Wife For A Week

‘Not you too.’ Her voice was rich with feminine disdain. ‘Would it help if I told you they were all pacifists?’

‘Is it true?’ he asked hopefully.

‘No. But we were talking about you.’

‘You’re right. I need a wife for a week. Will you do it?’ Nick waited as the waiter set their meals in front of them. Waited while she thanked the man, reached for her napkin and set it across her lap, her features relaxed, her expression noncommittal. She was more than he remembered from the shop. More vibrant. More thoughtful. Four brothers.

‘I’d need to know more about you than I do now,’ she said finally.

‘I’ll send you a fact file.’

‘I’m not a fact-file person.’

Why was he not surprised?

‘No,’ she continued. ‘I’m more of a hands-on person. You’re going to have to show me where you live, where you work and what it is you do all day. That kind of thing.’

Nick groaned.

‘You can send me the fact file as well,’ she said with a placating smile. ‘I don’t suppose it can hurt. And we’re going to need some rules.’

‘What sort of rules?’ He wasn’t very good with rules. Probably not worth mentioning.

‘I want physical contact limited to public places,’ she said firmly.

‘No problem.’ His lips twitched.

‘And only when we have an audience.’

‘You’re absolutely right.’ At this rate she’d get through every sexual fantasy on his list before dessert. ‘What else?’

‘I’ll follow your lead but only within reason. I won’t be a simpering “yes” wife.’

‘But you will simper a little?’

Her chin came up; her eyes flashed warningly. ‘Can’t see it happening.’

‘Okay, I can see that simpering might be a stretch for you. Forget the simpering.’ He wouldn’t. ‘Can you do possessive?’

‘That I can do,’ she said. ‘You want the whole hands-off-my-man, slapping routine?’

‘No slapping,’ he said. ‘Ladies don’t slap.’

‘You never said anything about being a lady.’

Fantasy number three. Damn she was good.

‘Oh, and there’s one more thing…’

‘There is?’ Every man had his limits and Nick had just reached his. His brain fogged, his blood headed south and he was thinking leather, possibly handcuffs, although where he was going to get handcuffs from was anyone’s guess. Silk, then. No problem finding silk in Hong Kong.

‘Earth calling Nick?’ said Hallie in exasperation. She’d seen that glazed look before. Knew that Nick Cooper was definitely not thinking business. Men! They could never multitask. ‘Nick! Can you hear me?’

‘Oh, I’m listening.’

He had the damnedest voice. The laziest smile. But this was a business arrangement. Business, no matter how tempting it was to think otherwise. ‘My return ticket stays with me.’

CHAPTER TWO

HALLIE couldn’t quite remember whose idea it had been to tour Nick’s workplace after dinner, only that it had seemed a sensible suggestion at the time. Business, she reminded herself as they stepped from the restaurant out into the cool night air and he slipped his jacket around her shoulders. Strictly business, as she snuggled down into the warmth of his coat and breathed in the rich, masculine scent of him. The fact that his chivalrous gesture made her feel feminine and desirable was irrelevant. So was the fact that he was quirky and charming and thoroughly good company. This wasn’t a date, not a real one. This was business.

Nick’s office was only a couple of blocks away, familiar territory, this part of Chelsea, and they walked there in companionable silence.

‘I need to make a phone call,’ she said as Nick halted in front of a classy office block and unlocked the double doors that led through to a small but elegant foyer. ‘I’m flatting with one of my brothers at the moment. He’s a touch protective; he likes to know where I am if I’m out with someone new. I used to get annoyed with him. Nowadays I just tell him what he wants to know.’ Most of the time. She pulled out her mobile and dialled Tris’s number, grateful when she got the answering service rather than Tris himself. She relayed her whereabouts and disconnected fast. ‘No offence,’ she said smoothly.

‘None taken. It’s a smart move. Makes you a smart woman,’ said Nick.

Nice reply.

He ushered her into the lift, the doors closed, and it was intimate, very intimate in there. She cleared her throat, risked a glance. Impressive profile. Big feet. And an awareness between them that was so thick she could almost reach out and touch it, touch him, which wouldn’t be smart at all. He turned towards her and smiled that slow, easy smile that bypassed brains and headed straight for the senses, and then—

‘We’re here,’ he said, and the lift doors slid open.

Nick’s office suite was a visual explosion of colour and movement. Cartoon drawings covered every inch of available wall space; computers and scanners crammed every desk. There was a kitchenette full of coffee and cola; a plastic trout mounted above the microwave. The whole place was organized chaos and completely intriguing. ‘So how many people work here?’ she wanted to know.

