La Fleur de Ville, situated in the heart of downtown Los Angeles, was owned and operated by a famous Frenchman who apparently made the best crème brulée in all of America. He was also the topic of many a gossiping conversation, as he serially dated Hollywood starlets, which had only made his legacy grow.

The taxi stopped in front of the restaurant with a jolt. I watched Billy overpay the fare by nearly 20 dollars, and then jump from the car to help me onto the sidewalk. I was unsteady on my heels, unused to the heaviness and train of the gown, and I stumbled on the curb, sending me into Billy’s arms before I could right myself. I crashed against the solid wall of his chest.

My face reddening at the closeness and my clumsiness, I whispered, “Claire would never fall in heels.”

With affirmation, Billy grabbed my shoulder and said, “Darling, you are Claire. Time to act like it.”

It was time.

Lacing my arm through his, I allowed him to lead me through the wide glass doors, revealing the stunning interior. Bright red carpets, floor-to-ceiling windows with gold, billowing curtains, cream tablecloths, and silver cutlery, which glistened in the soft light of the sunset and the candles on the tables.

Pressing my lips together, I tried to focus, and not gawk at my surroundings with glee. This was the most gorgeous restaurant I’d ever been in, but in Claire’s eyes, it was just a casual Thursday night outing.

“Bon soir, monsieur,” Billy said to the maître d’, beckoning for him to approach. “We’re meeting Clark Lambert; he should already be here.”

“Ah, oui, of course,” the maître d’ said, tossing his head forward in a slight bow before leading us back to the area farthest from the kitchen—where tables were further apart and the lighting was dimmer, allowing more intimacy at each individual table.

In the far corner sat one of the most British-looking men I’d seen in years. His eyes were a weak blue, his jowls dramatic, and the lines on his face pronounced. He wore an expensive-looking tweed suit that didn’t fit him quite right, and was out of place for the L.A. weather. It gave me the impression that he’d grown up on the other side of the tracks, so to speak. A previously low-class person, still unaccustomed to wearing fine clothes.

“Clark? Clark Lambert?” Billy said, bringing his hand forward.

Clark refused to stand for Billy, but shook his hand firmly, then turned his watery eyes toward me and almost jumped out of his chair. “Mike. Of course. And you must be?”

“Claire Harrington,” I said, my voice light and velvety, so unlike the rougher, deeper one I normally had. I tried to analyze his accent. Despite having been in America for years, it was still edged with a brogue—Welsh, I thought—as if he’d spent a good amount of time there in his youth.

“Claire is from your neck of the woods,” Billy said, speaking in his jocular, American way. “She was excited to meet another English ex-pat.”

“But is it Englishman, or would you say Welshman?” I asked, with my best fake smile. “I wouldn’t want to mislabel you. We Brits, we’re proud of our roots,” I said with a wink.

“A good ear, my dear,” Clark said, sweeping his hands through his hair. It was thinning, edged with grey. “Well spotted, indeed. I grew up in Wales, before moving to the Midlands in my teenage years. And you? I sense a good deal of London in you.”

My god, it had worked. Bowing my head in a grand fashion, I gave him this false honor. “Born and bred. But spent many months elsewhere, throughout my youth. The south of France. Sicily. Wherever my mother’s fancy took us, we went.”

“My, my,” Clark cooed, his eyes glittering.

“My, my,” I echoed, a smile on my painted lips.

Something about Clark made my spine shiver with distaste. He seemed overcommitted to knowing me, to reaching across the table to pat my hand. A single yellow tooth in the back of his mouth seemed to wobble as he spoke, as if he toyed with it using his tongue. He told us he’d been away from England for nearly two decades, having found “grand success in the real estate business out west.”

Something about him reeked of bad business dealings. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but my first instinct was to get up from the table and run away into the night, my emerald green dress fluttering behind me.

But I remained, maintaining the façade of being perfectly calm and collected.

“You see, unlike us, Claire was born with a silver spoon in her mouth,” Billy said, taking over the conversation. He had sensed that I was drowning, that I was best suited to smiling magnanimously and adding the occasional comment. “You and I, Clark, we’re born fighters. We were born to win. I’ve been reading about your properties. Absolutely amazing what you’ve done with them. And this little place in Malibu we want to pick up—”

“Is ‘little’ the term you’d use to describe it?” Clark laughed, his belly bouncing. “Because I’d say it’s an absolute mansion. Three master bedrooms. Seven baths. Two pools and several levels of balconies, all overlooking the ocean. Sir, if that’s ‘little’ to you, then I’d like to see your definition of big.”

Billy’s eyes flashed. What was he trying to prove?

