The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield (5 page)

Brandon gritted his teeth because he knew I was right with how the contract was written. "In two weeks but you'll be introduced to everyone as my fiancee before then and it would be unseemly for you to still be working as a waitress when you're engaged to me."

I rolled my eyes. "I don't get my money until after the wedding and I've got to eat before then so I need the job. Besides, what's wrong with that? Gives it a romantic spin, doesn't it, if people think that you fell head over heels in love with a lowly waitress and that you just had to marry her right away?"

"I am not head over heels in love with you," he ground out.

"I didn't say you were," I snapped irritably. "Just that if people think you are. It makes for a better story than leaving the world speculating about what could've possibly motivated you to marry someone poor and unworthy of your precious last name when she has neither money nor your heart."

He scoffed. "I could say it was just my father forcing my hand."

"And what? Show them that Martin is cold and unfeeling father when we both know he isn't?" I asked in exasperation. "Show them that you're a greedy, spineless weasel for not standing up to your old man? Do you think people will truly understand the complexity of this not-so-simple business arrangement?"

"Alright, enough already!" His voice barely rose in volume but the force of his words had me swallowing hard. "You've made your point and I'll acquiesce on this. You can keep your job until a week before the wedding because a bride has to have some involvement in her big day. While you're here, I expect that you'll discourage any kind of advances from anyone trying to get into your pants. It's bad enough that I'm marrying a nineteen-year-old waitress. I don't want the media publishing articles about customers groping my future-bride's ass like it's public property."

"Ah, your despicable charm, as always," I muttered under my breath. "Don't worry. After that incident with Mr. Clarence, I'm not coming within two feet of men with suspicious character unless I'm armed with a baseball bat. The only reason I don't have one right now with you is that it didn't go with the dress. But I hear that salt and pepper shakers dent foreheads real good so don't try anything funny."

"I think I'm absolutely, positively insane for ever considering doing this with you," he groaned, closing his eyes briefly as if in pain. 

"I second that wholeheartedly," I said with a grin. "Although I'd like to clarify a point of distinction that you were already a wee bit crazy before you saddled me with your boorish presence."

He opened his eyes and arched a brow at me. "Well, since you're being paid a million dollars to endure my boorish presence, I say endure it quietly. I'd like to go through this year without a permanent migraine which I continue to get because you never stop provoking me."

I tilted my chin up defiantly. "Only because you provoke me first. But I agree with you. I'd like to get through this year myself without being carted off to prison for murdering my husband. If we're to stay married for a year and give a convincing portrayal of a real husband and wife, let's try not get on each other's case."

"I'll do my best," he said with a half-smile.

I nodded. "So will I."

And in that moment, despite our many spirited quarrels in the past week, an understanding clicked between us. 

I smiled and popped the last piece of ham into my mouth. 

He finished off his pancakes, his eyes smiling as he chewed and watched me.

"What time do you work today?" he asked as he wiped his mouth once we finished eating quietly. 

"Six," I answered. "I have to go home and take a short nap because I'll be working until about two to two-thirty in the morning."

He glanced at his watch. "It's only eleven. We can go shopping and I'll have you home by twelve-thirty so you can get a few hours of sleep."

My brows rose. "Shopping? For what?"

"An engagement ring. And maybe a few clothes that don't look so.. worn. I'll have my assistant Marissa  arrange for a personal shopper to help you build your new wardrobe but we can get you a few things today."

I groaned. "This can't wait until we're married? I'm not going to start wearing heels, cardigans and pearls here at work."

"The ring you'll need right away if we're to convince my father about the marriage on Sunday," he insisted stubbornly. "A woman doesn't get engaged to Brandon Maxfield and have no rock to show it off."

"I'd like to show off a rock I could knock you out cold with," I muttered under my breath which made him narrow his eyes.

I grinned sweetly, batting my lashes at him at the reminder of our mutual attempt to be civil to each other. "Oh, yes, please. Buy me a Harry Winston large enough to be seen from space. Do you think they'll throw in a body guard with that? I might need it if I'm taking the bus to work everyday."

"I'll have a driver and car assigned to you," Brandon said. "I don't want you roaming the streets unprotected."

I gave him a moony expression. "Aw, darling. It warms my heart to know that you're so protective of me."

He rolled his eyes and pulled out a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and left it on the table. Lucky, Becca.

