Not For Sale

“Dani. Baby, have I got a deal for you!”

He explained as quickly as possible; Dani Sinclair was not one for long conversations but then, that wasn’t what men paid her for. When he’d finished, he heard the slow exhalation of her breath.

“So, let me get this straight. You told some guy—”

“Not just some guy, baby. Lucas Vieira. The Lucas Vieira. The guy with more money than God.”

“You told him I’d give him a date?”

“Yeah. Only, not that kind of date. This is dinner with Vieira, a Russian guy and the guy’s wife. You need to act like you and Vieira are a thing. And you need to translate.” Jack laughed softly. “I guess taking a degree in Cyrillic languages was a good idea after all.”

“I’m taking my Master’s,” Dani Sinclair said, “and a girl has to think about her future.” She paused. “How much did you say he’ll pay?”

“A thousand.”

Dani laughed. “Did you forget my going rate, Jack? It’s ten thousand for the evening.”

“Baby, we go way back. Elementary school. Middle school. High school.”

“Fine. I’ll give you a special discount. Five thousand.”

“Jeez. For a meal?”

“And, of course, my usual fee if your Mr. Vieira wants anything else.”

Jack Gordon rubbed the top of his head. “If he wants more, you can negotiate the fee yourself.”

Dani chuckled. “Jack, you wily fox. You haven’t told him about me. What, you want him to be shocked?”

“I want him to owe me,” Jack Gordon said, his tone suddenly cold. “And he will, no matter how this goes.”

“Charming. Okay, so when does this happen?”

“I thought I told you. Tonight. The Palace lobby. Ten minutes of eight.”

“Oh, but I…” Dani fell silent. Five K to eat a fancy meal, talk some Russian and in between, pretend she was the date of Lucas Vieira, the gorgeous, sexy, take-no-prisoners Wall Street tough guy. And a minimum of ten K if he ended up wanting to prolong the evening.

So tempting. If only she could do it. Trouble was, she already had a date for tonight, with a Texas oilman who came through the city once a month like clockwork.

There had to be a way…

“Dani?”

And there was. She could clear, say, forty-five hundred without doing a thing besides making a phone call.

“Yes,” she said briskly. “Fine. The lobby, the Palace, ten of eight.”

She disconnected, checked her cell’s contact list and hit a button. A female voice answered on the third ring, sounding breathless and a little rushed.

“Caroline? It’s Dani. Dani, from the Chekhov seminar? Listen, sweetie, I have a translating job that I don’t have time to take and I thought, right away, of you.”

Caroline Hamilton used a hip to shut the door of her Hell’s Kitchen walk-up, then tucked her cell phone between her ear and her shoulder, shifted the grocery bags she held so she could free a hand and secure the door’s three locks.

Dani from the Chekhov seminar? Caroline tried to picture her as she made her way across the six feet of floor space to what her landlord insisted was a kitchen. Yes, okay. Dani, a fellow Master of Arts student in Russian and Slavic Studies. Tall, stunning, dressed in the latest designer stuff. They’d never spoken except to say “hi” and “see you next time,” and to exchange numbers in case one needed to check with the other about an assignment.

“Caroline? You still there?”

“I’m here.” Caroline eased the grocery bags onto the counter, took a Lean Cuisine from one, worked at opening the little tear strip on the box while still keeping the phone at her ear. “A translating job, you said?”

“That’s right. An unusual one. It involves dinner.”

Caroline’s belly rumbled. She had passed on lunch. No time, less money. The phone slipped as she finally got the container from the package. She grabbed it before it hit the Formica counter.

“…as the pretend G.F. of a rich guy.”

“What?” Caroline said, reading the directions. Three minutes on high, peel back the liner, stir, another minute and a half—

“I said, it’s dinner. You meet this hotshot business guy at the Palace Hotel and you pretend you’re his girlfriend. See, there’s another couple and they speak Russian. Your guy doesn’t, so you’ll translate for him.”

Caroline put the Lean Cuisine into the nuker, shrugged off her jacket, pushed her thick, straight-as-a-stick mane of no-real-color hair back from her face, blew strands of it out of her hazel eyes.

“Why would I pretend I’m his girlfriend?”

“You just would,” Dani said, “that’s all.”

Caroline punched in the three minutes. “Thanks but I’ll pass. I mean, it sounds, well, weird.”

