Chapter Thirteen

Annabelle

Over the weekend, I take my time making a list of things I need from him in order for me to want to do this whole marriage-for-sex thing. Nonny can sigh all she wants, but business is business.

Come Monday, I don’t turn in my notice. Elliot might think it’s a done deal, but nothing’s happening until we agree to everything. Contrary to what he apparently believes, I’m not averse to honest work, even if it’s scrubbing toilets.

I tuck the list into my purse and drive to the law firm he selected—Richmond, Worthington and Chen. It sounds important and diverse. I’m sure it has the appropriate male to female ratio to meet whatever the legal requirement is in California. According to my Google search, the law firm is one of the best in the state, handling matters for all types of celebrities and wealthy individuals. The lawyer Elliot and I have an appointment with is one of the partners, Craig Richmond.

I manage to arrive a few minutes before the appointed time and go to the lobby to sign in. The place is all chrome and marble and glass. But the display of influence and power doesn’t look flashy, thanks to the cool modern feel of the design. Not so much gaudy as…haughty. Yeah, that’s the word.

Elliot is sitting in one of the plush mini-sofas, casually thumbing his phone. A blue T-shirt with the red Superman logo clings to his lean, muscled chest and tight abs. If I were the shirt, I’d be clinging too. My fingers itch to run over his body. I curl them, but it only seems to intensify the tingling sensation. Faded jeans fit him perfectly, the hem frayed without looking old and tired. I can see the outline of strong thighs and those calves underneath the soft denim. He rests an ankle on the opposite knee and stretches his left arm along the back of the couch, one leather-clad foot bobbing to some beat only he can hear. The pose emphasizes the smooth, hard lines of his biceps and forearms. He looks utterly at home, like an athlete who owns the building.

Meanwhile I don’t look like I belong here. I’m in my best dress—a green silk number that brings out my eyes and cinches my waist. But it’s old, the cut outdated. My black shoes are just as old and have a few small scuff marks, although they aren’t that obvious.

A trio of fashionably dressed young women check him out as they walk past, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s immersed in whatever’s on the screen.

Suddenly, he looks up, and I feel the force of his scrutiny. It’s like a cyclone that sucks me in, leaving me shaken to the core, and I can’t look away.

He stands up with a small frown. “I should’ve sent… Never mind.” He takes my elbow, the contact searing me like a brand. “Ready?”

I nod.

The security guy recognizes him on sight; Elliot scrawls his name in the visitor’s log. I write mine neatly, then get taken to a bank of elevators.

As we wait for our car, he dips his head and whispers, “I should’ve stipulated that I don’t want you to wear anything except skirts and dresses.”

“Why?”

“Easy access. Plus, you have great legs.”

Heat floods my face, neck and chest, and it’s not embarrassment. “Stop saying stuff like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to focus.”

Thankfully the elevator opens, and I step inside. He follows me in, and the door closes, trapping us inside. Together. Alone.

“It’ll all be standard stuff,” he says. He stands like a perfect gentleman without crowding me, but I feel like I’m surrounded. I can’t even draw in air without smelling his heady scent.

“To you maybe. I’ve never done this kind of thing before.”

“Me either. You’re going to be my first wife.”

“Hopefully you won’t repeat this with your second,” I say, even as a hot ugly feeling roils through me.

I don’t know why the idea of him marrying again bothers me. He made it clear I was going to be his wife for exactly one year. There is no way he’s going to stay single forever afterward. He’s too great a catch, and he’ll want to have a family at some point.

Get your head right. Don’t be stupid, I tell myself over and over again as our elevator rises. I hold myself as still as possible even though I’m slick between my legs, and I’m dying to shift my weight so I don’t feel the wetness so much. It’s that crazy kiss—and his parting remark—that keep coming back to me. Masturbation did very little to alleviate my frustration, and I don’t know why. It did end my orgasm drought. That should’ve been enough, and I should’ve been able to shrug off his effect on me.

Craig Richmond’s office is on the top floor. A tall, lanky blonde in a charcoal-gray suit smiles at Elliot. “Good morning, Mr. Reed.”

“Morning,” he says.

Her gaze skims over me. If she’s wondering what a girl like me is doing with him, it doesn’t show. “Craig’s waiting for you in his office.”

“Excellent.”

Elliot leads me down the hall. A few modern art prints hang on the walls, and a pale gray carpet covers the floor. The office we reach is in the corner, and has huge windows with an impressive view of downtown L.A.

