Wanted: Billionaire's Wife

Her phone dinged with a text message. Her mom.

Please call when you can? Bank refuses to refinance mortgage but drs. say Matt needs 6 more months minimum of physical therapy. Would like your help to decide if we should sell the house. Love you.

“I’m glad you’re here.” A deep male voice interrupted her text reading. A very familiar voice.

Luke leaned against her doorway with his arms folded across his chest. It was all she could do to stop herself from staring at how the cloth skimmed and outlined his muscles.

She tore her gaze away to focus on her computer. “It’s nine thirty. I’m obscenely early judging by the hours some of your programmers keep.” She hit a few keys. She had no idea which ones. Her concentration was shot between the message from her mother and Luke’s presence. “Do you need something?”

He unfolded himself from the doorway and walked to her desk until he stood before it. “Just you.”

What the—She whipped her head up, thoughts bouncing around at the speed of light. Had he hit his head sometime between now and last night? Was he on drugs? Had he been replaced by a robot with the wrong programming? Before she could come up with another explanation, his long fingers tilted her face farther up. Then his lips closed over hers.

Shock caused her to remain still. And then the electricity that always arced between them took over, opening her mouth wide in welcome, tangling and sliding her tongue against his. Warmth began to tug deep in her belly and pool between her legs. She heard a squeak of a moan and realized it came from her. She couldn’t pull away from him if she tried.

She didn’t want to try.

He broke contact first. “Good morning. I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier.” His gaze burned with want. But his mouth was set in a firm line, and tension held his shoulders straight.

“Morning,” she stammered, gathering her thoughts from where they had flown into the ionosphere. “What brought—”

He shook his head slightly, as if in warning. “I want to introduce you to someone. An old friend. I don’t think you’ve met.” He straightened up and stepped back, and Danica realized there was a woman standing in her doorway. She barely had time to process her expensive haircut and her impeccable designer outfit when Luke spoke. “Danica, meet Irene Stavros. We went to business school together. Irene, meet Danica. My wife.”

His...what? Danica stared at him as he sat on a corner of her desk. Nor did she resist when he picked up her left hand and held it firmly in his. She’d heard him wrong. Right?

One glance at Irene and Danica knew, no, she had indeed heard him correctly. Irene’s face was smoothly noncommittal, but Danica’s experience as an executive recruiter meant she was rather good at reading others. Irene vibrated with curiosity.

Luke, what are you doing? Danica tugged her left hand free and stood up, offering Irene her right to shake. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” The latter was not a lie.

Irene’s handshake was firm, almost bruising. “Charmed,” she said. “I wish I could say the same about you. But this bad boy here never said a word. You kept this very quiet, Luke,” she chided lightly.

“Oh, well, you know,” Danica said with a shrug, hoping to appear nonchalant on the surface. “We’re quiet types.” Underneath, a bubbling mixture of disbelief, anger and shock twisted and roiled. Besides, what else could she say? She didn’t know what Luke had told Irene or why Luke came up with such a preposterous story in the first place. What she did know is she didn’t like the amused glint in Irene’s gaze as it travelled from the top of Danica’s ponytail to her practical low-heeled pumps.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t know,” Irene said after she finished her visual inspection, with a smile bordering on a smirk. “You’re not even wearing a ring. You must tell me sometime how this whirlwind marriage came to be. Perhaps lunch? Are you free?”

“No,” Luke said firmly. “She’s having lunch with me. Sorry, but the reservation is only for two. You understand.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Irene continued to regard Danica with a mixture of appraisal and mirth. “And restaurants never allow reservations to be changed, of course.”