“One hundred bucks.”

“Dani, look…”

“Two hundred. And that meal. Then the night’s over, you go home with two hundred dollars in your jeans. Except,” she added hurriedly, “except, of course, you can’t wear jeans.”

“Well, that’s that, then. I definitely don’t have—”

“I’m a size six. You?”

“A six. But—”

“Size seven shoes, right?”

Caroline sank onto the rickety wooden stool that graced the counter. “Right. But honestly—”

“Three hundred,” Dani said briskly. “And I’m on my way. A dress. Shoes. Makeup. Think of what fun this will be.”

All Caroline could think of was three hundred dollars. You didn’t need to be a linguist to translate that into a piece of next month’s rent.

“Caroline! I need your address. We’re running out of time here.”

Caroline gave it. Told herself to ignore the prickly feeling dancing down her spine, told herself that same thing again, two hours later, when Dani spun her toward the mirror and she saw.

“Cinderella,” Dani said, laughing at Caroline’s shocked expression. “Hey, one last thing, okay? Let this guy think you’re me. See, the friend who set this up thinks I’m gonna do the date, I mean, be the date, and it’s easier all around if we keep it that way.”

Caroline looked at her reflection again. Dani’s fifty-dollar-a-bottle conditioner had taken her hair from no-color to pale gold. Her hazel eyes glittered, thanks to the light sparkle of gold shadow on her lids. Her cheekbones and mouth were a delicate pink and her dress…Cobwebs. Slinky black cobwebs that showed more leg than she’d ever shown except in shorts or a swimsuit. And on her feet, gold sandals, their heels so high she wondered if she’d be able to walk.

She didn’t look like herself anymore, and something about that terrified her.

“Dani. I don’t—I can’t—”

“You’re meeting him in half an hour.”

“No, really, it just feels wrong. To lie, to pretend I’m you, that I’m this Luke Vieira’s girlfriend—”

“Lucas,” Dani said impatiently. “Lucas Vieira. Okay. Five hundred.”

Caroline stared at her. “Five hundred dollars?”

“We’re running out of time. What’s it gonna be? Yes or no?”

Caroline swallowed hard. And said the only thing she could.

She said, “Yes.”

CHAPTER TWO

LUCAS went home, showered and changed clothes. White shirt, blue tie, gray suit. A little casual, a little businesslike. Now, all he had to do was calm down.

The hotel was fiftieth and Madison and he lived on Fifth Avenue, only a couple of blocks away. There was no need for his car; like any New Yorker, he knew the fastest way to cover that distance was to walk.

Besides, walking might give him time to tame his temper. He’d snapped at his driver on the way from the office to his condo; he’d barely responded to the doorman’s pleasant “good evening, Mr. Vieira,” he’d scowled at his housekeeper in response to a simple question.

He was breathing fire, and what for? Ultimately, he was the one responsible for this mess. Why turn his anger on everyone else?

He’d made a mistake, not recognizing that Elin was trying to make more of their affair than it ever could be, but the way to recover from a mistake was to learn from it and move on.

The Palace’s elegant lobby was crowded. Lucas found a relatively clear space that gave him an unimpeded view of the entrance, then checked his watch. It was seven forty-five. On the chance Dani Sinclair might have arrived early, he scanned the room for a late-twenties, tall woman with light brown hair, blue eyes and what Jack Gordon had slyly described as “a body that just won’t quit” when Lucas had phoned him for a description an hour ago.

“A total babe,” he’d said, with a low laugh. “Built for action, if you get my drift.”

Lucas’s mouth twisted. He didn’t like Gordon’s increasingly smarmy tone, and he had no interest in knowing if he and the woman had been intimate. As long as she looked presentable, seemed credible as his date and spoke Russian, he’d be satisfied.

There were lots of women in the lobby, some that met Gordon’s description, but none were alone as Dani Sinclair would be. If she ever showed up. Frowning, Lucas checked the time again. Four minutes had gone by.

Another slipped past.

Lucas folded his arms, felt a flicker of apprehension. She was late.

It was not a good start.

At five of eight, Lucas could feel the muscles in his jaw tense. Yes, Rostov had said he and his wife would be late but if the Sinclair woman didn’t show up soon—

A woman entered the lobby. She was by herself. Lucas felt a surge of hope until he realized this couldn’t be the woman he was waiting for. Nothing about her fit Jack Gordon’s description.