"I'm protective of all of my investments. You're currently my most vulnerable, not to mention most volatile one," he said with a teasing glint in his eyes.

"How romantic," I grumbled, pouting. "Fine. I'll take the car and the driver and the ring and the clothes. Anything else?"

He smiled as if enjoying my apparent dislike for agreeing with him. "Nothing that I can think of at the moment so we can go shopping. Ready?"

He got up and offered me his hand.

"As ready as I will ever get," I said as I took his hand, fighting the instant urge to run my fingers along his warm skin.  "Lead the way, Mr. Maxfield. Show me what the fuss is all about."

"Brandon," he said as we walked together toward the door, the hand he offered me earlier now pressed lightly on the small of my back. "If you and I are going to get married, we should probably call each other by our first names."

I swallowed hard at the possessive way his strong, muscular arm slipped around me as we passed a couple of familiar male customers who waved hi and winked at me. "Yes, Brandon."

"Better," he said with a faint smile, glancing down at me.

"My name's Charlotte," I said as we stepped out on the sidewalk. "Some people call me either Char or Lottie."

He shook his head. "Neither of those names sound particularly appealing. Charlotte suits you better."

I wasn't sure why I suddenly felt shy and I silently cursed myself for it. "Uh, thanks."

"Come on, Charlotte. Car's this way," Brandon said as he took my hand and led me down the block. 

As I looked down at our linked hands, I wondered if it was because he didn't want to lose me or because I was his possession that cost a million dollars. 

Suddenly it dawned on me that I had more to lose in this than just the money. That made me truly afraid of this crazy arrangement for the first time since Brandon suggested it.

"You need shoes."

We just got to his snazzy, shiny dark blue sports car that was probably more than double the value of my house. He'd held the door open for me but stopped me with a light hand on my shoulder as I was about to get in.

I looked up at Brandon. "Excuse me?"

He sighed and glanced down at my feet. "We're going to one of the most exclusive jewelry stores in the country and you're wearing flip-flops. How will they know you can afford it?"

I crossed my arms over my chest and gave him a wry look. "They won't because I can't afford it. You're the one itching to marry me. You buy it."

"I am buying it," he retorted, rolling his eyes. "I was hoping you'd at least look like a woman who deserves it."

"Ah, we come to the crux of the matter," I scoffed. "I don't look like the kind of woman a man of your wealth and stature could possibly ever get engaged to. Let me point out two things. One, I really am not the kind of woman a man like you would marry—my brain is slightly bigger than my boobs which is not your preferred ratio. Two, what a shallow conclusion to arrive at simply because one is wearing flip-flops."

"It's not shallow—it's etiquette—something that isn't lost in polite society yet," he shot back, stepping away from the car door and making a shooing gesture with his hand as if hurrying me to get inside. Once I was in, he got into the driver's seat, still grumbling. "But since you're going to be the future Mrs. Maxfield, they won't dare criticize you to your face. Who knows, I might get lucky and just have them think that you're slightly eccentric and not a total bedlamite."

I laughed. "Oh, yes, an eccentric. That's what you call people who are rich and crazy. I'd almost think you're one but you don't have enough imagination to become crazy, even just a little."

He pulled into traffic, checking over his shoulder before giving me a surly look. "I dare say I have plenty of imagination."

"You can't even deal with the sight of flip-flops," I argued, throwing my hands up in the air. "You don't think beaches or cold fruit drinks or some reggae music and scorching hot summers. All you think is etiquette."

"Etiquette was merely the only thing I said out loud," he countered. "Unlike you, I don't always say everything I'm thinking of but it doesn't mean that I have any less scorching imagination than you do."

I broke into a grin. "Oh, intriguing. Why, what did you imagine? Billowy summer dresses? Tanned bikini bodies? Long, gorgeous legs?"

I fought the urge to pump my fist in triumph when Brandon's gaze slid to my partly exposed legs, his eyes hooded and intense for a brief second before he cleared his throat and turned back to the road, the very faint tinge of pink on his cheeks the only proof of that stolen glance.

Predictable. It would seem as if Brandon Maxfield is prone to the usual urges.

I decided to let him off the grill, completely aware that I might just burn myself as well.

Now that we've mentioned scorching hot summers, I couldn't help but imagine Brandon—shirtless, barefoot, only wearing black board shorts and a sexy smile. Despite having worn a jacket to each of our meetings, it didn't take much for me to know that he had broad shoulders and a powerful physique. In my fantasy, he would be showing off the hard planes of his chests and the tight, flexing muscles of arms.

