A Very Fake Fiancée: The Fiancée Charade / My Fake Fiancée / A Very Exclusive Engagement. Nancy Warren
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her into bed. His approach had lacked finesse; it had lacked even basic good manners.
But the problem was, he wasn’t certain how much more he wanted from this relationship. All he knew was that Gemma had fascinated him six years ago, and she fascinated him now. They hardly knew each other, and both times the passion had been too quick, the situations pressurized. What they needed was the one thing they had never had: time together.
Although he had ensured that they would have that now.
Relief filled him that he had tied her to an employment contract. He had time on his side. After last night he was certain that, despite the odds, Gemma was emotionally involved. No woman could respond as she had and not be.
The addition to the note about playing their roles as an engaged couple slid back into his mind and a small, salient fact registered.
When he had flipped through the magazine in Gemma’s holdall during the night, he had noticed a large section on women being valued in relationships, with passages underlined in blue ink as if Gemma had read and reread the article, committing it to memory.
He had made love to Gemma, and now she wanted to be courted.
Sliding behind the wheel of the Maserati, Gabriel put the car in gear and drove back toward Medinos.
Now that he had some facts to work with, he could form a strategy. He was a little rusty with dating, and it was a fact that he had never courted a woman, but he had a major advantage. Gemma had slept with him twice, despite his utter lack of courtship, which meant that she had a definite weakness he could, and would, exploit.
Sexually, she couldn’t resist him.
Five days later, Gemma walked toward the plush ground-floor offices in Newmarket, Auckland, for her first day of work at the newest Ambrosi Pearl House.
Gleaming glass doors slid open, flashing back the conservative new image—she hesitated to call it an actual disguise—that she was still adjusting to.
Alarmed by the attention of the press when she had arrived in Sydney, and their interest in the fact that she was now, apparently, having a hot affair with Gabriel, she had made a beeline for her hairdresser and changed the color of her hair to a low-key sable brown.
Once she had made the initial breakthrough of changing her hair color, she had distilled the reinvention process down to rummaging through good quality secondhand shops for shoes and clothing in neutral shades. It had been a productive exercise because she had found a number of exquisitely cut, designer-label items for very cheap prices. Evidently, this season no one wanted to be seen dead in either oatmeal or beige.
Today, instead of her normal clear, bright colors and fun lace and ruffles, she was wearing a biscotti suit. She refused to call the color beige. Fake glasses and her hair smoothed into a prim French pleat added to the office look.
But as boring as the color of the suit was, it wasn’t as low-key as she would have liked. The jacket cinched in at the waist, emphasizing the fullness of her breasts and the curve of her hips. The skirt was also a little on the short side, making her legs look even longer. She had added high heels to the outfit, because she had made a judgment call and balanced the need to start her new job incognito against looking frumpy.
So far her new image had worked like a dream. No one had hounded her at the airport or tried to photograph her, and it was no wonder. When she had checked her appearance in the mirror that morning, she had barely recognized herself.
A workman wearing a faded gray tank, tanned, muscled biceps on show as he painted a wall, grinned at her and clutched at his heart as she strolled past.
Gemma found herself grinning back as she headed for the elevators and the second floor, where the offices were based. She just bet the guy was married with children—they all were—but the harmless bit of fun was soothing and exactly the lift she needed.
Boring in designer neutrals, but not dead in the water...yet.
Aware that she had almost veered into forbidden territory in thinking sexually about Gabriel, she refocused in a more positive direction.
Just that morning she had bought Sanchia a tiny hot-pink tutu and a pair of ballet slippers. She was going to give them to her once she had gotten the all-clear from the welfare caseworker and was able to move Sanchia back in with her. Now that she had a guaranteed income, she could afford the ballet lessons Sanchia wanted.
She pressed the call button on the elevator then stepped inside as the doors swished open. The sound of a firm tread behind her signaled that someone else had just entered the building.
She heard the low timbre of a masculine voice as the doors closed and froze, certain it was Gabriel.
On edge, she exited on the second floor and walked to the front desk. The receptionist, an elegant blonde called Bonny, was expecting her. Gemma glanced around as she followed Bonny through a smoothly carpeted corridor, amazed at the speed with which the new Ambrosi Pearls venture had been put together.
By the time she had reached Sydney, the employment contract had already been in her email in-box. All she’d had to do was print it out, sign it and fax it to the number supplied. Within an hour of doing so, she had received a flight ticket, which had surprised her, as there had been no mention that her travel expenses would be paid. The following day, she had received the lease to her new apartment in the mail, and had sent a certified copy off to her welfare caseworker.
Bonny introduced her to another very efficient older woman called Maris, who took her through to Gabriel’s large, sleek office, which was dominated by a large mahogany desk. Although the most notable feature by far was that one wall contained a collection of computer screens flashing up nonstop financial information.
Maris indicated she should take a seat while she fetched coffee, but Gemma, her gaze glued to the screens, was too wired to sit.
Moments later, Gabriel, larger than life and broodingly attractive in a dark suit, a pristine white shirt and a red tie knotted at his throat stepped into the office and closed the door behind him.
Despite coaching herself for this moment, her heart slammed in her chest and a highly inappropriate image of Gabriel naked and sprawled in silk sheets popped into her mind.
“How was your flight?”
Before she could reply, his brows jerked together. “What have you done to your hair?”
The sudden switch in topic threw Gemma even more off balance. “I needed a change.”
He was close enough now that she could see the fine lines fanning out around his eyes, the dark circles beneath, as if lately, like her, he’d been losing sleep.
“And it’s not just the hair.” His gaze raked over the biscotti suit. He frowned at her glasses. “Since when did you need glasses?”
She drew a breath at his proximity, the sheer energy of his presence, the knowledge that, just days ago, she had woken up in his bed. “Since last week.”
Knowledge registered in his gaze. “The story in the press.”
The one that very wrongly stated that she had jumped out of Zane’s bed, but had unfortunately got it right by saying she had jumped straight into Gabriel’s. “I got tired of being a target.”
“So this is a disguise?”
“I prefer to call it a reinvention.”
His frown deepened. “If you needed protection, you should have asked me. I could have made sure you got home without being bothered.”
Gemma’s fingers tightened on the strap of her handbag. “The only reason I get ‘bothered’ is because of my connection to your family.”
“That’s regrettably true.” Reaching out, he wrapped a finger around a tendril that had escaped