I'm no stranger to old money, high class, and self-righteous pricks. Kinda comes with the territory when you're a rising star in a major international company. But glamor and egos aren't the main reason the butterflies in my stomach have teeth, making me woozy when I step into the sleek glassy building downtown for the first time.

“Name or party, madame?” An older man in a tailored suit steps up, swift as a secret service agent, looking me up and down.

At least my chic blue dress and heels pass the first test, and I'm not thrown out on sight. “Randolph,” I tell him.

He grins. “Ah, so you're the lucky lady. My congratulations. Mr. Randolph has a table reserved right this way.”

It's getting very weird, very fast. I follow him through the security line, and we head into a massive ballroom like something out of a fairy tale updated for modern times.

Several dozen well dressed couples mingle, their chatter a steady roil behind the soft piano music coming from the stage. My eyes scan the crowd for Cal. When we near the table with the RANDOLPH sign on it, at first I'm sure there's someone else in his seat.

The man dressed to the nines in his tux and silver tie looks preposterously mature. Gone is the handsome, slender boy I used to crush on, replaced by a tall, dark, and brutally handsome man.

Cal's looks were always good to him. Time has been even kinder.

I shouldn't be surprised. I tried to brace myself for this. Tried, and completely failed.

One good glance at my fake fiancé makes my blood steam down to my knees.

“Hello, doll. It's been a long time. Pull up a chair.” The boy's deep voice is a man's now, several octaves lower than I remember. He stands, towering over me at least a foot, and readies my chair for me.

“My God.” It's all I'm able to whisper as my butt hits the cushion.

His shoulders are broader. His muscles are bigger, firmer, and sleeker than his eighteen year old bones could've supported. If he's suffered over the years – and I'm certain he has – his body shows no signs. It's like the pain has somehow strengthened his rough beauty, carved more perfection into the jawline covered in a rogue five o'clock shadow, given his neat, dark hair a perfect wave, and deepened his eyes.

Those sky blue gems set in his handsome face are all I recognize of the Calvin I once knew. They're unshakeable. No different from the last day I saw them, full of fury.

Except now there's an added darkness in the blue halo around his pupils. It sends a sharp chill up my spine.

He strokes his chin, quietly studying me, impossible to read behind his gorgeous mask. “What are you thinking?” I try, breaking the eerie silence.

“I think it's too damned quiet. Glad you're happy to see me, doll, but I think you can be happier. Drink?” He waves to the bar in the corner, where there's a man in a vest shaking up a cocktail in a steel tumbler.

“I'd love to,” I say, standing. I mean it.

I welcome anything that gives me a few more minutes to decide how I'll deal with telling the world I'm marrying this enigma.

I'm in a daze as I follow him to the bar, struggling to process how I've gotten here, back in the presence of a man I thought I'd lost forever.

I order my usual: a mimosa with extra citrus. He quirks an eyebrow and points it my way after asking for a scotch, more determined than ever to inflame the raw, confused pulse each look kindles deep inside me.

“Still love to play it safe, I see. Can't blame you. It's gotten you far.”

“Well, to China, anyway. How are you, Cal? You look good.” My cheeks bloom fierce red, transported seven years in the past as soon as the words are out. Why can't I compliment him like a normal adult?

“Miserable,” he says under his breath. “Wouldn't have asked you to this shitshow if I didn't have a lot to lose. Let's get on with it, and do some introductions.”

Apparently, he's never developed the patience for small talk. His hand drifts to mine a half second after we've picked up our drinks, and soon we're making the rounds.

“Mrs. Vernon, don't you look lovely?” he says to a plump, older woman near the stage, one hand holding her glasses. Yes, those glasses, the kind I thought were left behind in the nineteenth century. “This is my fiancée, Maddie.”

“Delighted,” the woman says in her haughtiest tone. Or maybe it's her normal voice. “My, young man, why didn't I hear you were engaged? Tell me everything!”

“Met on business in China about six months ago. You remember that trip to Beijing, love? Rainstorm caught you outside Mao's tomb, without an umbrella. I was kind enough to share, and you were too beautiful not to. Found out fast we were both Seattle locals.” He looks at me and winks when Vernon isn't looking.

