For the charity dinner, Natalie personal-assistants the full makeover package for me: everything from the hairstylist who highlights my dirty-blond strands around my face, giving my eyes and skin a bright glow, to the makeup artist who also makes a house call to give me a wholesome yet glamorous look. Even my blush-white evening gown with its tiers of chiffon makes me into a woman I don’t recognize in my own mirror.

Eli has been restless about getting on the field again, and as I wait in the limo for him, my own pulse thuds. But when he emerges from the house and toward our waiting transport, my heart crazily starts to jump up and down at the mere sight of him in a tux with his normally tousled hair slicked back.

When he sees me already waiting on the leather seat, he takes a deep, sharp breath and freezes in the limo’s doorway. He fills it up with his wide shoulders, his sheer physical presence.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, anxiety blossoming in my chest.

Do I look totally out of place? In spite of my determination to stay away from what’s being said about me on the Internet, I’ve seen some catty comments about how I’m not in Eli’s league. Is that what he’s just now coming around to realizing? Jeez, we’re not going to fool anyone into thinking I belong at a high-class dinner, are we?

His smile is slow, and with every passing second, my heartbeat pounds louder and louder.

“The only thing that’s wrong,” he says in a near growl, “is that you’ll need another few hours to get ready after I do to you what I want to do.”

And here comes that beautifully powerful feeling again—the high of being wanted by such an overwhelmingly hot man. As Eli gets inside the limo, he can’t keep his gaze off of me, and even though there’s nothing I want more than to have him rip off my dress, we won’t go there. Not now. Not until later, in the quiet of his room, where night after night, I share his bed. But I also share his life, and as Eli remains on his side of the limo as if he’s suddenly aware that there are limits to our game, a wave of bizarre discomfort takes over.

I’m truly not sure where our show stops and real life begins anymore.

The lines blur even more after we travel the short way to a mansion where a local, very well-off businessman and his wife are hosting tonight’s dinner. At five thousand dollars a plate, the upper crust of Vegas society is raising money for breast cancer, and there’ll be cameras there, as well as more curious gazes.

Our limo pulls up to the valet, and Eli takes me by the hand. His touch is warm, making my heart flutter, but I know he’s doing this for appearance’s sake.

“Into the lion’s den,” he says.

“Is it going to be that bad?”

“Just the usual press outside. Inside? Let’s say you’ll be wearing that fifty-thousand dollar smile a whole lot.”

“Then let’s not go inside.”

We both look at one another, and just as I think he’s taking me seriously—and that I’m taking what I said seriously—the clouds come back into his gaze. His dad still hasn’t deigned to meet me, and earlier, Eli said something about how much he hates the type of dog-and-pony show we’re about to endure, even for a short time before we tell everyone he needs to rest for the upcoming game and go home. As he absently adjusts his collar with one finger, I can tell how much he just wants to let loose, how much it bothers him that he can’t do that these days as an “engaged” man.

The valet opens the door, and Eli gets out. He keeps a hold of my hand as camera flashes cut through the evening. We wave as shouts of “Jeli!” fill the air. The press still loves us.

Once we’re inside, we continue our masquerade. My hand stays in his as I’m introduced to community leaders, casino owners, movers and shakers in the football league as well as the city. I don’t know how to act with these people, but I do my best, and somehow I’m fooling them into thinking that I’m not a fish out of water after all. I can tell as much because they just about have hearts in their eyes as they gaze upon Eli and me. They see a couple who is beating the odds, the sweet girl who is making over the bad boy. I almost believe the story myself until I open my eyes a little wider to discover that I’ve seen this big house before.

I’ve even cleaned it once.

Oh God. I want to sink into a hole even before Randal Preston bellies up to Eli to clap him on the shoulder. Then he finds it within his grand self to greet me with a kiss on the hand. This, I didn’t need.

“The couple of the hour,” the team owner says wryly. But he also has something like relief in his gaze as he sees that his grand plan is working and that Eli is getting great personal press. The team benefits from every bit of that as much as Eli does.

Just as I’m about to actually feel a bit of optimism, I see someone behind Preston—his daughter Lulu. She’s statuesque in a skin-tight red dress that would seem trashy on some women, but she’s wearing it like she’s a duchess. She spares a glance at me before swanning up to Eli, touching his arm.

“How about some champagne, honey?” she asks in her baby-waby voice.

