Bad Fiancé Page 2

  “You’re bleeding,” she said again.

  “I’m fine,” he reassured her, feeling the hot liquid slowly drip down his jaw. “It’s only . . .” He hesitated, suddenly not wanting Sera to know that he was such a pussy about blood.

  “What?” she asked frantically, hands flying in all directions—touching his cheek, his shoulders, his jaw. “What can I do?”

  “It’s just that—”

  “What?” Sera asked again. “Tate. Tell me. I’ll do anything.”

  He leaned back, raised a brow, stomach steadying, dizziness abating, businessman coming to the forefront.

  “Anything?”

  Tate watched the taillights of Sera’s car fade in the distance, a wad of napkins clutched in one hand.

  Her one consolation, stalking over to her car, yanking open the passenger door, and reaching inside the glove box for a wad of napkins that she’d shoved at his chest, blue eyes flashing, terse words emerging from between those gorgeous red lips. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?” she’d spat and then she’d gone, getting back into the driver’s seat and backing out of the spot, albeit much more slowly the second time.

  Tate folded several of the napkins together and pressed them firmly to his temple.

  Which still stung like hell, but the pain was probably the very least that he deserved.

  He was an asshole.

  “Yup,” he muttered, using another of the napkins to wipe at his cheek and jaw. “But what did you expect when you just blurted it out, Connor?”

  Not looking at the offending soiled paper, Tate dropped it into a nearby trash can and made his way to his own car. He wasn’t smooth, he knew that, but he’d always done okay with women . . . well, once he’d grown up and filled out and made some money, he’d done okay with the fairer sex.

  If okay meant that he’d spent a lot of his time friend-zoned, then yes, he’d done that.

  And the one time he hadn’t been friend-zoned, had been with Priscilla.

  He sighed. Fucking Priscilla.

  She’d—

  No. It didn’t matter.

  Because what did matter was the deal with Sam Roche. Or rather, with Roche Enterprises.

  The biggest investment of his life. The one that, if he played his cards right, would mean that everything he’d worked for actually meant something.

  But if he wanted the deal to go through, he had to find a wife.

  And not just any wife. Because Sam Roche was a conservative, from old money, and decidedly WASPish. He had “high standards” in women, and only a select few from a select few families would do.

  Unfortunately for Tate, there weren’t too many single women from those families around the Bay Area, and even fewer that he had ties with.

  So, when he’d found out that Seraphina Delgado was one of those, he’d lied.

  He’d told Roche that they were dating, that it was serious. It hadn’t been a hardship, thinking that he might have to give in to his draw to Sera for a little while, that he might have to date her or touch her or—

  Well, that little white—okay, huge gray—lie had backfired.

  Because Roche had run with it, demanded he take the happy couple out for dinner to celebrate the engagement. Now he and Sera were supposed to have dinner with Roche, his family, and . . . the Delgados.

  Tomorrow.

  The dinner was tomorrow.

  And Sera had hit him with her car, flashing him a glare as she’d driven away that had all but told him to go to hell before he’d even managed to issue an invitation.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, opening his car door and slumping into the driver’s seat. “You’ve really fucked up now, Conner.”

  Four

  Sera

  Flowers on her desk.

  A gorgeous man in her waiting area.

  Once, that would have made Sera’s heart swell with romantic thoughts of Prince Charming and singing birds. Today, it just pissed her off.

  Tate wasn’t her white knight and dammit, she’d given up on men anyway.

  “Freaking—no fucking men,” she gritted out, picking up the bouquet of red roses and dumping them, vase and all, into the trash. She stormed back out of her office to confront the man sitting in one of her lovely blue suede chairs. She’d spent ages carefully picking out those chairs, had gone through books of fabric samples until she’d found the perfect shade.

  And he was sitting in it.

  Thirty seconds before, having not seen the flowers that had spiked her temple and propelled her stiletto-clad feet back into the waiting area, she’d ignored Tate as she’d blown by the space to beeline—okay to hide in her office.

  She’d pretended not to hear him say, “I can wait all day, sweetheart.”

  Sera was excellent at pretending, a pro at not hearing underhanded snarky comments.

  But Tate’s?

  It had been less snark and more of promise.

  Promise that had sent a little shiver down her spine.

  No, she internally snapped at herself. Sera Delgado, you will not fall for Tate again. Or—or I will throw our collection of Desperate Housewives DVDs in the trash and we will—gasp!—have to pay to stream them when we’re sad. And you know how you hate paying money to stream things.

  “I do hate that,” she muttered.

  “What was that?”

  Shiver.

  “Ugh,” she groaned, flapping her arms at her sides for a moment before letting them fall. That was a twofer there. One, Tate would think she was crazy because she and her inner Sera were having such a real mental conversation that she was answering aloud and two, Tate’s voice was making her feel.

  So, yeah. Ugh.

  “Sera,” he began.

  “Unless, you’re going to explain what the flip you were thinking yesterday, barging into my office and proposing marriage to me,” she said, “a woman you barely know and couldn’t care enough to actually show up to meetings for—”

  He lifted a brow. “I’ve never seen you this upset before.”