“Uh, of course.” Not. My head is spinning. I barely remember to nod, before the blush on my cheeks hits my brain, and turns me to stone. Good thing he does most of the talking.

“We fell fast and hard. Real whirlwind romance that'd give old Rhett Butler a run for his wind.” Mrs. Vernon laughs when he mentions what I'm sure is an old favorite. “Proposed under a month ago. Can't believe how fast it's coming together, and how ready I am to be a married man.”

He grabs my hand. So much for fixing this awkward tension turning my lungs to concrete.

“So charming! You're a lucky young thing, Maddie. I simply can't wait for the wedding photos.” Mrs. Vernon goes doe-eyed. Her grin vanishes a second later. “And how's your father, Calvin? Is he close to...forgive me.”

She trails off. I expect Cal's warm smile to die, but it barley softens. “He has a month, maybe two at most, or so the doctor's say. They've underestimated him before. Dad's always been a fighter. I think he'll go down swinging, and surprise all of us.”

“My sympathies, dear boy. If there's anything to settle in the aftermath, rest assured my Charles will be in your corner to put in a good word with your board.”

“Thanks. Means a lot.” He reaches out, squeezes her hand, and then we're on our way to a few more tittering couples.

He probably introduces me to half a dozen more I can't remember – always as the future Mrs. Calvin Randolph – before there's even time to catch my breath.

“Is this helping? Will Mrs. Venison or whatever her name was help you? It sounded good,” I say hopefully, looking for any excuse to slow down this bewildering meet and greet with millionaires.

“No. Charles is a thirty year baller and has a lot in our hedge fund, but the board's vote is shackled to dad's will. There's no overriding the pull a founding name has in the company.”

There's so much to these delicate politics I don't understand. It's not like he gives me a chance to catch up because we're still moving.

“Cal, Cal, I thought I'd see you here!” A lean man in a grey suit holding a tablet runs up, slowing our approach to the next group of VIPs.

“Turner. Surprised you're taking precious time away from fishing for secrets from tech titans to talk to me. What gives?” Cal eyeballs him suspiciously.

“Actually, I came over to see if you'd have an in for me with Spencer Emerson. Is he here? Heard he'd landed a lucrative deal for your firm to inject new liquidity into ShopUp, and I'd love to have a word.”

“He isn't around, and he wouldn't want to talk to you if he was. Nobody at Randolph-Emerson-Turnbladt got where they are with loose lips, especially when it involves multi-billion dollar deals with start ups heading to the moon.”

“Ah! So it's billions, plural. Got it.” Smiling, he holds up his tablet and quickly types his comments into what looks like software for press professionals.

“I'm can't believe anyone wants luxury brands shoved in their faces when they could buy affordable and efficient, but what do I know?” I say. I can't hold my commentary.

ShopUp is an app designed for rich people, where they can type in any old thing, and receive only recommendations from 'the best of the best.' In practice, it also means the most expensive, a reverse bargain approach suited for the ones who hang their lives on having the most bling.

Turner's eyes go wide, and he gives me a soft smile. “Forget ShopUp, Cal. Who's the fox with the mouth?”

“This is my lovely fiancée, Madeline Middleton. Soon to be Mrs. Randolph after we have our wedding in Tokyo in a few months. She can't wait for the honeymoon. I hope you'll forgive her snideness. I'm quite looking forward to our sixty day cruise around the South Pacific. Her uncle did a lot of missionary work on a lot of islands. This woman knows them all like the back of her hand. Isn't that right, doll?”

I didn't know a nod could be so heavy. The white lies are getting much darker.

“Tokyo? fiancée?” Turner looks like he's struggling to keep his jaw off the floor.

Honestly, so am I, because the improv stories Cal keeps making up about us just keep getting crazier. What's next? Telling them I'm already pregnant with the twins he's probably written into his script for a perfect life?

“Don't look so stunned, my man. I just handed you an exclusive.” Cal slaps him on the shoulder and gives it a squeeze that rocks the skinny young man roughly our age. “We've got a lot of people to see, though, so why don't you get cracking and send me a link to the story in the morning? Good way to announce our engagement for free.”

“Hold up, hold up! I've got questions...can't I at least have a picture?!”