The partner stands up from a leather seat behind a massive executive desk. The glass built-in shelves are clean except for diplomas and various certificates. The man isn’t that much older than the picture on his firm’s website. He has silver-streaked brown hair in a conservative style. His face is light olive and quite affable although I’m sure it can look like a nightmare to his opponents in court. A carefully knotted wine-red silk tie adds color to his black Armani suit. I put him in his late forties.

“Good to see you, Elliot.”

“Hello, Craig.” Elliot puts a hand on my shoulder. “My fiancée.”

I step forward. “Annabelle Key,” I say, since Elliot isn’t going to.

“My pleasure.” Craig pumps my hand twice in a dry, firm handshake. “Shall we?” He gestures at two plushy chairs. “Something to drink, perhaps?”

“A finger of scotch if you have any.”

Craig’s friendly expression doesn’t change, like Elliot drinking this early in the day is normal.

“Just some water, thanks,” I say.

The lawyer pours the drink for Elliot and hands me a small bottle of water from the wet bar in his office. Must be nice to be a partner.

Finally he settles back in his seat. “So. I’ve reviewed your email and drafted a very simple agreement.”

“Wait.” I pull out the memo from my purse. “I have a list.”

Elliot plucks it from my fingers and skims it. “You added two more items.”

“I know, but—”

“Anything else you want to add? This is your final chance.”

I shake my head.

He hands my list to Craig. “You can create an addendum for the extra stuff on the list. And I want to stipulate that she is to wear only skirts or dresses during our marriage.”

My head snaps his way. He is going to put that in the contract?

Elliot shrugs. “You add stuff, I add stuff.”

“So if we go hiking or if I go work out, I’m supposed to wear skirts too?”

“Hmm.” He taps his lower lip a couple of times. “Yes.”

I glare at him.

“Do you actually go hiking? Or to a gym?”

My mouth purses. I don’t, since I’m not all that athletic, but still.

“Those activities are doable in skirts,” he says. “It isn’t like I said you have to wear stilettos the entire time.” Then he pulls out his phone and starts texting.

I can feel my face turn red. Embarrassed, I steal a quick look at our audience.

Craig is watching us with a bland expression. Maybe he’s calculating how much he can bill for every second we spend discussing our terms.

“Fine,” I say.

“Excellent.” The lawyer makes a few notes. “I’ll make the addendum, and you, Ms. Key—”

“Call me Annabelle,” I say.

“You can call her Gigi,” Elliot says at the same time without looking up from his phone.

Craig’s gaze swings back and forth between me and Elliot. For the first time, his smile slips a bit. But he recovers fast. “Well, you should review the newly revised document. If you like, a lawyer can be arranged.”

“Oh.” I frown. “Is it very long and complicated?” If it’s anything like the fine print on insurance policies, there is no way I can read it over myself and understand everything.

“Not at all. Two pages. No legalese. It says what you bring to the marriage is what you take with you, along with the other conditions you’ve discussed between yourselves. You can take your time to make sure nothing’s left out.”

“Then why do we need you?” I ask.

His mouth smiles. “Because it needs to be actionable in court should either of you breach the agreement. People should always enter into matrimony intending to make it last forever, but any kind of prenup should be written as though the marriage will end for sure.”

If only he knew how true the second part of his statement is… “If I want a lawyer, who do I contact?” I ask.

“There are plenty of excellent attorneys in the city. I’ll have my secretary give you a list.”

“I want somebody at your level,” I say. “I know not all lawyers are the same.”

This time the smile is genuine, and maybe a bit impressed. “Of course. I wouldn’t presume anything less for you.”

Elliot puts his phone away. “Are we done?”

“Yes. You can expect the new agreement by COB today. I’ll have it couriered to both of your places.”

I thank the lawyer, but Elliot merely puts his hand on the small of my back and leads me to the elevator. The gesture is oddly protective, and his body heat pours over me like warm honey. I clench every muscle I have so as not to embarrass myself.

“If you need a lawyer…” he starts.

So he was paying attention. Sort of. “I don’t know if I want one or not. It depends on what the agreement looks like when I get it.”

“You have an appointment in five minutes with Josephine Martinez,” he says as we wait for the elevator.

“Is she an attorney?”

“Josephine?” He laughs. “No. She knows as much about law as your average crime show fan.”