As my eyes traveled from his shoulders to his waist, I noticed something and frowned. "Why aren't you wearing your seatbelt? Strap it on."

"We're five minutes away and hardly anyone can drive fast in downtown," he reasoned, sounding like a mutinous sixteen-year-old. "It'll be fine."

"Strap your goddamned seatbelt on, Brandon Maxfield!" I exclaimed sharply. "I can't believe you're idiot enough to think yourself invincible. Don't you have a care for what happens to you? If you get thrown out the window and crunched under a truck, what would your family do? How would your father cope?"

I saw his jaw clench as if he wanted to snap back at me with some smart-ass response but he wisely shut it and secured his seatbelt. 

"Thank you," I muttered in relief, glancing out the window as the tension drained out of my body.

Silence filled the car for a long stretch of time.

"That was how your father died, wasn't it?" he suddenly said, and a dulled edge of pain stabbed through me. It was dull but it didn't mean that it didn't hurt. 

I said nothing.

"He was driving drunk and hit a street lamp," he continued and I wasn't surprised by his knowledge of the details. Other than the fact that he researched me for this little marriage project, the facts of the accident were public record. "He wasn't wearing a seatbelt so he got thrown out of the window and was hit by a car."

"Something like that," I bit out, still avoiding his gaze. 

"I'm sorry. No matter the circumstances, it's hard to lose a parent."

I snorted, gripping the edges of my seat despite my casual tone. "It's harder to lose a parent who wasn't a very responsible adult and left you with a crap-load of mess to clean up. As if to spite you further even when they're dead and cold in the ground."

We faded into silence again but I barely stifled my gasp when I felt his warm, large hand squeeze mine for a nanosecond before it was gone. 

I wasn't sure how to react to that. Since meeting Brandon, I've been armed with ready comebacks and an inflamed temper. I wasn't prepare for any hint of kindness.

"We're here," he announced as he pulled over in front of a magnificent building with a glass facade. Two sharply-dressed doormen came over to hold the car door open for us and escort us to the entrance.

Standing by the doorway of the vast space richly appointed with luxurious, if a little gaudy interior, and the endless rows of glass cases showcasing a mind-boggling and literally blinding array of jewelry, I felt conscious.

Maybe it wasn't really etiquette but I couldn't deny the wisdom that was in Brandon's advice earlier about maybe wearing something more than an old sundress and rubber flip-flops to a place like this.

Don't feel small. No one can do that to you but yourself.

"Are you okay?" Brandon murmured as he slipped an arm behind my waist.

I tensed at the touch but saw a beaming man in a suit barreling toward us excitedly, his arms gesturing so grandly I swore he was about to take a deep bow in front of us.

"Mr. Maxfield, welcome, welcome!" the man greeted as he shook Brandon's hand. He turned to me, his smile curling a little into a near-sneer as he did a quick appraisal of my appearance—like I'd somehow dragged in the mud across his pristine floors—and offered his hand. "You must be the lucky lady who snagged this equally lucky man here—one of our favorite customers! I'm Wilson Barford, at your service."

I gripped his hand firmly, giving him a sunny smile as my shoulders squared. "Charlotte Samuels. Nice to meet you Mr. Barf-old, I mean, Barford."

Brandon's hand squeezed my waist. I snuck up a glance at him, ready to glower at him for his quiet reprimand but I could see that he had a ghost of a smile on his lips and his hazel eyes were bright with humor.

"Barford, we'd like to see those exclusive designs you mentioned on the phone," Brandon said in a business-like tone. "Bring the other item as well and maybe give us a moment before your staff brings in the designs."

Barford's head went up and down like one of those bobble-head cats on a taxi's dashboard.

"Of course, Mr. Maxfield," the man answered before stepping aside."Please follow me to the viewing room."

We followed the man down a private hall, a good two feet away behind him.

I grasped Brandon's elbow and leaned close to murmur, "You know who I feel like right now?"

"Who?" he asked.

"Like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere went shopping with her," I said with a grin. "They were all fussing to please her so that he would be pleased in turn. The manager was so desperate to give her everything she liked, he even let her take his necktie."

Brandon's lips curved into a slight smile. "I recall part of the movie where she waits for him to come home, wearing nothing but that tie. Will I be expecting anything like that today?"

