Misadventures of a Backup Bride

Before he can say more, I cut in. As much as I’d love to, I can’t afford to sacrifice the calorie count I’ve allotted for dinner to this man the way I did the wine. “Is it possible to have a chicken breast grilled without butter or oil, and a salad with Italian dressing on the si—”

“Let me order for you, Ella.” He delivers the words like he’s a consummate gentleman who’s thinking only of me because I might strain my delicate vocal cords or stumble on this complicated menu. “She’ll have the eleven-ounce fillet, medium rare, and a lettuce wedge. Blue cheese is fine.”

“Actually, can you make that steak medium, and

add a house salad? And I’d prefer Italian dressing. On the side, please.” I feel compelled to win at least a small caloric victory. If I don’t, I’ll leave North Carolina ten pounds heavier, not lighter. My next audition is too important to slack off. Rent depends on it.

Carson sends me a displeased glare that says I’m playing with fire. I don’t know why me eating rich food is so important to him. But I don’t ask the waiter again to have my meal prepared without fat or oil. I’ll simply try to maintain the rest of this job and be extra careful when I get back to LA.

Not that the man waiting on us is listening to me one whit. He knows exactly who’s paying the check and tipping him, so he looks to Carson for confirmation. My “boyfriend” nods. “That’s fine. I’ll have the New York strip, rare, and a Caesar salad. We’ll take potatoes au gratin and lobster macaroni and cheese for our sides. Oh, and an order of that magnificent bread pudding for dessert with the Frangelico sauce. Thank you.”

My eyes nearly pop from my head. That sounds like a billion calories. I shouldn’t even have one bite…but my mouth is already watering. Why is he tempting me?

As the exchange ends and Carson hands the menus over, I’ve got a precarious hold on my temper and my expression—and I only manage to compose myself because we have an audience. Somehow, I smile as the waiter reads our order back to us. After Carson’s approving nod, Shen backs away.

“That was high-handed,” I remark, forcing a pleasant expression.

“This is my show, sweetheart. My rules.” He pins my hand down to the table and gives it a squeeze. “You don’t need to lose weight, by the way.”

“Your opinion isn’t the only one that matters.”

“While you’re working for me, it is. I like every bit of you exactly the way you are. In fact, if it weren’t for our agreement and this table, I would be more than happy to come over there and show you precisely how much you turn me on. And for the record, casting directors who don’t agree with me are idiots. You’re beautiful.”

I sit back and blink. He really just said that. Sneaky bastard. It’s damn hard to be mad at a man when he’s dishing out compliments. I could maintain my irritation when I simply thought he wanted to exert his control and show me who’s boss. But he figured out why I was insistent, not to mention self-conscious, and flat-out told me he wants me. I don’t have a defense now.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t intend to get even. After all, if he’s feeding me scrumptious morsels that I’m going to spend hours in the gym working off, I’m going to give him a little torment in return.

“Am I?” I slip out of my shoe and slide my foot up and down his calf, sending him a come-hither stare that would do Marilyn Monroe proud.

With the wineglass halfway to his lips, he freezes. “Are you teasing me, Ella?”

I bat my lashes. “Why would I ever do a thing like that?”

“If you wanted a rise out of me”—he drags in a deep breath and glances down to his crotch—“you’ve got it.”

That should not make me happy. I shouldn’t care one bit whether his penis is saluting me. But I do. Why bother lying to myself? This man has big everything—feet, hands, jaw, chest. I’ll bet he’s big all over, and I have to repress a shiver just thinking about it.

Maybe I should stop toying with Carson, cease playing a dangerous game that can’t lead anywhere except to bed. Can I really take our supposedly pretend flirtation to places I said I wouldn’t go during our negotiation, then back away from the seemingly inevitable later?

Not really…but the responsible reply is not what comes out of my mouth.

“What if I don’t believe you?” I ask him in a breathy voice, then lick my bottom lip for good measure.

Carson never takes his eyes off me. Oh, his gaze follows my tongue, then dips down to the shadowy opening of my shirt. But he merely continues to caress a thumb over the back of my hand and leans back slightly. “You don’t want to take my word for it?”

I could but…suddenly, I know exactly how to make his torment so much worse. I slide my foot up his leg again, dragging my toe across his thigh. “No. I’m a girl who likes hard proof.” My taunt has barely left my mouth when I settle my sole over something so steely and massive I do a double take and stare at him as if I can’t comprehend what I feel. “Oh, my god. Seriously?”

He sends me another crooked smile as if he’s mighty pleased that he could shock me. “Every inch of that is for you, and if you don’t get your foot off of me now, I’m going to forget we have a bargain and that I’m a gentleman.”

His words and hot stare grip my insides and squeeze until I’m breathless. What do I do? Carson strikes me as the sort of man who means every word he says. If I’m not careful, I’ll find myself in over my head. After all, I’m sure he has far more experience than me.

That’s all true…and yet I can’t seem to resist teasing him.

“We’re in public with a table between us.” I wriggle my toes against his cock. “You can’t stop me.”

He sucks in a bracing breath, anchoring a fist on the gleaming wood. His knuckles turn white. “First, who says I want to stop you? Second, you should understand that if you continue, you’re opening yourself to merciless retribution the moment we’re alone.”

Promise? “That wasn’t in our agreement.”

“Neither was this.” He glances at my toes fluttering all over his cock.

I smile. “If it’s bothering you that much, I can stop.”

Carson unfolds his napkin, drops it over his lap, and seemingly smooths it with his hands. But beneath the cloth he grabs my ankle, which feels completely enveloped in his huge hands, and pulls me against his hard ridge. “If you move your foot an inch before I tell you to, I will torment the hell out of you before we leave this restaurant.”

I’m tempted to test him, just to see what he’ll really do. Of course it’s not smart, but I’m enjoying this way too much to stop now. “Oh? How will you do that?”

“I have a theory.” His hands tighten on my arch and heel before he slides my sole over his erection again, all but baring his teeth in pleasure at the friction. Then slowly, he skates his palm over the ball and up my toes before lifting his fingers away to wrap around his wineglass. He takes a gulp.

“What?”

“That little girls like you never think of all the underhanded ways a man like me can repay her for this kind of agony. But I could, quite simply. All I have to do is this.”

He crooks a finger and drops it under the table to drag it softly and slowly up my foot from heel to toe. He lingers over the arch, agitating the nerves there with a barely there scrape. I jolt at the sensation, trying to jerk my foot away and doing my best not to gape because Shaw’s friends are watching our every move.

“Carson, don’t,” I whisper. “I’m ticklish.”

“Then I guessed right.” And his smile looks smug.

“If you don’t quit, I’m going to giggle.” I’m already biting my lip to hold my startled laugh in. “We’re being watched as we speak.”

“You should have thought of that. Now you have to live with the consequences until dinner arrives. But that’s not the only one.”

Before I can protest, he changes tactics, gripping my foot and massaging it thoroughly—arch, ball, toes—up, then back down again until I’m melting. I like this better than his tickling. Way better.

My head falls back as my eyes close. It’s all I can do not to groan. “Oh, that’s really good.”

“And now every man in this room wants to know what I’m doing to put that look of pleasure on your face.”

He’s right, and I struggle to open my eyes and straighten out my expression, but he alternates by tickling and massaging my foot until I feel worked up and wrung out under his hands. I’m doing my best to fight back, pressing against his unflagging erection to disarm him. But he’s toying with me, only letting me skate over his massive length when he allows it. The rest of the time, he’s manipulating me—figuratively a

nd literally.

I’m no match—at the moment.

“Give up?”