The Saint (Notorious 3)

This wasn’t going to work. There was simply no way anyone would believe we liked each other, desired each other, respected each other—not for a minute.

“I know I made a mistake,” I said. “I’m—” I swallowed and shook my head “—prone to that kind of thing, but look at you. You can barely stand to be here and, frankly, I don’t like you being here. No one is going to believe that we’re in a relationship.”

Carter wiped his face and sat down on the edge of my coffee table. His knees a few inches from my legs, the edge of my silk robe trembled as if trying to get closer. “Look, we go out on a few dates. Get our picture taken. We make it…convincing.”

“Convincing?” I squealed, wondering if that was code for sex. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

He rolled his eyes. “We go to dinner, smile at each other. We hold hands.”

“Hold hands?” I laughed. “Like we’re teenagers? That’s not going to convince anyone.”

His hand, big and warm, stroked the kung fu grip I had on my tutu. His thumb surfed the bumps of my knuckles and his fingers found my pulse, which jackhammered against my skin.

Touch. Warmth. He had calluses on the tips of his fingers, and the abrasion sent little shock waves through my body, waking up the parts of me that were hibernating during my long cold winter. Oh, lord, it had been so long.

My blood slowed, turned to honey, as desire warmed in my belly.

The mug fell from my hand, thumping onto the carpet.

“I think we can make it work,” he said, pulling his hand away and standing up, crossing to the far side of the room.

Golden sunlight burned through the windows, setting him aglitter. He was truly the most handsome man I’d ever seen, and that was saying something. It wasn’t as though the Houston Ballet Company was filled with trolls.

Awareness and embarrassment buzzed through me, and I bent to pick up Sir Piggy as if the dollar store mug were my most prized possession.

The silence between us hummed, loud and awkward. He watched me, quiet. Waiting. But not smug—if he’d been smug, I would have chucked Sir Piggy right at his head.

But still, this reaction of mine, it wouldn’t do. Not while he stood there, calm and collected, as unmoved by me as he’d been when he’d walked in the door.

“Okay,” I said brightly, as if I weren’t shaken down to my feet. “Public hand-holding it is. When do we start?”

“Tonight,” he said, and my stomach plummeted. I’d been hoping for a few days, some time to get my head around this. To warn my mom and Phillip.

“What do I tell my friends?” I asked. “My mom?”

“Nothing would be best.”

“That’s…that’s not possible. They’ll know this baby isn’t yours. That we’re not…together.”

“That reporter—Jim Blackwell—he’ll be all over your life, and that includes your family and friends. The less they know, the easier it will be on them.”

Well, I thought, what was one more secret to keep from my mom. “All right. So where are we going tonight?”

“Bola,” he said, naming the fancy steak house that had opened downtown a few months ago.

Nope. Uh-uh. Not going to happen. I would fake-date him anywhere but there. “I’ve heard it’s awful,” I lied.

He shook his head. “From who? The food there is amazing.”

“Well, if it’s amazing food you want, I know of a great soul food place down on River—”

“The point is to be seen by people,” he said slowly, as if I were stupid. “Get our photo taken.”

“But Bola has cockroaches,” I whispered, as if Zagat were in the room with us. “In the kitchen.”

“Are you trying to be funny?” he asked. “Because I really do not get your sense of humor. We’re going to Bola.”

Of course, I thought, resignation like a brick settling in my stomach. Maybe, if I was lucky, Phillip wouldn’t be working.

At least the food would be good, I thought, happy to see a bright side. This baby loved steak. I, of course, loved it dipped in cream cheese, but I would try to control myself.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said.

“That won’t work. I teach until seven and then… well, I’ll need to get ready. Eight at the earliest.” More like seven-fifteen at the earliest, but he didn’t need to know that and he certainly didn’t need to have every single thing go his way.

He nodded. “Eight then.”

I managed to smile as if this were a real date, something to look forward to. “Eight it is.”

Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, I thought, watching his long lean body cross the floor of my apartment. He was handsome, wealthy—at least I’d be able to eat a whole lot of steak in the next few months. Plus, he could hold hands better than most men made love. If I could just keep myself together and he managed to not be an autocratic ass, maybe everything would be all right.