Her hair was pale gold, not brown. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes from here, only that they were wide-set, like a cat’s. Her face was oval, her mouth a soft pink.

Even at a distance, she was stunning.

Feminine. Delicate. Curves gently accented by an incredibly short, clinging silky black dress, long legs that lent sexiness to already-sexy gold sandals with stiletto heels. An erotic image flashed into his head. This woman, wearing only those heels and whatever wisp of silk she had on under that amazing dress.

He scowled.

What kind of nonsense was this? He was here on important business. Besides, it would be a while before he’d want to be with a woman again. The thing with Elin had left a bad taste.

Still, he lifted his gaze, took one last look at the woman’s face…

And found her staring at him.

For a heartbeat, their eyes met and held. Lucas felt something knot, deep in his belly. He took a step forward—and then her gaze swept past him and the moment, whatever it had been, was over.

Hell.

He needed a break.

He’d finish the Rostov deal, clear up a couple of other things and then he’d go out to his house in the Hamptons for a long weekend. Alone. Just him and the sun and the sea. Three, four days like that and he’d be ready to get back to work, and to women.

All he had to do was wind things up tonight—except, how was he going to do that? His watch read five after eight.

No question about it.

Dani Sinclair had been a mistake.

Lucas ran his hand through his hair.

He could call the Rostov suite. Plead sudden illness. No. That was the easy way out. More to the point, he wanted things settled, tonight. His only real choice was to go through with the dinner plans, let Ilana Rostov do all the translating, try to ignore her fingers in his lap and if things got bad enough—

“Excuse me.”

If things got bad enough, say to hell with it and tell Rostov that he needed to leash his barracuda of a wife…

“Sir? Excuse me.”

A hand fell lightly on his arm. Damnit, what now?

“Yes?” he growled as he swung around…And saw the blonde with the cat’s eyes looking up at him. This close, he could see that her eyes were hazel, that she was even lovelier than he’d thought.

A woman on the prowl. New York had more than its fair share of assertive women. Or she might be a high-priced call girl. New York had plenty of those, too, and though places like this did all it could to discourage them, they were around.

Either way, he wasn’t interested. He liked assertive women but not tonight, with a deal like this on the agenda. And if she was a so-called working girl, even an expensive one…

Forget it. He’d never paid for sex in his life and he never would.

“I—ah, I wonder if you—if you—”

“No. I would not.”

She flinched. Hell, she turned pale. Lucas felt a twinge of guilt. She wasn’t a pro. And he was behaving like an ass. It had been a long day and it was going to be an even longer evening, but why let it out on her?

“Look,” he said, “you’re a beautiful woman. I’m flattered that you’d like to have a drink, dinner, whatever—”

“No,” she said quickly, “that’s not—”

“I’m meeting someone. On business. Your timing is off, okay?”

Those hazel eyes turned cold.

“You have an interesting opinion of yourself, mister.”

Lucas raised his eyebrows. “Hey, I’m not the one who—”

“I’m not interested in a drink. Or dinner.” The woman drew herself up, steel suddenly in her spine and in her voice. “Actually, I’d sooner have drinks with—with SpongeBob Squarepants than someone as rude and self-centered as you.”

Lucas blinked. Then, despite himself, he laughed.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” She tossed her head and strands of her hair fell against her cheek. He fought back the insane desire to take those strands between his fingers and tuck them back behind her ear. “And what’s so amusing? Do you like having people tell you what you are to your face?”

“No one ever does,” he said. “No one would dare.”

Her smile was sweet enough to make his teeth ache. And to make him grin.

“What a pity.”

“You’re right. I owe you an apology. I’m in a bad mood but that’s no reason to take it out on you.”

He could see her trying to decide whether or not to accept his request for forgiveness. Suddenly, it seemed important that she would.

“Truce?” he said, holding out his hand.

She hesitated. Then her lips curved in a smile. She put her hand in his and he could have sworn he felt a jolt of electricity.

“Truce.”

“Good.” He smiled back at her. “Look, this really is a bad time. Why don’t I give you my card? Call me tomorrow. Better still, give me your number and—”

The blonde tugged her hand free.