Turner chases us like a hopeless puppy. Cal leans in with a heavy sigh, whispering in my ear. “Play along. It'll be good practice for dad soon.”

“Fine, one good picture to go with your article. As for the details, you fill them in. What's fit to print isn't always honest. Here, I'll get you started: we met in Hong Kong doing charity, we're both Seattle natives, and I love the hell out of this girl. You've got five seconds to get your camera going.”

Under five seconds warning before I'm in his arms. Cal seizes me, locks his powerful hands around my waist, brings me to his chest, dipping his face toward mine.

Oh, God. Isn't it a little soon for –

Our lips collide, destroying my thoughts. It's more explosive than I dared imagine.

The big bang happens all over again in our ten second kiss.

Whole worlds are born in a shower of sparks. They glow, they burn, fading into the molten shock flowing through my blood. So sudden, so unexpected, and so relentless my body reacts on pure instinct.

My brain hasn't caught up to what's happening.

But my heartbeat, my pulse, and the shameful fire building between my legs...mother mercy. They're as hot and bothered as a ShopUp user laying eyes on a five figure toaster, and my tongue melts against his far more naturally than I'd like.

Resistance? Restraint? Common sense?

Gone.

My brain may be screaming no, no, no, but the moan that slips out of me, and into him when my nipples turn to hard peaks through my dress is a simple, unmistakable yes.

This kiss is living memory. It takes me back through time, retraces all seven years to the first and only night he first laid his lips on mine, a carnal promise we never had a chance to act on.

Maddie, what the hell are you doing? My senses return, and I'm pushing hard against his chest with both palms before he eases up a second later.

“Was it as good for you as it was for us?” Cal asks, an eyebrow quirked at the blogger. I'm catching my breath, surprised Turner's glasses haven't fogged over from the scene he just witnessed.

He never gets a chance to answer. Cal leads me away, leaving him speechless.

I guess that makes two of us.

We're done making the rounds and in our seats when my thudding pulse finally lets me speak. “Okay, what was that? I thought we were keeping it professional, retaining certain boundaries, just like you said...”

“Practice, doll. Professional doesn't mean ice. This has to be believable. If we're never physical, no one will buy it. Besides, Turner's got a good track record making this crap viral.” Cal looks at me and smiles like we're talking about nothing. “Would you rather he show us off in a series of Tweets, or should I march you up on the stage for a repeat performance?”

God, no. On so many levels. If kissing him is practice for this farce we're putting on, I never want to see the grand finale.

I'm saved from a retort by the first speaker stepping up to the microphone, announcing the charity auction underway. Turner isn't the only person fixated on us. Low, hushed jabber flies around the room, impossible to ignore, more than a few middle aged couples pointing our way, and smiling.

At least they're happy. The gossip mill is a lot less pleasant when you're steering it. It's hard to even look at him as the bidding starts on a priceless sculpture by some wonderfully weird and gifted artist. I'm reeling in silence, frozen in disbelief that I gave in.

It doesn't matter that there wasn't a chance to put up my guard when I didn't know what was happening until he'd taken a nice, long sip of me. I caved, went weak in the knees for this crass, strange man I owe my life to.

It's terrifying how little the distance the years have put between us means. My body responds the same way it did when I was young and clueless. I'm in grave danger.

Three priceless art pieces sell for six figures each before Cal says anything. “Watch this,” he tells me in a hushed voice, holding up his sign.

It's hard not to gasp. Bidding for the huge white urn with the soft pink roses brushed by hand up its sides starts at a hundred thousand dollars.

Not even a year's salary for me. And he's the one roping me into this stupid fake fiancé thing, worried about money?

“Two fifty,” he says simply, holding up his sign.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Do I hear two seventy five?” The auction hawker beams, scanning the room for fresh competition.

Another sign goes up across the aisle, several seats down. “Three fifty,” a portly man in a vest says, giving us a quick glance with his beady eyes.

Just because the money is going to a good cause doesn't take the sport out of it. My heart leaps into my chest as I realize what I'm really seeing: a dick waving contest for rich people. And I'm seriously afraid Cal is going to get his slapped hard before it's over.

“Four hundred even,” Cal says, his deep voice louder.