‘Twelve, including me.’

‘Let me guess—they’re all men.’

‘Except for Fiona our secretary. Sadly she refuses to clean.’

‘I like her already.’

‘Figures,’ he said. ‘So does Clea. This is my office,’ he said, opening a door to a room that was surprisingly tidy.

‘What’s the basketball hoop for?’

‘Thinking.’

Right. ‘And the flat-screen TV and recliner armchairs?’ There were two chairs, side by side, a metre or so back from the wall-mounted television.

‘Working.’

Ah. Why she’d expected a regular office with regular décor was beyond her. There was nothing the least bit ordinary about Nicholas Cooper. ‘So tell me more about this game of yours. Is it something I’d know all about if we were married?’

‘You’d know about it.’ Nick’s voice was rich with humour as he slid a disc into the gaming console and gestured towards an armchair. ‘If we really had been married these past three years you’d have banned all talk of it by now.’

That didn’t sound very wifely. ‘Couldn’t I have been supportive and encouraging?’

‘Sure you could. I was thinking realistically, but we don’t have to do that. We can do fantasy instead.’

‘Hey, it’s your call. You’re the fantasy expert. By the way, how long did you tell your distributor you’d been married for?’

‘I didn’t.’ He slid her a glance. ‘I’m thinking a couple of months, maybe less. That way if we don’t know something about the other it won’t seem so odd.’

‘Works for me.’ And then the game came on. The opening music was suitably raucous, the female figure on the screen impressively funky. ‘Very nice,’ she said politely. ‘What does she do?’

‘Mostly she fights.’ He handed her a gaming hand-set. ‘Press a button, any button.’

Hallie pressed buttons at random and was rewarded by a flurry of kicks, spins and feminine grunts. Not, Hallie noted, that the figure on the screen even came close to raising a sweat. ‘Are those proportions anatomically possible?’ she wanted to know.

‘Not for earth women,’ said Nick. ‘Which she’s not. Xia here is from New Mars.’

‘New Mars, huh? I should have guessed. The clothes she’s almost wearing are a dead give-away. Does she have a wardrobe-change option?’

‘You want to change her clothes?’

‘Well, she can hardly kick Martian butt in six inch stilettos, now can she?

He stared.

Hallie sighed. ‘You’re losing credibility here, Nick.’

‘What did you do before you sold shoes?’ he wanted to know. ‘Bust balls?’

‘I worked a blackjack table at a casino in Sydney for a while.’

‘Why did you stop?’

‘I never saw sunlight.’

‘And before that?’

‘A brief stint washing dogs in a poodle parlour.’ The memory was dim, but still worthy of a shudder. ‘Too many fleas.’

‘So are you actually trained in anything?’

‘I have a fine arts degree, if that counts for anything. And I’m halfway through a Sotheby’s diploma in East Asian Art. That’s why I came to London.’

‘Why East Asian Art?’

‘My father’s a history professor with a particular interest in dynasty ceramics, and I hung out in his workshop when I was a kid, read all his books.’ It had been the crazy-cracks in the glazes that had first captured her interest. The rich history behind each of the pieces had held it.

‘So you’re following in your father’s footsteps. He must be proud of you.’

‘No, mostly my father ignores me. I learn anyway. I can spot a fake dynasty vase at fifty paces. In fact I’m absolutely certain the Ming in the Central Museum’s a fake.’

He stared.

‘All right, ninety per cent certain.’

‘So why aren’t you finishing your diploma?’

‘I will be. Just as soon as I earn enough money for my last two semesters.’

‘By selling shoes?’

‘It’s a job, isn’t it?’ she said defensively. ‘Interesting, well-paid jobs are hard to come by when you’re a student. Employers know you’re just filling a gap.’

‘Couldn’t you ask your family to help out?’

‘No.’ Her voice was cool; he’d touched a nerve. Her brothers would have lent her the money. Hell, they’d wanted to give her the money, and so had her father for that matter, but she’d refused them all. Little Miss Independent, and it galled her that they hadn’t understood why she’d refused. None of her brothers had taken money from anyone when they’d started out. She was staying with Tris because he had a spare bedroom and because London rentals were outrageously expensive. That was all the help she was prepared to accept.

No, money for nothing wasn’t her style at all. But ten thousand pounds for a week’s work…a week’s fairly unorthodox and demanding work…Well now, that was a different matter altogether.