“You don’t get it.” The steel was back in her voice. “I’m not trying to—to pick you up. I’m supposed to meet someone here. On business, the same as you.”

Lucas’s eyes narrowed. “A man?” he said slowly. She nodded. “And what does he look like?”

“Well, that’s just it. I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never met him. But I’m pretty sure he’s middle-aged. And probably, well, probably not very good-looking. And…Why are you looking at me like that?”

“What’s this middle-aged, homely guy’s name?”

The blonde’s chin lifted. “I don’t think that’s any of your—”

“Is it, by any chance, Lucas Vieira?”

Her mouth fell open.

“Ohmygod,” she said, “ohmygod!”

“Don’t tell me,” Lucas said slowly. “You can’t be…Dani Sinclair?”

The woman looked as if she might faint.

“You’re right,” she said. “I can’t be Dani Sinclair. But I am.”

Impossible, Caroline thought.

No. Not impossible.

Insane. This entire thing, from the minute Dani had called her, right up until now.

This was Lucas Vieira? This tall, dark-haired, absolutely spectacular hunk? She’d noticed him instantly. And she wasn’t the only one. The lobby was crowded. It was a Friday night, warm even for early June, and it seemed as if everybody was out for the evening.

There must have been a couple of dozen women milling around with their dates, their husbands and boyfriends, and from what she’d been able to see, every one of them managed to shoot little assessing looks at the gorgeous guy standing all by himself.

He’d been watching the door, as if he was waiting for someone.

Okay, she’d thought. He was alone, he was waiting for someone.

But he couldn’t be Lucas Vieira.

A man who looked like that wouldn’t need to hire a woman to pretend to be his date. True, there was more to it than that, Lucas Vieira needed a date who could translate Russian—even more bizarre, really—but whatever the situation, this was not her guy.

If only he was…

And, even as she’d thought the words, she’d realized his eyes were focused on her. Her heart had thumped; she’d felt a rush of heat in her breasts, in her belly, in her blood. It went with the way she’d been feeling since leaving her apartment, as if she had stepped into a different reality, assuming another woman’s identity, wearing her clothes, about to meet a stranger and pretend she was his girlfriend.

The stranger’s eyes had seemed to narrow. He’d taken a step forward.

Caroline had torn her gaze from his and set out blindly through the crowd, heading anywhere but in his direction. She had to concentrate on finding Lucas Vieira, but how to identify him? Dani hadn’t described him beyond saying he’d be alone and that he was incredibly rich.

The “incredibly rich” tag could probably be hung on most of the men in the lobby, but none of them were alone—except for the one whose eyes had blazed with fire when he’d looked at her.

Could he be the guy she was supposed to meet? Unless she’d missed something, he was the only man by himself. And he’d been watching the door with such intensity.

There was only one way to find out.

She’d taken a deep breath. And another. Then she’d walked up to him, said “excuse me” as politely as possible…Someone had jostled her. She’d teetered on the ridiculous heels. The stranger’s hand—Lucas Vieira’s hand—had closed around her elbow, steadying her. She’d already teetered once tonight, getting into the cab that had brought her here.

Then, all she’d thought was how huge a sum she’d owe Dani if she fell and tore this dress.

Now, all she could think of was the burn of this man’s fingers on her skin.

Her heart began to race. She tried to step back and he caught hold of her hand again.

“Careful,” he said. “This mob is like a herd of wildebeest on the Serengeti. They’d trample you before they knew they’d done it.”

It was such an accurate description that Caroline laughed.

“That’s good. You have to relax. We won’t be able to pull this off unless you’re at ease with me.”

Her smile faded. This was business. How could she have forgotten that, even for an instant?

“You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”

Business, for sure. The smile, the charm, the I’m-male, you’re-female thing had vanished.

“I know. But the traffic—”

“I’d wanted a little time for us to get a feel for each other.”

She already had a feel for him. Not just rich but disgustingly rich. Not just good-looking but fantastically good-looking. Charming when he wanted to be, bitingly cold when he thought that would work better.

Oh, yes, she had a feel for that kind of man.

Her mother’s kind.

Not rich like this, of course. You grew up in a small town at the end of nowhere, the men with all the money and power owned the Chevy dealership. The gas station. The shops on what really was called Main Street. And none had been as handsome as Lucas Vieira but the basics were the same.

