When had she invited such stupidity into her life? She’d been trying to figure it out ever since she’d agreed to go along with his bizarre plan. Lying awake in his bed in the middle of the night, turning the situation over in her mind, she’d only been able to boil it down to the bare bones. He’d asked if she trusted him, and she did. He’d asked her for a favor, and she’d agreed to do it.
Beyond that, she remained clueless. She didn’t understand why he needed a fake bride. He hadn’t refused to tell her, but he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming on the subject, either. The only explanation he’d really given was that he needed her help to prove a point to his mother. When she pressed him, he evaded. Told jokes. Distracted her with sex. Said he wasn’t prepared to talk about it. She’d finally given up after making him promise she wouldn’t be committing any felonies, which had made him laugh until his cheeks turned pink.
He could laugh. He didn’t know about the arson thing.
She’d thought about digging around online to see what she could learn about the Chamberlains, but it felt wrong. Nev had been so patient with her secretive ways. If there was something he didn’t want her to know, no doubt he had his reasons.
And then there was the whole money issue. He’d promised that by the end of the weekend, he’d be handing her a check for fifty thousand pounds made out to the V&A. A totally aboveboard donation to the museum in his parents’ name to celebrate their son’s marriage. To her—a woman he’d met when she was three sheets to the wind.
It was the most completely bonkers, insane, outlandish, absurd, ridiculous plan she’d ever heard. She could never take the money. It would be morally bankrupt for her to accept a donation from a noted art patron to support a fascinating and important exhibit at one of the world’s premier museums. Or maybe not morally bankrupt. Maybe morally questionable. Morally suspect. It was a moral gray area, anyway. This whole trip was a moral gray area.
Fitting, considering that the way she felt about Nev had become an emotional gray area.
She could really use a candy bar. Better yet, a stiff drink.
“I’m never going to be able to pull this off,” she said, giving the ring a nervous twist it had done nothing to deserve. “I don’t know enough about you. I don’t know how to act rich. Tell me again why we have to be married, not just engaged? I’d be better at engaged. If we were engaged, it wouldn’t be such a big deal that I don’t know your birthday.”
“It’s March the seventh. And I already told you, we can’t simply be engaged, because if Mother doesn’t like you, she’ll spend the entire weekend trying to find ways to force me to break it off. Whereas if we’re married, her horror of divorce will make her be civil to you long enough for us to coax a check out of my father.”
He flashed her his shark smile. “Also, if we’re married, we get to share a bed.”
“Oh, no. No way am I sleeping with you at your parents’ house.”
“Of course you are. You can’t possibly expect me to keep my hands off you for three nights running. I’d never survive it. I’ve spent half the morning trying to work out what you’re wearing under that dress.”
He’d come back from his shopping excursion with more clothing than she knew what to do with and a drawerful of new lingerie that she suspected was strictly for his own benefit. It wasn’t as if she’d be doing a striptease on his parents’ dining room table. To fortify herself for this morning’s adventure, she’d put on a beautiful shell-pink bra trimmed with coffee-colored lace, as well as a matching thong and sheer stockings held up by a lacy garter belt. Not that she was about to tell him that. She didn’t need him getting ideas.
“Don’t worry, love,” he added. “It’s a big house, and you’re capable of being quiet, so long as you have something to bite.” He pursed his lips. “I rather like it when you bite.”
Cath fidgeted against the leather seat. One more sin to chalk up against her—she was going to arrive at the in-laws’ both wrinkled and aroused.
“You’re not helping. I already know you have a thing for sexy underwear. What I need to know is married-people stuff, so I can talk to your mother without giving everything away.”
“I should hope sexy underwear is married-people stuff. If not, I feel sorry for them.” Cath snorted but refused to comment. “All right, then. What shall I tell you about myself?”
“How old you are, for starters.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Seriously?”
“Did you think I was older or younger?”
“Older, definitely. Or, I don’t know, maybe not. I guess I never really thought about it. Maybe twenty-eight is about right.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twenty-six. How rich is your family?”
He chuckled. “I can’t possibly answer that question. Well-off, certainly.”
“Where does the money come from?”
“Banking and finance now. Originally, manufacturing. My great-great-grandsire made his fortune with a piano felt factory.”
“What on earth is piano felt?”
“Have you ever looked inside a piano? Hundreds of little bits and pieces of felt are in there. Someone has to make it.”