The auctioneer at the microphone blinks. He never expected a bidding war over the most boring item yet. Low whispers roll through the crowd. I hear several cries of “really?” and “they're crazy!”

Whatever the Victorian vase is worth, it's already smashed through its ceiling. I lean in, hand halfway over my mouth. “Cal! I don't know what you're trying to prove, but –“

“I've got this, doll. Keep watching.” He cuts me off, a wicked smile pulling at his lips, waiting for his competition to up the ante, or else slink away with his tail between his legs.

“Four fifty,” the man a few feet over growls. I see his wife clutching his shoulder from the corner of my eye. We share a brief look of solidarity. Saving men from themselves is harder than breaking up dog fights sometimes.

“Do I hear –“

“Four seventy,” Cal says, his jaw subtly clenched. The bidding slowdown to smaller increments means they're both nearing their limit.

“Five hundred even!” A new voice says. Half the audience gasps.

The portly man looks defeated, red in the face, and suddenly goes quiet. Cal, he's ice next to me, revealing very little of the tension pulling him apart inside.

He needs to win. I sense it in every wolfish glance from his eyes.

“Five hundred thousand for this marvelous hand-painted relic from a nobler time!” The auctioneer squawks. “Do I hear five ten, ladies and gentleman? Five ten for this glorious, one-of-a-kind piece with roses sure to make your own gardener jealous?”

There isn't a sound. Just swift, crushing silence.

Cal's fingers twitch once on his sign, wedged against his thigh. I wrap my fingers gently around his rock hard bicep, squeezing it through his suit. “Let it go. You did your best.”

He pushes me away softly, and stands. “Five fifty.”

The floor drops out. I'm hanging my head, wondering how I was ever so stupid to believe this brash, crazy man would've sobered up with age. He's just as reckless and determined when he senses a fight as he was when it all went to pieces.

My heartbeat swallows my ears, making me dizzy. I feel like I'm reliving the incident all over again.

“Five hundred and fifty thousand!” The auctioneer sings, his smile becoming a grin. “Do I hear five seventy five? Five seventy five?”

I'm shaking, counting the seconds. He can't go higher than this. Five slip by before I hear the final countdown.

Going once!

Going twice!

“Sold, to the handsome young man from Randolph-Emerson-Turnbladt with the heart of iron!” Auctioneer man sings. “My lovely assistant will be in touch to wrap it up and find out how you'd like to bring this beauty home.”

Cal drops into his seat, a thin halo of sweat on his brow. He wipes it quickly with his sleeve as the vase is wheeled off the stage, and they start setting up the next piece.

“I sure hope you know what you're doing,” I mutter, leaning into him and whispering it as softly as I can, without surrendering the sharp worry in my gaze. “Over half a million dollars for art? Are you sure you need me to do this? Seems like you're kinda loaded.”

“This thing just cost me a decent chunk of my cash reserve, Maddie,” he says, calmer than ever while his words make my heartbeat ten times faster. “You'll help me make half a million a drop in the bucket after this marriage gets me what I'm owed. Also, what kind of loving fiancé would I be if I let that piece of history go? Didn't you recognize the cream background? The roses?”

“Obviously not!”

He's lost his mind. I'm still shaking my head when it hits me.

When I look up, a nervous wreck, he's smiling. His lips close in, leaving a peck on my cheek, and then I feel his hot breath oozing into my ear. “Now, you remember, yeah? Those roses on white...exact same pattern you wore on your dress the day I went on the field with Scourge. I'd be a fool to ever let us forget.”

* * *

He asks me to hang onto the huge vase wrapped up in thick newspaper as we crawl into the back of his limo. I clutch it like a kitten hanging onto a tree, so jittery over accidentally banging it against the car I'm about to explode. The nerves he's soaked in kerosene and lit on fire for a dozen other reasons aren't helping either.

We're halfway to his penthouse downtown before I finally find my courage “I can't do this if it's going to be crazy. We need ground rules,” I say, meeting his blue eyes in the darkness.

“What did you think we'd discuss tonight at home? What kind of lingerie I'd like you to wear when you parade around the house?” His smart slays every part of me his words don't reach. “I never operate in chaos, doll. I'd have never gotten my life halfway back on the track if I did. Of course we'll have a plan.”