  “Upset?” Her voice rose an octave. “Upset? You’re kidding, right? This isn’t upset. This is insanity. It’s been months and you just show up here, spouting crazy and I’m supposed to what? Just say, yes?”

  Tate pushed to his feet, dimples flashing. “Well, that would certainly be easier.”

  Smoke had to be coming from Sera’s ears, but she supposed there was one thing right about Tate’s words. She might not have ever been this upset.

  “You wasted my time for months. You rejected every single house I showed you.” She took a step toward him, poked a finger into his chest, and tried not to notice how hard it felt—because pecs, yum.

  Not the point.

  “And that,” she said, “was when you even deigned it important enough for you to remember our appointments in the first place.”

  “Sweetheart,” he said. “I just wanted a little more time with you. It wasn’t the right way to go about it but—”

  She crossed her arms. “Try again.” A glare. “And ix-nay on the sweetheart.”

  He winced. “I tend to be a little forgetful when I’m working on a new project.”

  Now it was her turn to wince—or at least internally, because she’d had enough practice with slicing words to not let the aftereffects show up on her face. Forgetful. Yup. Sera was absolutely, totally forgettable.

  Unless a man was trying to get into her pants.

  Then she was gorgeous and wonderful and amazing. While it lasted. While he enjoyed her body. Until he inevitably found someone else because she was too boring or vanilla or sweet.

  Yup. Too sweet.

  Sigh.

  Unless Tate thought . . .

  Her heart sank.

  But it was the only explanation for why he was here now.

  And somehow, the fissure in her heart, the crack this man had helped make a constant part of the topography, tore a little wider.

  Typical, but still—

  “There isn’t any money,
” she said, tone icy, as she backed away and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Sera didn’t miss when his eyes flashed down to her “assets,” but it was clear that Tate was after assets of a different sort.

  “What?” His brows pulled together.

  “You might as well find some other heiress,” she ground out. “I gave up my trust fund ages ago. It won’t be funding whatever new project you need capital for.” She turned away, started to head back to her office.

  “Sera.”

  She stopped, didn’t turn around. “What?”

  “I don’t need money.”

  A roll of her eyes, her feet moving again. “Sure, you don’t.”

  He caught her arm. “I don’t.”

  She sniffed. “I say again. Sure. You. Don’t.” Sera yanked her arm free. “I’m not an idiot, Tate. I’ve been through this before. I know exactly what kind of man—”

  Her words cut off when he pulled out his cell and began typing on the screen.

  Seriously?

  “I know exactly what kind of man you are,” she finished then turned away again and started walking past Hector’s desk, thankfully still empty since it was way too early for her late-riser of an assistant to be in.

  Yes, she was a softie when it came to Hector.

  But the man was her right arm when it came to sniffing out new houses, could type up a contract faster than she could pour wine, and never failed to bring Sera her favorite salad.

  So, him showing up at ten? No, she didn’t care.

  Especially since he rarely left her office before seven.

  Thankfully, Tate didn’t say anything further as she walked into her office, closing the door behind her.

  If their interaction unfolded according to their past ones, he would get lost in his phone, utterly forget about her, and then eventually disappear like smoke. He’d probably forget why he’d come in the first place—

  Her office door crashed open.

  Tate strode into her space, all yummy six-feet-plus of him, his slightly shaggy hair bouncing like a shampoo commercial as he closed the distance between them.

  And then Sera’s breath caught.

  Those blue eyes were focused on her.

  Her.

  Not her breasts or her ass or her narrow waist. His gaze was focused on hers, locking her in place, forcing her own eyes to stare deeply into his.

  “I don’t need money,” he said, taking another step closer.

  Her breath caught again.

  No.

  She mentally shook herself then, outwardly, her head. “Tate—”

  “I don’t need it.” He shoved his phone in her face. She pushed it away. “This is what I was looking up.” He shook it, drawing her gaze to the screen. “My bank account.”

  Sera sighed. “Tate. I don’t even know if—”

  Her words stoppered up in her throat as she took in the name on the account. Okay, if she was being totally truthful, it wasn’t the name so much as the amount.

  Had she ever seen that many zeroes?

  “I—” She blinked. “I—”

  “I don’t need money, sweetheart,” he said. “I need you.”

  Five

  Tate

  Okay, he finally had her attention.

  Now he needed to not fuck this up for a second time.

  “Look,” he told her. “I’m not saying I’m being altruistic here. When I say I need to marry you, I need to marry you. Not because I’m some sort of creep who’s been harboring undying love for you,” he hurried to add when Sera opened her mouth, no doubt to tell him to fuck off for the second time. “But because I need a wife in name, with the proper background, and I need one quickly.” He slid his phone back into his pocket. “And more importantly, I need that woman to be you.”

  Silence.

  She stared at him in silence for a long time before softly asking, “Why me?”

  “Because the Delgado name brings a certain amount of . . . prestige.”

