Dirty Deal (Dirty Rich 1)

He motions to the sex room.

"It's mine?"

"We're engaged."

"Don't engaged couples share a bed?"

"Call it your office. You'll need space for your art. For school. For whatever you'd like to do."

"What if I'd like to shop and get manicures?"

"You wouldn't."

"But what if I would?"

He stares at me, picking me apart. "Then you'll need space for your wardrobe."

"Are you teasing me?"

He shrugs maybe.

He is teasing me. And it makes me warm. But then it also makes me want him more. Want this more. His affection is real. A part of him cares about me. And that's confusing.

We're getting divorced in six months.

I can't fall in love with Blake.

I can't get confused.

"Are you telling me I should change?" I ask.

"Were you planning on wearing that?"

I'm in jeans and a sweater. Not exactly a nice outfit, but the kind of thing people wear to dinner at a parent's house. "Why? Does your mother have a problem with women who shop at H&M?"

"No. But Fiona will have a comment."

"I'll put on one of my dresses."

"It's up to you."

"Is it? You seem insistent."

"No." His fingers skim my leg. "I want to protect you from my sister, but I'm not sure it's possible."

"She hates me already?"

"She doesn't think you have good intentions."

"She's right."

"No. Your intentions are good. They just aren't love."

I guess that's true. "Maybe… well, I don't know anything about you. Not really." I move off the couch. There aren't many places to go in this enormous apartment, at least not in the way of furniture. I take a seat on a stool in the kitchen. "This would work better if we really did love each other. As friends." More than that is out of the question. And contemplating the possibility of it is confusing.

"What would you like to know?"

"Something important," I say. "Something your fiancée would know."

"You know everything important. The documents I sent over with Jordan—"

"That's all stuff anyone could find online. What about the Blake behind the suit and the steel expression?"

The steel expression softens. He slips out of his suit jacket, undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, and pulls it open. He points to a thin scar running across his chest. It's light. Faint. "See this?"

I nod.

"I tell people I fell out of a tree. You'll see at my mother's house. None of the trees are sturdy enough to climb."

"What happened?" I ask.

"My parents were fighting. I stepped in. My father hit me instead."

My stomach flip-flops. That's something a lot of people wouldn't know.

It's awful, but Blake's expression is still stone.

It's matter of fact.

How can he be so calm about his dad hitting him?

I force myself to hold his gaze. "How old were you?"

"Twelve."

All the breath leaves my body at once. Twelve? That's nothing. A child.

He moves towards me. "It was a long time ago. It doesn't hurt me anymore."

"Yeah, of course." I force a smile. "Thanks for telling me. I hope you're not... Well, if you want to talk, we could talk." I try to decipher the look on his face but it does me no good. "I know that talking isn't really our thing. Or your thing. You're very quiet and all. But, yeah, um... I could listen if you ever wanted to talk. And I could talk, too." My cheeks flush. "If you want."

"I appreciate that."

"Thank you for telling me. Really. You can tell me things like that, but I meant more like… a hobby or your favorite book. Something like that."

"1984."

"Really?"

He nods. "Funny, I know. My company is basically Big Brother."

"You don't have personal access to that, do you?" My cheeks flare. "You couldn't see my search histories or emails. Could you? You could, couldn't you?"

He nods. "I haven't. I won't. If I ever want to know something about you, I'll ask."

I study his expression. Inscrutable as usual. He's probably telling the truth. I don't think he lies to me.

"And you?" he asks.

"What about me?"

"What's your favorite book?"

My cheeks flush. "You'll laugh."

"Have you ever seen me laugh?"

Now, I'm the one laughing. "Come to think of it, no. Not a full-on belly laugh. I'm going to have to make more stupid jokes. Do something to get an expression on your face."

He is unblinking, as usual. This time, I'm pretty sure he's trying to mess with me.

"It's Botox, isn't it?" I ask. "The secret to your youth and your lack of expression. I bet it's Botox."

That elicits a smile. He really does have a beautiful smile. It lights up the room.

"It's a graphic novel," I say. "Ghost World. It's about these teenage girls who live in a small town. There are all these little vignettes of their lives as they start to grow up and realize their ideas about the world are wrong."

A smile. It's a full-fledged smile. It's all the way to his cheeks.

"It sounds perfect for you."

"It is. And you, um, do you like graphic novels? Or comic books? I know you're a programmer, but you've never actually mentioned anything geeky. Not even something that's really mainstream like The Avengers or Star Wars or something."

He stares back, unblinking.

"You don't even… Well, I guess, except for 1984, I don't know much about what you like or do. Except work. And chess. You work and you play chess and you read 1984." A comic book version of Blake filters through my brain. He's as built as any superhero, but his superpower is work. Every page, he's at a computer, in a business meeting, or playing chess in a new, fantastical location.

"Kat."

I'm back to attention. "Yeah?"

"What's your favorite book that isn't a graphic novel?"

"You mean a book where all the pages are words?" I ask.

He nods.

"Brave New World." I wink.

He holds my gaze. "Are you mocking me, Miss Wilder?"

"Definitely. I mean, obviously, if I was going to go dystopia, I'd go with The Hunger Games." I rack my brain for a book I really love, one that will make me sound mildly sophisticated. Nothing comes. "Ghost World is my final answer."

He opens the fridge, pulls out a bowl of fruit salad and two forks, and makes a motion that can only mean eat. "You're sticking to your guns. I admire that."

"Thanks.

" I pick up a fork and stab a berry. The fruit salad is all berries. Blake has been paying attention. "I was writing a graphic novel back in high school. I might finally have time to work on it now."

He moves closer. Three inches away. One hand slides around my waist, pulling up the fabric of my sweater. The other traces the outline of my lips. He brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean. He leans closer. Closer. My eyelids press together.

His lips make contact. It's not like any of our other kisses. It's not some big thing for show. It's not a smoldering kiss designed to make my panties wet. It's sweet. Caring even.

That's a lie.

But I'm starting to believe it.

After an hour of conversation, we dress in separate rooms and take the elevator to the parking garage.

Pretty, made-up Kat stares back at me through the mirrored walls. I'm still not expert with makeup, but I look pretty good. And my dress is beautiful. Elegant. Way too much for a family dinner, really.

I make my way into the limo with careful steps. Blake follows.

The door shuts behind us, locking us into our own little world.

He nods to a bottle of champagne in the ice bucket. "The same one you liked at the party."

"The party where we had our joyful engagement?"

"Don't say things like that."

"Why? We're alone. This is the part that's real. That's what you told me."

He stares at me. "Fine. Get it out of your system now."

If I didn't know better, I'd swear I'd hurt his feelings. "That's okay."

The car starts and pulls out of the parking garage. Once we're on the street, its movements become one comfortable blur. No wonder rich people take these things everywhere. You really do forget you're in transit.

He shifts. We're on different bench seats. They're perpendicular. I have to turn if I really want a good look at Blake.

There's so much to his face. The strong jaw, the sharp line of his nose, the gorgeous blue eyes.

That bit about eyes being the windows to the soul—total bullshit. They're not the windows to Blake's soul. I stare into those eyes and come up with nothing. I don't have a clue what he's thinking or feeling.

If only I could crack that gorgeous head open and pry into his brain. It shouldn't interest me this much. He's closer to a boss than to a boyfriend.