“We’ll have to get the pools checked before we make the transfer, Mike,” I said with a bored tone to my voice. “You know what happened with the pool at our last holiday home. That crack went right through the bottom and flooded the guest house. Months of repairs. An absolute disaster.”

“The lady has an eye for detail,” Clark said, giving me a smile. He gestured for the waiter, ordering another bottle of wine. “And a stomach for wine.”

It was true. Consumed by my nerves, I’d drunk not one, but two glasses of wine in a very short amount of time. I found that it was easier to fall into Claire’s mental state when I was on the tipsy side.

“Perhaps we should order something to eat, to tide us over during all of this business talk,” I suggested casually.

Clark nodded. He beckoned to a waiter and began ordering for the table. “We’ll take the three mains on rotation today, along with the cheese plate to share. That should tide us over, as the London dame says. Don’t you think?”

“Oui, monsieur.” The waiter darted away without another word.

Clark turned his attention back to me, crossing his arms over his small but noticeable potbelly. “Tell me, my beautiful compatriot. What is it you miss most about our beautiful England? Surely not the rain.”

My eyes twinkled. Speaking almost truthfully, I said, “Although the sun shines nearly every day in Los Angeles, it doesn’t so much in New York, where we normally reside. My life has been a great deal of grey, I’m afraid.”

“Which is why you should make the switch. Malibu, full-time. Why not?”

“Why not?” I chuckled, sliding my arm through Billy’s. I clung to his hand for support, secretly loving the feel of his skin on mine. I lowered my voice conspiratorially, “I have to be honest with you; I can’t get over how treacherous American breakfasts are. Where are the baked beans? And people actually drink their coffee black here, like heathens.”

Clark threw back his head with laughter. “I haven’t heard anyone talk about beans on toast in ages,” he said. “No bird I know here has even had it.”

“And I haven’t been called a bird in ages, either,” I said, giggling.

“We do have our own language, don’t we?” Clark asked.

“Something our poor American friends just can’t keep up with,” I cooed, turning toward Billy and swiping his hair over his ears.

Billy rolled his eyes as the cheese plate arrived. He dropped a bit of Brie on a delicate cracker and ate heartily. “You two are making me hungry. And bored.”

“My fiancé doesn’t understand or appreciate British culture,” I sighed, rolling my own eyes playfully.

“Well, he’s lucky he has someone like you,” Clark affirmed. “Someone who can class him up a bit. Tell me, Mike. Were you raised on fast food and slushies? Be honest.”

I chortled, remembering when I’d landed in L.A. I’d been mesmerized by the bright red, science-experiment-like slushies at gas stations and convenience stores, the way the half-frozen liquid cycled through the machine. They’d made me feel like I was entering another world.

“Only the blue flavor,” Billy laughed, playing along. I could sense he was relaxing due to the alcohol, as well. He drew his arm around my shoulders, drawing me close. I could feel his heartbeat, and it soothed me.

We were a united front.

As we ate our meals, Billy touched my hand beneath the table often. I worked hard to laugh at Clark’s jokes, to banter about the “stupidity of Americans”—nothing I actually believed in, of course—but something that Clark seemed to appreciate a great deal.

“You should see the kind of stuff I can get away with, when it comes to Americans,” Clark bragged, halfway through the second bottle of wine. “They’ll buy anything, if you phrase it properly. If you link it to their favorite celebrity, or if you tell them it’ll give them better mental health. These Americans. Of course, not you, Mike. You’ve clearly got it together. You’re practically one of us, now.”

“We did meet in London, after all,” I smiled in Billy’s direction and kissed his cheek gently, but kept my eyes on Clark.

After the plates were cleared, Clark slapped his hands together with a dramatic flourish. The sound echoed across the open space of the restaurant, which had emptied out, as it was getting late.

“Mike. Claire. I think I know you two well enough to make a deal on this,” he said, cracking his knuckles. The harsh sound made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “If you’ll just enjoy a bite of dessert with me, we can take the last steps toward finalizing. What do you say, Claire?”

I paused for a moment, my heart hammering. Involving ourselves with this man seemed ill-advised, almost dangerous. But Billy’s hand clung to mine, squeezing hard once, in a silent prompt to speak. I nodded, stretching what I hoped was an alluring smile across my face.

“I’d never turn down the chance to enjoy some sunshine.”

The crème brulée followed swiftly, served in a crystal ramekin. Clark handed me a spoon, watching as I pushed it into the center of the crisp, burnt sugar top. It crackled, and then broke, revealing the creamy custard beneath.

Leaning forward, he whispered to me, “Take the first bite, my dear. Go on.”

I dug the spoon into the cream and then drew it out slowly, placing it into my mouth sensually. My eyes closed with the pleasure of the flavor. I was certain that I hadn’t tasted anything so delicious in my life.