‘How much do you need to complete your studies?’ he asked curiously.

‘Ten thousand pounds plus money to live on. But I’ve already saved five so with your ten thousand I figure I’ve got it covered.’

‘And then what?’ he said. ‘Will you roam the world in search of ancient artefacts and long-lost oriental treasure?’

‘Yeah, just like Lara Croft and Indiana Jones,’ she said, heavy on the sarcasm. ‘You know, maybe you need to get out more. You might just be spending too much time in fantasy land.’

‘See? I knew it wouldn’t take long before you started sounding like a real wife,’ he countered with a grin. ‘Don’t you want to be a tomb raider?’

Sure she did. She just didn’t think it very likely. And as for sounding like a nagging wife…Hah! Wait till she really put her mind to it. ‘Right now I’m thinking I want to be Xia here, because she’s really good at this alien butt kicking business, isn’t she? What does she get if she wins?’

‘Points.’

‘Points as in money? Does she get to shop afterwards?’

‘Only for a new weapon.’

‘What, no plastic surgery? Because I really think a breast reduction is a must here.’

‘Our target demographic is teenage boys.’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

‘Besides, there’s nothing wrong with her breasts—those are excellent breasts. Fantasy breasts.’

Hallie sighed.

‘Not that yours aren’t very nice too,’ Nick added politely.

‘Mine are real,’ she said dryly, slanting him a sideways glance. ‘Completely real. Just in case anyone should ask.’

‘I’m very impressed.’ His eyes were blue, very blue, and his smile was pure pirate. ‘Because they look to be in excellent shape. I should probably take a closer look; acquire a real feel for them, so to speak. I’m not a fact-file person either.’

‘Is your distributor’s daughter watching?’ she countered smoothly, even as her breasts tingled and her nipples tightened at the thought of him touching her there. ‘Are we in a public place?’

‘Sadly, no.’ And through eyes half closed, his attention back on the screen, ‘Man, I love kinky women.’

Oh, boy. ‘So what’s in this game for us girls?’ she said hastily. ‘Other than this very cool vibrating controller.’

‘Shang.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Shang. Paladin princeling.’

Nick flicked back to the main menu and a male figure appeared on the screen. He had dark, carelessly cut hair, an exotic face, a tough, lean body, and was no slouch in the ammunition department either. ‘Is that a gun in his pocket or is he just glad to see me?’

Now it was Nick’s turn to sigh. ‘You’re not taking this seriously.’

‘It’s a game, Nick. I’m not meant to.’

‘You’re right, you’re not. My mistake. I’m the one who has to take it seriously. My people have spent three years developing this platform, Hallie, and now it’s up to me to market it. I can’t afford to make mistakes. Not with John Tey, not with his daughter. That’s where you come in.’

‘Call me naive when it comes to big business, but I think lying to a potential business partner about your marital status is a mistake,’ Hallie felt obliged to point out.

‘You sound like my conscience,’ he muttered. ‘If you have a plan C let’s hear it.’

‘Ah, well, I don’t currently have a plan C.’

‘Pity.’

He looked tired, sounded wistful. As if having to deceive John Tey really didn’t sit well with him. Sympathy washed over her and all of a sudden she wanted to slide over to his recliner and comfort him. Weave her hands through that dark, tousled hair, touch her mouth to his and feel the passion slide through her and the heat start to build as she feasted on that clever, knowing mouth and—Whoa! Stop right there. Because that wasn’t sympathy.

That was lust.

‘What?’ He was looking at her strangely.

‘Indigestion,’ she said. ‘I think it was something I ate. Probably the clams.’

‘Probably the situation,’ he said. ‘What’s it to be, Hallie? Are you in or out?’

Hallie hesitated, tempted to say ‘yes’. Not for the adventure, the excitement, or the money, but so that she could spend more time with Nick. The same Nick who was prepared to pay her ten thousand pounds so that at the end of the charade she’d leave.

A sensible woman would refuse him now and save herself the heartbreak, the genuine heartbreak, that was bound to come if a woman was careless enough to fall for him. A smart woman would sigh over that Hermès handbag, maybe even spend a minute or two imagining what it would look like on her arm, but in the end she’d turn away. That was what she should do.

What she said was, ‘Do you believe in destiny, Nick? Do you believe in fate?’

‘Only as a last resort. Why?’