Eli laughs. “The season’s started.”

Maybe it’s only obvious to me that he’s dying to have a drink, to party down like he’s always done in the murky, forbidden past. Being made over as a Nice Guy is chafing at him.

Preston pats Eli’s arm again. “There’s my boy. As disciplined as I always knew he could be.” Then he nods at me, as if crediting me with Eli’s improved behavior.

An on-air sports personality captures Preston’s attention, and he goes to him. That leaves us with Lulu. Yay.

“Come on, Eli,” she says, flirting up at him. “Join me for some fresh air in back?”

He lowers his voice. “Lulu.”

She turns to me. “You don’t mind if my manly man and I catch up with each other, do ya?”

To her, I’m still nearly invisible, but at least she’s asking permission to ignore me now.

Eli slips his hand to the small of my back. “She’s my fiancé. Of course she minds.”

I shiver deliciously at his touch. He wants me, even if it is an act. Scram, Lulu.

She glares at me, then at him, a look that could castrate a bull. Then she stomps off, and I look up at Eli.

“What was that about?” I ask.

He shrugs.

“Did you and Lulu ever…?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’ve had my failings, Jenna, but shitting where I eat isn’t one of them. Besides, she’s a little…”

“High maintenance? Too much responsibility?” I purse my lips, then say, “Lord knows you’re not into that.”

When Eli laughs tightly, I realize that we actually have an inside joke together. What do you know—he’s learned that virgins can be funny.

His laughter fades, and I look into his eyes, seeing the heat among the cool of his gaze, seeing something else that makes me miss a breath, something I can’t explain. The world stops for a moment. There’s no soft jazz music in the background anymore. There’s no wall between Eli and me.

There’s a truth that is hiding itself just as surely as the act we’re putting on.

But then his gaze fogs over yet again, and I’m brought back to reality. The only thing that saves me from sinking into a funk is the feel of a gentle hand on my bare arm, and when I glance over to find Courtney Dexter by my side, I’m back in the thick of the charade again. Meanwhile, Courtney’s husband, Michael the quarterback, saunters to Eli. Michael smiles at me with genuine kindness then speaks to his wide receiver.

Eli drags his gaze away from me as they depart, and I look away from him, the blood whizzing through my veins, almost in a warning song. I don’t know what just happened between us. I don’t want to know.

Courtney smiles. “You look amazing. You’ll have to give me the name of your stylist, because mine has run out of ideas.”

I glance at her lean, Pilates-shaped figure under its shimmery designer gown. “I doubt that.”

She laughs, then leans over to whisper to me. “I thought you might need saving from the wicked witch of the west before she turns back around on her broomstick for another swipe.”

It’s as if Courtney has taken a shine to me, and I smile at her. “Thanks. I thought I was the only one who didn’t get along with Lulu.”

“Anyone can see she’s jealous of you. And since she never makes an effort to get to know any of us, I choose Team Jeli.”

Courtney’s so nice that I wish I didn’t have to lie to her about Eli and me. I wish I could tell her that I’m a total imposter. I wish…

Yeah.

“You know what?” she says, her dark eyes bright. “Me and a few of the girls have a secret when we come to these things. We like to take a break from mingling with the hoity-toity on a consistent basis.”

“Should I venture a reminder that you are the hoity-toity?”

“Only because my husband was blessed with a good football arm. Come on.”

She guides me down a hallway, then toward a parlor where I discover five football wives and girlfriends sitting around a piano. One of the offensive linemen’s wives is hammering away on the keyboard, playing some Billy Joel. They’ve got bottles of even better champagne in here than out there, their glasses raised, their laughter threading through the air, and when they see me…

I get ready for them to go back to giving me a civil yet cool shoulder, but instead they smile.

That’s right. Smile.

“Any requests?” the lineman’s wife asks me, as if I’m not totally out of place among this casual luxury. Her name is Amy, and she doesn’t even stop playing, she’s so good.

“Give me anything you’ve got on your playlist and I’ll be happy,” I say.

“Will do.”

As Amy launches into “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” Courtney slides a champagne flute into my hand. The tune is obviously a party favorite for them, because they’re all singing along. When they gesture for me to join them at the piano, there’s a scratch in my throat. Only a quick swig of the expensive champagne can chase it away.

I go to them, fitting my voice to theirs.

Fitting into a place where I shouldn’t—and still don’t actually—belong.