“Tell me that’s not better than anything you could get in London, or Paris, or the south of France, or anywhere,” he breathed. “Tell me that’s not the best you’ve had in your life.”

After a long, almost religious pause, I nodded. I’d passed his test. He shot up from the table, and then thrust his hand across the table in Billy’s direction. My pretend fiancé shook it, nodding.

“We have a deal, then?” Billy asked.

“We absolutely do,” Clark replied. “We can complete the transfer in the next few days,?”

“I don’t see why not,” Billy said. He stood, and I saw his grip tighten, ever so slightly. The crème brulée continued to steam. My spoon remained in my hand.

“And you,” Clark said, eyeing me. He plucked my non-spoon-holding hand from where it rested on the table, pressing his mouth to the soft skin between my knuckles. I still smelled like the perfume sample I’d tried in the mall hours before. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice its cheapness? Perhaps he wouldn’t suspect? “It has been a sincere pleasure to meet a compatriot such as yourself. I wish I could find myself a bird as stunning as you.”

My stomach flipped as his lips met my skin. I wanted to yank my hand back, to destroy the game. But I told myself, in firm words, that it was nearly over. Claire was nearly dead. I smiled demurely.

“It’s been a lovely evening.”

With that, Clark was gone. He swept from the restaurant, moving much more swiftly than his large, fatty frame should have allowed him. He ducked into a black vehicle that was waiting out front, and it whisked him away into the night.

We were alone.

I turned back to Billy, catching my breath. It seemed incomprehensible that it was over. The hours had flashed by like seconds, and it had all seemed too easy. I shook with laughter, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Did it go all right?”

Billy nodded, pressing his nose against mine. “It went perfectly,” he whispered.

My heart hammered in my chest. “Perfectly, you say? And exactly what just happened here, may I ask?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s an American secret that I simply can’t share with you,” Billy said, stroking the blond curls around my face. “All I know is, I can’t stop touching you. I had to try so hard not to get lost in those beautiful blue eyes. You were magnificent, Claire Harrington. My gorgeous fiancée.”

The tension was palpable, making me unable to breathe. In the moments that followed, the world seemed to spin around me. Our surroundings blurred into a red and gold haze. The candles flickered, the cutlery shone, and the crème brulee cooled on the table.

And then, he kissed me.

The kiss was electric. His lips parted mine, allowing space for his tongue to enter, to flick against mine, to run along my teeth. Immediately, I leaned into him, wanting nothing more than his touch. My head swam with wine, with lust. Wrapping my arms tighter around his neck, I drew myself closer, inhaling his scent.

From afar, we looked like a very rich couple, making out in our natural, ritzy environment.

The reality—that I was a dirt-poor nobody, that Billy Jay Johnston was more comfortable in ratty V-necks and was in the midst of some kind of scam with Clark Lambert—no longer mattered.

After a long, passionate kiss, Billy drew back. His eyes were intense, his lust revealed by the reflection of the candlelight. He whispered, “Come home with me.”

He led me out the door, into the bustling streets of Los Angeles. The stars twinkled above, matching the lights of downtown. He hailed a taxi quickly, and then drew me close to him in the backseat. He gave the name of a motel near to the agency, and then leaned over me, kissing me deeply. His tongue and mine kept up their playful game as his hand drew a line from my clavicle, down between my breasts. His fingers slid beneath the low-cut neckline line of my dress, lightly grazing the sensitive circle of my nipple. I moaned, long and lazily into his mouth, and he smiled against my lips.

“I want to make you moan all night,” he whispered.

The taxi stopped in front of the sad-looking, almost derelict hotel, and it was a sudden reminder of who really we were, where we’d come from. Billy paid the fare and led me up the steps, never taking his eyes off me. I stumbled slightly on the stupid high heels, and with a grunt of frustration, I kicked them off and wrapped my arms around his neck in a dramatic fashion. He lifted me into the air, laughing, and carried me the rest of the way to the second-floor motel room.

“You are royalty, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Darling, I don’t walk like the rest of you peasants. I’m much too good for that.”

The motel room was barren, but cleaner than I had expected, with a single suitcase in the corner—the one he had brought from New York, I assumed. Several black T-shirts protruded from its open zipper. Billy tossed me on the bed, watching as I bounced. I giggled, feeling free, as the bouncing made the low-cut dress almost indecent. Billy couldn’t keep his eyes off me.

“Wow,” he breathed.

Without waiting another moment, he was sitting beside me on the bed. Gazing at me with ravenous eyes, he reached forward and wrapped his hand around my left breast, squeezing the nipple slightly. With his other hand, he began to unzip my dress, loosening it around my waist. I stood up on the bed, shaking the fabric from my frame, peeling it away from my body to reveal my slender torso, my firm ass. I threw the dress to the corner of the room.