There he goes again. Making me feel small, restless, stupid.

That's the Calvin Randolph I remember. If that weren't so infuriating, it might be charming because it's familiar, a ghost from a simpler time when I didn't have a life complete with impending fake marriage to worry about.

“Why did you really kiss me so hard in front of the reporter? I don't believe that was just 'practice.'” I let loose the other question eating me. “Something softer would've worked. You didn't have to put so much into it.”

“It's called passion, Maddie. You should try it sometime. Real emotion makes people excellent liars. No, you're not truly my blushing bride, doll. You just taste fucking good to me. I don't need to lie about that. If you're asking my permission to half-ass this arrangement, don't. I need you here, all the way.”

I can't hold is eyes. Ass.

I'm forced to look away, staring sadly out the window. A thick Seattle rain hits the glass and forms rivulets. It's pouring by the time we pull into his heated private garage. He tells me to leave the vase on the seat – the driver will take care of it – and I do.

The icy tension between us doesn't get any better on the elevator ride up his tower. When it reaches the top and I hear the ding accompanying the door sliding open, my hands are trembling on the gold banister behind me.

Sighing, he steps forward, and punches the button to close the door, giving us some privacy. “What's wrong?”

“What does it look like, Cal? It's too much.” No lie. It's overload. “I can't believe I'm back here, doing this, with you. I should be in Beijing for another week, working contracts in English and Mandarin. Not taking a leave of absence from my career to settle our old score from half a lifetime ago.”

“I know this is hard.” He steps in front of me, slides his strong hands on my shoulders, his fingertips pushing gently into my skin. “Believe it or not, I appreciate you, Maddie. Even if I have a twisted way of showing it sometimes. Stay strong, and we'll be even. You'll never hear from me again.”

That isn't what I want! I'm prepared to scream it after him, torn because he wounds me so easily, but always does just enough to remind me there's a soul somewhere behind his freezing looks.

He takes me by the wrist and leads me out, down the hall to a tall, ornately carved door, one and only entryway to his million dollar condo.

If he hurt his finances tonight dropping over half a million on charity art, it won't hurt his standard of living. His place looks like the kind I've only seen in platinum card traveler's magazines, and sometimes among the new desperate-to-impress money in China's business elite.

His world is lush.

Overstuffed leather chairs next to windows oversee the city's best view, towering over Pike's Market, stretching out to a picturesque shot of Bainbridge Island and the mountains beyond. An obscene mantle attaches to a fireplace probably able to produce enough heat in the winter for a small army. And a sleek glass liquor cabinet yawns full with wine, fine spirits, and imported beer, most of it totally out of reach without using the library ladder on the shelves.

I sit while he walks to a long fancy table. When he returns, there's a thin stack of papers in his hand. He pushes into my lap and hands me a black pen. “Read it and sign, doll. Had my lawyer cook up something to protect us legally.”

“Fake fiancée, defined here as Ms. Madeline Middleton, agrees to pursue the duties outlined below in the strict spirit of non-disclosure...” I read the words slowly, letting each one slide down my throat and pool in my stomach like ice water.

My fingers page through it, and the dread only grows. There are so many clauses in cold legalese. Nothing seems unreasonable. But that doesn't make it any better.

When I look up, he's smiling, sitting in the chair next to me with another God forsaken smirk on his lips. “Is this really necessary? There's so much here.”

“It's for your protection as much as mine. Here, look at the last page,” he says, reaching over, pulling the last sheet out and putting it on top. “I knew we'd be pressed for time, so I asked my guy to spell out all the rules in a neat little list.”

My eyes skim more. He's not kidding about the little part. It's three short phrases that could mean anything if they weren't backed up by longer passes in the document:

No sex. Both parties agree to keep their relationship strictly professional.

No money. Fake fiancée understands this arrangement guarantees no compensation, beyond what Mr. Randolph decides to spend in gifts, expenses, or direct rewards.

No disclosure. Fake fiancée agrees to keep this agreement strictly secret, until such time it's terminated, and further agrees any disclosures to the media without prior approval by Mr. Randolph are prohibited.