‘I think we should let the game decide. Xia and Shang against the Martians. If we win we go to Hong Kong as man and wife. If we lose, you throw yourself on the tender mercies of Mr Tey and spill your guts.’

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

She was.

‘Deal,’ he said, and the fighting began.

Two murderous hours later it was decided. They were going to Hong Kong.

Hallie’s bedside phone was ringing. She rolled across the bed arm outstretched, groping wildly. Because no way on earth were her eyes going to open at this hour. Her evening with Nick hadn’t been a late one by anyone’s standards, but it wasn’t morning by most people’s standards either. It was still dark, not even dawn. She found the phone, found her ear. ‘Lo,’ she mumbled.

‘Can you get some time off work this afternoon?’

‘Nick?’

‘Yes. Nick.’ He sounded impatient.

‘Couldn’t this have waited till morning?’ she mumbled.

‘It is morning. Were you still in bed?’

Hallie slitted her eyes open to glance at the glowing red numbers of her bedside clock. Five-fifty a.m! Ugh, he was a morning person. The notion was going to take some time to digest. She held the receiver to her breast and took several deep breaths before putting it back to her ear. ‘This is my one day off a week and, I’m warning you, there’d better be a good reason for this call. What do you want?’

‘To let you know we have an appointment at Tiffany’s at two this afternoon to get your rings.’

‘Rings?’ Hallie’s eyes snapped open. ‘Tiffany’s? As in Tiffany and Co. the jewellers?’ She was wide awake.

‘Wedding ring, engagement ring. It’ll be expected. The manager of the store on Old Bond Road’s a friend of mine; he’s going to let me borrow some pieces,’ said Nick. ‘After that we’ll go shopping. You’ll need suitable clothes as well.’

Shopping for clothes? This coming from the lips of a man? ‘You’re gay, aren’t you?’

‘No,’ he said, with a smile in his voice that curled her toes.

‘Cross-dresser?’

‘Nope.’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Nor am I drunk.’ Exasperation in his voice this time, giving her toes a chance to relax. ‘The way we present ourselves in Hong Kong is going to be important and I’m guessing there’s nothing in your wardrobe that’s suitable.’

‘Suitable how?’ she snapped as visions of tailored suits and pillbox hats floated through her mind. ‘You’re going to dress me up like Jackie Kennedy, aren’t you? You’re having make-over fantasies!’

‘I wasn’t until now.’ The smile was back in his voice—yep, there went her toes. ‘And I’m not thinking First Lady exactly, but we can’t have you looking like Marilyn Monroe either.’

She should have been insulted. Would have been except that this was a sex goddess he was comparing her to. ‘Who’s paying for these clothes?’

‘I am. Consider it a perk.’

‘I love this job,’ said Hallie. ‘I’m in. Two o’clock sharp at the jeweller’s. Oh, and, Nick?’

‘What?’

He sounded complacent. Indulgent. As if she’d reacted exactly as any good little plaything would. ‘Bring your mother.’

Hallie arrived at the jeweller’s at exactly two o’clock, only to find Nick and Clea waiting for her outside, Clea looking thoughtful, Nick looking just plain smug.

‘We got here a little early so we’ve already been in,’ said Nick. ‘Stuart’s given me some pieces on loan. I’m sure you’ll like them.’

‘What do you mean you’re sure I’ll like them? You mean I don’t even get to go into the shop and ogle the pieces for myself?’ Hallie stared at him, aghast. Surely he was kidding. ‘Don’t you need to measure my ring size or something? I mean, what if the rings you’ve chosen don’t fit?’

‘Here, dear, try this on.’ Clea handed her one of her own rings, a wide band of square-cut diamonds set in platinum. ‘We used this one for size. I usually have a good eye for these things.’

Hallie slipped the band on her wedding-ring finger and stared at it in dismay. It was a perfect fit.

‘Does it fit?’ asked Nick, all solicitousness. ‘It looks like it fits.’

‘Sadist,’ she retaliated, handing the ring back to Clea, and, with one last lingering glance through the doors of one of London’s landmark jewellery stores, she turned away.

‘Did you get the week off work?’ Nick asked her.

‘Yes. The owner’s niece is going to fill in for me,’ said Hallie, recalling the conversation she’d had with her employer earlier that morning. No need to tell Nick that if the niece liked the job, she was out of one. If everything went to plan she wouldn’t need the job anyway.

‘What about your brother? The one you’re staying with. Does he know you’re going to Hong Kong?’

‘Not yet. It turns out he’s also going to be away next week. I’ll leave him a note.’

