Her So-Called Fiancé

“Why does it have to be an engagement?” he asked. “Why can’t we tell people we’re dating?”

Her eyes widened, brightened. But when she spoke she was calm, pragmatic. Qualities Jake admired. Qualities about as far from Sabrina’s nature as Mars was from Venus.

“We’ve been there, done that, five years ago,” she said. “To be taken seriously, we need a commitment this time around. Anyway, I’ve already said we’re engaged.”

He tried to corral more arguments, but they eluded him.

“I’ll let you think about it.” She turned her back on him to study one of the paintings on the wall just beyond the cordon.

The square canvas was painted almost entirely black, with a thin gold line down the middle. Jake read the caption over her shoulder: Inside The Elevator During a Power Cut.

Sabrina started to giggle; there was an edge of hysteria to it.

“This picture sums up how I feel,” Jake said grimly.

“In the dark?” Her voice wobbled.

“Trapped.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “This isn’t funny, Sabrina.” Because no matter that she was letting him think about it, he didn’t have a choice. She’d told people they were engaged, there was no way such juicy news wouldn’t spread, even if she rescinded it. The press would be onto it; Jake would have to publicly contradict a woman often described as “Georgia’s darling.” More damage to his reputation, his campaign.

She must have read his thoughts. “It’s really not that complicated. We’ll say we’re engaged, my appointment will be confirmed, then I’ll endorse your campaign and attend a few events with you. As many as you want. Jake, this is exactly what you wanted, only…different.”

Sabrina, the ultimate optimist—it must have taken a lunatic sense of optimism to persevere the way she had after the accident.

“This is the only way you’ll get my support,” she said.

The only way he could win.

“If you win the primary,” she continued, “I’ll stick with the engagement until the election in November.”

Hell, it was bad enough pretending to be her fiancé for the six weeks until the primary. November was seven months away. “Why should I trust you, when you’ve never stuck with anything else?”

“Because this time,” she said, “I’m claiming dumping rights.”

“You’re claiming what?”

She flashed a smile at the wait-kid who offered a tray of cheese puffs over the cordon and waved him away.

“One of us has to dump the other,” she told Jake. “As soon we’re through the election, I’ll dump you.”

He wished he’d accepted that drink the principal had offered. “Why wouldn’t we announce we separated by mutual agreement?”

“Everyone knows that’s a line put out to save face, and that someone did the dumping.”

“Why should it be you?”

“It’s my turn,” she said reasonably.

“Fine,” he said. “You get to dump me.” The trapped-in-the-elevator painting loomed in his peripheral vision. “Just so long as you do get around to it. I don’t care if you could make me president of the United States, I am not going to marry you. Got it?”

“Loud and clear.” She tossed her blond hair, but somehow it didn’t muss. “And don’t you get any ideas about groping me when we have to kiss in public.”

Kiss in public? His lips tightened. “There isn’t a chance in hell that I’ll grope you.”

“Really? Because you used to have trouble keeping your hands to yourself.”

She was right, dammit. Back then, she could shred his self-control with just a wiggle of her hips.

“Trust me, it won’t be a problem.” He meant it…and yet he couldn’t help looking at Sabrina’s mouth, thinking about those public kisses they’d be expected to share. Her lips were a perfect pink bow, temptingly plump at the bottom. What the hell was he thinking, buying into her scheme?

Jake looked at her with such loathing, Sabrina flinched. She was used to getting her way through coaxing and flirting. Here, she was an amateur trying to play hardball with a professional. She needed to stop antagonizing him, or he would never agree, she would lose her job and she’d be back at square one.

“Sabrina, Baby.” Her father’s hearty voice, booming the childhood nickname, reached her before he did, giving her a chance to compose a relaxed smile. Jonah Merritt removed the cordon so he could pull her into a bear hug, squashing her against the plaid sports jacket that for him counted as casual clothing. “Sweetheart, I figured out how we’re going to sue those guys.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the art critic from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, whose ultrahighbrow reputation meant he refused to take an interest in a beauty queen. “They don’t get to say your thighs are chunky without paying you a lot of money.”

“Dad, stop,” she said, alarmed. Who would believe her father was one of Atlanta’s top lawyers, when he sounded like an ambulance chaser? “I don’t want to sue them.”

“It’s libel, and we can prove it.”

She folded her arms and glared at him, relieved to have an excuse to ignore Jake’s glower. “Will proving it involve close-up shots of my thighs, measurement of my body-fat content and expert testimony?” She might not have attended law school, but she knew how lawsuits worked.

Her father must have picked up on the warning in her tone, because he said with uncharacteristic vagueness, “Well, uh, that sort of technical evidence is generally welcome in cases of this nature.”

“Dad, my legs are not technical evidence. I’m not suing anyone, I just want to get on with my life.”

Unaware he was first on the list of people who would soon have to butt out of her affairs, her father beamed. “That’s very generous of you, sweetheart.”

Jake made a gagging sound.

“Jake, good to see you.” Jonah clapped him on the shoulder. Sabrina’s father thought Jake was the best thing since the First Amendment. The two men shook hands, both strong, tough and self-controlled. For both, reputation meant everything. It occurred to Sabrina belatedly that her father would be horrified at her faking an engagement. Jake was right, this was a bad idea. She could tell the trust they were dating, as he’d suggested, and that in her excitement she’d jumped the gun on the engagement…

“Glad you’re running for governor,” Jonah said. “That takes guts in your situation. You’ve got my vote.”

“Pleased to hear it.” Jake’s voice was strained. “There’s something else I’d like from you, Jonah.”

“I told Susan I’d be happy to donate. My checkbook’s at home, but I can—”

“No.” Jake spoke sharply. Then he smiled. A tighter effort than his vote-winning smile, one that didn’t engage his eyes. “I want to ask for Sabrina’s hand in marriage.”

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