I'm shaking my head. He grabs the pen, pushes it into my hand, and holds it up in a writing positioning. “What's wrong, beautiful? Anything you'd like to add?”

My eyes bleed fire when I look at him. I seriously contemplate asking him to add no teasing to this stupid agreement, if it wouldn't sound so ridiculous.

“No. Let's get this over with,” I say, sighing as my wrist glides over the paper. I scrawl my name and initials on several pages, drawing on my legal experience to take one last quick look to make sure there's nothing buried that can bite me.

When it's done, he grabs the papers, and throws them into a leather case on the table. “Perfect. I'd say 'pleasure doing business,' but then that's a given when I'm dealing with you, doll.”

It still doesn't sit right. I press my hands together, looking away, staring at the city's winking skyline through his windows. “I know what we need to do. I signed it. Tell me what else you need.”

“So thoughtfully boring. How about a drink to celebrate?” he asks, helping me sit on one of the posh chairs next to a massive window.

“No,” I whisper, blinking back my tears, wiping them beneath his unrelenting gaze with my wrist. “I just need a moment.”

For half a minute, he's quiet. Then he sits down across from me, takes both my hands, and gives them a reassuring squeeze. “How do I make this easier?”

Easier? No such thing. There's nothing in the world that will make this faux engagement with a man who has his kind of history a breeze.

“Let me in,” I tell him. It's the one concession that might give this a shred of normalcy. “Treat me like a friend if I supposedly want to be your wife. Talk to me about life, where you're going, what you really want to achieve after this madness.”

He looks away, dropping my hands. “We're actors, Maddie. Just like the contract says. We aren't old friends, and certainly not lovers. We were classmates who got in too deep, and on the wrong asshole's worst side. We did some stupid shit it's taking years to undo. Why do you want to complicate this?”

“Because it isn't simple. Not when you shove me against the wall and kiss me for the first time in years! God, Cal. I know it can't be easy, everything that's happened, but do you have to be so heartless?”

He reaches up, scratching his clenched jaw. His sky blue eyes pierce mine, angry and electric, like it's almost as hard for him to sit here with me, and re-live the past.

I'm a fool for asking him to step back with me into the pain, I know. But honesty never hurt anyone, and right now, it's the only thing that'll let me process this screwed up arrangement without feeling like a plastic accessory.

“I picked you because we have a certain history, doll. That's undeniable. I need it to fool the world, and make sure my father coughs up what belongs to me before he's gone. Don't see any sense in this burning need you have to rehash hell at the academy. Let's put it behind us, and keep it the fuck there. Let's play our parts. You're here to be my fiancée. Not my therapist.”

His harsh looks threatens to set me off all over again. The tears stinging my eyes worsen because I haven't even had a chance to sleep off the jet lag.

I hate this. I hide the tears behind my palms, turning my face, willing him to shut up and disappear.

“It's been a long day for us both. Let me show you to your room.”

“No!” I'm on my feet, clearing my eyes one more time to give him a harsh look. “Just point me to the right place. I'll find it myself.”

With a savage glance, he points down the long hallway starting under a crystal chandelier. “Last room at the end. Sleep in tomorrow. I'll be out all day. Won't need you again until Sunday, when it's time to visit my father.”

I storm away, resisting the urge to head for the front door instead, and find my way out.

By the time I clean up and lay down in the Egyptian cotton sheets, my new headache is worse. It's shocking how much the four hours I've spent with him are like staring into a mirror, expecting familiarity, and seeing only distortions.

He's the same. It's the Cal Randolph I remember in all his arrogance, his wit, his ruthless good looks with the ocean eyes able to melt any panties he desires, whether the women wearing them like it or not. The boy who teased me, who turned out to be my savior, always showed the same smirk, same poise, same bottomless energy and focus as I see in this man.

But there's also something different; a dark, cold, and very adult aloofness in his character. The old Cal wouldn't have shuffled me off to bed if he'd seen me cry like this. He would've swept me into his arms, kissed away my tears, and carried me off to join him in bed after making certain I wore a smile again.

This new man, who I've agreed to marry, and pray it won't ever go that far, I don't know. He confirms my biggest fear I've carried around for seven years: our tragedy changed Cal forever, and not for the better.