My cheeks instantly burned and I playfully jabbed him on the stomach, the hard muscles that came into contact with my elbow making me think of what would happen next if Brandon Maxfied walked in on me while I wore nothing but a tie.

He'd probably tell you you're not adequately dressed as Mrs. Maxfield should always be. Then he'd turn around and walk out because he's probably got a hot model waiting for him somewhere, gloriously naked and perfectly toned—and not wearing flip-flops!

"Pfft, dream on," I said in an attempt to get the ball back in my court. "That was Richard Gere, after all. Hollywood hunk trumps billionaire megalomaniac—always!"

His eyes narrowed at me slightly. "Too bad for you, you're marrying the billionaire megalomaniac and not the old Hollywood hunk."

Seriously. He couldn't have possibly gotten a bruised ego from that.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, please, pot, stop calling the kettle black. You're what? Forty?"

His cheeks flushed and his shoulders stiffened and he grabbed my elbow just as we were about to step into the viewing room where Barford was already pulling back the chairs for us.

"I am not forty," he said emphatically. "I just turned twenty-nine."

That was still a big chunk of years between us even if I was turning twenty in a couple of months—which was another thing that made Martin's idea even more ridiculous. 

Looking at Brandon though, the age gap didn't seem to really register.

He looked smoking hot for a guy his age. His handsomeness had depth and character—not just a pretty face with a boyish charm. He could've told me he was forty-five and I wouldn't have batted an eye.

I must've been staring quite a bit because his frown relaxed into a smug smile as he slowly released me. "I can see that you don't really give a damn about my age."

And then he goes and ruins it by opening his mouth.

"Why should I?" I retorted. "You made it clear that the best thing I get out of this is a million dollars. You didn't seem concerned about what I thought about you."

That made him angry. I could tell by the way his beautiful hazel eyes glittered and his nostrils flared.

Damn me if that didn't make him sexier. What was the point of antagonizing someone who just drove you crazier when he reacted because he was so damn breathtaking?

"You'll pay for that later," he murmured in a low, husky voice as he leaned close to my ear, his breath warm and sensual against my skin.

An unidentifiable ache shot through my body that I was momentarily speechless.

Before I could snap out of it, Brandon straightened, took me by the arm, and guided me into one of the two leather-cushioned seats in front of a long, beautifully hand-crafted wooden table. A row of four crystal pendant lights shone brightly down on the table, reflecting against the glass cases and the various stones that glittered among the impressive jewelry collection laid out for us.

"We've already set this up here for you but I'll instruct the staff to bring in the rest in ten minutes or so, Mr. Maxfield, Ms. Samuels," Barford said before he bowed deeply and took his leave, shutting the door softly behind him.

"Everything is so... shiny," I said as I glanced at the blinding display of rings and the opulent interior of the cozy room. "And expensive."

He smirked. "I always want the best. If you're going to be Mrs. Maxfield, you're going to want the same."

I brightened. "Can I have the best husband then? I clearly drew the short straw on that."

Instead of a prickly come back, he just barked a laugh, the deep, rich sound rumbling from his chest.

"No, I clearly drew the short one," he said with a sardonic grin. "How tall are you? Do you even reach five feet?"

"I'm five-two, for your information!" I protested, swatting him on the shoulder. "Not all of us are towering giants! I'll have you know that I can be five-eight in four-inch high heels."

His brows furrowed. "The math doesn't work in that equation."

I gritted my teeth. "Heard of in-soles and platforms, genius?"

He just laughed. "I have but I thought you didn't wear platforms."

I crossed my arms over my chest grumpily. "I don't but it doesn't mean I've never worn them. It doesn't mean that just because I'm practical, I don't go a little crazy sometimes and wear high heels."

Like once in a blue moon. 

"You could've worn them today," he said, eyeing my flip-flops.

"They don't go with this dress and I've got only one pair. I only take those beauties out on really special occasions and going shopping with you is hardly special," I rambled on. "Besides, who runs errands in hooker heels?"

If the light in his eyes changed even for just a second, I couldn't tell because he quickly looked away. 

"So, I have something to give you," he said after clearing his throat, the playfulness gone from his voice. 

He reached for a small, black velvet-wrapped box sitting on the table and lifted the lid up slowly.

"What is it?" I asked excitedly, leaning forward to look.