I can't eat another bite and quickly dispose of the rest of my salad before racing back upstairs. I need to get that contract finished.

  As I climb the stairs, I consider going out tonight. I don't go out on weeknights, but I could make an exception this once. No, I can't. I can't afford to be less than perfect tomorrow. Maybe I could call an ex. Booty call. I am not above a booty call, especially if it can prevent me from making a complete fool of myself tomorrow morning.

  No. I don't want to do that. It always leads to questions and conversations and promises of calling again. I don't have the time to deal with men and the drama they cause. Tomorrow, I'll go to the club, hook up and leave. No numbers. No names. Complete anonymity. No strings attached. Not even a tiny thread. Just a good, quick and dirty roll in the hay, I joke to myself.