  A flicker in those gorgeous blue eyes that Tate might have thought was hurt, if not for the smile that accompanied her response. Her smile never failed to punch him right in the gut.

  Pure sunshine in a bottle, and when she directed it at him, he got stupid.

  “What are you saying?” she asked. “You only want me for my last name?”

  “Yes. No. I—” He shook his head when her smile faded. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Yes, it is.” Quiet words.

  Truthful words.

  And he was losing her.

  Fuck, but Tate was horrible when it came to social skills. Computers and artificial intelligence he could converse with, but humans?

  He got all twisted up and tongue-tied and never failed to say the wrong thing.

  Like in this instance.

  “Yes,” he agreed like the stupid idiot he was. “It is.”

  Her shoulders slumped slightly, and Tate felt like the biggest asshole on the planet all over again.

  Fuck. Why was he like this?

  The smile came again, but this time his pulse didn’t pick up, though the gut punch was still present. Because he finally got it. That smile was a shield. Just like his work and cell phone and computer were his.

  Deflections.

  A way to keep people at a distance.

  And wholly effective.

  “You should go, Tate.” She turned her back on him, and he tried not to notice how fragile she appeared, as though one more stupid statement uttered might shatter her into a thousand pieces.

  So naturally, he blurted one out.

  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Slowly, oh so slowly, Sera rotated to face him. Pink colored the tops of her cheeks, and her blue eyes were darkened almost to navy.

  “You’ll.” She took a step toward him. “Make.” Another step. “It.” Another. “Worth.” She was close enough that he could smell the floral scent of her shampoo. “My.” Her finger jabbed his chest. “While?”

  Tate swallowed.

  Fuck, she was beautiful.

  He wanted to kiss her, but Sera looked like she’d welcome that as readily as raw onion on her cereal.

  Slipping his fingers around her wrist, he tugged her hand away from where it was stabbing him and said, “Yes, sweetheart. I can make putting up with me for a few weeks, maybe a month, worth it.”

  She tried to pull back, but Tate found his grip tightening. Not so much as to mar that beautiful porcelain skin, but enough so that she couldn’t free herself.

  Not yet. Not until she heard him out.

  Then get to the point, fuck twit.

  His inner asshole made him blink, but—and probably more importantly—it also made him focus.

  “The Monroe Estate,” he said, remembering how much she’d admired his house when she’d walked through it with him. He hated the cavernous wasteland of a mansion, all high ceilings and cold marble, but it had been his first major purchase once he’d made his first ten million.

  That was what young, wealthy entrepreneurs did. They splurged on houses, bought fancy cars.

  But it wasn’t him.

  And he hated living there.

  Hence, his hiring Sera in the first place.

  “I’ll give you the exclusive listing and buy whatever house you recommend, if you agree to be my fiancé.” Maybe two huge commissions would convince her to say yes?

  She sighed, shook her head, and this time when she pulled back, he let her go.

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “I only need a wife in name,” he said. “And really only a fiancé for a few weeks until this deal is wrapped up. But I can’t just pick any woman . . .”

  Not that he had a line of women ready to select from.

  Ha. Not even close. Probably because most interactions went exactly like this . . . or worse.

  He hadn’t accidentally insulted Sera’s mother yet.

  Give it time.

  “It has to be you.”

  Sh
e frowned. “Why?” she asked. “Why is it so damned important for this imaginary fiancé to be me?”

  His mouth went flat.

  “Tate?”

  “Because I already said it was you.”

  “Oh.” Sera went very still.

  In contrast, Tate became a bundle of movements, pacing across the floor, running his hands through his hair, his words just as jumpy as the rest of his body. “I know it was wrong. It was so fucking stupid to even lie about being in a relationship with anyone, let alone you.” Five steps there. Five steps back. “You’re a goddess. So smart and funny and— Well, I know we both know I would never stand a chance with you in the real world.”

  She opened her mouth. Closed it. But when she didn’t say anything, he kept going.

  “But then Roche kept going on and on about how he only does business with ‘quality’ people—”

  “Wait. Sam Roche?”

  He nodded, waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, he went on. “So look, this is a risky investment, according to my investors. But only because it’s a different project from what I usually deal with—”

  “What is it?”

  This time, his blurting ability saved him.

  “Microloans for women in the States and abroad.”

  Her eyes met his before drifting away. “And so, what? You don’t want to dip into your social media pockets? You want someone else to fund it?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve invested heavily in developing the app side of FundHer myself. But I need all the rest of it—marketing, infrastructure, delivery. As much as I want to, this project won’t take off if I try to do it all myself. I need people with experience in this line of work.”

  “And Sam Roche has it.”

  Tate nodded. “He’s got capital he can invest as well as the know-how.” Roche was on the board of several nonprofits and had made his fortune in banking. And as the CEO of a large chain of banks that had revolutionized the way loans were issued to normal people (read: not millionaires), he was the perfect investor-slash-partner for FundHer—charity, banking, lending experience, and disposable income that could be pumped into the app.