Too much money, too much power, too much arrogance. Mama had always fallen hard for men who were rich and good-looking and one hundred percent no-good.

Caroline had never understood it. Mama was bright. She was logical about everything else; you had to be, to raise a child without money or a husband. Still, she’d fallen for the same kind of guy over and over.

One good thing was that Caroline had learned from Mama’s mistakes. She’d avoided boys like that in high school, in college, here in New York.

So, what in hell was she doing tonight?

She could never pull this off. Pretend to be Lucas Vieira’s date. His girlfriend. Anybody’s girlfriend, in a setting like this.

“Mr. Vieira,” she said, rushing the words together, “I think I’ve made a mistake.”

“I agree. But the people we’re meeting haven’t shown up yet, so—”

“I shouldn’t be here. I’m not—I’m not going to be very good at this.”

“You’ll be fine.”

There was a grim quality to his voice. He was desperate, but how could a man like this be desperate? He could snap his fingers and damned near every female in the place would come running. Okay. He needed a translator. She could, she supposed, be that, but she could never pull off pretending to be involved with him.

“I can translate for you. But the rest—”

“The rest is the most important part.”

Caroline frowned. “I don’t get it. Why would me pretending to be your date be important?”

“Not just my date.” His mouth thinned. “My lover. My mistress.” His hand moved up her arm to her shoulder. She could feel the heat of his fingers on her bare skin. “We’ll need to convey a sense of intimacy, Dani. Do you understand?”

She blinked. Dani? Right. Right. That was her name tonight. She was Dani. Oh, if only she were! She had no idea what Dani did when she wasn’t in class but there was a sense of sophistication to her that suggested Dani would know how to deal with a man who looked like this. Who sounded like this, that faint, sexy accent, that husky tone of command. A man whose scent was clean and masculine and crisp, if you could call a scent “crisp.”

And when had they moved closer to each other? She didn’t recall that happening but, somehow, it had, close enough so she had to tilt her head back to look into his face.

“Dani. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

“Intimacy,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Yes.”

“But why? If this is a business dinner—”

He hesitated. To her surprise, faint stripes of color appeared on his cheeks. He shrugged his shoulders and she thought, why, he’s almost human!

“The man I’m doing business with has a wife. She’s—she’s an unusual woman. Very assertive. Make that aggressive. When she wants something, she goes after it.” The color in his face deepened. “No matter what that something is, no matter if that something reciprocates or not—”

“She’s hitting on you?”

“You, ah, you might say she’s…” He paused. “Damned right, she is. And I’m counting on your presence to stop it.”

Caroline swallowed hard. “Mr. Vieira—”

“Lucas.”

“Lucas. That just cinches it. I can’t—there’s no way I could—”

“Damnit!”

He was staring over her head. The expression on his face went from harsh to grave.

Caroline stiffened. “What?” she said, and tried to look back, but his hand tightened on her shoulder.

“No. Keep looking at me.”

“But—”

“It’s the Rostovs. The people we’re meeting. They’re coming toward us.”

If he’d said Genghis Khan’s army was thundering out of the steppes at that moment, she couldn’t have felt a greater flash of terror.

“This is not good, Mr. Vieira.”

“For God’s sake, it’s Lucas. Lucas! Mistresses do not call their lovers by their surnames!”

“But I’m not your mistress. I don’t want anyone to think I’m your mistress.” Caroline could hear the rising panic in her voice and she took a steadying breath. “I don’t believe in women being mistresses. In them being property. In being owned and supported and—and held as chattel by men, and—”

“Luke-ahs!”

A meaty hand slapped Lucas on the shoulder. The man that went with it was meaty, too. “Enormous” was a better word, Caroline thought. He had small eyes, a big nose and a grin that stretched from ear to ear.

“Leo,” Lucas said. “It’s good to see you again.”

Leo Rostov’s gaze slid to Caroline.

“Ah. This is your voman.”

“No,” Caroline said, “I’m—”

“Yes,” Lucas said with a little chuckle that had no connection to the pressure of his fingers digging into her flesh as he slipped his arm around her waist and brought her to his side. “But she’s one of the ‘liberated’ women, Leo, if you know what I mean. She’ll bristle if you call her ‘my woman.’” He looked down at Caroline. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”