His Thirty-Day Fiancée. Catherine Mann
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She gulped in air for confidence—and to still her stuttering heart as Duarte knelt to select shoes. “I’m engaged.”
“To be married?” Jennifer squealed. “When?”
Wincing, Kate opted to deliberately misunderstand the whole timing question since there wasn’t going to be a wedding. “He gave me a ring tonight.”
“And you said yes.” Her sister squealed again, her high-pitched excitement echoing around the room. “Who is he?”
At least she could answer the second question honestly. “He’s someone I met through work. His name is Duarte.”
“Duarte? That’s a funny name. I’ve never heard it before. Do you think he would mind if I call him Artie? I like art class.”
He glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow arched, his first sign that he even noticed or cared that she was still in the room while he stripped.
Kate cradled the phone. “Artie is a nice name, but I think he prefers Duarte.”
A quick smile chased across his face before he turned back to the tux. His thumbs hooked in the waistband of his whispery black workout pants. Oh, boy. Her breath went heavy in her lungs and she couldn’t peel her eyes off him to save her soul. So silly. So wrong. And so compelling in his arrogant confidence.
Then she realized he was watching her watch him in the mirror. His eyes were dark and unreadable. But he wasn’t laughing or mocking, because that would have shown, surely.
Silence stretched between them, his thumbs still hooked on the waistband. His biceps flexed in anticipation of motion.
She spun away, zeroing in on the conversation instead of the man. “You will probably see something in the paper, so I want you to understand. Duarte is a real-life Prince Charming.”
God, it galled her to say that.
The whistle of sliding fabric carried, the squeak of the floor as he must have shuffled from foot to foot to step out of his pants.
“A Prince Charming? Like in the stories?” Jennifer gasped. “Cool. I can’t wait to tell my friends.”
What would all those friends think and say when they learned he was a prince in more than some fairy-tale fashion? Would people try to get to Duarte through especially vulnerable Jennifer? The increasing complications of what she’d committed to hit her. “Sweetie, please promise me that if people ask you any questions, you just tell them to ask your sister. Okay?”
Jennifer hesitated, background sounds of a television and bingo game bleeding through. “For how long?”
“I’ll talk to you by tomorrow morning. I swear.” And she always kept her promises to Jennifer. She always would.
“Okay, I promise, too. Not a word. Cross my heart. Love you, Katie.”
“I love you, too, Jennifer. Forever and always.”
The phone line went dead and Katie wondered if she’d done the right thing. Bottom line, she had to provide for her sister and right now her options were limited. The lure of those wedding photos tempted her. A family member, Duarte had said. One of his brothers? An unknown cousin? His father even?
A hanger clanked behind her and she resisted the urge to pivot back around. Right now she cursed her artistic imagination as it filled in the blanks. In her mind’s eye, she could see those hard, long legs sliding into the fine fabric tailored to fit him. The zipper rasped and she decided it was safe to look.
Although that also put his chest back in her line of sight. He was facing her now, pulling his undershirt over his head, shoes on, his tuxedo pants a perfect fit as predicted. As the cotton cleared his face, his eyes were undiluted. And she could read him well now.
She saw desire.
Duarte was every bit as turned on as she was, which seemed ironic given she was wearing that god-awful dress and he was putting on a custom-cut tuxedo. Somewhere in that contrast, a compliment to her lurked if he could see past the thrift-store trappings of her unflattering dress.
“We need to talk about my sister,” she blurted.
“Speak,” he commanded.
Duarte carried this autocratic-prince thing a little far, but she wasn’t in the mood to call him on it. She had other more pressing matters to address, making sure he fully understood about her sister.
“Earlier, I told you that my sister has special needs. I imagine you couldn’t misunderstand after hearing our conversation.” Hearing the childlike wordings with an adult pitch.
“I heard two sisters who are very close to each other,” he said simply, striding toward the stack of jewelry boxes he’d set on a table beside the safe, his shirttails flapping. He creaked open the one on top to reveal shirt studs and cuff links, monogrammed, and no doubt platinum. “You said there’s nobody else to call. What happened to the rest of your family?”
She watched his hands at work fastening his shirt and cuffs, struck again by the strange intimacy of watching a stranger dress. “Our mother died giving birth to Jennifer.”
Glancing over at her, the first signs of some kind of genuine emotion flickered through his eyes. A hint of compassion turned his coal-dark eyes to more of a chocolate brown. “I am sorry to hear that.”
The compassion lingered just for a second, but long enough to soften her stiff spine. “I wish I remembered more about her so I could tell Jennifer. I was seven when our mother died.” Jennifer was twenty now. Kate had taken care of her since their father walked out once his youngest daughter turned eighteen. “We have a few photos and home videos of Mom.”
“That is good.” He nodded curtly, securing his cummerbund. “Did your mother’s death have something to do with your sister’s disability?”
She didn’t like discussing this, and frankly considered it none of people’s business, but if she would even consider being around this man for a full month, he needed to understand. Jennifer came first for her. “Our mother had an aneurysm during the delivery. The doctors delivered Jennifer as soon as possible, but she was deprived of oxygen for a long time. She’s physically healthy, but suffered brain damage.”
He looped his tie with an efficiency that could only come from frequent repetition. “How old is your sister?”
Now wasn’t that a heartbreaking question? “She’s an eight-year-old in a twenty-year-old’s body.”
“Where’s your father?”
Sadly, not in hell yet. “He isn’t in the picture.”
“Not in the picture how?”
“As in, he’s not a part of our lives now.” Or ever again, if she had anything to say about contact with the self-centered jackass. Anger spiked through her so hot and furious she feared it might show in her eyes and reveal a major chink in her armor. “He skipped the country once Jennifer turned eighteen. If you want to know more, hire a private investigator.”
“You chose to be Jennifer’s legal guardian.” He slid his tuxedo coat off the hanger. “No law says you had to assume responsibility.”
“Don’t make it sound like she’s a burden,” she responded defensively. “She’s my sister and I love her. Your family may not be close, but I am very close to Jennifer. If you do anything at all to hurt her, I will annihilate you in the press—”
“Hold on.” He paused shrugging on his jacket. “No one said anything about hurting your sister. I will see to it that she’s protected 24/7. Nobody will get near her.”
How surprising that he would commit such resources to her family. She relaxed her guard partway, if not fully. She couldn’t imagine ever being completely at ease around this man. “And you won’t let your guards scare her?”
“They take into account the personality of whomever