“Then who is she?”

“You’ll see.”

* * *

Annabelle

When we reach the lobby, a woman in either her late twenties or very early thirties stands up from one of the plushy chairs. She has beautiful bright chocolate eyes, a surprisingly small nose and a mouth that looks juicy from a liberal use of dark pink lip gloss. Her hair tumbles behind her shoulders in chic, thick waves, artful highlights mixing with the dark brown strands. Her bright burgundy dress seems almost painted on, but somehow it isn’t tacky. She looks sophisticated, fashionable and stunning as she walks in a pair of impossibly high stilettos, a black lambskin bag hanging from her arm.

“Elliot.”

“Didn’t take you long,” Elliot says, giving her a quick hug.

Their familiarity sends a flash of ugly heat through me, and I look away.

“Josephine, this is…Gigi.”

I scowl at the name. The subtle pressure of his hand at my back tells me to keep quiet.

She extends an expertly manicured hand. “So good to meet you, Gigi.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

“So. She’s the one you told me about?”

“Yes.”

Her gaze sweeps me from head to toe. “What are we talking here?”

“Pretend her house burned down, and she escaped with what she’s wearing.”

Josephine purses her mouth. “I can do that.”

“Great.” He turns to me. “Don’t forget our dinner.”

“We have dinner?” I don’t remember him telling me that. On the other hand, I might’ve lost track of it since he’s told me a lot of things in the last few days.

“Yes. I’ll text you the details.”

“Actually we can’t,” I say.

“Why not?” he asks, as Josephine discreetly retreats to give us privacy.

“Today’s a school day. I have to be home.”

“For what? Your sister’s fifteen; she can take care of herself for a few hours.”

“I need to make her dinner.” I don’t tell him Nonny is perfectly capable of nuking frozen leftovers.

He frowns. “I can take care of that, but our dinner is non-negotiable. We still have a lot to go over.”

“Do you always get everything your way?”

“Pretty much.” He gives me a quick grin. “Don’t look so grim. Josephine’s going to take care of you.”

“I still don’t know what she is!”

“A fashion consultant.” He tosses that as a parting remark and waves as he walks away.

Josephine comes back over. “Ready?”

“I guess…”

“Come on.” She leads the way to a Lexus parked outside. “Get in. We have a lot of territory to cover.”

I settle into the passenger seat, and she drives us to a building not too far from the law firm. Its exterior is entirely sleek black, and there are no signs or anything else that might identify the edifice. “Where are we?”

“A place where we’re going to spend oodles of Elliot’s money.”

I nibble on my lower lip. “You know I’m not really dressed for… I mean…” I steal a quick glance at her clothes. She’s so trendy it hurts. “They might kick me out because I look…” I gesture helplessly at my outfit.

“You think this is going to be some Pretty Woman nightmare?” Josephine waves carelessly. “Don’t worry, you’re with me. And I don’t take clients to places that let in just anybody with money. Thankfully, this place also has a full-service spa.”

“Spa?”

“Spa.” She gives me another once-over. “Sorry, but you need a new haircut, mani, pedi…the works.”

Her tone is matter-of-fact like she’s discussing what should be on a cheeseburger. She gets out of the car and I follow her to the building.

“I thought you were just buying me clothes,” I say.

“You need more than new clothes. At least you have good bones. Some people have to get surgical help.”

My jaw drops. She waits for me to come into the high foyer. The floor is all smooth pale champagne marble, while the walls are covered with thick, expensive-looking ivory paper. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling. A soft strain of classical music floats in the air like perfume. The place reeks of money, impeccable taste and class.

A tall woman in a sleek black dress walks out. She manages to walk with confidence despite five-inch heels. “So good to see you, Josephine.”

They exchange air kisses. “Did you get my text?”

“Of course.”

“So everything’s ready?”

“Yes. And is this Gigi?” the woman says, turning to me.

I’m about to correct her, but Josephine talks first. “Yes. She needs everything. And I do mean everything.”

“The same thing we did for Paige?”

Josephine shakes her head. “Not enough time. She has a dinner date today. We’ll start small.” She purses her mouth. “Maybe a few dresses.”

The other woman crosses her arms. “Yes. I agree.” She gives me a brilliant smile. “Let’s start. What would you like to drink? We have Dom or Veuve Clicquot.”

I glance at Josephine helplessly. “I’d go with Dom,” she says.