Feeling more confident than I should have, I placed one foot at his hip and draped the other leg over his shoulder. I stood with my pussy near his face, on full display for him. I reached down and undid his tie, ripping it from his collar and tossing it into the corner with my dress. He exhaled sharply and wrapped his hands around my upper thighs, squeezing them tight.

“I love the way you smell,” he murmured.

Without a moment’s pause, he moved forward, placing his mouth at the nub of my clit, chin pressed up against my wet lips. I closed my eyes, feeling my pulse in my groin, and raked my fingers through his hair. After a long pause, he ran his tongue along my clit, toward the inviting opening, and up again. My legs shook with pleasure.

He began to lick me with more ferocity, forcing me to cling to his shoulders. He held my legs tightly, ensuring I didn’t collapse or move away. I inhaled sharply, forcing my breasts to rise and fall with each breath. After finding the hardness of my clit again, he sucked on it for a long time, forcing my eyes open with sudden alarm. I felt sure that I was going to cum.

But moments before I did, he released me.

I collapsed onto the bed, reaching for him, kissing him, devouring him. I began to undo his shirt buttons, stripping his black jacket from his shoulders, and revealing his muscular chest and his firm shoulders. I kissed the muscles and his neck. My fingers rubbed over his rippled abdomen, and then gripped his belt, undoing it.

His cock was firm, thick, and longer than any I’d ever seen. It pulsed in my hands, growing red with pleasure and anticipation. After the briefest pause, I moved forward and wrapped my lips around it, licking and swallowing it. He gasped. His hands found refuge on my hair, pulling through my strands. I deep-throated him, feeling the ridges of his veins beneath. His cock was pressed against the soft darkness at the back of my throat. Then, I pulled back, my eyes seeking his. As I brought my tongue to the very tip of his cock again, I surprised him, taking him fully back inside my throat once more. He gasped, thrusting forward into my mouth with incredible power.

Suddenly, he pulled my head away, my lips sliding over his cock, freeing him from my suction. He slid his pants off with haste, and pressed me against the flat mattress, exhaling gruffly above me. Sweat glistened on his firm chest, small beads rolling down the hard muscles of his stomach. I pressed my fingers against his chest, knowing we were about to come together.

“Darling, what is all this about?” I whispered, using my Claire voice.

Teasing me, he moved forward, kissing the tip of my nose. “Claire, darling. Just because you’re from the upper echelons of society, doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t have needs.”

I wrapped my hands around his shoulders, needing him inside me. In a moment, his cock was poised, rubbing deliciously against my sensitive flesh, pressing into me, and then filling me. I gasped, arching my back like a cat. His cock was so far within me, rubbing in all the right places. I cried out in pleasure, but he placed his hand over my mouth, shaking his head.

“You’re only allowed to make noises when I tell you to,” he whispered.

He fucked me like this, from above, making my eyes wide and my heart spasm. He pressed a finger against my clit and slammed into me, joining two wonderful sensations, and making me feel alive with desire. After a minute, I was biting at his neck, tearing into his back with my nails, wanting to swallow him whole, if he didn’t eat me first.

His stamina was incredible, taking us hours into the night. When he finally came, he railed into me, causing my inner walls to shudder, my pussy to pulse around his hard length. I came alongside him, gasping, and then felt the waves of ultimate release.

Collapsing against the paper-thin motel pillow, I watched as he collected himself. He crawled up beside me, cradling my body and kissing my cheek. We each smelled of the other and the scent of our sex mingled in the air above us. I stroked his hair, gazing into his eyes, trying to imagine life without him. In that moment, he was the only thing that existed in my world.

Perhaps I had always been hungry for someone like him.

“Did you think this would happen, when you ran into me on the street the other day?” I asked him.

The clock on the wall read three in the morning. My eyelids had begun to droop. I was beginning to remember the other life, the one I’d left behind when I’d become Claire Harrington. Billy didn’t respond for a long time, letting a long, easy sigh escape from between his lips.

“Billy?”

“I’m not sure,” he answered finally, giving me a sly wink. “Let’s get some sleep, eh, Ruby? We had a hard night of conning. And we deserve a rest.”

I cuddled deep into him, feeling foolish.

Would this be the last time I ever saw him? Even after everything that had happened between us? As I felt Billy’s breaths deepen, his heartbeat become regular, I began to panic, reminding myself that I could be back in England the minute the funds were in my account. Billy and I had arranged a business deal, nothing more. I needed to remind myself to not let my emotions get in the way and make things messy.

Love wasn’t a part of this equation. The story and relationship we’d made up were just that—fake, a fantasy, acting.