‘That’ll go down well,’ muttered Nick.

‘It’ll be fine.’ Hallie smiled brightly. ‘So where to now?’

Ten minutes later they were standing outside one of the most exclusive clothing boutiques in Knightsbridge. ‘Are we sure about this?’ said Hallie hesitantly. Buying an outfit or two from a mid-range clothing store was one thing; dropping a bundle on a week’s worth of designer clothes was quite another. ‘I’m all for being well dressed, but do we really need to shop somewhere quite this exclusive?’

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ said Clea. ‘I get a very good discount here.’

‘You want to hope so,’ Hallie muttered to Nick as she stared at the sophisticated power suit in the display window. ‘I think it only fair to warn you that I still have nightmares about the first time my brothers took me shopping for clothes. Pinafore dresses that came to my ankles. Sweaters up to my chin. Wide-brimmed straw hats…’

‘And very sensible too, dear, those hats, what with the harsh Australian sun and your skin type,’ said Clea.

Hallie groaned. And here she’d been hoping that Clea would be an ally when it came to clothes. ‘My point is I battled for years for the right to choose my own clothes, and I’m not about to relinquish it now.’ She pointed a stern finger at Nick. ‘You can tell me what kind of look you’re after, but I won’t have you choosing clothes for me. Are we clear on that?’

‘Well, I—’

‘Having said that, I will of course ask your opinion on the things I’ve chosen. I’m not an unreasonable woman. You can tell me if you like something.’

‘And if I don’t?’

Hallie considered the question. She could be a bit contrary at times. ‘Probably best not to say anything,’ she said, and, squaring her shoulders, sailed on into the shop.

The boutique was streamlined and classy, the coiffed and polished saleswoman just that little bit daunting, never mind that she greeted Clea with friendly familiarity.

‘Size eight, I think,’ said the saleswoman after turning an assessing eye on Hallie.

‘Ten,’ said Hallie.

‘In this shop, darling, you’re an eight.’

Hallie liked the woman better already.

‘Do you have any colour preferences?’ the woman asked.

‘I like them all.’

The saleswoman barely suppressed a shudder. ‘Yes, dear. But do they all like you? Let’s start with grey.’

Hallie opened her mouth to protest, but the woman was having none of it. She pulled a matching skirt and jacket from the rack and held them out commandingly. ‘Of course, it relies on the wearer for colour and life, but I think you’ve got that covered.’

‘Umm…’ Hallie took the suit from the woman and held it up for Nick’s inspection. ‘What do you think?’

‘I’m confused,’ he said. ‘If I tell you I like it you may or may not decide to buy it, depending on whether you like it. However, if I say I don’t like it you’ll feel compelled to buy it whether you like it or not. Am I right?’

‘Yes.’ Hallie felt a smile coming on. ‘So what do you think?’

‘Try it on.’

And then when she did and his eyes narrowed and his face grew carefully impassive. ‘No?’ she asked. ‘It’s probably not the look you were after.’

‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘It is.’

Still she hesitated. ‘It’s very—’

‘Elegant,’ he said. ‘Understated. Just what we’re looking for.’

Elegant, eh? Not a term she’d normally use to describe herself. She’d won the right to choose her own clothes in her late teens and in typical teenager fashion she’d headed straight for the shortest skirts and the brightest, tightest tops. Okay, so she’d matured a little since then—she did have some loose-fitting clothes somewhere in her wardrobe, but truth was they didn’t often see daylight. She had never, ever, worn anything as classy as this. The suit clung to her every curve, the material was soft and luxurious beneath her hands, like cashmere only not. Even the colour wasn’t so bad once you got used to it. And yet…

‘It’s not really me, though, is it?’ she said.

‘Think of it as a costume,’ said Nick. ‘Think corporate wife.’

‘I don’t know any corporate wives.’ Hallie turned to Clea, who was busily browsing a rack of clothes. ‘Unless you’re one?’

‘No!’ said Nick hastily. ‘She’s not!’

‘It’s very grey, isn’t it, dear?’ said Clea, who glittered like a Vegas slot machine in her gold trousers and blood-red chiffon shirt with its strategically placed psychedelic gold swirls.

‘Greyer than a Chinese funeral vase,’ agreed Hallie glumly. ‘Do you have anything a bit more cheerful?’ she asked the saleswoman.

‘What about this?’ said Clea, holding up a boldly flowered silk sundress in fuchsia, lime and ivory. ‘This is pretty.’